#i need to tear something apart with my teeth and bare hands. to shreds

[futuristichedge]

Sonic and the Black Knight save me. Save me SATBK

[cherubispunk]

BARK! BITE! BLEED! (PART I) - FWB!Frankie Morales x AFAB!Reader

summary: being without is always easier when you don't know what it is to be 'with'.

a note from Lucy: heyyyy! hows it going? yes...im back with another series. Those of you waiting for cherub, its coming. I promise. hand over my heart and the other on the bible. but words have a funny habit of not wording so...tale please take the humble peace offering of slutty fwb!frankie and please dont bite my fingers off.

playlist | moodboard

wc: 5742 Warnings: 18+ MDNI! no use of y/n, slight noncon voyeurism, thin appartment walls, mentions of cheating, obsessive behaviour, frankie is obsessed and it is very unhealthy, toxic relationships, heavy religious imagry (come on, is this even a surpise when it comes to my writing?), age gap but not bombastic sorry chloe (reader is 21, Frankie is 27) - though not mentioned in this part, graphic smut, could be considered dubcon, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v sex (do i need to spell it out to you not to do this?), creampie, biting, its not vore!!!! but there is something inherrently sexual in the themes of metaphorical consumption, softdom!frankie, scratching, gore imagry in the sense of a hunter prey type of thing? More of lu being dell, batshit insane, blurting words onto a google doc and praying ot makes ense when being blasted out into the void.

series m.list | m.list

“At the end of the day, a dog that’s all bark and no bite is merely a bitch. True power lies in those who don't just bare their teeth, but make you bleed when they sink in.”

Frankie was a quiet man. He would always keep to himself. Never usually stuck his nose in anyone's business unless it was for their own good. Stayed in the four walls of his own apartment he rented close to the barracks. He’d made one friend in the entire complex. You. His next-door neighbour. The only thing he knew before prying was your last name on the buzzer out front. From there it was waiting. And watching. Frankie had an obsession with observing you from his kitchen window every time you came home from work at the bar. Stood in the shroud of shadow and sheer curtain. He dug his claws in and clung to each passing conversation in the hallway, or the laundromat down the street whenever coincidence let you pop up there too. Stored each part of you that you trusted him with in his mind for safekeeping. Often caught himself staring at a particular pair of red lace panties whenever you did your laundry. 

There was one small, tiny little problem in all of this, however. Lisa. He supposed he should thank her really, because without her, he would have never moved out of the barracks in the hope of starting a life for them. He would have never met you. It was convenient, reasonably priced and he could excuse poor plumbing and heating for the fact it was close enough to his work that he didn't have to wake up any earlier than 5:30. But Lisa…oh, Lisa was Machiavelian. A conniving woman, with her heart set in thick ice, and a cold, unforgiving grip over what was hers. It made him wonder what he saw in her in the first place. Maybe he was blinded to everything but the curve of her face, or the pout of her mouth and the pant of his name as it passed her parted lips. Or there was some morbid fascination he had with her teeth as they bared to his skin and bit down. Tearing him to shreds. Either way, there was something to live for when being ripped apart by her. Something to distract from the sounds of pleasure that seeped through paper thin walls at night. Your pleasure. At the hands of a man he felt nothing compared to and knew nothing about. So he’d roll over and fuck out his frustration on the woman he hated but chose to stay with until she left him for another.  

Another day, another ache. Another pain cramping in his lower back as Frankie inched closer to thirty and still no happier. Twenty-seven, a stable-ish job…and what else in life to show for it? He was bitter. In no place to want the company of another unless only for the night. Except tonight he was alone again, pressing his key into the lock, twisting it open, closing the door behind him. And then waiting…listening. Anticipating the drag of his hand south over the plane of his abdomen to under his boxers where he’d tease himself to the sound of you with another man. The pretty whimpers you’d let slip under the weight of another man's skin and bone, and the pleasure flooding the gaps of your synapses. 

Only this time there were no cries for more. No whimpers, or moans. No. These sounds were shouts. And anger ignited you as you rampaged through your apartment on the other side of the wall, getting dressed as Mark, the man you’d wasted months on, chased after you in pursuit of your forgiveness. 

“Who do you think I am?’ Frankie heard through the wall, pressing his ear to cold plaster with bated breath. Your voice was shrill, seething with the intent to carve into Mark’s skin with an onslaught of verbal mutilation. Have the words mark him with bleeding, weeping shame. “No, really? You think I’d never figure it out, Mark? Am I naïve to you?” 

He slipped out of bed with careful stealth: Followed the sound of your voice through the wall, walking with his ear pressed to it before the sound of your front door opening made him jump, stepping back for a second. He blinked, once, twice…then raised his hands to plaster again and leaned closer, ears straining to hear what was now distance shrieking from the hallway outside. Which he followed to his front door. Listening intently behind the wood.

As he held his breath until his lungs burned in his chest, something flared up in Frankie. A desperate, wanting, starving need to swoop in. Be your knight in shining armour. The words were stuck in his throat, and if he wasn’t careful, they would choke him blue. But if he knew even a shred about you, it was that you’d hate that just as much as whatever it was Mark had done to you to have you tossing him out in the early evening. You were a private person. A woman who never appreciated prying ears or eyes. You avoided all his questions about your past whenever he asked. Swerved him off topic and into the hedgerow before he had a chance to blink and realise he had the backhand of whiplash. And if he let it slip once that the walls were thin, there was no telling where your quick mind would jump to next. Frankie never knew why or what made you so guarded. But he imagined one day you bit the hand of god and he stopped feeding you. 

Frankie’s heart was thumping to the beat of his anxiety in his throat, making it harder to swallow the lump it formed, clammy palms pressed to the cool wood with the rest of him. 

“You’re a sick man!” He heard, followed by a thumping of something being thrown, then a yelp out of Mark as Frankie guessed he was dodging whatever it was you threw his way. Shoes, maybe? Something else? “A coward! So get out. Don't call. Don’t come knocking. And tell your fucking wife!” 

A shuffling of ashamed feet. A slam of your front door. Clattering around behind shared walls. Then silence. 

It was five minutes of silence. But it felt like the seconds within those intervals were put on the rack and stretched in torture. Five minutes that he should have used to step back from his door but didn't. He just prayed there was more of you to have to himself for a second. 

Then the descent of knuckles came beating down on his door. Causing his heart to jolt out in his chest then plummet into his stomach. Twisting his insides into knots that made him sick with intrigue. He took a step back. And a breath. Then waited a second before opening the door to find you stood there in a silly little lace hemmed tank top and sleep shorts. Your hair dishevelled and cheeks flushed. He opened his mouth to speak, but found the words stuck to the backs of his teeth and the roof of his mouth like soggy, claggy toffee. So he shut up, grateful you cut him off first. 

“We’re having a bonfire. So whatever shit Lisa left here, bring it with you. My door will be open. I’ll be on my balcony.” And you left him with nothing but that. Stomping back down the hall in a flurry of your anger. 

Frankie stood there, feet practically glued to the floor, fingers curling in on his palms as his blunt nails pressed into already calloused flesh. And an image of you, teeth bared to him like Lisa’s once were, appeared in his mind. An apparition of hurt, torment and his own vulnerability. But it was too late. His feet moved before his mind could and he was already collecting the things of his ex-girlfriend who had wronged him time and time again, stuffing them into his arms in a bundle of broken memory, anguish and lingering hurt. 

He found you standing by a metal bin of a man's belongings. The odd t-shirt, pictures of your face next to his, smiles happy and bright with the joy of a relationship you never expected to cave in. In your hand was a packet of cigarettes you'd told him in the passing of a hallway’s conversation that you’d quit, but evidently not. And a crumpled, misshapen box of matches. In the other was a bottle of Whiskey. The brand Mark insisted on liking and you’d bought him for a birthday present. A present he’d never receive because he was as dead to you as the day was long. 

“I thought you quit.” He said, trying to start a conversation that hit a dead end pitifully quickly. 

“Toss it on.” You mumbled dismissively with a jerk of your head to the pile, eyes glued to Mark’s belongings, washing down your bitter words with an even more bitter swig of drink. 

Frankie complied wordlessly from there, dumping the contents of his arms on top of the photos and clothes, stepping back while you poured a generous amount of the liquor on top. A seasoning of fuck you not farewell to the people you’d shared your life with and would thankfully never cross paths with again. He took the bottle from you when you pressed it into his chest, taking a drink and grimacing at the taste. It wasn't smooth. It was almost sour, with a kickback that burned too much to be pleasurable as it passed down the column of his throat in a thick swallow. His thoughts trickled in from there as he read the label and glanced at you. He wanted to get you drunk. Get you to slip up. Let yourself be taken for once.

You both watched, deadfaced, as you struck a match, used it to light a cigarette and then tossed it in the bin as memories curled up under heat. The alcohol setting the blaze up in a satisfying roar of good riddance. 

He thought it was a little strange. How you’d come to him. Yes, you were friends. But the type of friend that only ever conversed between life events. In the empty limbo of hallways and laundromats. Not burning things on your balcony in the hope the heat will melt your heart back together, It was a little late for that. Stone doesn’t melt. And the two of you had hearts of set concrete from the turn of events you’d experienced. Encased in the cage of bone that would no longer open to another unless broken in two and forced apart. So you slid down the brick wall, knees bent to your chest while you smoked. The flame flickering a violent xanthous, ochre and scarlet. 

He joined you on the floor, passing back the bottle. The two of you side by side, and it only just occurred to Frankie how lonely he was now. But how terrified of intimacy he was. Intimacy of a level deeper than skin/ The both of you wordless, silent as the decaying dead of night. Only the crackle of fire between you and a sniff for your nose as the evening air nipped it and made it run. So to distract yourself, you condemned your tongue to bad liquor, chasing it with a drag of your cigarette and a grimace,

“God, this is shit.” You scoffed. 

“Not a hard liquor gal?” He chuckled, turning his head to glance at you out the corner of his eyes before the flame had his eyes attention again. 

“More of a wine person, really. But even I can tell this is shit.” And you gestured to the bottle in your hand, reading over the label and sighing. 

“Yeah,” he sighed, inflicting another taste upon himself when he took it out of your grasp. “It is.”

Silence again. Not awkward for you who preferred your own company to others, but for him, who had been watching you begging for an in, it was clawing at his insides like a starved animal would at the walls of its enclosure. 

“So…” He drew out, and you had to bite back an amused smile. 

“What?” 

Frankie found himself staring in trance at your side profile, with the same fascination you honed in on the flickering flame. He thought in silence for a second. Asking himself the same question. 

"How long did you date Mark for?" He asked. The name made him grimace as if it tasted sour in his mouth. Like he had to spit it out with disgust in every syllable for fear of it burning.

"Six months." Another awkward, off beat pause followed as he nodded. Then asked again. 

“Did you love him?”

"No." You said flat out. But your words were honest and brutal to the man you let in then kicked out. 

Frankie found himself suffocating a sigh of relief in his own ribs. They pinched slightly with an attempt of something profound to be felt. Like a child who had stumbled upon a strangely twisted shell at the beach. "Have you ever loved anyone?"

You turned to him, tilting your head. But Frankie couldn't tell if it was annoyance or respect for the bravery he had on asking you such personal questions. "What is this? Keeping Up With The Kardashians?"He held up his hands in quick defence, backing down. 

“I’m just trying to get to know you.”

"There isn't anything to know except for the fact I'm pissed off." You muttered. “And I figured you would be too, considering the argument I heard a couple nights ago through the wall of my kitchen."

Frankie felt his face go pale, then heat up in the apples of his cheeks. "Oh. So you heard that?" The way your cigarette smouldered as you spoke was the only movement on the narrow balcony. So you did know the walls were thin. It made him wonder what else you knew. If you knew how he strained to listen through plaster and drywall each night. 

"Oh, I heard it alright.” You smirked, finding sick pleasure in the way he seemed to squirm. “Something about Lisa finding you...'dull behind the eyes'." Frankie watched as you rolled your eyes and doubled back on your standing in the argument, "If you're going to insult someone, at least be creative about it. ``Give them a good reason to cut it loose." You were like a pendulum to him. But one that spun in clockwise, then anticlockwise circles, instead of oscillating back and forth. Unpredictable in a way that both horrified and intrigued him. 

"Dull?" He had to laugh in disbelief, "I am not dull."

You smiled to yourself at that, leaning your head back against the brickwork. Ready to shatter his lie with a flick of your sharp tongue. "You are dull, Frankie. You get up. Go to work. Come back. You do your laundry every Sunday— and I know that because so do I. Your car is always in the exact same spot next to mine. Without fail. Now, you can put all down to ‘strict military regime’, but the bitter truth is," You looked him in the eye, your cig hanging from your lips as you showed him the satisfied grin pulling at your mouth, "you are dull. We all are. We work, we grind, we cry because we work. You ache to the marrow and you get stabbed in the back. And you're begging on your damn knees to bite the hand that feeds you. But if you do, then you starve.”

Frankie had never had his own fear served to him by such a beautiful devil before. And he wished, with all he had left in him that Lisa hadn’t taken or ruined, that you were wrong. It made him want to cave into himself to protect what little he had left. Snarl like a wounded bitch as he held back from others to lick his wounds. Maybe offer it to you and beg you to take it off his hands. But how could he argue when you were practically holding up a mirror to his own eyes? "I hate that you're right." He said in solemn downcast bereavement. And watched the cloud of smoke float silently in front of your face to obscure the very mouth that let him have it in such careful, exact slicing words. The blade of your knife was sharpened to a paper thin point. Now stained with his body’s red. 

"There are very few things I'm wrong about. Regardless of that, it's a simple formula and easy to understand.”

“And what is it?” He asked, but regretted it for he knew his heart might not be able to take much more. Not that he showed it. This whole exchange his brow hadn’t folded into a single crease. 

“Two things in life are certain: Death. And taxes. You work to pay your taxes, and you die from working."

"That's a pretty pessimistic way of looking at things."

"Life is pessimistic." You shot back with amusement, intently staring in a fixed trance at the pile of burning memories. The last warmth it offered was metaphorically and literally its own destruction. Irony, as Frankie pointed out to himself in his crawling mind. "It crucifies you, and burns you...until you curl in on yourself at the corners and turn to ash." 

The conversation had reached a level of solemnity he hadn’t expected, but he’d be a liar if he didn't admit to sinking his claws in yet again. His teeth might come next if you gave him the sweet chance. 

You were quiet after that. Both of you were. The remnants of a fire that symbolised how Mark was no longer relevant in your life, and neither Lisa in his. If he thought Lisa was machiavellian, the word had new meaning now. But like with her, it drew him in and snared him into blissful trance. It was the type of blind faith you pin to a deity in the sky. The type that you never see but are forced and gaslit into believing because it's shoved down your throat from a young age. You were not his savour. He knew that in the pit of his very existence, the eye of the storm in his gut.

He would be crucified by you. 

“You’re a real ray of sunshine, you know that?”

"Aw." You pouted in mock appreciation, pressing a hand to your chest. "Thank you." 

Frankie afforded himself the pleasure of laughing at that. As cynical as it all was, it was real. You had just dared to say the quiet hushed parts out loud for him to digest. Though he felt like he was choking on it more than swallowing it. Regardless, he pushed it down to find confidence in himself and prod further. 

“You keep doing that.” 

“What?” “That.” Frankie pointed to all of you with a gesture absent of any direction, as if it was obvious. He watched as you tilted your head and scrunched your face a little. That crease in your brow…how it would haunt him in future. He felt like the prey. He was torn between wanting you to hunt him slowly so he could feel something at your hand, agony or not. Or asking you to do it quickly so he doesn't have to pursue through the bitter aftertaste. 

“I’m not following.” 

“You do this thing…where you turn conversations on their head. I feel like I'm getting whiplash.” He forced out a chuckle to make it seem like he was playing through with humour. But his words were genuine under the lace disguise of jest. You really did confuse him. You had his string of thought in knots. Complicated ones. “Why?” 

Your eyes narrowed at the question. “You’re trying to figure me out.” 

“Why shouldn’t i?”

"Because I'm not the distraction you need." You bit, almost like a warning. And Frankie would have listened if he wasn't so hellbent on breaking in. No matter how hostile, how feral, he'd take the time to tame the caged, battered, abused animal. 

“Maybe not.” He agreed, twisting his upper body to face you. It’s important to understand that what Frankie felt wasn’t love. At least, not how he’d experienced it in the past. This was an infatuation birthed by the fruit of lust forbidden to act upon until now. “But you’re the one I want.” With those words came a darkness in his eyes. The kind that reminded you of floods and tempests in biblical art. You were that tempest, with swollen grey clouds and a hammering of thunder ringing in his ears. Laughing as you crashed him onto rocks while he swam helplessly with little energy to the shore. Only to be shoved back with another crushing wave that cut through flesh and met bone with a chill like ice. “Just because we’re sad and miserable, doesn’t mean we have to give up a good time.” His instincts were buried before. Rolling in their grave at the chance to touch you. So he pressed his palms to the lid of the coffin and pushed. Reaching out to trace a delicate line along the angle of your jaw. His eyes were drawn to the soft plush of your lips and how they parted ever so slightly. “I want a distraction, baby.” 

He had you where he wanted you. And the liquor mixing thick with your blood had inhibition slipping through your fingers. His breath was hot on your lips. Needy to be paid attention to.

“Would it be worth my while?” You challenged, ignoring eye contact for now. Instead looking to his lips for the lies. 

“You don’t think I could satisfy you?” He smirked, lifting your chin with a single thick finger curled underneath and the pad of his thumb swiping slowly over your bottom lip. “I’ll do better than anyone else could.”

“Sounds like an awful lot of confidence you have there. At the end of the day, a dog that’s all bark and no bite is just a bitch.” 

Frankie chuckled at that. A deep rumble that rattled the bones that protect the hollow hole in his chest. “Come on…let me have a taste.” 

He didn’t wait for a reply. He took the silence and the glimmer of ‘i dare you’ in your eyes, pressing his lips to yours to consume you. Devour you whole. They took their time in sinking together and suctioning your lower lip into his mouth. Then his tongue dared to venture forward past parted lips to lick into your mouth and taste the backs of your teeth.

First, you let go of trepidation to take a hold of him. The roots of his hair and the back of his neck, fingers curled like talons. After, you let go of all else. The thoughts scratching the back of your skull, the headache that blistered before by the inferno calmed down and you were forced to focus on him alone as he took a handful of your hips and lifted you up to his lap to roll into him like a steady tide. 

You pulled him by the collar of his shirt to your room, clothes left in a scattered flurry along the way. Breadcrumbs to pick up later and either regret or laugh at. He unhinged your jaw to let slip your airy moan as his hands travelled south to meet the seam of your cunt. All else fell into place when he circled your clit with two fingers to start the first loop of the knot in your belly. A warmup for the act of sin, and need, and wanting. Whatever god there was should have never been prayed to in the first place. And Frankie knew it now that he was damned to hell from the first parting of your thighs for his wandering hand. His teeth were ready for sinking as he gathered your legs and hooked them over his shoulders to walk open mouthed, spit decorated kisses down the trunk of your navel. Pressing his nose into your mound. The must of your cunt making his eyes light up as he stared at the bob of your throat when you swallowed sharply. Head rolled back to the pillow. His tongue glided into your folds for the first lick. Making a hot wet stripe of a path from your asshole to your clit. He used the tip of his tongue to circle it and glide lover to curl into your quivering hole. Drawing out the taste. The beckoning gesture of his tongue gathering your taste in his senses. A thumb following suit to roll the bud of your clit under it, his nose clumsy as it bumped into it too. Obsessing over the tang of your arousal, thick in shine over his lips the scruff of his chin.

Your thighs clamped over his ears that were red. The heat made your own skin burn. Dark curls of his hair whispering against their insides as he continued to devour you from the seam. And your orgasm– it burned bright after the first fizzle. Made your eyes scrunch closed as he pulled it from you with hand and tongue. What was used for his words had yours spilling from parted lips like a puppet. A vessel for him to carry pleasure through. It had you toppling over into oblivion. The abyss. 

With bones brittle and hollowed like a bird you were fine to be dead weight as he ascended your body again. Folding you in half with your legs still bent over his shoulders. He traced the jut of your collarbone with the blunt edges of his teeth. How he wished they’d be sharp to sink deeper. But you were grateful as it would be easier for him to not draw blood and see the inside of you ran red like all the others. It was easy to not be human. It was easy to not show emotion and weakness. 

“Feel that?’ he panted against your goosebump pebbled skin, and you nodded. You did. It was the promise to feel desired and not broken. And not maimed beyond repair by another person you let in. Another person you built yourself up to prepare to love, to only have the rug pulled from under your feet and the brickwork clatter to the ground. It was the same promise to him. And the desire that ran thick in his blood made his pulse thrum heavy under its weight. Its intrusion hot under his lust scorched skin.  

“Yeah.” 

“Imma make it go away for you, baby.” he promised with a kiss to the hollow of your throat below its column, between your clavicle. And it was anything but empty. It was full. And round, and swollen with something deeper in his ribs that ached to be let loose. Breathed to fill you too. “I’ll make it all go away.”

His hips pressed flush to yours and the drag of neatly groomed hair sent a shockwave through your clit and up your rattling spine. Vertebrae by vertebrae. Setting off blazing fireworks in your mind for just a second before he started a slow drag. It was a stretch that stung. But pain was comfort if it had pleasure hot on its heels like an obedient dog. Ironic how you feared men like him, who seemed so eager to please and let themselves in uninvited. But you took it willingly this time because you needed to forget for a single second about the heart that bled under flesh and bone in the cage of your ribs. 

His cock was thick, full and curved up into the part of you that you couldn't have reached even if you tried. He slotted into your heat like he was meant to stay there. And that alone made you want to scream for him to give in and not relent so you could be ignorant to the way it seemed divine. The roll of his hips kicked up in pace and soon he was hunched over you. Strong arms rippled with muscle from brutal training since the age of eighteen bracing himself on either side of your head. The feeling of him curling his hips into you made you burn. It sent a tumble of a moan from your lips through the breathless pant of his name. A name he never thought you'd call in the tangle of your sheets. But the burning need to give you what he had wanted all this time ate at him. It ripped the flesh fresh off his bone and left him bleeding into you. 

Frankie’s eyes misted over when the chain that hung from his neck slipped over your chin and you bought the metal of his dog tags between your teeth. Biting down. It feels better biting down anyway. And the cool of the metal on your hot tongue made your head swim. Looking him in his eyes and daring him deeper. So his lips pressed into a firm line, and your nails raked down his back to leave raised red lines in their wake. Tracing new paths over the old map of scar tissue. Marking new land and territory. The air between you hung heavy with the heat of exhales. And blew with the shared moan you indulged in when it coiled in your belly. The cradle of your hips accommodated his cock as it stretched the tightness of your walls. Your slick arousal giving way to fluidity of otherwise rabid motion. Starving.  

When on his tongue, you were alive. Inside you he breathed again with the clutch of your cunt around him. Warm and beating, and thrumming quickly like a hummingbird's wings. A squatter temporarily camped up in the crack between two ribs. Where thick muscle shuddered with breath. You believed something in you was worth loving. But you also knew for it to be found you'd have to be flayed alive. 

The crash of his hips into yours aided in the symphony of sex, and filled the four walls painted but void of personal belongings. If he were on the other side of them he'd be jealous. But now he was here, he was alive. Beating hearted and thriving. And any god, saint, angel or divinity could watch and weep as he finally had what he wanted. What he might have needed in order to restore his humanity that lay dormant for so long. He was trying to crack you open so he could lick up what lay inside you. Gather it up in his arms like the greedy wolf, lambs gore, blood and flesh, between fangs of his lower jaw. Have the muscle pulsing between his teeth. But he wouldn't. So for now he'd settle for the flesh on show. The mound of your panting breast that he pressed into his open mouth. The flat of his tongue pressing greedily to your nipple. Before his lips pinched together and pulled the left pert. Switching to do the same for the right. Not leaving an inch of you untouched. Because he had his chance now. And who knew when he'd get another. So he relished in what he was spared and he would take it with him to the grave. Dream of it on his deathbed if this killed him. Or if something else did. Regardless. This would run through his mind until his last heavy and troubled breath. 

“That's it.” he murmured into your breast. “Take it. Take it, baby. Take me..” 

Your back arched, strung tight like a bow ready to fire. Spine curled up into the heat of his mouth and he bit down again on the swell of your breast. Wanting to take its entire weight into his mouth and have it rot and smear into his tongue. The fizzle of nerve endings reached the tips of your curling toes. The heels of your feet digging into the planes of his scapula to press him closer in the burning of your young orgasm. 

“Come on. Let me see you come.” Frankie demanded in a breathless growl as he stared you down with his eyes.  The hue of his irises almost devoured by black of pupil. Your jaw unhinged to let rip a silent scream. Feeling that sharp coil snap, and a numbness fill your aching core before your toes curl in pleasure. He helped you ride it out with his cock fucking into your tight weeping cunt while you sang out his name in a chorus of moans, whimpers and cries. Letting go utterly as a rush filled you, lighting you up like dry kindling under your skin. The pulsating of your walls around his length had his hips faltering for just a moment, twitching within your sopping cunt. His head fell into the crook of your neck as he let out a deep guttural groan, closing in on skin with teeth again. Spilling inside you, the mix of your slick with his cum painting you white like the searing heat of pleasure between you. He leaves the last of his load with you by fucking it deeper. Three, sharp, punctuated thrusts. 

He lay flat above you while he awaited the comedown from his catharsis. The tingle down his spine sputtered out in a haze of slowburn afterglow. Eyes closed and face buried into the crook of your perspiring neck. Panting together. Hit tongue forgot for a second to shape your name the way it sounded, but with a sharp inhale, the air surged his mind. 

“I suppose this is the part where I leave?” He mumbled, pulling back from your skin. His time had come and ended. The two of you now sat back to the world of hallway and laundromat limbo. He sighed through his nose when you nodded. And he did the same, pressing his lips into a thin line. 

Frankie gathered his clothes up, putting them on slowly one by one. Drawing out the ache of being alone again by lingering in your presence. 

“Come back tomorrow.” You said. Not asked. He nodded, still facing the door. Then twisted the handle and left an empty space in your apartment where he had once been. 

[yourlocaltreesimp]

Masked!Reader who is just as yandere for the chain as they are for them. Masked!Reader who’s quite literally a cryptid or possibly eldridge deity. No harm will befall their heroes so long as they stand. Masked!Reader who will bite a man. Provoked and unprovoked. Masked!Reader who the shadow both fears and admires. Someone so efficient at throwing him off course, but how could he mind. Masked!Reader who is an absolute badass, and we’re all here for it.

I-

I cannot tell you how much you just outed my persona so accurately XDD

Funny thing is, all of those things are spot on with what I had in mind. If you know what my persona looks like and how she is, everything about your headcannons are 100% correct!

This kinda made me think of more precise and detailed headcannons about Masked!Reader.

.•♫•♬• 𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒅!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝑷𝑻. 𝟐 •♬•♫���.

Masked!Reader who is secretly a yandere and is willing to risk their own life to protect the ones they love (which in this case would be the Chain). They truly care about their loved ones and it tears them apart from the inside seeing them hurt in any way. And if someone or something is the cause of their pain, it would be best to just hope that they kill the issue immediately. Any other fate would be better than their's...

Masked!Reader who may or may not be an entirely different being, able to protect their one and only heroes from any harm. They may seem a bit normal at first, but after a while it's quite easy to tell how... different they are from regular people. They occasionally make odd chittering and beast-like sounds that no one else can immitate, making them seem like an entirely new creature or being of sorts. And don't get me started on the hunger they have and how willing they are to consume the flesh of their enemies.

Masked!Reader who is willing to maul anything they deem as a danger to the Chain to death, whether it be a monster or a person. They really don't care if the issue is bigger than them or not, they WILL tear them to shreds with either their bare hands or their teeth. Their bite is actually quite painful too, kinda like their teeth from their canines to their molars are a lot sharper than average. They may or may not also have an urge to bite the Chain, not hard or anything like that at least not too hard but just enough to leave a mark and stake their claim over them.

Masked!Reader who knows of the shadow all too well and is not afraid to confront it in the slightest. They can tell the shadow is fearful of them, they can smell the fear radiating off of it, and has no problem at all with instilling more fear into it in order to keep the Chain safe. Sure, they have at least 10 or so heroes that follow them around like a bunch of lost puppies, but they have come face to face with worse dangers than a measly shadow in their life and don't see the need to have the Chain be so worried over it.

Overall, Masked!Reader is like the embodiment of Theadore Roosevelt's saying "Speak softly and carry a big stick", aka "Be kind but take no bull". They take no shit and have enough energy to take on Ganondorf or even Hylia herself.

------------

I have a special place in my heart for Masked!Reader and their chaotic shenanigans. One of my favorite readers to write about. Anyway, sorry if I'm writing a bit too much, but I had an imagine idea that I wanna write about with this reader and Four in a situation that I might just do ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I hope you have a good day/night and make sure to rest and hydrate!

The voices keep giving me ideas and they tell me the chaos I should cause. /j

-𐂂 anon

Masked!Reader that is perhaps a deity of chaos?

Yan!chain is feral for their feral reader.

It’s mutually beneficial.

[yellowcry]

A little bit of sugar (and lots of poison too)

Luisa takes unnatural twitchy steps, looking through the deadly silent town. Why was she out? It's so foggy in her head

TW: Blood/gore, Death, Murder, Cannibalism, Body horror

The dove is dead and had rotten so much

The town is conquered by the darkness of the night. The shuffling of Luisa's feet growled around, bouncing in stillness. She takes unnatural twitchy steps, looking through the deadly silent town.

 

Why was she out? It's so foggy in her head. (I can't think)

 

Her muscles are tensed, shrinking from unbearable hunger. It twitches her stomach, pushing the dark pitch black bile up her throat. She bends in half, coughing her lungs out. It feels as if she's stabbed in her chest The disgusting mucus smashes against the rough dry ground. It leaves a rotting smell in her throat, only bursting her unbearable starvation further. Her stomach growled, shaking the surface. The pain in her insides makes it impossible to think of anything else. Her skin crackles, tearing itself apart.

 

Everything is rotting. (Do I rot?) The scent, the taste clings to her receptors, filling her with a sickening feeling. Luisa licks off the blood from her teeth, trying to get distracted in a different flavor.

 

The torn clothes are stuck to her wet, clammy body. Like dried blood between her fingers. Luisa rubs them, scattering them into crumbs.

 

Luisa doesn't think she was injured in the near past. 

 

Her body is trembling. Bile drips from her lips like a coughed-out water, mixing with saliva that she can't stop from coming out of her jaws. It's another way her body demands nutrition. (or maybe to show what beast she has become) Her teeth grind in bare unfiltrated rage. A need to dig into something, drown down an animalistic appetite. It tears her stomach in half, spreading inside of her twisted conclusion. Her hair lies on her shoulders in cluttered brown shreds. Some of the black thing is stuck between the front strands.

 

What is happening to her? Why does she feel so strange?  

 

And so she walks around the empty village. Her mind is hyper-alert, reacting to any sight of grub. The earth is cracking under her feet. She's a predator, searching for dinner. The patience is running low, Luisa digs her nails into her palms, feeling the warm blood congealing in the fresh wounds. Bites her tongue to the salty metal taste. The plaza is crashed, fair tents are destroyed under her inhuman strength as Luisa searches. Where's everyone? Hiding like pathetic cowards. She needs food. It's the only thing she can think about. The vomit rising in her throat doesn't matter. The fact that something is wrong in its core(in my core, what is wrong with me?).

 

She just wants to eat. There's nothing wrong with her.

 

"Luisa..."

 

Her neck clicks as she looks at the source of the sound. A young girl, really small. She probably should go find her parents.

 

Luisa doesn't care. At a speed that is far more than anything a normal human can produce she jumps onto the young woman. The latter tries to pull out without a shadow of success. Her green glasses slipped from her face, breaking against the bare ground of the street. Luisa roars, she can't let her go. Her heart runs at a crazy rate faster than any exercise could ever make it beat. Pulse cannon into itself, crashing like a fruit in a hand. Her eyes are wide open, not blinking. She never blinks now. It's a useless waste of time when she can't see everything.

 

A roar rings in the air. It's nothing human. The sound of a demon, a terrifying being from scary stories parents have told to their little kids. 

 

She fressing onto the girl's small arm. Bone fractures under the pressure, muscles ripping apart. The girl screams, pleading for something that Luisa can't understand. (What's she saying?) Her mind is too focused, unable to do anything except rip the soft gentle meat. The words of her dinner can't stay in her mind for long enough to proceed with them. Unable to care about a pure fear in her victim's eyes. (Do I know who it is?) Luisa bites off huge pieces of other's body.

I'm sorry I'm sorry, stop, stop this, I don't want to hurt her

 

A small, tiny part of Luisa that is still sane begs to stop. She doesn't know what she's doing, but she's not supposed to eat humans. She can't do this! Her essence is curling in guilt that swallows her brain. It's wrong, the fact grosses her mind out. Just for a moment before remorse gets drowned out. It's so foggy, too foggy.

I'm a monster, am I not?

 

Blood covers her fangs. The taste is driving her crazy, erasing any thread of reality she has left. Her free arm breaks through her victim's body, squeezing her insides, throwing it out. Luisa hisses in pain when gastric juice burns her skin. It peels off, showing the inner parts of her fingers. Senorita is limp. Luisa growls at the realization. Alive flesh is much more tasty. It doesn't mean she won't finish it, but it would be much nicer eating her alive. She spits out the bones, they are crushing to the white calcium dust. Swallows the raw blood, feeling her insides with a smell of dead life.

 

It doesn't stop her hunger. Nothing seems to stop it no matter how hard she tries. She reaches with her trembling hand, scratching the blood off her dehydrated lips. The bright red glitters against her tanned skin. It gets stuck in cracks that are going deep down under her withered skin. Like soil broken by an earthquake.

 

Luisa can't help it. Her body doesn't listen to her anymore. Moving on its own, more like an animal in the best case. A beast that can't be stopped. It pushes down, buries whatever is left from her. Blocks her thoughts until they are crushed inside her mind, turned into stupid nonsense gibberish. Makes her throw up with disgusting black mucilage and twists the air in her lungs. 

 

She can only think about food.

 

LET ME OUT, PLEASE LET ME OUT

[bamby0304]

Her Saviours- Ch.34

Series Masterlist

Summary: During an odd case, the Winchesters came across Y/N, a scared young Omega girl who had been used as a lure for a nest of vampires. After rescuing her from the monsters, John and his sons took her in knowing she was in no state to live among ordinary people. But three Alphas and one Omega is a mixture bound for disaster.

Warnings: Explicit language. ABO dynamics. Angst. Violence.

Bamby

Coming to, you found yourself tied up to one of the foundation pillars. Sam was to your right, with Dean on his right. Meg was crouching in front of the three of you, watching, waiting with a smirk placed firmly on her face.

Sam grunted and gasped, waking up moments after you.

“Hey, Sam?” Dean started. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but your girlfriend...is a bitch.”

You snarled at Meg which just made her smirk grow.

Sam ignored you all, though, as he focused on Meg, his mind ticking as the pieces fell into place. “This, the whole thing, was a trap. Running into you at the bar, following you here, hearin’ what you had to say. It was all a set-up, wasn’t it? And that the victims were from Lawrence?”

She chuckled. “It doesn’t mean anything. It was just to draw you in, that’s all.”

“You killed those two people for nothin’,” Sam spat.

“Baby, I’ve killed a lot more for a lot less.”

“You trapped us. Good for you. It’s Miller time.” Dean shrugged. “But why don’t you kill us already?”

Meg rolled her eyes. “Not very quick on the uptake, are we? This trap isn’t for you.”

The second the words left her lips you knew the truth.

“John.”

Her head snapped in your direction. “Clever girl.” She smiled.

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re dumber than you look,” Dean scoffed. “'Cause even if Dad was in town, which he is not, he wouldn’t walk into something like this. He’s too good.”

“He is pretty good. I’ll give you that.” She stood and walked over to him. You had to struggle against your binds to watch as she straddled him. “But you see, he has one weakness.”

“What’s that?” he asked, voice tense with repulsion.

“You,” she answered simply. “He lets his guard down around his boys, lets his emotions cloud his judgement.” She leaned in closer to him. “I happen to know he is in town. And he’ll come and try to save you. And then the Daevas will kill everybody… nice and slow and messy.”

Dean had all the faith in John, though. Nothing she said would scare him. “Well, I’ve got news for ya. It’s gonna take a lot more than some….shadow to kill him.”

“Oh, the Daevas are in the room here,” she countered. “They’re invisible. Their shadows are just the only part you can see.”

“Why you doin’ this, Meg? What kind of deal you got worked out here, huh? And with who?”

Meg turned to Sam to answer his question, her tone going from cocky to defensive quickly. “I’m doing this for the same reasons you do what you do… loyalty. Love.” She paused before her grin returned. “Like the love you had for Mummy… and Jess.”

“Go to hell,” he spat.

“Baby, I’m already there.” Crawling away from Dean, she moved over to Sam before sitting herself in his lap. “Come on, Sam. There’s no need to be nasty.” She leaned in to whisper in his ear, “I think we both know how you really feel about me.” Her body was pressed against his. “You know, I saw you watching me. Changing in my apartment. Turned you on, didn’t it?”

The rope that had you tied to the spot was cutting into your wrists as you struggled against them. You wanted to dig your teeth into her throat and rip it out. You wanted to tear her to shreds and wear her blood like war paint. You wanted to kill her with your bare hands and teeth, and not stop until she was turned to nothing.

“I didn’t mind,” she went on. “I liked that you were watching me. Come on, Sammy. You and I can still have a little dirty fun.”

You felt something primal snap in you as she began to grind against him. But what really got your blood pumping was when she started the nibble on his neck.

“You wanna have fun? Go ahead then. I’m a little tied up right now.” Sam’s voice was tight as he just sat there stiffly.

Slowly, he turned his head to catch your gaze. You held it as you continued to struggle against your binds. The stench of your rage was thick in the room. There was no doubt everyone could smell it.

The sound of something metallic clinking against the ground had everyone freeze.

Meg waited barely a second before she scurried over to Dean and snatched away the knife he’d been using to cut away at his ties. Then she slid back over to Sam, right back onto his lap.

“Now, were you just trying to distract me while your brother cuts free?”

Sam shook his head. “No. No.” She pulled back to watch him as he went on, “That’s because I have a knife of my own.”

Breaking free from his bins, Sam grabbed Meg and smashed his head into hers. She fell back with a heavy weight as he grunted and groaned in pain, clutching at his head.

“Sam!” Dean called out. “Get the altar.”

Fighting the pain and dizziness, Sam pulled himself to his feet and fumbled over to the altar as quickly as he could. Grabbing the table, he flipped it, sending the contents of the altar flying and falling.

The sound of screeches filled the room as shadows began to suddenly rush Meg. The three of you watched as she was dragged to the large windows before she was thrown through them.

Sam hurried over to Dean, handing him a spare knife before he moved to cut you free. The second you were able to move you ran over to the edge of the window and looked down. Lying there, on the ground in a mangled heap, was a now very dead Meg.

Dean and Sam came over to stand on either side of you, the youngest breaking the silence, “So, I guess the Daevas didn’t like being bossed-”

Before Sam could finish his sentence you grabbed his shirt and pulled him down to you. Crashing his lips onto yours, you devoured any words he’d been about to speak as you reclaimed him as your own.

When you finally let up and gave him the chance to pull away, Sam looked down at you with wide eyes.

“Mine,” was all you could say.

Dean shifted behind you, which had you spinning on your heels to grab his shirt to hold him in place.

“Mine,” you repeated.

With both brothers in your grasp, the Alphas nodded. “Yours,” they said at the same time.

Their confirmation allowed you to relax. Your grip on their shirts slipped as you felt the tension, stress and anxiety fade away.

“You okay?” Sam asked as he stepped closer to you, resting a hand on your shoulder.

Nodding, you found yourself lost for words.

Seeming to sense that, Dean placed a gentle hand on the small of your back. “Let’s get you back to the motel room.”

All you could do was nod again as you let the brothers lead you away, feeling security and comfort replace the negativity you’d been filled with moments ago.

…

One of Sam’s hands was in yours, while his other held the duffle bag of supplies. Dean was a couple steps ahead, pulling out the key to the hotel room out of his pocket.

You were more than eager for rest after the job’s events. The whole thing had been taxing on so many levels. More than just physical. So the idea of being able to rest up for the rest of the night before moving on sounded amazing.

“Why didn’t you just leave that stuff in the car?” Dean asked Sam as he started unlocking the room’s door.

Sam shrugged. “I said it before, and I’ll say it again. Better safe than sorry.”

As Dean opened the door, the three of you shuffled into the room, only to come to a sudden stop at the sight of a man standing by the window.

“Hey!” Dean yelled in an instant, out of instinct.

Your instincts were different, though. Using your free hand, you held it out in front of the older brother as your other hand held Sam back. “Guys… wait…”

The scent had hit you before you’d fully comprehended the thought of someone breaking into your hotel room. You knew he was there before you could even think of a whisper of there being a threat.

Sam dropped the duffle bag and reached for the light, turning it on to erase the darkness in the room and reveal who was standing in front of you.

John smiled at the three of you, proud and relieved.

“Dad?” Dean was clearly shocked.

John simply nodded. “Hey, boys. Y/N.” 

Reacting with emotion, Dean stepped forward, meeting his father halfway before the two of them embarrassed in a long and tight hug. The emotion filled the room, reaching even you and Sam as the two of you hesitated to move from the room’s door.

As they pulled away, John looked to his other son. “Hi Sam.”

All Sam could do was nod as he responded softly, “Hey, Dad.

John’s eyes turned to you, then. The breath he let out released so much tension and emotion. There was so much longing and need. He needed the reassuring touch of his Omega. You didn’t have the heart to tell him you weren’t his.

Finger’s slipping out of Sam’s grasp, you felt your heart ache a little as you did what you were taught to do and stepped up to the Alpha of your pack.

John pulled you to him as soon as you were within reach. Grasping the back of your head, he buried his face in your neck as he breathed in your scent. At the same time you could sense him scenting you, making sure to leave a reminder of himself as he held you against him.

Pulling back ever so slightly, he searched your eyes without really reading them, before he pulled you in and pressed his lips against yours in a desperate kiss.

It was muscle memory. With the muscle memory came other memories which flooded your mind and heart. Tears pricked at your eyes as you lifted your hand to grasp his jacket and hold him closer. Melting into his touch and the kiss, you revelled in the memories of comfort and security this man had created with you over the years you’d been together.

Cupping your face, he wiped away a stray tear from your cheek as he pulled you away. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too, sir.”

He chuckled lowly at the title. “You being a good girl for my boys?”

“Always.”

Humming his approval, he leaned back in to press his lips against yours in a tender but shorter kiss. Pulling back, he slipped his hand into yours, keeping you by his side as he turned to his sons.

“So… what happened?”

Dean was the one to jump in line and start answering his questions. “It was a trap. I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” John assured him. “I thought it might’ve been.”

“Were you there?”

John nodded, answering Dean’s question. “Yeah, I got there just in time to see the girl take the swan dive. She was the bad guy, right?”

“Yes, sir,” both of his sons answered.

“Good.” John gave a short nod. “Well, it doesn’t surprise me. It’s tried to stop me before.”

It was Sam’s turn to ask questions, “The demon has?”

“It knows I’m close,” John explained. “It knows I’m gonna kill it. Not just exorcise it or send it back to hell. Actually kill it.”

The look of confusion but intrigued in Dean’s eyes barely covered the hope lingering there. “How?”

John just smiled. “I’m workin’ on that.”

“Let us come with you. We’ll help,” Sam offered.

Shaking his head, John declined the offer, “No, Sam. Not yet. Just try to understand. This demon is a scary son of a bitch. I don’t want you caught in a crossfire. I don’t want you hurt.”

“Dad, you don’t have to worry about us.”

“Of course I do. I’m your father. Your Alpha.” He gave your hand a squeeze before he went on, “Listen, Sammy, last time we were together, we had one hell of a fight.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s good to see you again. It’s been a long time.”

“Too long.”

Hand slipping from yours, John stepped up to his youngest and pulled him into a hug. The two held each other with a different kind of emotion than what he’d shared with Dean moment’s ago.

It happened so fast.

As John and Sam pulled away something came out of nowhere and grabbed them, throwing them across the room. You felt a force grab you, like invisible hands clutching at your arms before you were tossed like a ragdoll against the wall.

Your head collided with the drywall with enough impact that you felt yourself growing dizzy in an instant. You were so caught off guard you could only barely focus on the others as Dean cried out for his family before he too was thrown around.

Claws slashed at your arms, cutting through your jacket as blood began to seep through the wounds. You cried out, screaming as whatever had you did just barely enough damage to make sure you weren’t able to fight back.

“Shut your eyes!” Sam ordered over the chaos. “These things are shadow demons, so let’s light ‘em up!”

Barely having enough time to react, you squeezed your eyes shut just like he’d told you all to do. Behind your eyelids you saw the brightest of lights fill the room as Sam did something to banish the shadow demons. They screeched and screamed as the light erased them from existence momentarily.

Hands were grabbing you again in a matter of seconds, only they were gentler. You could sense they belonged to Sam without needing to open your eyes. Letting him grab you, you let him guide you out of the room as Dean hurried to help John before the four of you rushed out of the hotel as quickly as you could.

Leaning on Sam, your eyes now open, you let him rush you over to Baby. He’d grabbed the duffle bag of supplies before leaving the room at some point. Once he was certain you were steady enough, he let you go and threw the bag into the back of the car before turning his attention back to you.

His hands and eyes searched everywhere, taking in your injuries. “How bad are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” you insisted, grabbing his hands to stop him.

Letting his hands stop, he watched as yours slipped into his grasp before he gave them a gentle squeeze. Leaning forward, he rested his forehead against yours as he let his breathing calm down, along with his rapidly beating heart.

As Dean and John caught up, Sam then pulled away to turn to them. “We don’t have much time. As soon as the flare’s out, they’ll be back.”

Dean shook his head as they came to a stop by the two of you. “Wait, wait, wait! Sam, wait. Dad, you can’t come with us.”

Sam was clearly shocked. “What? What are you talkin’ about?”

“You… you’re beat to hell,” John started to argue.

But Dean was adamant, “We’ll be alright.”

“Dean, we should stick together. We’ll go after those demons-”

He cut Sam off, “Sam! Listen to me! We almost got Dad killed in there. Don’t you understand? They’re not gonna stop. They’re gonna try again. They’re gonna use us to get to him. I mean, Meg was right. Dad’s vulnerable when he’s with us. He- he’s stronger without us around.”

Leaning against Baby, you watched the three Alphas, sensing them trying to out scent each other to win the argument. As they stood there it was becoming more and more clear that John was beginning to agree with Dean.

Sam shook his head. “Dad, no.” He reached out to rest his hand on his father’s shoulder. “After everything… after all the time we spent lookin’ for you- Please. I gotta be a part of this fight.”

“Sammy, this fight is just starting. And we are all gonna have a part to play,” John explained. “For now, you’ve got to trust me, son. Okay, you’ve gotta let me go.”

There was a brief moment of hesitation before Sam nodded, letting his hand fall from his father’s shoulder in a sign of defeat.

Knowing he could go without either of his sons fighting him on it, John stepped away from them, getting ready to leave. Only before he could walk off to his truck, which was parked at the other end of the ally, he turned to you.

“You should come with me.”

Your mouth gaped open and closed out of shock. “Wha… what?”

“I know you’re hunting with them,” he started. “I know you’re putting yourself in danger, and I know they’re encouraging it. You’ll be safer with me,” he explained as he reached his hand out expectantly, waiting for you to take it and go with him.

The thing is… you would be miserable with him. You knew it, deep down. He would have you locked away in your hotel room, tucked away from anyone who might harm you. Anything that might harm you. But that was harmful in its own way. In a depression, anxiety, bad thoughts and bad mental place kind of way.

But how could you say no to the man who saved your life? Didn’t you owe him everything? Until challenged, he was your Alpha, right? So how were you supposed to deny his request?

No answer came to mind, so you did the one thing your body was screaming at you to do.

Slinking back, you found yourself sliding into Sam’s side as you shook your head. “No.”

John looked at you dumbfounded. He was completely shocked and confused, and you even spotted a hint of betrayal in his eyes. But he didn’t fight you on your decision, and you realised in that moment the two of you were experiencing your first disobedience against him.

Lowering his hand, he turned his back on the three of you and started towards his truck. When he reached it he paused and turned to look at your little group one last time before he got into the truck and drove off.

Sam’s arm wrapped around you as he led you to Baby and guided you into the backseat. Neither of the brothers commented on the decision you’d made as they got into the front. Not even Dean questioned why you’d denied their father as he started the car.

In fact, if you didn’t know any better… you swore you could sense relief in both of them as Dean began to drive off in the opposite direction of their pack Alpha.

Bamby

[feralbutfluffy]

28. Aziraphale

Fury is an interesting thing. 

It pumps adrenaline through the body, raising both heart rate and blood pressure, fueling a feeling that burns bright and brutal. 

In the days of the Greek gods, fury was given form; the Eumenides were deities of vengeance, daughters of Nyx, with bat wings and bloodshot eyes. 

Later, the Oxford Dictionary defined fury as, ‘extreme anger that often includes violent behaviour,’ and if that definition is accurate then it is true that Aziraphale had, so far, managed to always sidestep anything that might lead to that sort of trouble. Fury was a concept he had seen depicted in print, or in art, but it was something he had always observed from a safe distance.

Now, Aziraphale fairly glittered with it.

He had felt it begin to click into place from the moment Muriel had helped him establish the link to Crowley. The ache he had felt then - some warning of Crowley’s situation - had been a mournful cry for help, the kind of cry that echoes in silence and expects no reply, and fury had, for the first time, made itself known.

As soon as his eyes had locked on the broken figure of his dearest friend, it had enveloped him completely, closing over him like armour.

He could not seem to shake it off.

Something wild had surged in his chest as he’d surveyed the damage. He’d remembered Muriel’s earnest explanation of pyjamas as he’d taken in the tattered remnants of what had once been black silk trousers; Crowley’s only scrap of clothing. His mind had overlaid an image from the past over the image in his present…

His friend, then, sleek and stylish and hermetically wrapped in layers of charcoal and black. 

His friend, now, half-naked and ripped to shreds, looking like he’d been hunted for sport.

And maybe he had.

He had wished for his flaming sword in that moment. He would have waited for those responsible and struck them down without a thought. But Saraqael had grounded him, reminded him of what needed to be done, and directed him during the healings. They had asked him to lift Crowley’s head, or move Crowley’s arm, or spread Crowley’s wing; directions that probably weren’t necessary outside of giving him something to do so that his mind didn’t splinter into maddened slivers of undiluted rage.

The urge to tear the place apart with his bare hands had been almost overwhelming. Instead, he had gritted his teeth and used those same hands to cradle Crowley’s head in his lap, his fingers catching in blood-matted snarls. He was hollowed out by sorrow, asphyxiated by anger, and the fury was inside him then, a stinging cold crawling through him until he shook with it.

Back at the bookshop, Aziraphale had knelt at Crowley’s side with a bowl of warm water and wiped away the blood with slow, gentle, deliberate strokes. Each bruise and scar revealed had stoked his rage. It had crystalised into something sharp and vicious and diamond-hard. 

Afterwards, he had poured the water out in the sink and the colour of it had broken his heart.

Saraqael was a welcome ally. They didn’t conceal their disgust at the situation, just explained more fully what Aziraphale had already half-known; the Metatron had wanted to separate him from Crowley, believing them too powerful. Saraqael had been pragmatic about his choice to leave Earth.

“The Metatron used good bait. You were always a believer.”

“Yes.”

A sidelong glance. “I heard he spiked your earthly beverage with an extra shot of religious zeal just to be sure of your answer.”

“My coffee? ”

“Just a rumour. You probably would have made the same decision regardless. You’ve always been…” - Saraqael paused - “... eager.”

“But… But the Metatron succeeded. I was in Heaven. We weren’t even on speaking terms !”

The questions hung in the air unspoken. Why do this? Why take him?

“There was still contact, was there not?” Saraqael nodded their head towards the front of the shop. “Through Muriel? The two of you have never been able to keep away from each other for too long,” Saraqael wrinkled their nose in bewilderment. “God only knows why. Still, it did seem inevitable that perhaps a year from now, a decade from now, a century from now… you two would simply pick up where you left off. Unless… ”

“Unless.” Repeated Aziraphale dully.

“...Unless that possibility was eliminated.”

“But why Crowley? Why not me?”

Saraqael gave him a look that told him they wouldn’t be dignifying his question with an answer. Why would Heaven ever think to lose an angel to spare a demon?

Aziraphale had gone to Crowley then, bent his forehead to Crowley’s arm, silently begged for forgiveness, and Crowley had come to, startling him. He had warned Aziraphale away. He had warned him of danger he didn’t seem to realise was no longer present. 

Aziraphale had stared at the thin white line that split his eyebrow and continued down his cheek, thought about his own failure to warn Crowley, and silently swallowed down the guilt threatening to choke him.

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[fragilecapric0rnn]

80+steddie for the prompts if you're feeling it! 💛

sorry for the delay, but i knocked this one out today <3 hope y'all enjoy this silly lil summertime pre-steddie diddy :)

80. “Is your seatbelt on?”

“This is so stupid,” Eddie spits out through gritted teeth.

Steve's beside him, holding up the side of the table, trying to shove it in with all his strength. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the sweaty and irritated Eddie, to avoid making Eddie even more irritated, or worse, making him drop the extremely (and unnecessarily) heavy table on either or both of their feet. 

Steve and Eddie were on their way back to Steve and Robin’s relatively new place, having only been there for a month. Steve didn’t leave his parent’s house on great terms with either of them, and Robin didn’t have much to begin with, so they both had slim pickens when it came to furnishing their humble abode. Steve spotted a table on the side of the road, small and wooden, chipped but loved, with a piece of notebook paper taped to its front with the word “free” scribbled on it, he slammed on his breaks in the middle of the road. Eddie, after he finished screaming, immediately said no. 

(Or more accurately he said “You’re high if you think that’s gonna fit in the Beemer.” But Steve never backed down from a challenge. And that was a challenge.)

It’s July and it’s hot, inhumanely hot. Moving furniture unexpectedly with a newish friend after a nice and temperate movie date, was understandably not appealing.

(Date in the platonic sense, Steve feels the need to remind himself. Date as in, he would've called it a date if Robin wasn't at work.)

But Steve has a tight budget and is sick of eating his dinners standing up in the kitchen or on the living room floor. Eddie and Robin usually join him, either in the kitchen or on the floor, so this is as much for them as it is for him, he convinces himself. And if Eddie's becoming a permanent fixture in the form of a third person at their apartment, the least he can do is help him get this damn table.

(He doesn't know why he feels the need to clarify, but he has a sneaky suspicion that it has something to do with the way he has to manually avert his eyes from staring at the veins popping out of Eddie's neck as he's moving the table. Platonic, he reminds himself. Platonic. Capital P.)

“Me needing to furnish my new apartment isn’t stupid.” Steve tries to keep the strain out of his voice, tries to ignore the beads of sweat barely dodging his eyes.

“No, you not wanting to go back to the house to grab the van is stupid,” and Steve keeps shoving the side of the table harder and harder into the backseat, where it remains unbudging sticking out of the door. “Because this is NOT fitting in your backseat.” He’s holding the table up but not helping push it in, despite Steve’s insistence. 

“We just have to shove it in a little -” Suddenly, Eddie lets out a frustrated grunt, Steve snaps his head up in his direction. Eddie’s eyes are closed and he lets go of the table completely, backing away. 

“Steve,” He stops, leaving it up to Steve’s strength alone to catch the remaining weight of the table so it doesn’t smash on the ground. “This is the last remaining shred of collateral you have, I’m not gonna help you tear up the interior just because you’re being stubborn.” Steve furrows his brows, flipping through the rolodex of index cards in his brain for the meaning of the word collateral, as he sets the table down, still half-way in the backseat of his car. 

“Did we just swap bodies?” Steve deadpans, leaning back onto the car, arms crossed and looking at Eddie, who has his hands on his hips in a very familiar stance. 

“You’re being an idiot,” Eddie bites back, clearly frustrated, but it makes Steve chuckle. 

“Again, did we just swap bodies?” He’s laughing as he says it. 

“Steve.” Eddie whines, kicking at the sidewalk. 

“Fine!” Steve throws his arms in the air, feeling the stubbornness get swept away by the sweat that’s seeping out of every pore on his body. 

“We’ll go get the van,” he grumbles, motioning for Eddie to help him move the table back to the side of the road. It’s a lot easier sliding the table out of the backseat, Eddie walks to the other end of it, looking amused as Steve keeps grumbling. “But if this shit is gone by the time we get back, I’m gonna-” 

“You’re gonna what?” Eddie tests, setting it down on the lawn where it was found. 

“I don’t know! But I’m gonna do something!” Steve yells, annoyed and hot and sweating, all without his damn table. 

Eddie is cackling, making it feel more annoying. In the moment it takes for Steve to wipe the sweat from his brow with the bottom hem of his t-shirt and start the few steps back to the car, Eddie’s sitting in the driver’s seat. 

“Oh no, hell no. If this is my only collater-whatever, then I’m driving.” 

“Can you tell me what collateral means, Steve?” Eddie asks, through the rolled down window on the passenger’s side. 

“It’s when, you combine, the - the, thing is…” he trails off, Eddie looking at him expectantly.

“You’re an asshole!” Steve yells at him, with entirely too much heat, more than he expected to come out, and if it weren’t for Eddie cackling, he’d apologize. But he's laughing at him and he can feel the his gut twisting in knots and he's sweaty and he just wants his damn table.

He swings the passenger door open and slams it shut behind him. The car idles for a few seconds.

“Why are we just sitting here?” Steve barks.

“Is your seatbelt on?” Eddie's voice is even, level. No more jokes.

“No?” 

“I’m not moving if you don’t have your seatbelt on.”  The air in the car has officially shifted. Steve feels like he’s getting whiplash. 

“The house is less than a mile from here,” He scoffs, but Eddie settles in the driver's seat, eyes piercing into Steve's.

“A lot can happen in less than a mile, Steve.” 

He holds Eddie’s gaze for a sec. Any semblance of jokes or teasing has been replaced with something else, something more sincere, something… something Steve can put a name to, but he’s not sure if he should. For the sake of his own heart. 

It’s the something that had him up and ready for the day, hours before he needed to be, so he could take Robin to school. It’s the same something that keeps him pulling up to Dustin’s doorstep at the drop of a hat. It’s the something he feels in his chest every time he harps on the kids when they’re in the seat he’s currently occupying. It's the something that's been bubbling in his chest and in his mind since this dorky metalhead waltzed into his life, broken glass to the throat. Something.

“Earth to Steve! Did I lose you over there?” 

“No, sorry, I’ll just -” he quickly snaps his seatbelt on. “Let’s just go get your van.” His eyes are fixed forward, but he can feel Eddie staring at him, eyes lingering as he puts it into drive. 

[the-crow-binary]

Another Mactor piece (sorry I am kinda obsessed), in two parts

TW for traumatizing sex (i'm not sure how else to call it lol let's just say Dracula fucked up a perfectly functional boi and it lead to violence)

Mathias knew something was off. Whenever he met with Hector after his encounters with Dracula, he would just stay by his side, cuddle with him, maybe have a little conversation, but he never engaged in anything sexual with him. And Mathias never expected him to, he was happy to just exist by his side, and bring him comfort. So when this time, Hector moved to kiss him, and his hands started to explore his body, and his eyes betrayed no emotion, he knew something was wrong. But he ignored the feeling, thinking that maybe, this time, it was just what he needed. And he would gladly help him forget about the Count for a moment.

However, his bad feeling worsened the moment Hector penetrated him. He held back a scream and gripped the sheets, his head spinning from the strength he used. The same strength he started thrusted in him with, seemingly abandoning himself to demonic lust. He struggled to breath, it felt wrong, he did not like that. This wasn't the way they were making love.

"Hector- Hector plea- Hah! Wait-!"

He put his hands on his knight's shoulders and tried to push him away, only for Hector to grab his wrists and press them against the mattress, obstructing his bloodstream with his force. Mathias gritted his teeth and tried to free himself, but he soon realized how utterly powerless he was. He couldn't even make him budge. Eyes watering with pain and a growing fear, he looked into Hector's eyes, and barely had the time to catch the emptiness in his eyes before he suddenly goes for his throat. This time, Mathias could not held back his scream when teeth sank into his skin with a brutality only known to beasts. He squirmed, trying to escape the pain, hearing a growl from Hector that made him feel even smaller. And he was still thrusting, tearing him apart from the inside. Or at least, thats what it felt like.

With a shaking voice, he tried to call for him, but none of his words made it through the mental walls surrounding Hector's mind. The teeth stayed deep in his throat, his own mind screamed that he was going to get eaten, emptied from all his blood, shred into pieces, and that he needed to run away, but the more he tried to free himself, the more his chest tightened with the knowledge that it was completely useless.

"Hector…!"

Finally, Hector let go of his throat and straightened. Mathias tried to search, through tears, for any sign of life, of guilt, of any kind of emotion in his knight's eyes, that would show him he came back to his senses. But all he found was a deep anger, that he knew was not directed at him. But could Hector make the difference? Or was there none to begin with?

In a second, the strong hands moved from his wrists to his throat. Mathias did not have the time to gasp before he was deprived of air, thumbs pressing on his jugular. He grabbed Hector's wrists as he growled again, squeezing more and more, no matter how much Mathias tried to fight back, to get the hands off of him, to kick him. He couldn't call for his name anymore, could barely moan. His vision became blurry, and he soon gave up on trying to fight. There was no scenario coming into his mind where we wouldn't die right there.

He heard Hector call for a Lord that wasn't him, and felt him squeeze slightly harder as he spilled inside of him. Mathias closed his eyes, expecting to lose consciousness soon, but he was suddenly let go, allowing him to breath again. And he did not hesitate in taking in as much air as he could, coughing, turning away from Hector as he rubbed a hand on his throat. He was sure he could feel the marks left by Hector's fingers. And he wasn't sure when they would ever disappear from his mind.

"My Lord! Are you okay?? I'm so-"

Mathias slapped away the hand that tried to touch him. He could hear the panic in the knight's voice, but he wasn't in a state to care. He did not even look at him as he got away, grabbing his clothes, ignoring the shaking of his body. He needed to leave.

"My Lord, wait, please…! I'm-"

"Don't," he talked as he put his clothes back on, "I've… I've had enough. I am going back to my room. It's best for the both of us."

He did not hear any more sound, not even as he went for the door, before he was even fully clothed. He did not care, did not think of the creatures that could see him half naked and mock him, his instincts were screaming at him to get out as fast as possible, to get away from the beast or he would get devoured. The thought made his heart ache, for the both of them.

He bit his trembling lip as he turned the doorknob.

"Don't follow me."

With this, he got out of the room.

~

Hector took a deep breath before knocking on the door, clenching his fist in a futile attempt to stop them from trembling. He hasn't seen Mathias in a few days, only hearing about him when he would meet servants going to his chambers with food. All he knew was that he hasn't left his room ever since that night, and knowing him, he probably has spent the whole time sleeping in his bed, sick.

A knot forming in his throat, he waited for what seemed like an eternity, without a response.

"Lord Cronqvist…?"

He knocked again.

"Lord Cronqvist, please, can you open for me..? I just… I just wanna talk. Just a few minutes- No, a few seconds will be enough. I am begging."

He could not stop the trembling from taking over his voice. He, again, took deep breath after deep breath, forcing himself to focus.

"Don't give up on me, please, my Lord… Not you…"

His voice was weak, so much he doubted it could even reach beyond the thick door. His chest tightened as the seconds passed, his head started to spin out of his control, and he struggled more and more to keep his breath calm and steady. Even his legs slowly refused to obey him, they were about to give out, and so did his consciousness.

A slow creak anchored him back to reality. Hector slighlty gasped at the sight of his Lord, partially hiding behind the door, looking at him with an expression Hector wished he never was the origin of.

Bags under his eyes, eyebrows frowned with uncertainty, his eyes red just as his cheeks, he looked not only exhausted, but dreadful. The sight got Hector's voice stuck in his throat, no matter how many times he opened his mouth, how much he tried to talk, his own body just wouldn't obey him. He just wanted to apologize, but would it really change anything? Wouldn't it be just an insult, after what he did? Mathias deserved much more than an apology. But what else was he supposed to give him?

He wanted to hug him. To take his hands and kiss them. To throw himself in his arms and beg for forgiveness. But he couldn't, not when just trying to reach for the hand on the door made it's owner flinch.

"My Lord…" he murmured with a broken voice.

Finally, his legs gave out, and he dropped to his knees. Mathias looked at him in disbelief as he grabbed the edge of his robe, shaking like he has never before.

"Words cannot express how guilty I feel, how much I wish to repent for what I did! But if you want- If it can make you feel better, and prevent you from ignoring me, and hating me, please- Please! Hurt me back, my Lord!"

Mathias' eyes widened, before he frowned even more, and Hector did not see any other way to escape the view of his enraged Lord other than by lowering his head and put his forehead against the cloth.

"I will take everything, I won't fight back, even if you were to bring me to the edge of death or beyond, I will accept it. I will do everything you want from me, please, please-"

Though his heart ached, he did not resist when his Lord suddenly pushed him away. He expected anything, from screams to kicks, from insults to cold ignorance, and was ready to accept it all. But what came instead, and made him lose his breath, was a brutal, yet warm embrace.

"I have heard enough."

Hector did not dare to move. He barely dared to look, as Mathias squeezed him tight, with a strength he did not expect from him. The frail arms were shaking, and Hector couldn't tell if it was from the strength they were using, or from any kind of emotion.

"…I have heard more than enough."

Mathias repeated, before going silent again. Slowly, with uncertainty, he embraced his Lord back. And when he was sure he wasn't going to be pushed away, he gave the most gentle, yet desperate squeeze he could, smothering his tears in his Lord's shoulder.

[makibeni]

Ch. 40- And Yours to Me

"I just need to know what room she's in"

Makima hovered over the receptionist with an uncharacteristically shaken posture, worry having overtaken any conscious urge to maintain her composure.

"I'm sorry ma'am, I can't help you"

She clenched her fist, barely holding herself together as a length of chain began to spill from her sleeve. Her patience had run dry and she had neither the time nor desire to entertain these arbitrary barriers.

"Makima! Over here"

She stopped in her tracks and followed the sound. Normally the irritating familiarity of Himeno shouting her name would be enough to arouse a reaction from her, but the creeping dread in the back of her mind had started to fog her vision. She could hardly see but for whatever path would lead her to Kobeni.

"Hey, you can't jus-"

The receptionist's words retreated back after a glance at Makima's face. The final shreds of her facade had peeled away leaving nothing but an empty shell in pursuance of her goal, the flame that burned bright behind her eyes now lacked the compassion that had been kindled by love, radiating a cold and menacing emptiness. She turned back and darted off behind Himeno, followed by a deafening silence that escaped her notice. The two made their way down the sterile corridor as the evening sun faded behind the towering buildings around them before reaching the room Kobeni was being kept in. Makima barged through the door, her legs finally giving out at the sight of her unconscious love.

"They said she's stable but she's out cold"

Himeno interjected to break the silence after a few moments. She placed a hand on Makima's shoulder to no reaction. It was like touching a corpse, cold and lifeless, a vessel who's occupant had retreated deeper inside itself. Out of instinct more than empathy she tried to get her back to her feet, comfort her as she'd done to the grieving widows of a dozen dead partners. It was a harsher reaction than she'd expected. Himeno had never seen Makima like this, not for all the years she'd known her, for all the pleasantries exchanged to her eyes she'd never regarded another human being as more than a tool to be used and discarded when broken, something had changed in her, it was as though she was holding a different person in her arms.

"It's my fault..."

Makima finally mumbled, thoughts she could no longer contain finally spilling from her mouth as tears began to well in her eyes.

"Makima..."

She was fading, a passenger listlessly drifting in her own body, unwilling to keep fighting the thoughts of despair that ceaselessly wormed their way into her mind.

"I should have been there... I could have protected her..."

It was, in a word, pathetic to see her like this, the once infallible Makima reduced to a sobbing heap, held together only by her body's unwillingness to tear itself apart. A small and bitter part of Himeno relished in it, but it only served to fuel her guilt, this wasn't any kind of victory worth celebrating.

"You know that's not true"

Himeno gritted her teeth and tried to reach her, platitudes and reassurances she'd recited a hundred times knowing full well they never amounted to anything, spoken out of a habit so ingrained she didn't know how to break it.

"I let this happen... It's all my fault... I co-"

*smack*

A sharp silence cut through the room as Makima slowly turned back towards Himeno. She looked at her with a twinned expression, pausing her reaction to wait on Himeno's next words.

"Pull yourself together for fuck sake"

Her tone was assertive, not betraying the fear that simmered below the surface. Twice now she'd leapt into the fire, both times out of guilt wrapped in the guise responsibility.

"This isn't about you, you couldn't have known or done anything about it, but when she wakes up she's going to need you to be there for her, not some fall apart has been drowning in her own self pity"

For the first time she saw Makima flinch and found the words to reach her. One of her.

"She's a lot stronger than you give her credit for, she took down most of them before she got overrun, I just had a few scraps to pick through when I got there"

A shade of color returned to Makima's pale complexion. Her strength returned to her, enough to take herself back, she slowly stood back up, looking over the unconscious girl before her and gently brushing against her hand.

"Thank you... Himeno"

Himeno let out a protracted sigh of relief as the tension broke then turned to the door.

"I'm gonna go for a smoke, call me if anything happens alright?"

Makima had by then sat down in the chair beside Kobeni's bed and simply gave Himeno a halfhearted nod of acknowledgement. She took one last look at the girl before stepping out of the room. Himeno walked back to the entrance, past the receptionist who regarded her with a familiarly unpleasant look, and out the door. She took a barely reasonable amount of steps from the building before pulling out her smokes and lighting up a cigarette, taking a calming drag before letting the smoke disperse into the air. Her craving momentarily sated, she finally turned and noticed him. The scruffy redheaded devil with his hands pressed against the glass staring into the hospital with a listless expression on his face. Himeno stared at him for another moment, taking another drag from her smoke, enough to draw his ear. Angel turned to her, a momentary spark of excitement fading from his eye as he noted her. She took no offense, presuming his expectations unmet and matched his gaze. Angel stayed silent, only barely contorting his face in a way that spoke of worry he was too guarded to express. She shot back an anxious grin, enough to reassure the worst hadn't come to pass but little else in the way of comfort. He turned back to the window and returned his stare to whatever he'd been looking at before she arrived.

Himeno stomped out the bud of her cigarette and walked back inside, pausing for a moment upon reaching the door and looking into the room. Makima sat, blankly staring at Kobeni, more alive than she'd been before, more awake. Himeno opened the door and joined her, taking the chair beside her, Makima seemingly unresponsive to her presence. She sat in silence for a moment before digging a package from her coat and handing it to Makima.

"Here..."

The woman seemed almost annoyed at the insinuation that she should pull her attention away from Kobeni, reaching out an open arm expectantly without turning her head, awaiting for Himeno to give her whatever it was she was holding onto.

"She was holding onto it when I found her... I think it's probably for you"

She looked down at the box, scuffed up from the fight but otherwise intact. Makima held it and simply stared, seeming to have another protracted argument in her own mind with whatever was troubling her.

"You wanna see what it is?"

Makima returned and stretched her arm out, placing the box on the bedside table next to Kobeni.

"She'll tell me when she wakes up."

She returned to her silent observance with her hands curled together between her knees. Himeno adjusted herself, an awkward cough escaping her and filling the dead air with a discordant echo. Every sound she made seeming to draw more attention to herself as she tried to play them off and hide her own discomfort.

"You don't have to stay you know"

There was less irritation in Makima's voice than Himeno expected, maybe she didn't have the energy for it, or maybe she was actually just trying to give her permission to leave. Regardless, it wasn't a request Himeno's conscience was going to let her carry out.

"Hah... you're not gonna get rid of me that easy"

She spoke nervously, trying to couch the awkwardness in levity, and only succeeding in accentuating the former.

"I care about her too, y'know?..."

Himeno's words felt more aimed at herself than Makima, a fleeting attempt at reassuring herself that she wasn't just here because she felt responsible, that she actually did care about Kobeni. Examining the alternative wasn't a train of thought she had the nerves to tread upon right now.

"Yes... I know..."

Makima had an uncomfortable tone to them, as though she'd filled her mind with thoughts that shouldn't be there.

"Himeno. I think it might be better... for Kobeni's sake-"

"Stop."

She knew the words that followed and refused to hear them, a poison had leaked into the woman's brain and sprouted a putrid garden of self hatred, she'd dug herself into a hole and needed someone to pull her out again.

"I was wrong about you, I lashed out at you 'cause I wanted to hurt you, I can't replace you."

She'd guessed at her own role in this, realizing only now how much of an affect her words seemingly had on Makima.

"I'm not here for her, I'm here 'cause I'm a selfish asshole who doesn't want her conscience to keep her awake at night."

Those came harder, admitting it to herself granted her no feeling of absolution, only another gut wrenching wave of anxiety, now fueled more so by the voice in the back of her mind whispering of how selfish she was to try and make herself better at a time like this.

"The worst thing you could do to her right now is leave her cause you're scared of hurting her"

It wasn't clear anymore who she was directing her words to, but if nothing else it seemed like Makima had taken them to heart. Her spirit was far from rejuvenated, but at least now she didn't have any excuses anymore. She couldn't hide away and pass Kobeni off to someone else out of fear she'd end up hurting her or cower and let another take the blame for not protecting her. She had to be better, for the one she cared so much about, she couldn't let her go.

She thought of all the things she loved so much about her, the kindness she'd shown her in spite of herself and in spite of Makima, how awkwardly she stumbled and fell yet every time pressed on defiantly, how strong she truly was underneath it all. The only person who'd ever made her feel loved, truly and unconditionally, the only one who could bring a genuine smile to her face. She grabbed her hand and gently squeezed it, pleading on her return.

"M... maki... ma..."

Through a raspy shaken voice she called out, met with arms that coiled themselves around her and refused to let go, as Makima's quivering voice sang a sweet melody into her ear.

"I'm here! I'm here... I'll always be here..."

[enjomo-arch]

(  flame  command  ━━  prompted  :  vinsmoke sanji  )   //    [  ♠ @celestiialnotes ]

say it . go ahead , say it's my fault .

it's  been  a  couple  of  hours  since  everything  on  the  ship  calmed  down.  evening  was  coming  and  everyone  was  exhausted,  some  injured,  most  notably  luffy  since  he  had  fallen  asleep  peacefully  on  the  main  deck  with  others  watching  over  him.  just  not  ace.  he  didn't  want  to  look  at  the  wounds  that  were  hiding  under  the  many  bandages.  it  reminded  him  of  the  worst,  that  moment  when  his  pride  was  more  important  than  the  health  of  his  little  brother.  

one  argument  almost  caused  ace  to  let  the  wild  animals  tear  him  apart.  this  time,  however,  it  was  a  greater  matter.  he  downed  another  glass  of  whiskey,  anything  to  drink  himself  out  of  the  sheer  anger  he  still  held  over  the  cook.  luffy  accepted  him  back,  of  course  but  this  doesn't  matter  ace  did.  every  ship  is  governed  by  different  laws,  such  as  the  captain  determines  and  after  his  father  was  betrayed,  his  crewmate  killed  by  another  crewmate  ace  considered  family  by  the  time,  it  kept  filling  up  his  heart  with  the  rage  he  hadn't  felt  in  a  long  time.  

a  glass  in  his  hand,  as  he  looked  up  when  the  cook  in  question  approached  him.  words  that  sounded  challenging,  and  it  made  every  vein  pop  over  the  length  of  his  neck  and  the  hand's  grip  tightened  around  the  glass,  so  hard  it  made  his  knuckles  go  white.  in  the  brown  eyes  he  could  see  nothing  but  pure  anger,  a  hellfire  threatening  to  burn  him  into  a  crisp  where  he  stood.  ace  looked  like  he's  about  to  tear  him  into  pieces,  for  what  he  decided  was  right  to  do  against  his  own  family,  his  own  captain.  something  ace  did  as  he  knelt  helplessly  on  the  execution  platform.  he  hated  it,  more  than  sanji  could  have  imagined.

from  the  force  of  his  grip,  the  glass  broke  in  his  hand.  wounding  his  palm,  cutting  the  flesh  and  letting  blood  spill  as  the  shards  dug  into  his  skin.  ace  stood  up,  slamming  his  hands  on  the  table  to  silence  the  blonde. the flames emerged like a dynamite burst all over his arms and back in a span of a second.  he  didn't  need  his  words.  ❝  y'just  want  to  hear  it  is  to  have  a  reason  to  weep  over  whatever  the  fuck  you  thought  was  right  ?!  ❞  his  teeth  were  clenched,  bared  sharp  teeth  like  an  enraged  animal,  words  filled  up  to  the  brim  with  all  emotions  that  were  bothering  the  fire  fist. 

❝  yer'  lucky  that  luffy  is  your  captain,  and  this  is  his  ship.  he  rules  it  by  his  own  rules,  because  believe  for  somethin'  like  that,  on  my  ship  ━━  i  would  tear  you  to  shreds  at  the  first  opportunity.  ❞  he  hissed  out,  jaw  clenched  and  the  blood  from  his  hand  slowly  oozing  over  the  wooden  surface  of  the  table.  ❝  you  are  not  my  family,  luffy  is.  so  is  yours.  this  is  not  some  fuckin'  game,  treat  them  like  you  think  you're  goin'  to  die  another  day.  ❞  ━━━  because,  i  almost  did  when  i  had  two  blades  crossed  over  my  neck.  

he  slowly  sat  down,  reaching  to  his  pocked  for  the  sling  with  which  he  wrapped  his  bleeding  hand,  giving  the  blonde  cook  one  last  warning  to  leave,  with  his  sight  alone.  ❝  go  the  fuck  away  before  i  change  my  mind,  cook.  ❞  

[crowley-in-arkham]

When Paper Birds Fly

Arkham Island was covered in a thick blanket of grey morning fog rolling in from the sea. The standing lamps that lined the walls and guard towers glowed through the fog, drawing hazy grey outlines of miscellaneous shapes whose identities were lost to the morning darkness.

The dewy grass shimmered below the white light, the cold wetness seeping through the suede of my ankleboot heels. The cold, damp morning air stuck to my skin like mucus to a snail.

My eyes flicked around the dark grey mist, figures of a dark shade morphed and changed like massive uncanny amoeba in the opaque gas, ferrofluid at the introduction of a magnet.

I stopped between the buildings, and sung absent-mindedly, as was my pacifier. Perhaps the toxin still coursed through my system, making the mask all but pointless-- but I watched with a weary gaze the figures moving in the dark. Lingering close, but never stepping through the shroud.

A beast emerged above them, shrouded by the veil, massive and black, with a rearing crow's skull head and sharp teeth that rowed it's beak like an alligators'. The beast had a body of an emaciated man with human-like arms, long and spindly like trunks of trees, and clawed branch-like fingers that stretched feet from human palms.

Slick, shimmering feathers cascaded down its sides, and when it opened its mouth it revealed a long beastly tongue as plumes of hot breath rolled from its alizarin throat through blades of teeth.

"Kill him," the beast croaked in a low broken up tone, "Tear him and the rest of this wretched city apart."

The head of the monstrosity twisted to the side and its long serpent-like neck careened down as it clamored on heavy crouched hind-legs and the knuckles of it's clawed hands to me, like an ape chimera. It's tail, like that of a velociraptor, curled behind it and flared its feathers out.

The creature exhaled, it's breath fogging the glass of my mask, and it's sheer size making me stumble back as it, again, spoke through a chattering beak, "look at what this place has bore from us."

I stared into the eyes of the beast, black and hidden among it's dark face. It leaned in, are repeated.

"Tear him to shreds. Tear it all to shreds."

For a flash I imagined it, before a frustrated scream rolled from my diaphragm.

"Stop it!" I cried out clenching the roots of my hair and scalp, "Stop it!"

The beast rolled its head to the side and its claws ran their warmth against my spine.

"You're angry at him," the beast purred, "he'll never disappoint you again."

"I'm not going to kill anyone," I spat. Yet, I felt myself gasping for air as I felt it's thrashing inside me, and it's warmth around me.

"Liberate yourself from his snare," a crooked smile met the rigid beak, "become like you were born to be."

The feeling is all consuming, the need to get rid of it. Something inside so much larger than the vessel it lives in, so much stronger than the vessel it lives in. Thrashing, screaming, clawing, begging to be released when your mind is most vulnerable.

"Borne of Cain," The beast chittered, "doomed to bare his mark."

Like an animal in a corner lashes out, I grabbed ahold of the beast, clawed, ripped, with all intentions to kill it.

Feathers, blood, flesh, tearing into another like the monster I was born to be. Burrowing in its flesh with my bare hands like I recall having done once before-- but this time I did not recoil.

Blind, animalistic rage. Saliva dripping from my lips--a lamb finally snapping on its wolf, wearing it's flesh as it tramples it's corpse.

I didn't even see the beast become a man.

Tearing me out of my blindness was a familiar voice:

"Hey," it called, then, with greater urgency, "Hey! Damn it! Crowley?!"

Pulled my nails from the bloodied face and throat of the man I had attacked, feeling nausea suddenly well up inside me.

I looked down at the guard, then at the caked skin that caused only a small discomfort under my nails: "Yall back off o' her! Damn it, Mina."

I hadn't looked as Crane hurried over to me. The warmth of his palm made me jump, and fully dragged me back to reality.

"Mina? Can you hear me?"

I swallowed hard and jumped back, scrambling some distance between myself and my victim.

My quaking hands made haste to remove the mask from my face, the fog of the shaded lenses now gone.

"No- no, no nonono!" I stared at the mangled body.

Cranes voice barked to someone aside, "Someone get the damned medical unit out here!"

"I- I- I fuck- I fucking killed him," I felt nausea set in and bile rise into my throat, I swallowed hard to keep it down, "I- I fucking attacked someone!"

Jon grabbed my shoulders, and blocked my view of the body, "Mina. Look at me. He can recover. You're a'ight."

My eyes, flicked back and forth before settling into the stark blue gaze of the man just minutes before I pondered killing.

"Do you know where you are?"

I nodded in jagged motions.

"Tell me."

"A- Arkham. Arkham Asylum."

"Mhmn, ai'te, where you live at?"

"O-Otisburg. Otisburg, Gotham."

"Can you tell me who the Mayor is?"

"Umn, Hill? Hamilton Hill."

"Good, now, Dr. Crowley, I'm 'unna walk ya up to the shower, a'ight? And we're gonna get you cleaned up. Then you're gonna stay with me in my office for the day, alright?"

"Y- yes. Okay, professor," Crane picked up my mask, and laid his coat over my shoulders as he began to walk me up to building B.

The doctors had hurried out and placed my victim on his gurney. The black bag was enough to tell me Crane was lying.

[kingsmanne]

 ✂

Every step is so deliberate, even if it just seems like she's so unaware of her surroundings, just happy enough to be invited to this little gathering of the finest people in the city; and with a champagne flute in her hand, she doesn't look as wrong here, but apparent enough to catch his eye, probably.

It's less the predator circling its prey, but more acting like the prey itself, the little rabbit with big eyes and so lost in the woods, waiting for the big bad wolf to just swoop in and devour it. The big bad wolf in this case was a surgeon, but she wouldn't expect the same precision when it came to this aspect of life. She studied him long enough to know, and long enough to know how to make herself into his perfect prey.

It doesn't take long for them to get completely caught in a one-sided conversation, that is mostly just him having a monologue with her nodding along.

She cocks her head slightly; chin resting on the palm of her hand, and she bites the tip of her pinkie, ruby barely exposing brilliant white teeth. She is so enraptured by his talk, listening to every word he says like it's the gospel. Oh, you are a surgeon? How fascinating! Please, do talk about how much money you have! You are so handsome, I just could get lost in your eyes!

Carefully placed keywords in every sentence, of course, after all, she needed to keep his attention for long enough, but that was the wonderful part in trapping a narcissist, since it was easy to guess their favourite topic: themselves. Ask enough questions, admire them for breathing, and it was a done deal. At the right moment, she carefully started to slur her speech, around the same time she mentioned that she wouldn't be so opposed to leave this event and continue their conversation in private.

Easy prey, after all.

Always a step behind him as he gives her the grand tour of his place, not noticing as she grabs one of the centrepieces and hits him on the back of his head, making him stumble and fall flat on his face in the middle of the dining room.

"You know, I would've been more my style to just strip you naked, take some photos of your dick and blackmail you, but..." She makes a vague gesture that ends in a shrug, "But I suppose my employers really dislike you, so I regret to inform you that you will die tonight." She crosses her arms, leaning against the dinner table while observing. Lest he'd suddenly get up and ruin the whole operation, that could be a bummer. Although, she was in the mood for something more, and if there was a shred less self-respect in her tonight, she would've waited probably... well, she'd assume ten minutes. All bark and no bite.

"To think, they wanted me to carve your heart out, and I told them that I'm not a fucking surgeon! Well, not literally, because, you know, they pay me, and they don't like backtalk, and while I love some poetry, I prefer to do this the old-fashioned way." She hikes up her dress, with a bowie knife tightly strapped to her thigh. She unsheathes and swings it with such ease, turning him on his back, straddling him. Last thing he'd see, and it would be a gorgeous woman.

Not yet.

He grabs her — there is still some life left in him, and beyond the curse, there was almost a smirk in the corners of her mouth, even as he almost manages to wrestle the knife from her hand. But he is concussed, fading in and out, with the last shred of adrenaline fighting for his life, and he would've easily overwhelmed her if this had been a fair fight. A sharp kick to the groin takes him out, and she rams the knife into his neck, tearing the carotids apart. It's the shock in his face that makes it so delightful; knowing that his life was rapidly running out, with every pump of his heart. She stabs again, this time, digging it deeper, ramming it into the windpipe. He's rattling. And he's ruined her dress and make-up. He slumps down, and it takes an effort to push his heavy corpse off.

Standing up, she wipes the blood from her face with the back of her hand.

"Asshole."

source: KILL MY MUSE (always accepting) | @cardiomyapathy

[mypoisonedvine]

𝖙𝖜𝖎𝖈𝖊 II || professor!helmut zemo x reader

{𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 I} 

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞 : your illicit relationship with your (former) professor forces both of you to consider if the risk is worth the reward.

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙 : 9k (jeeeesus)

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 : smut (oral f and m receiving, rough sex, creampie, massive amount of dirty talk), zemo being super cocky, smoking (just zemo, not the reader), alcohol consumption (zemo and reader although the latter is moreso implied), angst (not a ton but yeah), strip chess (does this require a warning?), zemo’s friends being sorta sleazy, one mention of/implied anal, brief violence? (one punch)

part 3 coming asap!

                              You watched his eyes slowly scan the board, darting from his pieces to yours and back again.

“You’re stalling,” you accused, breaking the silence.

“I’m thinking,” he mumbled back right away, never looking away from the board as he rested his chin in his hand.

“Think faster,” you instructed with a groan, leaning back in your chair and looking out the window instead.  When you saw movement in the corner of your eye, you looked back again, but he just sighed and moved his hand back into his lap without doing anything.  “Oh my god!” you exclaimed, rolling your eyes.

“Wait, wait, I’ve got it,” he grinned, finally grabbing his knight and moving it forward.  “Check.”

You looked around the board to confirm he was right, and he cleared his throat expectantly.

“I said, ‘check’,” he reminded you.  “Stand up.”

“You’re really going to make me do this?” you pressed with a raised eyebrow.

“No, I’m not going to make you,” he smirked, “but you’re going to do it because your only alternative is to forfeit.”

With a sigh and a little smile of your own, you stood up and unbuttoned your shorts, sliding them down your legs and stepping out of them quickly.  His face was irritatingly neutral as he watched you strip, only your bra and underwear left now, but his eyes gave everything away as they examined you with even more care than they had the chess board.  

“You know, this whole ‘strip chess’ idea isn’t exactly going according to plan,” you frowned, sitting back down in the chair and crossing your legs.

“What do you mean?  Of course it is,” he grinned.  “Oh, you mean, your plan… yes, I hope my suit coat is keeping your entire outfit good company over there in the pile.”

You scoffed defensively.  “If you wanted to get me naked, you could’ve just asked.”

“I know, darling.  This was just to get you to slow down for once.”

You coughed a little, shocked by his brutal honesty.  “Damn, shots fired,” you mumbled to yourself, and he laughed.  

“Now, it’s your turn to see if you can get this tie off,” he smirked.  “And do hurry it up, so I can show you what happens when I get a checkmate.”

His apartment was, unshockingly, so much nicer than your dorm; so it wasn’t so odd that you spent most nights here each week.  Well, perhaps it was a little odd since you had practically moved in and you’d only been seeing him for a few months… but you were happy, and he was happy, and you were trying desperately not to overthink it.

Your schedule was carefully crafted so as not to include any Friday classes, but obviously as a professor his itinerary was a much more traditional 8-to-5 no matter the day of the week.  As a result, it was typical for you to lay around his place through most of the day, working on your laptop or occasionally mooching off of his HBO Max account.

You were doing just that when you heard the key in the front door, and you scrambled to turn the TV off so he wouldn’t think you were being lazy… but when he entered, you were still laying on the couch wrapped up in a blanket, so you didn’t exactly look productive either.

“Hey,” you greeted, sitting up and resting your arms on the back of the couch as he took his bag off his shoulder and hung up his jacket.

“Hey,” he mumbled in return, sounding a bit distracted and not even looking back at you.  You furrowed your brow as he sat down on the couch beside you, letting out a heavy breath and staring up at the ceiling.

“What’s on your mind?” you asked, pouting as you moved closer to straddle his lap and run your hands over his chest through his button-up.

“Well, the thing is,” he sighed, taking off his glasses with one hand to rub his eyes with the other, “tomorrow is my birthday.”

“Wh— that’s a good thing!” you scoffed.  “Let’s do something!”

“My fortieth birthday,” he clarified.  “Tomorrow, I will officially be twice your age.”

You sighed a bit.  “That really bothers you, doesn’t it…”

“Does it not bother you?  It should,” he snapped, deflating you instantly, and his tone softened.  “I’m sorry.  That was harsh… I just feel guilty, sometimes.  I wouldn’t want to take advantage—”

“I’m a grown adult, Helmut, I know I’m younger than you but I’m not a child and I can make my own choices.”

He nodded.  “You’re right.”

“So then what’s the problem?”

“I…” he paused for a moment, chewing his lip slightly as he gathered his thoughts.  “I would just hate to see you regret this.  And I think, when you’re older, you will.”

“Let me worry about that,” you frowned.  “The future can be dealt with later, we should enjoy the present while we can.”

He laughed softly.  “I think I have an idea of what you consider ‘enjoying the present’...”

You smiled as you leaned in closer, holding his face to press your lips against his.  It was pretty innocent at first, until his hands began to rest at your waist and you sighed slightly, feeling your hips shift above him.  He grinned, teeth gently nipping at your bottom lip.

“What do you know?  I was right,” he whispered.  “You’re turned on already.”

It made your cheeks burn when he called you out like that, like he was mocking you for how easily he could make you desperate, and you looked away in embarrassment.  “I can’t help it!” you defended in a pout.

“I know,” he cooed, kissing your cheek and neck softly.  “I think it’s sweet, really.”

That made your cheeks burn even more, and you looked back at him again to find his brown eyes sparkling.  “Really?”

“Really.”

You trailed your fingers over his cheeks, scratching his beard a little bit which made him scrunch up his nose.  “Well, I think you’re sweet,” you giggled.  “And you know something else?”

He raised an eyebrow and you leaned in to speak closer to his ear.

“I think it’s sexy that you’re twice my age,” you whispered.  “Well, that tomorrow you’ll be twice my age.”

“Yeah?” he pressed, fingers just barely grazing over your skin as they trailed down your legs.

“Yeah,” you nodded, moving your hands to his chest where you started to slowly unbutton his shirt as he sighed.

“That explains why you can’t seem to keep your hands off of me,” he chuckled, looking down to watch your fingers brush over the patch of hair on his chest and toy briefly with the necklace he wore.  

“Well, that’s more just because I know how good you can fuck me, and I’ll never be satisfied by anything else,” you admitted, biting your lip.

“Darling, I don’t think you’re even satisfied by me… I already made you come this morning, don’t you remember?”

“Yeah, but that was different,” you pouted, “that was your fingers and it was right before you had to leave and I was still half-asleep…”

“Whatever it is that you want, draga, just say it,” he ordered in a whisper, holding the back of your neck and pulling you closer so you had to look back at him.

It was a lot harder to say with him staring right at you, but you swallowed and did your best.  “Need you to fuck me.  Wanna feel you inside me, please.”

His only answer was a quick nod before he kissed you, rough and dominating, letting you cling onto him while he stood up and carried you to the bedroom, falling with you onto the mattress.

He made a big show of kissing his way down your body, tearing your clothes out of the way on his path, eventually leaving you in only your panties which he examined with a grin as he held your legs open.

A shiver ran up your spine when he caught the lace in his teeth and used only a playful bite to pull them down your legs.  

Once the panties were off your ankles and he had tossed them aside with a flick of his head, he held your thighs as he dove right in, lapping at you hungrily while you moaned and your back arched.

He purred against you when your fingers wove into his hair and tugged slightly, but you honestly didn’t even mean to do it: you just needed to hold onto something to keep yourself from falling back into oblivion, and it seemed like a more attractive option than the bedsheets.

His lips attaching onto you and sucking your clit hard was already overwhelming in its own rite, but then two thick fingers began to push into you and it was impossible not to cry out, your bottom lip falling from where it had been caught between your teeth.

“Fuck!” you yelped, hips shaking and trying to rock up against his face as he curled the tips of his fingers against your spot right away.

“Close already, draga?” he cooed, words muffled since he didn’t fully pull his mouth away from your body before he spoke.  “I’ve only just started.”

You could only nod and feel your face heat up even more; at this point you had no right to be embarrassed by how sensitive you were when he’d already proven to you over and over that he could bring you to the edge in minutes.  But still, apparently some little shred of shame was still left in you, and you could tell by the look in his eyes that he was determined to train it out of you.

“If you’re close then now would be the time to start begging,” he reminded you as he moved his fingers faster and teased your clit with the tip of his tongue.

"Please, Helmut," you sobbed as you writhed uncontrollably, "I'm so close— fuck me, please, I want your cock."

"So you don't want to come on my fingers, then?  You don't want me to make you come with my mouth?"

"No, I want you to fuck me, please… you know I need to come around you."

Not one to let you down when you pleaded like that, he pulled his fingers out and suddenly flipped you onto your hands and knees, chuckling when you gasped.

“This is how you want it, isn’t it?” he presumed as you heard him finishing the undressing process behind you until you finally felt the head of his cock pressing against your soaking entrance.

“Yes,” you breathed, “just fuck me, please—”

You cut yourself off with a high-pitched noise when he shoved into you, this angle giving you no relief from how deep he was filling you.  One of his hands was beside yours, keeping him balanced upright above you, and you watched it tighten into a fist while the other slid up to hold your neck in a way that was simultaneously intimidating and soothing.

When he started to move, each stroke rubbed against your swollen spot and you struggled not to fall apart right there and then.

“So perfect,” he breathed right against your ear, almost like he was saying it to himself more than you, “you feel so fucking perfect, draga.”

Of course that would make your back arch even more, pushing him deeper into you in search of not only more friction within you but more of his praise whispered to you.

Soon it was you pushing back against him more than him fucking into you, and you felt his proud smile press against the curve of your neck.  “You need it that badly, darling?”

“Need you,” you whined back, not really capable of a full sentence at this point. 

“I know,” he whispered, soothing you with kisses all over your cheek and neck and shoulder.  “I know, poor thing, you just need to come, yes?”

Your mouth fell slack as you nodded, rocking back into him faster and more desperately than ever.

“You need me to make you come?”

“Yes, fuck, please!” you cried, hoping he wouldn’t get irritated with you becoming so demanding, but thankfully he obliged and held your body tight as he really fucked you then, hard and fast and completely unforgiving— exactly how you needed it.

Every part of your body seemed to tense up in time with each other: your toes curled, your hands gripped the sheets beneath you in fists, your walls fluttered and tightened around him.  

When you opened your mouth to speak, you genuinely didn’t know if you should expect a scream or a whisper.  What came out was somewhere in the middle, slightly choked and completely fucked-out.  “Please, don’t stop…”

“Couldn’t if I wanted to, draga,” he groaned, his fingers rubbing your clit roughly as he fucked you even harder, slamming into the deepest parts of you until you were choking on your own sobs.

"I— hng, Helmut, I'm—" you tried to warn him, but you couldn't even put a few words together.

"I know, darling," he cooed, "shh, just come, go ahead and come for me."

He sucked hard on your pulse as your legs quivered and your body gave out; if it weren’t for him holding you tight against him, you would’ve fallen on your face onto the bed (and you may not have even noticed if you did, since you were suddenly going numb and tingly everywhere).

Just past the ringing in your ears you could hear him muttering curses against your skin, in a few languages you didn’t speak, before switching back to English to praise you in a growl.  “I love feeling you come around me, draga, keep going— you’re squeezing me so tight that I can barely keep it together.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks from the force of it, and his hand reached up to wipe them away— a gesture much too tender considering the way he was pounding into you like he was out for revenge.

"Fuck, I'm close, so close," he breathed, grunting with every thrust into you.

"Come in me, I want it so bad, I need it…"

His teeth sunk into your neck, his lips sealing and sucking on the delicate skin, as he let out a muffled moan and began to fill you.  The warmth of it was always indescribable, but perfect; a heavy exhale of relief sunk from your chest out your lips.

You were able to stay like that for a long moment before he let you go and you inevitably fell limply onto the bed, just barely beginning to catch your breath and come back down to reality.

“Fuck, that’ll leave a mark,” you groaned as you rubbed where he’d bitten you, but you were smiling, too.

You watched him get up and stretch briefly; you were pretty impressed he was still energetic enough to do anything but collapse onto the bed beside you, though you certainly didn’t mind the view as he walked to the window and acquired a cigarette and his lighter.

“Isn’t smoking after sex a little stereotypical?” you chuckled softly.

He smirked back at you as he placed the end between his lips.  “It’s the only time I smoke, so I’m going to blame you for how many packs I’ve been going through,” he countered, words slightly muffled from holding the cigarette.  He struck his lighter and carefully lit the end, taking a slow inhale before letting the smoke out through his nose.

“Believe it or not, I didn’t have such an… appetite, before you,” you admitted.

“You’d never had anything worth craving before,” he shrugged; how dare he be so casually cocky like that?  How dare he be so accurate?

Deciding you definitely needed a shower (though you would’ve loved to lay there catatonic for a while longer), you managed to sit up and get off the bed.  The only problem was that you severely overestimated the awakeness of your legs, and when you tried to stand on them, they buckled right away.

He dashed across the room to catch you, concerned at first but then smirking around his cigarette as he looked down at you in his arms.  "Are you alright, darling?"

"Yeah, I'm good," you nodded breathlessly, balancing on his arms as you found your footing.  "Thanks."

“You don’t need my help in the shower?” he pressed.

You rolled your eyes as you laughed, letting go of his hands.  “We both know your ‘help’ isn’t going to get me clean.”

“You’ve got me there,” he admitted, raising his hands in relent as he returned to the window while you finished your delicate trek to the bathroom and reached into the shower to turn on the stream of hot water.

Though the shower thankfully did get the sweat off of you and (most of) the come out of you, it could never wash away the feeling of his touch, the little bruises in the shape of his lips or fingertips, and thank god that it couldn’t— your heart might break if they ever faded.

Of course, that made you start wondering which made you start overthinking (a common shower pastime for you) and suddenly a pang of fearful guilt started to throb in your gut as you wondered if your feelings were becoming too strong.  

You pushed the thought away and finished up your shower, deciding now was not the time to worry where this affair was going.  Didn’t you deserve to do something fun and crazy and a little bit dangerous for once?  At least you weren’t in his class anymore so what you were doing was less ‘wrong’ and more just ‘probably a bad idea.’

But this bad idea had been going on for a few months now and sometimes it felt like you were barreling towards an inevitable breaking point.  Could any relationship that began in the way yours had find longevity?  Is that even what you wanted?

Okay, so maybe you didn’t really manage to successfully stop worrying about it, and you sighed absent-mindedly as you dried off with a borrowed towel.  If anything could soothe your racing mind, it was coming back to the bedroom to find Helmut in bed, his cigarette finished and replaced with a book and his reading glasses.

The way he smiled when he saw you was infectious, and he extended his arm out in invitation for you to join him and, well, that offer was irresistible.

You beamed as you jumped onto the mattress, which had settled from its bouncing by the time you found a comfortable spot on his shoulder and lifted your leg to drape over his.  

Your head found a place on his chest while your fingers traced over it, trailing down at one point to his stomach where you delicately traced over the scars there— the ones you’d been too afraid to ask about before now.

“What happened?” you asked softly.  “The scars…”

“A dog mauled me when I was little,” he remembered flatly as he turned a page in his book.  

“Oh no!”

“Not as bad as it sounds, I can’t even remember it now,” he shrugged.

“Anything interesting?” you asked, motioning to the book and looking up at his profile as he returned to his thoughtful reading.

“Something horrifically boring,” he answered flatly, looking over at the bedside table when his phone vibrated on top of it.  Setting the book down and grabbing the phone instead, he squinted as he looked at the bright screen.

“What is it?” you asked after a brief struggle not to be nosy.

"Another professor in the department is offering to take me out for drinks, for my birthday," he explained as he examined the message.

"That's sweet of him," you smiled.  "You should go!"

"Well, actually it's a 'her,'" he corrected.

Oh no, there it was, stirring in your stomach: jealousy, for no good reason, with no right to start stirring in your chest.  Of course in your mind, this female professor was sexy and sophisticated in a way you couldn't be, someone who could keep up with his discussions about history and politics that you barely understood, someone who could do all those things you couldn’t do. 

Including, you know, going to bars… like the one she was inviting him to now, on the night of his birthday.

“Well that’s… nice,” you mumbled.  “Is it just you and her, or…?”

He paused as he processed the question, before suddenly smirking and setting his phone down to stare back at you.  “Do you think she’s asking me on a date?”

You couldn’t parse at first if he was asking you because he thought you were being ridiculous for thinking it, or because he genuinely wanted your perspective— as if he would be happy if she was.  It made a lump form in your throat that you couldn’t quite swallow down.  “I… I don’t know, maybe?” you shrugged.  “How old is she?” you, morbid curiosity getting the better of you.

“I don’t know, 30-something?  Like I will be for the next—” he paused to puff his cheeks with a sigh and glance at his watch— “5 hours or so.”

You tried to hide your disappointment that he didn’t give a number like 60 or more.  “I don’t think you’re allowed to say 30 ‘something’ when the ‘something’ is 9,” you snorted.

“Okay, she’s in her late 30s then,” he decided.

“Well, that’s…” you trailed off. 

“What?” he pressed.

“I guess it’s probably a date, then,” you decided.

“It’s definitely not,” he shook his head.

“Does she know that?” you shot back, regretting it once you said it.

“Seriously?” he laughed.  “Do you think something is going to… happen between her and I, at this bar?”

“Well, maybe not at the bar, she’ll probably drive you to her place in her BMW or whatever,” you scoffed.

“Draga, she’s a history professor, she can’t afford a BMW,” he smirked, kissing your forehead.  

“Okay, but she has a car, and an apartment, and a job— you know, maybe she’s more ‘in your league’,” you proposed.

He laughed again.  “Yes, maybe she is.  And maybe you’re out of my league.  So I think we’ve established that it would be entirely uneconomic for me to be with her instead of you.”

You noticed the way he said ‘being with’ and not ‘date’ in reference to this.  Because you two weren’t, technically, dating, even if he did take you on what could be considered dates by most of the population.  “People do uneconomic things all the time,” you mumbled back, and he let out a little sigh as he looked down at you.

“Darling, I am entirely disinterested in pursuing another woman… as well as physically incapable.  I can barely keep up with you, how do you expect me to entertain somebody else?”

You swallowed, feeling a bit guilty for bringing it up at all.  “I’m sorry, it’s really none of my business,” you sighed, “I didn’t mean to ask you for anything, you can make your own decisions and I know we said this wasn’t—”

“Shh,” he interrupted to hug you tighter, “you’re overthinking again.  I’m not going to sleep with someone else—”

“But I’m saying you could, if you wanted to, I’d just want you to tell me since we aren’t using condoms and we would probably just call it off—”

“Baby,” he smiled, making you look up at him as he reached down to hold your face in his hand, “I just want you.”

You choked on nothing in particular, feeling so vulnerable so suddenly.  “O-okay…”

He held your head close to his chest and wrapped his arms around your shoulders, while you were still reeling from that statement; you didn’t know exactly what it meant— it certainly implied exclusivity, but not necessarily any romantic contexts, right?  To ‘want’ someone can mean a lot of things… sexual, mainly, which is what you assumed he was referring to.

And you were definitely not disappointed if he only wanted you in only that way, but you couldn’t swallow down the longing stirring inside you, the unforgettable knowledge that you wanted him in every way that could be meant.  Best of all, you wanted him all to yourself, but you were too self-conscious to bring up the exclusivity talk and you were too happy now to risk messing it all up with pesky emotions.  It was just amazing sex, between two people who thankfully managed to get along well outside the bedroom as well, and there was absolutely wrong with that.

If nothing else, you knew a lot more about history than you did a few months ago, so if it all ended tomorrow, at least you would have some fun facts about Sokovia to show for it.

When your friend Kacey told you there was a house party this weekend, you were originally going to say no… but the house in question was actually just down the block from Helmut’s apartment, so you knew if you hated it you could leave easily.  Maybe getting out would do you some good, and it was the same night that Helmut was going out with his friends for his birthday so the timing was convenient.  He encouraged you not to wait for him alone and bored all night; this seemed like the perfect way to avoid that.

And maybe if you were getting dressed up all sexy to go out to a party at the same time he was supposed to leave for the bar, you could convince him to ditch them and spend his birthday fucking you senseless.

When he caught a glimpse of you while he walked past the bathroom, he stopped suddenly and you grinned as you turned to face him.  "Whaddya think?" you asked proudly, letting him get an eyeful of your outfit.

“You look…” he trailed off, scanning the skin-tight dress with wide eyes.  “Do you always dress this way for parties?”

You shrugged.  “Most of the time, yeah.”

“Remind me to take you out more,” he nodded.  “Or never let you go out without me again.”

“You don’t think it’s too revealing, do you?” you teased, stepping closer.

“Oh no, don’t play that game with me,” he laughed.  “Don’t try to make me jealous just so I’ll get rough with you.”

You frowned, crossing your arms.  

“Does that tactic usually work on whatever boys you were seeing before me?” he smirked, and something about the way he called them boys made you feel all tingly and suddenly you were not the one in control anymore.  You nodded shyly and he stepped up to you, pulling you into a soft kiss.  You tried to deepen it but he moved back too soon, leaving you wanting more like he could do so effortlessly.  “I’ll see you tonight, have fun at your party.”

He left you with one more kiss, to your forehead this time, and you were almost more impressed than irritated at how he managed to make sure you’d be thinking only of him all night long.

Not too much later after he’d driven off, you left on foot for the party— though you definitely considered cancelling last minute and just moping around his apartment, staring forlornly out the window wondering when your husband former professor turned not-exactly boyfriend would return from the war bar.

But you had a point to prove to yourself, as well as Helmut and Kacey, and so you finished primping and found the walk rather pleasant in terms of scenery (if irritating in terms of fashion).

As far as house parties go, it wasn't quite a rager but not exactly a casual hangout either; you could hear the music from across the block, though faintly, as bass reverberated through the ground and into your platforms while your friend waved you down from the porch, calling your name.

She met you at the sidewalk just in front of the house, pulling you into a tight hug; you had been worried at first that you were overdressed (or, in a certain sense, underdressed), but her outfit was significantly more revealing than yours; a two-piece with her stomach and belly button piercing exposed.  

“You look hot,” Kacey beamed when she pulled back from the hug.

“You think so?  I’m a bit out of practice,” you admitted.

“Glad you could dust off the heels and join us,” she winked.

“Us?”

She glanced back towards the house.  “Yeah, Pia’s here— somewhere…”

Another junior in your major; as the most social girls in the computer science undergraduate stratosphere, the three of you were sort of forced to be friends, but thankfully it wasn’t for naught and you got along well.  Sometimes Kacey could be a bit… effervescent for your taste, in the sense that she was one of those bubbly outgoing types and had more energy than you knew what to do with.  Pia was more reserved but acquiescent, which meant she ended up pulled along on whatever adventures Kacey got herself into you.  And then there was you, who had been blowing them off every weekend with a list of increasingly-absurd excuses: sick dog, sick cousin, sick self (both migraines and menstrual cramps), heavy homework load— you know, the usual suspects— all in the name of hanging out with Helmut.

You considered yourself lucky that they still wanted to hang out with you, after you’d been AWOL this long, and you feared that they would understandably want an explanation.

Following Kacey inside the house, you tried not to wince at the volume of the music— a live band, it turns out, and not a very good one— and grabbed a stray drink from a table on your way to wherever you were being guided.

Pia was sitting on the arm of a couch, listening to a very stoned young man talk about the meaning of life and the universe, but she smiled when she saw you and Kacey, getting up to greet you.

“Hey, I haven’t seen you in forever!” she frowned playfully, hugging you quickly.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” you mumbled.  

“We should catch up!  How have you been?” she pressed, tilting her head.

“You’re sure you don’t wanna miss this TED talk?” you snorted, glancing over at the guy who had changed topics slightly and seemed to have confused string beans with string theory.

“I’ve heard better philosophy from the back of cereal boxes,” she laughed, but right as she said it the band finished their song and everyone glanced in your direction, including the heartbroken hippy himself.  “Uh, sorry,” she winced, and Kacey laughed as she guided the three of you away.

“I’m gonna get us some drinks, wait here,” Kacey decided once she found a new corner to lounge in, but Pia abandoned you soon afterward in search of a bathroom, leaving you to do what you did best at parties: stand around and avoid everyone’s attention.

You were surprised to hear your name from behind you, and when you whipped your head around you saw a tall guy with a wide smile looking down at you.

“Professor Zemo, right?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, and you nearly choked on your drink.

“Wh— what about him?” you stammered out.

“We had his class together,” he explained.  “I sat behind you.”

“Oh!” you smiled, relieved.  “Right, um, yeah…”

“Trey,” he finished for you.

“Trey!” you repeated, nodding.  “I knew that… hi, Trey, good to see you.”

“How’s life been treating you since you set the curve in that class?” he grinned.

“I don’t think he even graded on a curve,” you mumbled.  “But, um, good.  Just… livin’ it up,” you decided, cringing internally at your own wording.

“Yeah?  I haven’t seen you in any other history classes,” he noticed.

“Oh, I’m not a history major,” you explained quickly.  “Computer science.”

He chuckled incredulously, wrinkling his eyebrows.  “What were you doing in a history seminar?”

Fucking the professor.  “Elective,” you shrugged.  

“So you’re just a hobby history buff then?” he presumed.

“No, I actually kinda hate history, I prefer to live in the present,” you decided, “but, y’know, underwater basket-weaving didn’t have any seats left…”

He snorted out a laugh, a little too hard for the quality of the joke, and you realized this was probably flirting.  You’d never really seen it up this close, so you couldn’t be sure… and considering how he looked in his jeans with the shirt half-unbuttoned, you weren’t exactly mad about it…

But it made you feel sort of sick to your stomach.  It made you feel guilty, on behalf of Helmut but even moreso for Trey who was totally sweet and smart and deserved to be spending this energy on somebody who could appreciate it.

“Want another drink?  Looks like yours is almost empty,” he motioned to your red plastic cup.  

“Oh, um, I would but… I think my friends are coming over here,” you dismissed, hoping he would take the hint without taking it too hard.  He seemed to understand, giving you a nod and a wave before he disappeared into the crowd right as Pia grabbed your arm.

“Who was that?” she asked right away, giving you a look that you chose to ignore.

“Trey, he sat behind me in my history class last semester.”

“He’s cute,” Pia winked, leaning against the wall beside you.  “And definitely into you.”

“Well, that’s… good for him, I suppose,” you stammered.

“Are you gonna go for it?  Get his number?” she pressed.

“Uh, probably not,” you decided, “I’m gonna get another drink—”

Before you could walk away, she grabbed your wrist and pulled you back.  “Hey, what’s the deal?  You seem kinda out of it.”

“Oh, well, I just— I guess I’m not as much into the party scene as I used to be.”

“I’m using my psychology major mind-reading powers,” she warned, waving her fingers at you like she was casting some mystical spell while you leaned back and squinted.

“Um, that’s definitely not how that works—”

“You’re acting weird becaaauuuusee… you’re totally hung up on somebody else and feel guilty flirting with guys here even though you know you shouldn’t,” she announced, crossing her arms proudly when your dumbfounded expression gave away her accuracy.

“How did you—?”

“Lucky guess.  So who is it?!” she grinned.

“Uh—”

Kacey, summoned by the smell of gossip, seemed to appear from thin air at your other side.  “Who is who?” she smirked.

You glanced around at the crowded room of students and decided this was definitely not the place to talk about such an illicit affair, taking them by the hand and dragging them into a more private room of the house.  Finding a seat on a chair as the girls gathered around you (oddly reminiscent of a childhood storytime, except this story was going to be a lot more mature than those), you prepared to answer as many of their questions as you could.

As a European, Zemo was quite well-practiced at going out to bars with friends, but in America it was a very different experience.  It took him twice the alcohol to get half as drunk as his colleagues, meaning by the time he was feeling a decent buzz, everyone else had foolishly tried to keep up and ended up totally sloshed.

The person who had initially suggested this event (as well as the one you had foolishly felt some sort of jealousy for), Dr. Josten, had actually respected her own limits and left first while she was still good to drive, meaning Zemo was left only with men who couldn’t hold their liquor or their tongues.

Case in point, a bunch of his fellow professors were now trying to convince him to go up to the bar and flirt with a woman in a red dress.

“No, no way,” Zemo shook his head, “I’m not doing that.”

“You could totally take her home, just tell her it’s your birthday!” Professor Bram, from the English department, suggested with an elbow digging a bit too hard into Zemo’s side.

“Does that normally work?” he asked bewilderedly.

"I mean, not for me… but it could work for you!  Ladies love an accent."

“You’ve been teaching stateside for over a year now, Zemo, it’s time for you to experience American women,” one of them laughed.

“Who says I haven’t?” he mumbled to himself before another sip of his vodka, but unfortunately some of the others heard him as well and he got a playful punch to the shoulder.

“I can’t believe you didn’t say anything!  Was it just a hook-up or what?”

“No, I… well, I’m seeing someone, I suppose is the way to put it,” he clarified.

“How long?” Kacey asked you first, right away, as she leaned in excitedly.

“Um, a few months now,” you realized.

“No, I mean how long,” she smirked, gesturing with her hands to indicate length, and you snorted.

“Jesus, I’m not telling you that!”

“Buzzkill,” she rolled her eyes.

“Plenty long enough, that’s all I’ll say,” you laughed.

“How’d you meet her?” Professor Carpenter (another history department veteran) asked.  “I mean, you’re never anywhere but work… is it someone you work with?”

“In a sense…” Zemo trailed off.

“So, is he in one of your classes?” Pia wondered aloud.

“Um, he was, last semester,” you agreed.  It wasn’t false, by any means, but definitely not the entire truth, either.

"So, another lecturer,” Professor Chen (Zemo was about 80% sure he was in the political science department) nodded thoughtfully.  

“Gotta be somebody from the Women’s Studies department,” Bram smirked proudly, despite it not being a statement to be proud of at all.

“Or is it that woman here on the visiting scholar program, the temporary lecturer in neurology?” Carpenter jumped in.

“No, he said she was American, c’mon, keep up,” Bram frowned as he slapped Carpenter on the padded shoulder.

“Delta or Sigma?” Kacey squinted, like it was an interrogation.

“Not a frat guy, some of us have standards Kace,” you scoffed.

“Hey!” Pia gasped, offended on Kacey’s behalf.

“Nah, she’s right,” Kacey soothed.

“She’s not a lecturer, okay?” Zemo hissed, tired of having basically every department of the university listed to him (including some he didn’t realize existed).  “She’s not faculty.”

“...staff?” Chen posited.

“What, you mean like the janitor?  No, not staff,” Zemo rolled his eyes.  “I shouldn’t have said anything.  It’s none of your business.”

“It doesn’t matter!  What’s with the secrecy?”

“I haven’t told anyone about it yet, and I don’t think I’ve had enough alcohol to start now,” he frowned.

“Which of your classes was he in, then?” Pia asked, shifting her line of questioning (and unfortunately looking in the right direction).

“Um, that history thing I took last semester,” you answered.

“That guy from before was in your history class!  Should we just ask him who it is?” Pia grinned mischievously.

You cursed yourself for giving away too much.

“I’ll go find him and see if he’s going to give us more to work with you than you,” Kacey decided, already standing up to walk out of the room.

“No, wait!” you yelped, pulling her back; you didn’t want to tell them anymore, but you couldn’t afford if someone like Trey found out.  Telling Kacey and Pia wasn’t ideal, but at least they could be trusted with a secret.  “I’ll tell you, okay?  Fuck, I don’t even know how to say this…”

Chen tossed up his hands in defeat.  “Alright, the only reason you could be so weird about this is if it’s somebody totally forbidden—”

Zemo’s chest tightened as he worried they would figure it out.

“Like, I don’t know, an adjunct or something.”

“An adjunct?  Are you out of your mind?” Zemo spat.

“Hey, no judgment in brainstorming,” Carpenter defended.

“You think I would be this protective about it if it was an adjunct?” Zemo continued.

“Listen, we’re not gonna think less of you, whatever it is— and we’re not gonna tattle on you,” Bram assured.  “Just get it off your chest while the liquor’s flowing, half of us aren’t even gonna remember it tomorrow anyways.”

“I’m dating a professor,” you blurted out.

“She’s a student,” he finally interjected, the entire table suddenly going dead silent.

“...a grad student?” one of them pressed, making Zemo swallow uncomfortably.

“Um, no… she’s actually… twenty,” he admitted.

“Holy shit,” Pia gasped.  “You actually did it…”

“We bow to your hoe powers,” Kacey spoke reverently, clasping her hands as if in prayer.  “We’ve all dreamed of bagging a hot professor and now you made it a reality.  Please, O Queen, teach us in your ways.”

“It’s not like that,” you defended.

“Is she at least getting a better grade out of you for it?” Carpenter joked.

“No, it’s not like that,” he dismissed, “she passed my class with flying colors quite some time ago.”

“Okay, but was that before or after you slept with her?”

“It was irrelevant to the fact that I slept with her.”

“So, after,” Chen assumed with a smirk.

“Yes, after,” Zemo finally admitted, “but she’s not my student anymore.”

“Is she your girlfriend then?”

You gnawed on the inside of your cheek.  “We… haven’t really had that conversation yet.  I keep meaning to, but then… one thing always seems to lead to another…”

“Oh really?” Pia grinned.  “So what’s he like?”

“Sensitive…” you mumbled right away, “patient, weirdly funny though I don’t think he realizes it.”

“I know I’m going to sound like every creep who ever preyed on young women, but she’s very mature for her age,” Zemo explained.  “Incredibly thoughtful.  Wise beyond her years.”

“No, no,” Johnston shook his head, “what’s she like.”

"It's nothing like how it is with guys our age,” you gushed, clutching your blanket tighter to your chest.  “He's so attentive, and sensual, and he can go for hours," you explained as your teeth sunk into your bottom lip at the memories playing on repeat in your mind.

"You must understand that she's nothing like women our age, at least not any that I've met," he nodded as his friends set down their drinks to lean in close.  He was sure this was more attention than he'd ever gotten for one of his lectures.  "She's… insatiable.  She wants to go again and again and I'm just trying to keep her from getting injured or something, poor thing."

"So she likes it rough?" one of them presumed with a toothy grin.

"She's so inexperienced she doesn't really know what she likes yet.  She's learning with me.  So we try everything."

"Everything?" one of the girls repeated as she widened her eyes.

Your face warmed up as you cleared your throat.  "I mean… yeah…"

"So, anal?"

You choked on nothing, which said more than any answer could.

"I shouldn’t talk about this with you,” he decided, shaking his head.

“Come on, you don’t have to tell us everything, just give us something to work with here,” Carpenter pleaded.  

“I don’t want to know what you mean by work with,” Zemo shuddered.

“At least tell us how you got her to sleep with you,” Chen compromised.

“Or let us do a guest lecture in your class so we can try to find our own undersexed sorority girls,” Bram added.

“Jesus, how many times do I have to say it’s not like that?” you frowned.  “I’m not turning this into some fucked up teacher-student dating service.”

“You keep saying what it isn’t like but you won’t tell us what it is,” Kacey noted.  “I mean, is it serious?”

“All I can say for sure is that I feel pretty serious about it,” Zemo tried to explain.  

“...are you in love with her?”

He cleared his throat, suddenly deciding now was the perfect time to finish his drink.

“Love?” you repeated, voice cracking.  “I don’t… know about that,” you stammered.

But the really upsetting thing was that you did know, and you hadn’t let yourself think about it until now.  It hadn’t been long enough to justify feelings like that, and the last thing you wanted to be was the naïve girl who caught feelings when all the guy was looking for was sex.

“It’s not just sex,” he announced.  “It’s something really real.   I didn’t know that I could—”

He stopped himself.

“I haven’t felt this way since—” he began, but stopped again.  “I don’t know.  Just, be careful how you talk about her.”

“Oh, you’re really whipped,” Bram chuckled.

“She’s incredible; you’d understand if you met her.”

“Then let us meet her!”

For a moment, he actually considered it; he wasn’t sure if you thought that you were at the ‘meeting friends’ stage, and considering the cultural difference it was going to be a unique one for sure.  Would you ask him to hang out with your friends?  He didn’t even know what that would look like.

“She seems like someone worth getting to know,” Bram agreed, and Zemo grimaced at the predatory look in his eyes.

“Fuck off,” he sneered, and Chen patted him on the back.

“Good move.  I’d be keeping her to myself, too… otherwise she might end up upgrading to a tenured professor like myself,” he beamed.

“Better watch out before Chen here steals your girl, Zemo,” Carpenter warned.

“She can’t be stolen,” Zemo assured.

“Yeah, you say that now…” Bram trailed off.

“Care to finish that sentence?” Zemo snarled.

“Well, think of it this way.  Most students wouldn’t fuck their professor,” Bram explained.  “But those that would, usually wouldn’t only fuck one.”

He didn’t punch him in the face because it was crude.  Sure, that was a factor, but it wasn’t the real reason.  He punched him in the face because it sounded like it actually made sense.

He punched him in the face because he couldn’t understand why it made him so angry; so what if he was just one of your exploits?  What difference did it make?  After all, you’d just said the night before that he was free to pursue others, and he couldn’t quite appreciate yet why that didn’t feel like freedom at all.

From a certain point of view, he knew he should just appreciate that you were with him at all, irrelevant to whoever else you might be with or would potentially be with in the future.  But from another, and much more salient, point of view, he wanted you all to himself.  And he hated that.

Like all good anger, his anger in that moment was born of fear, and he’d never been so afraid that he was just the lucky target of your promiscuous phase.  As selfish as it was, he wanted to think of himself as more than that.

And now that he was getting thrown out of a bar on his own birthday, contemplating the paperwork he would have to fill out tomorrow after punching a coworker tonight, he’d never thought of himself as less.

Much to your delight, he returned relatively early for a guy coming back from a bar on his birthday— 11:57 p.m., specifically— but it made sense for him being a responsible professor and all.

Well, mostly responsible.  After all, he still had his former student waiting for him when he got back, perched on the couch expectantly.  As fun as the third degree had been with Kacey and Pia, you wanted to be here when he got back— and now that they finally understood the real reason you were leaving early, they were more than supportive (perhaps a little too supportive, with their rather graphic suggestions and… hand gestures).

You didn’t stay on his couch for long, though; you got up and met him at the door as he slipped off his coat and hung it up nearby.

“How was your night out?” you asked softly, reaching up to rub his chest through his shirt.

“Um, it was good,” he nodded, “I missed you though.”

“I missed you, too,” you sighed.  “I was here all by myself thinking about the present I want to give you.”

“I told you not to get anything for me,” he remembered, gasping slightly when you pushed him back against the door.

“Just be gracious and accept your gift, okay?” you whispered, starting to kneel down and open his belt.

“O-oh,” he breathed.

You palmed his cock through his trousers, biting your lip as you felt it swelling already.  “I didn’t wrap this gift… and I forgot to get you a card to go with it.”

“Somehow I think I’ll find it in my heart to forgive you,” he chuckled, though his smile dropped when you pulled his cock out and stroked it slowly.  You had meant to tease him a bit but you found yourself sucking on the head already, too desperate for even your own plans; not that he had any issue with it, you could hear his breathing quicken as you bobbed your head slowly and stroked what your lips couldn’t reach.

He was still getting harder and the feeling of it on your tongue was so hot it was almost distracting, it made you want to reach down under your dress but you knew you were going to need your full attention on him if you were going to do this properly.

Closing your eyes, you kept taking him deeper and deeper until your lips met the base of his cock while his tip was lodged deep down your throat.

“Fffuck,” he hissed, “where did you learn how to do that?”

You pulled back and took a breath, stroking his cock as you responded.  “I’ve been practicing, all for you.”

It made his cock flex in your hand to imagine you gagging on your fingers or a toy in hopes of learning how to deepthroat him, let alone to know that it worked.

You took him in your mouth again, swirling your tongue around his slit until he reached down to grab your hair— not hard enough to guide your movements, he was still letting you set your own pace, but hard enough to tug at the roots and make you moan around him.  Slowly, you sunk down again, humming and swallowing around him, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

“You’re too fucking perfect,” he sighed, watching closely as you pulled off of him even slower, running your lips and tongue over every part of him.  “You— fuck, you really don’t need to do this.”

“I want to,” you breathed, darting your tongue out to give a wide lick to his head.  “I’m already so wet just from this, Helmut… I want you to fuck my face.”

“Shit,” he cursed, gripping your hair tighter.  “You’re sure?”

You smiled and nodded.

“Then open your mouth."

Never one to turn down an instruction like that, you let your mouth fall slack and hummed a bit as he pushed his cock forward past your waiting lips.  After that it was just a matter of letting your throat relax and focusing on your limited chances to breath as he held your head and guided you.  

Whatever discomfort came from having your throat filled so deep was heavily outweighed by the incredible feeling of being used— it sounds debasing, but the way he stammered out praises made you feel anything but degraded.

“So good,” he grunted, “look up at me, darling, show me how good you look choking on me— fuck, you’re so beautiful.”

You were trying to be sexy, here on your knees in this tight dress and heels, but he had you feeling small and delicate saying things like that.

“Such a good girl,” he breathed; you had to shut your eyes then because you couldn’t hear that and look up at him or you were going to end up having to throw these panties out.

The volume of his moans was one thing, but the desperation in them was another; and both of them made it clear he was close, and you wanted to finish him off like this more than anything.

“Fuck— I’ll come,” he warned, “is that what you want?  To swallow it?”

You hummed in appreciation, hoping that would get your message across well; and it certainly seemed to, considering he bucked up into your throat more erratically than ever, moaning loudly with each thrust.

Hot come painted the back of your throat, so deep you never really got a chance to consider the taste although you imagined a night of drinking wouldn’t have done him any favors there.  Not that you minded; it was him and that was enough to make you moan with delight as he filled your mouth.

“Fuck,” he sighed, pumps of come slowing down to a stop as he relaxed against the door and caught his breath.  The moment of calm didn’t last as you started to gently suckle on his softening cock, making him tense up and suck in a sharp breath through his teeth.  “Nonono,” he chuckled breathlessly, pulling you off of him as you smiled mischievously, “it’d be a shame if I died on my birthday.”

“But what a way to go, hm?” you laughed as he helped you up from the floor.  “Not your birthday anymore anyways,” you noted, tapping on his watch, “it’s 12:02.”

“I hope you don’t think that means the party’s over,” he smirked, picking you up suddenly, making you laugh in surprise as he started to carry you to the bedroom.  “I’m officially a man in his forties with something to prove, so we’ll be going all night, draga.”

[turtle-steverogers]

i was thinking but do you know the unsent project? it is this website where you can write a message to your first love that you never sent to them. now imagine steve writing one (or multiple) to bucky after he came out of the ice after nat told him about it... yeah

hello hi anon this broke me and it was too perfect not to turn into a ficlet klafjldskjfalskf thank you

-

Unsent Letters

To:

Steve’s fingers freeze over the keyboard, the cursor blinking at him. It feels like it’s taunting him-- teasing him with the burden of choking out a name. What should he even say? The sender is anonymous, but how many people are named Bucky out there? Would anyone even care?

To: Bu

Steve huffs and backspaces, his hands trembling as he curls them into fists. He isn’t sure what provoked Natasha to tell him about this website. It’s a cruel tease to everything he wishes he could say-- wished he could say before Bucky slipped through his fingers. And now his only option is yelling into an abyss. The text box is black and daunting. He turns it yellow. No, too happy. Green. Yes, that’s fine. Bucky’s favorite color was always green.

His gaze wanders away from the screen of his hefty Dell laptop and out the window of his apartment. DC’s low rising buildings span out in front of him. His gut aches; he misses New York already. But he knows being there would only mangle his soul further, seeing his already alien home torn to shreds by literal space whales. He huffs, thinking of Bucky’s comics. His stories came to life after all. Bucky would have probably vibrated out of his skin if he knew there was other life out there.

To: My astronaut

How’s space treating you? It’s treating me pretty badly, if I’m being honest. If only you could see what it’s done to Brooklyn. I think you’d be pretty mad at it if you knew…

Steve hesitates, reading back over what he’s typed. It’s stupid as hell, and he cringes, but he doesn’t backspace. His fingers find the keys again.

I miss you something awful. I don’t think that even encompasses how much I’m hurting without you. I feel so lost right now-- space is much bigger and scarier than you’d think. I know you’d love it. I wish you could see bits of it, but god, I just want to go home. I want you to come home.

Steve freezes again and finds the screen blurry where tears have welled in his eyes. His jaw clenches as he pictures the way Bucky would laugh at him-- teasing him for his dramatics and ruffling his hair. He wishes he could be there now, rolling his eyes and nudging Steve’s shoulder.

“What’re you upsetting yourself for?” He’d say, gently closing the laptop and coaxing Steve into his arms. “I’m right here, pal.”

And if Steve closes his eyes, he can almost feel Bucky’s warmth enveloping him. But he’s not there. He’s dead, and Steve’s a goddamn ghost, drifting through a future that doesn’t know him.

He opens his eyes and stares at the text box, then clicks submit.

The screen loads, and his message is gone, his pain forever documented in the abyss.

-

For someone who fought aliens two weeks after waking up from his impromptu seventy year sleep, Steve’s life is pretty monotonous. He contemplates this unfortunate fact as he stands in front of his toaster, hair sticking up on the back of his head as he nurses a mug of coffee and waits for his toast to pop.

It’s 5:45 in the morning and he tries to remember a time when he didn’t rise this early. Before the war, perhaps. Though, he’s always been a bit of an early bird. His home life was sporadic to put it lightly and he’d learned from an early age that the sooner he was awake, the better it was for everyone. Vigilance is not a new concept for Steve.

He hasn’t always stayed up late, though. That’s certainly new, and he feels this fact viscerally as he catches sight of his reflection in the microwave. There are bags under his eyes that will be gone by mid-morning thanks to the serum. Dermatologists hate him, Natasha says. Steve thinks he’s pretty lucky that the serum more or less equipped him with a built-in anti-aging agent. His father had started balding by thirty.

His toast pops and he starts a little, blinking blearily at the slightly burnt bread as he pulls it out of the toaster with his thumb and forefinger. He spreads on the same raspberry jam and butter that he uses every morning and tries not to think of how bland it tastes in his mouth as he eats it standing at the counter. Another routine.

He tries not to look at last night’s dishes in the sink as he stacks his plate and silverware on top and doesn’t bother sorting out his hair before pulling on his sneakers and slipping out of his apartment. The sun hasn’t quite risen yet, only the beginning tendrils of light sneaking over the low tops of the DC buildings, and Steve vaguely regrets not grabbing a sweatshirt before he left. It’s not quite Summer yet and the mornings could still get pretty cool.

He’s about to take off down the street when he freezes. Natasha is sitting on the steps of his complex, wearing a pair of pink tinted sunglasses and tossing up and down the keys to her car. Steve blinks, rubs his eyes, then blinks again. Nope. She’s still there.

“Nat?”

Natasha looks up at him and smiles. “Hello.”

Steve shifts, uncomfortable. “Hi. You need something? Is there a mission?”

“No,” Natasha says lightly, standing. “You’re not running this morning, though. Come on, I’m taking you to Starbucks.”

“What?”

“Starbucks. You’re going to try it.”

“I don’t want--”

“Steve, you do the same thing every day. Step out of your comfort zone a little.”

Steve frowns, but Natasha’s right-- he really doesn’t ever stray from his routine.

“Fine,” he says, and twenty minutes later, they’re strolling into the nearest Starbucks.

He’s only been in one before, and that was to use the restroom while on a run. He’d bought a water bottle in an attempt to not be rude and use their facilities without giving them any business, but he hadn’t even considered the expansive menu. All the fancy names were too daunting.

They’re just as daunting now as he stares up at the board, heart hammering out of his chest as he’s faced with indecision. Natasha takes one look at his face, and reaches out to squeeze his arm.

“I’ll order something for you,” she says. “What kind of coffee do you like?”

Steve gives her a pained look. “Um… just coffee?”

Natasha quirks a smile and orders him something called a caramel macchiato. He’ll take it, he guesses.

The drink is too damn sweet and sugary and he almost gags. Still, he was always told to finish what he was given, so he drinks the whole thing.

-

To: Mr. Sweet Tooth

You’d fucking love it here. Everything is packed with sugar and sweetness-- enough to make even my teeth rot. I had something called a caramel macchiato today and it tasted like someone took your ma’s caramels and condensed them into a cup. I couldn’t stand it, but I know if you were here, you’d want at least twelve. I hope you’re enjoying all the sweets you can up in space.

Love, Mr. Boring

-

Steve’s fingers are stiff and frozen as he works at the straps of his stealth suit. The tangy taste of saltwater still sits heavy on his tongue, and he clenches his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering too harshly as he finally peels off his suit. It’s not much better, being naked, but at least the wet fabric isn’t clinging to him anymore.

The mission had been pretty straightforward until some alien tech managed to blast the quinjet to kingdom come, and they all free-fell straight into the freezing Atlantic.

Steve had managed to keep it together as they took down the goddamn mad scientist that fucked them over, but now that he’s home and alone, he can feel the adrenaline crashing.

He’s shaking from more than just the cold as he draws himself a warm bath, and he pulls his knees up to his chest, trying to breathe through the panic that wants to engulf his entire being.

He loses time for a bit, and comes back to himself lying in his bed, burrowed under several thick layers. He feels so cold, down to his very soul-- a chill that he can never seem to truly shake, even when he’s warm.

Not for the first time, he wishes Bucky were there to hold him. He slips off to sleep thinking old, comforting thoughts of Bucky rubbing his hands between his own, coaxing his head under his chin to engulf him in that natural warmth of his. He always was a fucking furnace.

But when Steve wakes an hour later, shaking hard enough to move the bed with the force of the nightmare he’d dropped into, Bucky is not there to soothe away the ice.

-

To: JB

im so cold and i cant breathe ever and nothing feels right. I dont know what to do, u were always the problem solver between us and i cant think straight right now and i just want you here please. I cant do this anymore, im so tired please come back. I need you please

-

The Winter Soldier file sits in front of Steve-- a horrifying nightmare wrapped up in a neat brown folder. Residual nausea swirls around in his gut as he comes down from the horrible high of reading through the contents. His hands shake where they grasp the thick paper. His heart clenches hard in his chest.

Bucky is alive. Bucky is alive, and he’s been unmade.

Steve doesn’t know where he is-- if he’s escaped, or if Hydra found him again. It’s been three weeks now since the helicarriers, and he’s only just gotten the courage to sit down and wade through the shit that is Bucky’s reality.

He just hopes he’s safe. God, he hopes.

Sam says he’ll help him look, and Steve needs to know he’s at least out of danger, but he barely knows where to start.

And he’s sorry. He’s so fucking sorry.

Blinking out of his reverie, Steve looks at his laptop. He feels strange and detached as he reaches for it and logs in.

To: Bucky

And yes, that feels right. He should use his name, since he suspects no one has for a long, long time.

I’m so sorry for what happened to you. I’m sorry that you’ve been hurting so quietly for so long. I understand if you’re not ready to come home-- I understand if you never are. I just hope that you know that there will always be a place with me that is safe. I love you so much and I’m here, forever and always.

Love, Steve.

He’s not naive. He knows it would be dangerous to submit that particular message, so he doesn’t. But that’s okay. That one’s just for him-- for them.

-

“Steve? What is the… Unsent Project?”

Steve frowns and pokes his head out of the kitchen. Bucky is sitting on the couch in the living room, using his laptop, because his own is having storage issues.

Bucky looks at him. “It’s one of your saved tabs. What is it?”

And oh, fuck. Steve had forgotten to remove that from his homepage-- it really wasn’t needed anymore. He blushes all the way to his ears.

“Oh, it’s-- nothing. Not anything important--”

But Bucky has already clicked on the tab.

“The Unsent Project,” he reads aloud. “A collection of unsent text messages to… first… loves…”

He trails off as he processes what he’s looking at, and Steve can’t quite read his expression when he looks at him again. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he’s looking at Steve like he’s some sort of kicked puppy. Steve shifts, uncomfortable.

“Were you sending me… messages? While I was dead?”

Steve swallows. “Um…” and now that Bucky says it out loud, it really does sound quite sad. He shrugs. “It’s Natasha’s fault?”

Bucky shakes his head, clicking on the search bar. He starts to type his name, but Steve shakes his head.

“I didn’t use your name.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, then frowns at him again. “What did you use?”

Steve blushes harder, sitting next to Bucky and taking the laptop from him.

“Um…” he hesitates, then types what he was sure he used as his first alias.

My astronaut

The screen buffers and loads, then fifty or so messages pop up. Steve scrolls down-- it doesn’t take long to find his.

They’re both quiet as they read, and Steve cringes. Jeez, he really had been pretty dramatic. Next to him, Bucky makes a hurt noise.

“Oh, honey,” he murmurs, taking the laptop back from Steve. He reads the message again, then once more, and reaches out for Steve. “Aw, I’m here now.”

Steve huffs, embarrassed. “I know,” he says. “That was way back, like, three weeks after I woke up.”

Bucky stills. “You fought aliens three weeks after you woke up?”

“... More like two.”

Bucky hums. “Are there others?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, reaching out to type on Bucky’s lap, because Bucky is holding him now and he’s quite reluctant to move. He thinks for a moment, then types in the next one he remembers.

Mr. Sweet Tooth

Bucky laughs, and Steve finds himself smiling.

“I find this funny,” Bucky says. “Because caramel macchiatos are definitely one of my favorites now.”

Steve laughs, too, and butts his head against Bucky’s shoulder.

“If only I could tell that to myself back then-- he’d be thrilled.”

“I’m sure,” Bucky says. “Any more?”

Steve hesitates, thinking of the one he’d sent after that nightmare-- when he was low and hurting. Incoherent. He isn’t sure he wants Bucky to see that particular side of his soul, but Bucky has been more than generous in letting him in on his pains nowaday, and it’s not like Bucky hasn’t witnessed Steve’s own current nightmares.

He bites his lip and types in JB. That seems to yield a lot more results, and it takes a while for Steve to find the message.

He hides his face in Bucky’s neck as he reads. Bucky’s arms gradually tighten around him, and a moment later, he feels him kiss the top of his head.

“Honey, I hate that you were hurting so bad,” Bucky mutters against his hair.

Steve shrugs. “We both were,” he says, and it’s true. There’s something to be said about the guilt they both feel for not being able to save the other person at their lowest, but life hasn’t been kind to them. The vitriol, Steve thinks, should be directed at the goddamn universe for keeping them apart, not themselves for fucking dying. They’re working on it.

Bucky’s quiet for a long time. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he says. “Is that it?”

Steve shakes his head. “But I never sent the last one.”

“Why not?”

“I wrote it after DC.”

He feels Bucky squeeze him again, and he squeezes back.

“Oh.”

“I just-- I wanted you to know that you didn’t have to come home. That I just wanted you to be safe; needed to know you were safe, but it was up to you. I just needed you to know I was here, if you needed me.”

Bucky pulls back then and cups his face, kissing him soundly. Steve’s surprised for only a moment before he’s kissing back.

“I did know that,” Bucky says against his lips. “I needed time-- I was lost-- but the first thing I knew when I remembered who you were was that you were a safe person, because you’d never force me anywhere.”

Steve kisses him again, then pulls him into a hug. “I’m glad you knew that.” It’s warm, where their chests meet, and Bucky is solid beneath him. Real. He isn’t speaking into an abyss anymore.

-

There’s a sticky note on Bucky’s pillow next to his head when he wakes up the next morning. Steve’s side of the bed is already vacant, and he can’t hear him downstairs. He must have already left for a run.

Propping himself on an elbow, Bucky plucks up the sticky note.

To: My Bucky

Thank you for choosing me to be your home, and thank you forever, for being mine.

I love you with everything I have.

Love, your Steve

Bucky smiles, heart light as he folds the notes. He’ll keep that one with him, he thinks. A little bit of home to bring wherever he goes.

-

anyway yeah fslkjflaskjfls i-- ouch. anything to do with letters w these two hurts me immensely

[funtimemoth]

New Ranboo+ Michael au

This just popped into my brain a few days ago and since I need to post something I decide to post my idea here. 

Feel free to send me any ask for this au including a name for this au

Ranboo walks deep in the forest, his bag clutched on his shoulder as he scans around him, head snapping at every little sound the forest made. 

He knew he shouldn’t be out here, his worrisome neighbors would surely call the police when they find that he wasn’t home yet after 9 pm. They were the type to always worry over him ever since he moved in next to him, a tall young man barely graduating high school that year moving into a house with no parents or guardians anywhere. He didn’t blame them honestly.

Ranboo shook his head as he continued on, he would be home had it not been for the stupid bullies that decide to sneakily grab his memory book and hide it in the woods. It had already been 2 hours and Ranboo still couldn’t find it.

He flinched when he heard a distant howl, picking up his pace, after all, there was a reason these woods where forbidden.

It was rumored that a giant lived in these woods, a massive one, with hands that could rip up trees and rip you to shreds, teeth that can tear you apart, a mouth so big it could eat a whole car. 

Ranboo did not want to be the next person to be eaten, by the giant nor the wolves.

Ranboo started to search quickly, looking in trees and bushes, until he caught a glint of a red ribbon from the corner of his eye, hidden in a borrow under a tree.

Ranboo walked over, grabbing the book dusting it off, he smiled and took his bag off, ready to put it in, and stopped.

He heard a tree branch snap and the next thing he knew, he was being lifted up into the air, his bag and book falling to the forest ground. Ranboo barley register what was happening before he came face to face with to giant sad blues eyes, and dirty mangled pink hair.

SO basically, Ranboo finds a giant child named Michael who has been living in the woods by himself for awhile, until he saw Ranboo walk in. Now Ranboo has to juggle his last year of high school, with a job, and raising a giant son who can’t read or write properly, with out his neighbors or the town finding out about him. Good thing he has his best friend Tommy to help him out, with a new found son of his own, and friends in high and different places. But when there's a child, there’s always a parent right behind them.

[primatechnosynthpop]

Like A Catabolic Seed (I Want To Destroy Everything That's Mine)

Something's wrong with Neil.

He knows that much, and the others know too. He tries to hide it anyway. Don't worry about it, guys, I'm fine, honest-- No, not honest, and certainly not fooling anyone. But he puts on the act anyway.

Beneath the washed-out yellow bathroom light, he wraps a bandaid around his paper cut and pauses to take a long hard look at himself in the mirror. Pushing back his overgrown bangs reveals bloodshot eyes whose colour looks a little off. Maybe it's just the lighting... yeah, that's what he'd say if someone asked, but deep down he knows that's not it. His stomach turns with discomfort. Below those discoloured eyes, his skin is pale and clammy, seeming to press a little tighter than usual around his cheekbones. And ooh, his mouth... it's itching again. Lately he's had the urge to gnaw on things like a teething puppy. And they're not acting up right now, but his forehead and shoulderblades have been periodically aching in a way he hasn't felt since teenage growing pains. Finally, his fingernails need to be trimmed--when did they get so long and sharp?

Well, he can't do anything about 83.3% of his problems, but at least he can trim his nails. He reaches for the vanity and--

The glass cracks as suddenly as the lightning bolt that struck him the day before. Neil staggers back, eyes wide, hands instinctively clutching at his chest. He can feel his pounding heart, and... it's wrong. The rhythm is all wrong. His breaths come quick and shallow and distorted, wrong. Gosh, his teeth really hurt. He runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth and ooh, that's not the shape those teeth should be but more importantly, man, I could really go for a nice bloody steak right now. Just the thought of sinking his teeth into flesh makes him start salivating right there in front of the broken bathroom mirror.

Never mind the nail clippers. He can just chew them down--not a usual habit of his, but in this case it'll be killing two birds with one stone. And oh does he ever want those two birds dead. Heck, he wants the whole flock demolished and served to him on a silver platter!

Back in the living room, his friends are waiting for him with matching concerned looks etched across their faces. Neil takes a seat next to them and forces a grin.

"Everything okay, Neil?" Kevin asks.

"Yeah, you sure took a while in there," Ryan adds with a questioning tilt of his head.

Dang it, did he really zone out for that long? Skin prickling, Neil gulps and looks away. "Sorry, guys. I had trouble finding the right bandaids."

"Ohh... my condolences, friend." Ryan smiles, appeased by the excuse, and pats him on the arm. "I've had that same trouble more times than I can count."

They carry on with their house of cards like normal. It all ends in bad luck, but Neil barely notices. He zones out for a moment, thinking about how easy it would be to tear the whole deck of cards to shreds with his overgrown nails, and then how easy and fun it would be to tear apart the couch and the whole clubhouse and his friends' bodies and-- No, wait, I don't want to do that, what am I...? And next thing he knows the fire alarm is blaring and Kevin is whipping out the fire extinguisher. A few flecks of foam spray onto Neil's cheek. He hisses as he flicks them away, nearly slicing his own cheek open in the process.

This is no good. If they're going to make a webisode this week, he needs to get his act together. Luckily, Neil knows just the thing.

*

Fortuna Daemonium, also known as corpse puppet demons, have a tried-and-true operating system. They rely on humanoid host bodies, but lack other demons' ability to directly possess a living host. No, they can only inhabit inanimate objects, rudimentary plant life, and--as their colloquial name suggests--corpses.

In its larval stage, the demon takes the form of an item which mortals can't resist picking up. Upon contact with a suitable host body, the demon bestows a bad luck curse upon the (un)lucky mortal. Once the curse kills the mortal, the demon is free to transfer itself into their body and take control. The trouble only comes when a demon acts too hastily.

A direct lightning strike against an unguarded mortal should have been fatal. It should have! Was the luck demon truly such a fool for thinking, as its host crumpled to the ground with a smoking crater in his chest, that it was free to propagate? And yet when it sent forth its demonic seed, it ran up against a barrier. The human's brain and soul were--and indeed are--still active. The demon can't possess him yet. Frustrating, yes, but not the end of the world. It just has to keep triggering bad luck events, and eventually something is bound to keep the mortal down.

But there might be a problem. Some humans' blood is far purer than others, and they ingest all kinds of terrible things, so as a precaution Fortuna Daemonium release demonic toxins into the host's bloodstream before taking them over. The toxins essentially provide a makeover that renders the corpse (normally it would be a corpse at this point!) more habitable for the demons, and better suited to their violent needs. If released into a living being, however...

There are a few recorded accounts of such a folly, but accounts of what happens to either the host body or demon differ greatly--unsurprising, when these events rarely leave behind survivors. It seems humans can fight with surprising ferocity if they think there's a chance it will save someone dear to them.

*

Sitting on his bed with his legs drawn up and his shoulders hunched, Neil lowers the horseshoe necklace over his head with an unexpected tremble in his hands. His fingers twitch and jerk involuntarily like they don't want to touch the good luck charm--which is pretty silly of them, because those hands are high on the list of body parts that could use better luck. He takes a deep breath in and releases the string on the exhale. There, now he'll be safe from the...

Safe from...

Neil hears and smells his sizzling flesh before he feels it. But when the sensation does reach his nerves, oh, does he ever feel it. Screaming in agony, he rips the necklace off and flings it across the room. It bounces off the wall and lands with a clatter next to his trunk full of puppets.

Panting, he stares down at himself. Twin trails of smoke wind like lazy rivers off the points where either end of the horseshoe briefly connected with his skin. At least his shirt isn't completely ruined, but it's a tiny bit singed around the collar. Maybe he should wear a jacket today, so the guys don't get suspicious. Yeah, yeah, and if they ask he can say...

"Wait, who cares about keeping up appearances?" he cuts himself off. "I've got bigger fish on my plate right now. Like: since when am I allergic to horseshoes?"

And why is there a ringing in his ears as he slinks cautiously toward the discarded necklace? Why, as he reaches for it, does a hiss escape his bared fangs? Why does he have fangs and claws all of a sudden when two days ago his teeth and nails were perfectly normal and flat? He blinks against the strain of his headache, and--hey, were his eyelids always oriented that way? His shoulders twinge as he kneels down, and he could swear there's something swelling up beneath the skin, just like it feels like something's swelling at the top of his skull. There's no bruising, no recent injuries apart from the lightning strike which could account for all this. He reaches for the horseshoe with a trembling hand--his skin has taken on a yellowish hue now, and the veins on the underside of his wrist are green, which he's pretty sure isn't a normal human colour--and braces himself for a scalding sensation.

If he clutches the horseshoe for long enough, will it drive out whatever evil force has lodged itself inside him? Or will it just kill him?

"This is no good," Neil laments. Chickening out at the last second, he retracts his hand and drops it in his lap. The horseshoe goes untouched. "I need to ask Ryan for advice. He knows all about curses and stuff."

(Kevin might know something too, since he moonlights as a ghostbuster, but that's different. Kevin would worry if he knew. Ryan wouldn't worry. Would he? Neil won't tell him if it'll make him worry.)

*

Neil shows up for work wearing a horseshoe necklace and a big nervous grin. And colour contacts, apparently, unless his eyes were bright green the whole time and Ryan never noticed. But no matter, they have a webisode to film.

Ryan gets in the car and turns the engine over. For a moment he tenses, hairs standing on end in anticipation of something dreadful happening. But nothing does. Kevin climbs in beside him, and Neil allocates himself to the backseat, where he sits with his knees pressed tight together and his nails digging into the upholstery and his mouth all clamped up like he's got a case of lockjaw.

"Neil, you haven't stepped on any rusty nails lately, have you?" Ryan asks, shooting his friend a glance in the rearview.

Neil blinks in surprise, and oh dear, his eyes are definitely not supposed to be that colour and his eyelids are not supposed to go that way. It's an exciting new look, but not a style Ryan thought Neil would go for.

"Huh? Uh, no, I don't think so."

"You'd better not have," Kevin admonishes. "I've warned you guys about playing barefoot at the abandoned nail factory."

Despite the increasing worry about Neil's condition, they reach the warehouse they've decided to film at and get through a productive rehearsal without much issue. Eventually they encounter another bout of bad luck: one of their cameras acts up, and when Neil leans in to carefully adjust the lense, the entire piece of equipment crumbles to dust. That garners a concerned eyebrow raise from Kevin, which Ryan acknowledges with a tight-lipped nod: Indeed, something's not right with him. But clearly Neil doesn't want to talk about it, so what can they do? At least the curse or whatever it is isn't hurting him directly anymore.

Kevin heads off to buy a replacement camera while Ryan and Neil set up the rest of the equipment. Nothing goes wrong, and Ryan manages to relax a little. He almost wonders if there's no curse after all, and Neil is right to accuse him and Kevin of being paranoid. Nothing really bad has happened since the lightning strike, and those are usually random anyway, so...

But then Neil goes stiff. The chair he was moving drops from his hands in a clatter and he leans over it for support, hissing like a feral cat in distress. Ryan rushes to his side and holds him upright--he's clammy to the touch, and green-tinted veins pulse frantically beneath his skin. Brushing his bangs aside, Ryan lays a hand against Neil's head to check for fever.

Oh. Oh, there are some very strange lumps on Neil's forehead. That's... not good. Icy dread stirs in Ryan's gut as he pats his friend down.

"Say, Neil, what are those protrusions?" he asks, trying and failing to keep his voice from shaking. "You're not... sick, are you?"

Neil doesn't answer. His discoloured eyes are glazed over, and his breathing is shallow yet echoey, like it's coming from far away. The horseshoe necklace dangles loosely around his neck. Too loosely, for a heavy steel object.

Something snaps into place in Ryan's mind, and he jerks back with a gasp.

"An electric car! With the luck you've been having, its magnetized engine should have attracted your horseshoe... unless..." He rips off the necklace, and his hand closes around moulded plastic. "Ah-hah! You thought you could fool us with a fake horseshoe necklace? But--" Triumphant revelation gives way to an even deeper concern and bewilderment. "Why not wear a real horseshoe? A smart man like you should know the plastic ones never work."

Neil's shoulders spasm. His head jerks back, and his bangs fall back into place to conceal the tumours on either side of his forehead. His mouth moves to whisper something. It sounds like he's saying Ryan's name.

"I'm here, Neil," Ryan assures him, laying a hand on his friend's arm to hold him steady. "I'm right here."

"No... Ryan..." Neil shakes his head, and it looks like the motion hurts. Thin streams of blood trickle down from beneath his bangs. He bares his teeth in a grimace and they're so much sharper than they're supposed to be. "Run away."

And that's the only warning Ryan gets.

*

Neil's head is going to kill him. And that's not just a dramatic way of saying it hurts a normal amount; no, it really and truly feels like his skull is going to burst open and splatter his brains everywhere. He tries to breathe in and out evenly, like that'll help. But he can't catch his breath, nor slow his frantic pulse. His body shakes, and oh my god it hurts so bad help please guys you have to help me it hurts it hurts it hurts--

Ryan is saying something. Neil can't hear the words over the buzzing in his head, but the tone sounds reassuring. It's funny--Ryan is rarely the reassuring type, but when he is it's almost maternal. Neil wants to lean into his friend's touch, to listen to those calming words and fool himself into thinking he's gonna be okay.

But his fangs and claws itch to tear something apart. And if Ryan doesn't get out of the way--

"Run away," Neil pleads. There should be tears pricking at his eyes, and it feels almost like there are--his eyes are hot and irritated, and there's something wet sliding down his face now--but his tear ducts seem to have sealed up. He can feel something slithering out of his back, like being stabbed in reverse. "Please--you can't--I don't want to--"

Is he pleading to Ryan now, or to the thing he's becoming? It doesn't make a difference anyway. Neither of them listen.

Neil doesn't mean to swing his hand in an upward arc, claws extended. He doesn't mean for those talons to shred the front of Ryan's jacket and dig into the flesh beneath. He doesn't mean to send Ryan falling back, jaws parting in silent shock, or to then leap on top of him while he's down and bury his fangs in his shoulder. He doesn't want to do any of it.

But also... maybe he does want to do it. His pulse settles into a regular rhythm at last, a healthy pitter-patter of excitement, and he can taste the saliva swelling in his mouth when he rips a chunk out of his friend's shoulder and worries it between his teeth. The pain is finally gone. Now it's just a rush of exhilaration. Neil breaks into a giddy grin as Ryan screams and writhes beneath his claws.

This is going to be fun.

*

Their equipment still isn't set up when Kevin returns. That's the first thing he notices, and he frowns at the sight of the filmmaking gear strewn around like furniture after a robbery. His frown deepens when he spots his friends jumping around in the shadowy corner of the warehouse, apparently play-fighting--complete with disturbingly realistic screams and growls and hisses. What is this, a warrior cats roleplay? Eccentric as they are, Neil and Ryan are professionals; they should know better than to goof off at a time like this.

"C'mon, guys," he says, clapping his hands together like an animal trainer as he approaches them. "Let's get to--"

The scent of blood hits his tongue, and Kevin's breath catches in his throat. What are they... this isn't another one of Ryan's creepy rituals, is it? He flicks a lightswitch on to illuminate the warehouse. When he does, his blood runs cold.

Four leathery green wings protrude from Neil's back. No, not quite leathery--they're rounded, and they look delicate, like leaves. Less delicate-looking are the golden horns sticking out the top of his head, with swelling around the base and trails of blood running down from where they protrude. Just looking at the extra body parts makes Kevin cringe. Those definitely weren't there before, and it looks like their growth wasn't pleasant.

But his sympathy for Neil is dampened by what he's doing. Rather, what he's already done. Ryan sways on his feet with a sickly expression, arms wrapped tight around his own torso like he's trying to hold his guts in. Maybe he is. There's a lot of blood streaming down his face and matting his hair and staining his tattered clothes. One section of his sleeve is torn away, revealing a flash of exposed bone where flesh has been shredded.

Kevin takes this all in as a tableau, his friends both having froze in place like deer in headlights when he flicked the light on. It's several breathless, stomach-churning seconds until Ryan turns his wide-eyed stare on Kevin. He opens his mouth to say something--a plea for help? A warning to stay back? Some odd little overly casual remark, haha, typical Ryan yeah I bet he's not even bothered by this sure yeah he probably likes it, we know him, what a weirdo--

But Neil--if this even is still Neil--lunges before Ryan can speak. He grabs Ryan by the collar and flings him across the room, where he crashes against a radiator with a pained yelp and crumples to the ground. Neil grins, exposing a row of gore-caked fangs, and leaps forward to finish the job.

"Hey!" Kevin rushes forward with no plan in mind, just protective instinct. "Get away from him!"

He grabs Neil's leg and pulls him to the ground moments before those claws would have slit Ryan open. Neil hisses and squirms around, but Kevin locks his arms around him--though not without getting an armful of fangs. Diluted by adrenaline, he barely registers the pain, but he can see blood leaking through his shirt sleeve and his stomach hitches at the dull scrape of enamel against bone. Drawing in a shaky breath, Kevin closes his hand into a fist and draws it back. "Sorry about this, bud."

He clubs Neil in the back of the neck, like they do to knock people out in TV shows. Neil spasms at the contact and goes still. For a split-second Kevin is terrified he hit him too hard--but no, he still has a steady pulse, albeit one with an alien rhythm. Thinking fast, Kevin peels off his flannel shirt and ties it around Neil to bind his arms and those creepy wings (which upon closer inspection look like plant matter, but a tear in the lower right one--Ryan must have gotten a few hits in during their scuffle--is bleeding, and it's definitely not sap. He considers just ripping the wings off, but... no. Possessed or not, he doesn't want to hurt Neil.) Once that's done, he sits back on his heels to catch his breath. The pain from his freshly sustained wound creeps in now, and man does it ever sting. And that's just one bite, so he can't imagine how bad it is for...

Ryan. Oh, god, Ryan. Snapping back to grim urgency, Kevin scrambles across the room to his fallen friend in such a hurry that he trips over his own feet. He falls to his knees at Ryan's side and turns him over, shuddering at the glassy look in his eyes.

"Hey, stay with me, man," he commands. "We need a plan, and whatever's up with Neil looks like a two-person job."

"Mmn... a plan. Yes." Ryan rolls his head back and shifts slightly. "I definitely... have... a plan..."

His mannerisms are those of someone reluctant to rise from bed on a cold winter morning. Kevin's certainly been there, and the thought of such a simple shared experience makes him half-smile despite the circumstances. That smile fades when Ryan's face contorts in pain and he curls in on himself with a hiss. After a few shallow trembling breaths he speaks again, more faintly this time.

"I think Neil... is possessed. An exorcism may be in order. But there could be--" He coughs, and blood dribbles from his lips-- "another way. If..."

He trails off, head lolling to the side. Kevin waits expectantly for him to pick back up, but... nothing. Swallowing down a spike of anxiety, he props Ryan up and brushes a strand of sweat-and-blood-soaked hair out of his unfocused eyes.

"What's the plan, Ryan?" he prompts. "C'mon."

No answer. There's so much blood seeping through Ryan's jacket. Is it too much? He's not sure. It looks like too much.

"Ryan."

Nothing.

"Ryan!"

*

Neil stirs from a dreamless sleep to the sound of a dripping faucet. There's a damp chill to his surroundings that makes the human part of him shiver even though the demonic part is unbothered. He opens his eyes to find himself surrounded by four rough-hewn dark gray walls; the floor and ceiling are the same material. There's a busted pipe sticking out of one wall which seems to be the source of the dripping. In the far left corner is a staircase leading up.

What is this, a basement? Ugh, I hate basements... Neil hisses in annoyance and tries to move, only to find himself bound by ropes. Twisting his head around, it looks like he's tied to a wooden column, the way pirates used to tie up their prisoners. Uh oh. Am I gonna be executed?

As if in answer to that question, the sound of footsteps alerts him to a human descending the stairs. It's one of the same humans Neil was playing with earlier--the one with the short dark hair and the flannel (he knows their names, but that information is locked away right now). But he's not wearing flannel anymore, just a plain white t-shirt and jeans and... what is that, a backpack? No, it's something else, something Neil recognizes, but... his head feels funny. It's like his mind is splitting in two, and the half that's in control right now doesn't know or care about mortals or any of their strange devices. He just wants to torture and kill and eat them!

The mortal flicks a lightswitch. Neil flinches at the too-bright yellow glow that flickers on overhead, curling in on himself like a dying plant and hissing like a vampire. Only when his eyes adjust does he realize the lights were off a moment ago. Come to think of it, his surroundings did look a little washed out, but he could see everything perfectly. Woah, I can see in the dark, he realizes with a grin. Cool!

"So... Neil." The mortal strides slowly over to him and comes to a stop a foot away. He unhooks something from his backpack and points it at Neil as he speaks. It looks like one of those weapons mortals use--the kind they only bring out when they're really serious. So it's surprising when the mortal's first question is: "You okay?"

"Huh? Uh, yeah..." It's not a lie; the ropes might be a bit tight, but they're not hurting him. Heck, he can barely feel them, nor can he feel the cut on his wing or the spot where the mortal clubbed him to knock him out. Demons aren't built to feel that kind of stuff. "How about you? That arm looks pretty bad."

He nods to the appendage in question. The bandages look hastily applied, and he can smell that the wound isn't fully closed. The bloodscent is simultaneously enticing and sharply concerning. The latter reaction is surprising, moreso when Neil reminds himself that he did that, and it's nothing compared to what he did to the other mortal.

"I'll live," the mortal replies tersely. Only his inflection is more like "I'll live," as in yeah, he'll live, but somebody else won't.

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" Neil wonders aloud. The testy look he gets from the mortal in response seems to confirm it. "Pshaw, you mortals are so pathetic! What are you gonna do to me?"

The mortal cocks an eyebrow, and one corner of his lips twitches into a smirk. It's an amused expression--or no, the human side of Neil recognizes, a wry and weary one. It's all in the tired eyes: this mortal is not having fun. He raises his weapon and presses its tip against Neil's upper abdomen.

"Oh, you'll see what I can do to you."

*

Throughout this exchange, the true Fortuna Daemonium is silently screaming from within its four-leafed prison. Such sickening irony, to be confined to a clover pinned to the shirt of its would-be host body! And there's nothing else nearby to transfer itself to--nothing that would be any more useful, at least. Exiting the clover without transferring to a new vessel is out of the question. That would expose it to human eyes, which is probably just what the human with the proton pack wants.

Yes, Fortuna Daemonium know exactly what that device is called. It's imprinted in their collective consciousness, ever since the incident several decades ago when a group of four middle-aged mortals wielding such weapons managed to wipe out a whole colony of demons. If this newly demonic mortal isn't careful, its naive taunting will get both it and the Fortuna Daemonium captured at best and demolished at worst.

Only one way out of this situation, then. A bad luck event at a scale that can reduce mortal and half-demon alike to corpses fit for possession. As the two humanoids continue their exchange, Fortuna Daemonium tunes them out and channels its energy into summoning a natural disaster.

*

"Hey, where's the other mortal, anyway?" Neil asks, tilting his head. "He was fun to play with. His blood was delicious."

The mortal (Kevin, something in the back of his head supplies--the wall between things the demon knows and things it chooses to forget is crumbling) stiffens at that. He raises his head to stare into the ceiling light and waits until his eyes begin to water before speaking in a low voice.

"Yeah, I'll bet it was. But we pathetic humans only have so much blood we can lose, you know."

Neil blinks. Something about those words send a shiver down his spine... but they shouldn't. He's a demon, isn't he? What does he care about mortals getting hurt? He's just gonna eat them anyway. Sure, they're more fun to play with when they're alive, but... hey, what do those two specific specimens matter? There's whole cities full of potential prey! And here he is all worried about...

About...

"But he's okay, right?" he asks despite himself, or maybe exactly because of himself and despite the thing he's become. The question slips out as a nervous little squeak. "He has to be okay. We still need to film our webisode, and the script calls for all three of us--"

What is he talking about? It's like he's on autopilot now, human mind running on instinct and overpowering the demonic influence. There's that sensation of the bisected mind again, and the thing that calls itself Neil is standing on the brink with the ground splitting under it. He doesn't know which side he wants to land on anymore--powerful demon or feeble emotional human. All he can do is babble out his instinctive pleas for the status quo.

"--And we can't find a replacement on such short notice!"

"Well, maybe you should've thought about that--" Kevin's voice crescendos into a yell as he jabs the proton gun into Neil's ribs-- "Before you murdered him!"

...What?

"Oww," he whines at the jab of the weapon before his human side can fully process the mortal's words. Kevin's finger trembles over the trigger. There's a scent emanating from the weapon that makes Neil's hairs stand on end. It's not quite electric, not quite acidic, but he knows on an instinctive level that he can't let it touch him. If he does...

His fragile human side catches up just then. Tears well in his eyes. When he blinks them back, he finds that his eyelids are angled the right way again.

"You mean Ryan is...?"

"I just buried him in the backyard," Kevin confirms grimly. He squeezes his eyes shut until a tear slides down his cheek. "So you don't dig him up and eat what's left of him."

"But that's... no, I'd never do that..." Neil shakes his head, lips drawn back in a grimace. His fangs flatten when he presses them together. "Ryan has to be okay. Things always work out for us!"

His demonic side can't put up a fight anymore. Neil doesn't want it to. His heart clenches with such monumental dread that it shudders back into its original rhythm, along with his frantic breathing. He can't feel his wings anymore, and his horns feel lighter, like they're hollowed out and ready to crumble. He can feel the blood caked onto his claws even as they shrivel back into regular fingernails. Ryan's blood. Are his organs physically rearranging, or is that just nausea? It might be nausea. Oh, geez, he's gonna be sick.

In this moment of emotional turmoil, he doesn't notice when the earth begins to shake. It just feels like another part of his breakdown. Dust crumbles from the ceiling, and none of it makes a difference. The whole place may as well cave in at this point.

*

Despite everything, watching Neil break down is the toughest part of the ordeal. The ground shakes--some last-ditch resistance from the demon, no doubt. Even so, Kevin stands his ground. He bunches up Neil's shirt collar in his free hand and pulls it taut, while with his other hand he aims the proton gun at his possessed friend's chest. He keeps talking as he does this, grasping at any words that'll keep the demon distracted.

"He was the only one of us with a necromancy license, you know. So we're probably never going to get him back."

"No, no, we have to... he can't be dead, we... I..."

Neil's words give way to uncontrolled weeping. The unnatural colour of his eyes, toxic green with dark violet pupils, drains like cheap dye down a sink as he cries. Soon his swollen eyes are their usual shade, everything is its normal length, and his wings droop in a lifeless shade of gray-brown. He curls in on himself as best he can around the ropes to bury his head in Kevin's shoulder. The pressure against his forehead loosens off the horns, and soon they and the wings peel off altogether, shedding like snakeskin. It's over. Or at least it will be in just a moment.

Kevin twists the proton gun around to aim perpendicularly at the front of Neil's shirt, angled so it won't hit the man himself, and presses the tip directly against the clover. As carefully as they plotted all this out, his breath still catches when he squeezes the trigger. He didn't count on an earthquake when they made this plan. If he's off by an inch...

The clover explodes to ash in the glowing beam's wake. A demonic screech rings out, and green smoke trails into the air. Neil gasps and jerks back. The instant the job is done, Kevin releases the trigger and powers down his proton pack. The earthquake stops immediately upon the demon's demise, but he could swear he still feels the ground shaking beneath his feet. He can't breathe for a solid ten seconds.

It takes Neil several shaky tearful breaths before he straightens up and ventures to speak. "I can't believe I killed Ryan. What are we gonna do?"

"Worry not, my friend," Kevin assures him, laying a hand on his arm. "Things aren't quite as they seem."

*

Half an hour prior, Kevin shoved a half-conscious Ryan into the backseat and a possessed bound-and-gagged Neil into the trunk of Ryan's newly upholstered electric car that he definitely acquired by legal means. Minutes later, the frantic driver rounding a sharp corner pulled Ryan awake with a gasp. After a few dizzying moments trying to determine his surroundings and process the hurried explanation his companion offered, the cogs of his mind were set in motion. Passing out from blood loss served as a good excuse to not explain the plan he definitely had earlier, but it's even better to actually have a plan for real in times like these.

"When he was attacking me, he kept making pop culture references," Ryan mused, stroking his blood-matted facial hair thoughtfully. "I think Neil's consciousness is still intact. The right stimuli could draw his human heart back out."

"You think so?" Kevin met Ryan's gaze in the rearview, then shifted to glance at their possessed friend in the trunk. (Come to think of it, it's a miracle Neil stayed asleep the whole time. The fight must have really tuckered him out.)

"Well, I sure hope so," Ryan replied cheerfully. "Otherwise we're dead meat!"

"Dead meat..." Kevin echoed, drumming his fingers against the wheel with his brow furrowed. Suddenly he turned in his seat and snapped his fingers. "That's it! What if we make it seem like he killed you? A shock like that is bound to snap him out of it."

"Oh boy!" Ryan sat up excitedly, only to wince as his injuries offered their sharp complaints. Quickly recovering, he rubbed his hands together with a grin. "I'll slather myself in zombie makeup and moan about dragging him to hell."

"Hm... I was thinking more the kind of death you don't come back from."

"...Oh." Ryan sat back with a disappointed huff and crossed his arms. "Well, that's a little bleak."

"I know--" And judging by Kevin's tone, it didn't sound like he was thrilled with it either-- "but it could be the only way."

And so that's exactly what they did. Hiding at the top of the stairs and listening in on the whole shindig, Ryan soon decided it was for the best that they didn't go with his zombie performance idea. He may not be dead, but he is still injured. Overexertion is the last thing he needs--to say nothing of the brief earthquake toward the end.

Now, as the figurative and literal dust settles, Ryan braces himself against the banister and hobbles down the stairs, slow-clapping as he does so.

"A marvelous performance, Kevin," he says upon reaching the bottom of the stairs. "You almost had even me fooled!"

Kevin nods with a smug little I-told-you-so smile, crossing his arms. Neil stares blankly at Ryan as he walks to his side, produces a switchblade from his pocket, and cuts the ropes to release him. Upon being freed, the blank stare continues for several seconds before Neil rubs his eyes and gulps--not nervously, but like he's trying to swallow down any further tears.

"Ryan... you must've come to forgive me before you ascend," he murmurs sadly. Without waiting for a response, he pulls Ryan into a hug. "I'm gonna miss you, bud."

"Er, yes and no..." Ryan wriggles out of Neil's embrace--as lovely as it is, he could do without being squeezed right now. "Of course I forgive you, but I'm not actually dead. 'Twas but a clever ruse!"

He punctuates that announcement with a raised finger and a cheesy grin. After a beat, Neil slumps with relief.

"Boy, am I glad to hear that. I dunno what I'd do if I'd--if you were really..."

He starts trembling again and breaks off into sniffles. Ryan offers him an awkward pat on the back, while Kevin lays a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"There, there, Neil. You're alright."

*

But is he really alright?

He doesn't stop wondering, even six hours later when he's getting ready for bed. Running his toothbrush around his mouth for the fifth time in as many minutes, with a little too much pressure and way too much toothpaste, he finds that he still can't get the taste of his friends' blood out of his mouth. He doesn't like the taste anymore. Now it makes him gag, which might be more morally upstanding, but it's way less fun.

He cups some cold water into his mouth, swishes it around, and spits it out. The blood taste is still there, and now his teeth ache from over-brushing. At least they're not fangs. Nothing is growing in ways it shouldn't be.

He's not going to sleep that night. If he does, he'll dream about doing it all over again and maybe even worse. Or what if he turns demonic again in his sleep? How many people might he attack without even realizing--other friends? Family members? Random strangers on the street? Too risky. Instead he fixes himself a bowl of cereal, sugary enough to keep him awake, and nestles into the couch with a blanket and pillow to watch TV. He tries not to fidget too much, but it's hard not to. It's like when you wear a backpack or hat all day and then you can still feel it on you even when it's not. He keeps thinking he can still feel the horns and wings. Yeah, Kevin assured him the demon was gone, but what does Kevin know? He didn't think there was a ghoul in spooky manor either, and look where that got him.

Speaking of...

Neil grabs his communicator wristwatch and dials in the frequencies to contact his friends as, on the TV, a jungle snake lunges to attack an explorer. The watch displays a split-screen as Kevin and Ryan answer a few seconds apart. The timing of it coaxes a subdued laugh from Neil. I guess all three of us are on edge.

"What's wrong, Neil?" Ryan asks. "There's no sign of the demon re-emerging, is there?"

"No, but..." He leans back and worries his lip between his teeth, cheeks colouring with sudden embarrassment. Are they gonna think he's being a baby? Maybe he just won't admit to being nervous. "Do you guys wanna have a sleepover? And in case I go all demonic again--not that I think I will--you can get out the bible and holy water and everything and, y'know, take care of it."

"Sounds like a plan. We'll be right over."

Despite himself, Neil finds himself dozing off at some point. Even before they actually arrive, knowing his friends will be there is like a tranquilizer. Next thing he knows, Ryan is nestled in on his left side and Kevin on his right, debating in hushed tones which Ernest movie they should watch ("Scared Stupid might be too scary for him right now--" / "Yeah, but Goes to Jail has the whole identity-stealing thing, and that might..." / "Well, how about Rides Again? That way we could bore him to sleep!") Neil smacks his lips and tries to shake himself back awake--he doesn't want to miss the evening entertainment--but it's a lost cause. He sleeps peacefully that night, and clovers don't show up in his dreams even once.

Yeah, it looks like he's gonna be just fine.