#muffin stash

[chillymuffins]

does anyone still like them? because i do

[poppysplace-edits]

stardew valley marriage candidates 2/12: penny

X X X X X X X X X

[coralsgrimes]

CORALLLL IM CACKLING. HE POSTED A SALE ON HIS MERCH.

On one hand I feel bad because he was pushing the EP so hard. And then on the other hand I don’t feeeeeel bad at all.

UNMISSABLE OFFER MUFFINS! take it while it's hot x.x how much signed cd will be????? will it be a fresh signature or last years from that limited edition signed pile???? idk BUT MUFFINS if ye are REAL fans!!! help Benny pay his NY expenses!

Probably wanna make space for new merch. New era or something, he basically tiny scale TSwift right?

[peachesnabsinthe]

Blueberry Muffin 🫐🧁🌸

[denpa-dere]

house arrest 4

afab!mc x asmo description: NSFW, you are confined to your room for your own protection. But how long will that last when the only thing standing between you and your housemates is a door and some willpower? Asmo knows you need a break.

warnings: breeding kink with talk scents/scenting, afab reader with she/her pronouns. dubcon warning!!! This one turned out sounding kind of sketch in places, but actions depicted are intended to be consensual. spoilers: aphrodisiac used.

|| Intro || Mammon || Asmo (mini) || Levi || Satan (mini) || Beel || Lucifer (mini) || Asmo || Belphie (mini) || Belphie || Barbatos (mini) ||

Asmo:

Asmo: I heard what happened. 

Asmo: If you need a little something for those love bites, come see me. It's incredible what Devildom cosmetics can do. 

Asmo:

You puffed a little laugh watching the messages roll in. Leave it to Asmo to be so sweet under such ridiculous circumstances. 

Turning your phone face down on the pillow beside you, you folded your hands over your chest, staring up at the ceiling and taking inventory of the situation at hand. In the motion, your hands briefly brushed against a stray bite mark, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain throughout your body.

You had, by your estimation, about three more days under the microscope. The halfway point had snuck up on you amidst a flurry of seemingly nonstop activity. Until now, you hadn't had a chance to breathe, let alone strategize. 

Responding to those messages meant walking straight into a trap, of that much you could be certain. Truthfully, his distance thus far had surprised you. Asmo was something of a dark horse; an unpredictability bubbled just under his surface. Surrounded by his sin, comfortable and in his element, there was no way of knowing how his behavior would manifest. 

Well, there was one way. 

___

“Aww, muffin! You came!” Asmo cheered, swinging the door open before you could even knock. He flung his arms around your neck and pulled you into a tight hug. 

He paused to take a good look at you, lightly chiding: “You're a mess, you poor thing! Come on, let's get you fixed up.”

Linking his arm in yours, Asmo led you inside where he left you waiting at the edge of his bed while he broke away to dig through a readily prepared stash of bottles and assorted sundries.

“Brutes, all of them,” He clucked his tongue, “You’ll have to tell me all about it, obviously.”

You laughed, settling back amongst the pillows, “They’re not so bad. They’re trying.”

“Please. You coddle them,” The demon teased, rolling his eyes at you, “Meanwhile, you look like a chew toy.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No need to worry, Asmo-chan is here!” He sing-songed, joining you on the bed with an armful of products, “And I’ve got just the thing- I brought my most powerful arsenal.”

This seemed… normal? Too normal, you thought. Asmo chattered on happily, laying out his choices one-by-one and explaining the benefits of each. All else aside, it felt like any other spa day. Perhaps you shouldn’t have been surprised that The Avatar of Lust remained unfazed in the face of something that may very well be considered a mundane part of his domain. After all, Asmo had been the one to keep a cool head back when…

“Sounds good?” He chirped, holding up a jar in the shape of a deep purple crystal, eyes glittering with excitement.

“S-sure!” You nodded, hoping your eagerness covered up the fact you had entirely zoned out during his presentation.

“Yay~” He unscrewed the lid, “Then we can start with ones on your neck.”

You tried to relax, craning your head to one side. Asmo gathered some of the lightly-scented balm between his fingers and you sighed when he softly traced the sensitive marks.

“This stuff works quickly,” He assured you, extending the motion down to your collarbone, “I didn’t think Beel would be so bitey. On second thought, I guess it does make sense…”

With a practiced familiarity, you reached to pull your shirt overhead, “I think he got me on my back, too.”

“Ooh, lemme see!”

You rolled onto your stomach and buried your face into one of about a thousand silk pillows. Asmo gasped. Chuckling to himself, he wasted no time getting to work on your shoulders, and although you jumped at his touch at first, you soon found yourself sinking into its warmth.

You were feeling pretty warm. 

“They're fading already,” Asmo said, sounding impressed with himself. He positioned himself over you, straddling your hips for purchase, ministrations straying closer to a massage than a cosmetic treatment. 

“Is that why I'm so warm?” You asked, groaning in appreciation as he helpfully teased out a knot between your shoulder blades. 

“That's probably the magdalena extract,” He giggled, breath tickling  the shell of your ear, “Like I said, this stuff works fast.”

You rolled the name over in your mind, trying to remember where you had heard it before. A fog was encroaching on your thoughts, swaddling your head in a thick haze reminiscent of being wine-drunk. 

“Do you like it?” The fifth-born's voice stayed soft and playful as his hands glided down the small of your back. You set your remaining thoughts aside and sighed again, feeling yourself become putty in his hands. 

“Good,” He cooed, nuzzling your neck and nipping gently at your ear, “Then, do you want to turn over so I can get the rest of you?”

You hummed in agreement, turning underneath him when he rose up on his knees enough for you to move. Once situated on your back, Asmo lowered down to sit on you, again; his lithe frame light enough to not cause any discomfort, but heavy enough to keep you in place. You studied him through lowered lashes– he truly was beautiful.

“Ah, there you are,” He said as if seeing you for the first time. He tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, tangerine gaze raking over your flushed body.

Magdalena extract. 

The name continued to echo somewhere in the back of your mind. 

Asmo collected a generous amount of the salve, warming it between his hands before tenderly cupping your abused chest. His tongue poked out cutely between his lips in concentration, perfectly manicured fingers trailing feather-light over fading teeth imprints and rapidly stiffening nipple peaks. 

It's an aphrodisiac. An alarm bell sounded somewhere in the distance. You were too far away to pay it any attention. 

“I swear, these boys have no idea how it's done,” He murmured, more to himself than to you, and leaned in to take one of your nipples into his mouth. He lapped around the sensitive bud, sending you reeling. Your eyes rolled back as your body exploded in sensation, arching off the mattress. 

What the fuck was that? You wouldn't have time to think too hard about it. 

“Shh,” He lovingly shushed you, stuffing two fingers in your mouth, “You don't want to get us caught, do you~?”

You whimpered around the digits’ probing–  even their intrusion was starting to feel good. Asmo turned his attention back to your body. He trailed his free hand down your side, tracing the hem of your waistband. 

“Can I?” He looked up at you with a hopeful smile. You nodded, eager to shed the remaining clothes covering your feverish skin. Asmo removed his fingers from your mouth to help shimmy you out of your bottoms. 

“You know,” The demon said, parting your legs to sit between them, “Your scent has been driving me crazy for almost a week now.” He pouted, “It's pretty rude.”

Goosebumps cropped up along your thighs, following the path of his hands applying more healing balm. You lifted your hips for him, allowing space for him to slip his hands under your ass.

“Besides, everyone's been paying attention to you,” Asmo huffed, kissing each of your hip bones. Your eyes watered. “That doesn't seem fair.”

“ -‘m sorry,” You managed to whine, rolling your hips against your will. You ached for more. 

He giggled again, placing a few more kisses along your stomach, “Aww, that's okay. We'll have plenty of time for you to give me attention. Lucifer thinks I left the house hours ago.”

The words hardly registered. Asmo offered you two of his fingers again, which you readily accepted into your mouth. You twisted your tongue around them and sucked, and he looked at you like you hung the stars. 

He was right. There was plenty of time 

to be spent lavishing one another with affection– and what more perfect place to start, he thought, than playing with your adorable puffy clit until you cried that you loved him. 

You had all night, after all. 

[angel-of-the-moons]

Mr and Mrs Knight

Steven Grant (Marc Spector + Jake Lockley) x Curvy!Fem!Reader

TW/CW: NSFW, body dysmorphia, smut, suit kink, glove kink, fingering, PiV sex, creampie, squirting, misuse of The Suit™ (and truncheons), cosplay, established relationship, fluff

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: I am unashamed to admit that suits are fucking hot and the shit they do to me is what I imagine straight men feel when they see a VS model in lingerie. And Steven is hot. So is Marc. And Jake and Oscar in general you get the rest. Imagine the Mrs Knight suit looks something like this. (Also featuring the headcanons by @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction for Jake's craftiness!)

Taglist: @mundivagantsoul @belle-oftheball34 @steven-grants-world @denile-xo @whatevenisagrapefruit @hagridnmegamind @sapphire-and-ruby

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It had been a banger of a night. A fun Halloween bash at the museum, amazing costumes, great food. Donna even seemed to be in a decent mood. But of course that woman could have been faking it.

You and Steven decided to go with matching costumes. In a gross abuse of Steven, Marc, and Jake's status as Moon Knight, you'd convinced him to use his "Mr Knight" suit as his costume.

Jake helped you make yours to match. Finding the majority was easy enough at thrift stores (despite Marc's insistence that you should buy a new one), the mask was what was the pain.

That's where Jake's expertise came in. Sure his main skill was in knitting, but that didn't mean the man wasn't nuanced in other ways to make clothes. You couldn't count how many times Jake would stitch up the seams of your favorite jacket that you just refused to throw away, or how many times he'd hit you with that smug smile when you blubbered about how awesome he was for giving extra life into your jacket so you could wear it juuuust a bit longer.

Your mask turned out to be almost a perfect replica of his, complete with glowing lenses to match Steven.

You were nervous when you got dressed, looking in your floor-length mirror at your reflection.

Your hair was pinned back neatly to allow you to pull the mask on or off (because unlike Steven's, which was magically suited--pun intended--to be comfortable) without much problem, and you would still appear "flawless" as Steven put it.

But right now, you were having second thoughts. You weren't sure you liked how the skirt fit you. Or the blazer.

The waistband of the skirt squeezed your waist and the rolls of your tummy, the creases in the fabric seemingly emphasizing every imperfection you saw in yourself.

Your transparent white stockings were not helpful either, the bands squished the fat of your thighs in a way that made them look like muffins, even moreso than your tummy. They kept rolling down so much you had to buy garters to wear beneath your skirt just so they'd stay up...

You frowned at your reflection as the skirt rode up your legs, showing off the cute lace trim of the stockings and your squishy thighs; honestly if you weren't careful, or you bent over the skirt would bare your ass to the whole party.

You were tempted to go and grab that last minute shitty vampire costume you had stashed away, when Steven walked in, already dressed immaculately in that gorgeous white suit of his.

He adjusted the tie, not looking at you as he does so.

"Hey, luv, I'm fairly ready. I can help you with your makeup now, if..." His eyebrows shoot up and his mouth feels suddenly very dry at the sight of you all dressed up.

His tongue darts out to swipe at his bottom lip, moistening it as he clears his throat.

"You look good."

"Oh.... Thanks." You mumble shyly, trying to pull the edges of the blazer down to cover the rolls poking out of your skirt a bit more.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong, beautiful?" He said softly, moving up to you.

"I... I look like a marshmallow." You sigh hesitantly, your tone full of self-deprecation.

"Hey, now." Steven smiled sweetly, wrapping his arms around your waist as you tucked your face into his lapel.

"You're the most gorgeous marshmallow on the planet if that's the case." He told you, kissing the top of your head.

He felt something press down on him, and he looked up at the mirror, getting a full view of your back, but he saw Marc's face staring back at him with a cringed expression.

(Dude, that was the shittiest compliment ever. What woman wants to hear her being compared to a marshmallow??) He hissed.

Steven was about to retort, before you started bubbling out on laughter at how silly his compliment was.

"That was so corny." You snicker.

Steven gave a smug smirk at Marc before looking down at you with a soft, lovesick smile.

"Yeah, well, you love my sense of humor, eh?" He winked.

"Yeah... I guess I do." You smile back.

"Now, then! Your makeup. Let's sit you down so I can work on it for you!"

Whenever you had your doubts about your appearance, Steven, Marc, or Jake would pipe in and alleviate your worries. Sometimes all three at once, though rapid switching would often cause problems for them (like migraines).

You kept your eyes closed as Steven carefully applied your highlighter to your cheekbones, the brush tickling your skin, his shaky breaths ghosting over your face.

He would mumble some curses when he messed up, but would correct his mistake.

When you had asked him where on earth he learned to contour and highlight he shyly admitted he watched half a dozen tutorials on YouTube to get it perfect for you.

You felt the coldness of the liquid eyeliner as he painted on the wings with the white liner, the silver and gold glitter further adding to your look.

"'Kay luv, open your eyes so I can apply your mascara." He murmured, looking down in your makeup kit for the said cosmetic.

Once he did, he pulled out the black tube and made sure there was no excess before he carefully combed the white creamy substance on your eyelashes, lightening them up to enhance the face he'd helped apply for you.

Once he was finished with both eyes, he leaned back and allowed you to blink, smiling that puppy dog smile of his in satisfaction at his handiwork before placing the mascara tube back in the kit.

He lifted his hand and shook the bottle of setting spray so you wouldn't accidentally sweat it off or wipe it off with something during the night (or god forbid it rub off on the inside of your mask).

"Close em again for me."

You couldn't help but smile at his level of gentleness and politeness.

You restrained from physically recoiling as the cold setting spray hit your skin and quickly dried.

"Now, do you want to put on lipstick now or when we get to the party?" He asked as he watched your sickeningly gorgeous lashes flutter open. All the white, silver, and hints of gold on your face enhanced your eyes and their color, the very depths of them stealing his breath away.

"We can do it now. I have liquid matte and regular lipstick." You reply, smiling once again.

"Which would you prefer?" Steven asked you.

"Whichever you think would look best."

He sucked in a breath that his lungs were suddenly starving for, and grabbed the liquid tube.

His hand gently cupped your chin as he brushed the satiny lipstick onto your lips, carefully lining them so it wasn't too much. He'd even dipped his finger in your cosmetic glitter and applied a very gentle amount.

"Gorgeous." He breathed.

"Aww..." You giggle, thankful for the glitter and makeup that hid your blush at his praise.

"Now then... Let's go, shall we?" He said, taking your hand to help you stand and slip in your white heels.

As the two of you left, Steven could hear Jake in the back of their headspace.

(Que hermosa... Be careful, hermanito. If she bends over, I just might take over for the rest of the night and have that ass for myself.)

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Mr and Mrs Knight. That's what you two went as for the party. You two even won the prize for best couples costume!

Sure it was just a gift card to some restaurant, but it was exhilarating to hear how people adored your matching outfits.

And you couldn't help but notice all night that Steven simply couldn't keep his hands off of you.

He would get like that sometimes; working himself up like that, but trying to be subtle. You knew it was only a matter of time before an awkward boner would be the cause for the two of you to leave early, so you excused yourself to the restroom under an excuse to check and see if your makeup needed retouching or if you could go the rest of the night without your mask.

But you got a little nervous when two women went into the lavatory after you, and you felt trapped within your stall. You simply couldn't stand the glances from other women you were getting all night. You were afraid these two women who were clucking at each other like hens were amongst the ones judging you.

And your fears were confirmed.

"I can't believe that such a handsome guy would pick a blimp to be his girlfriend." One of them scoffed as she applied a fresh layer of brick red lipstick. As if she didn't have enough on already.

You felt your heart sink further inside of you as the other joined in.

"I know, right? It's gotta be her tits, only thing I can imagine. Maybe her ass, too." The other laughed as she touched up the false blood on the corners of her mouth.

"Either that or she gives good enough head that he can overlook the fact that if she ever got on top she could crush him." The first one snickered.

Your hands knotted in the mask you held in your hands, threatening to tear the stitches Jake so lovingly sewed in for you to wear tonight. You bit the inside of your cheek harshly as the two gossiped further.

"Ugh, and the sad thing is, he's cute, for a bookworm who won't shut up." The second sighed.

"Ugh, I know... I can look past the blabbering if I can see what he's packing."

"Right? I wonder if he's as good with his mouth as he is with his stupid history facts." The first giggled.

You gritted your teeth. You couldn't take much more, you knew that. Insulting you, you could take and bottle up to deal with later, probably in the heat and privacy of your shower.

But talking about Steven like he's some kind of... sex toy? No. Hell no. If you were anything, you were insanely protective over your boys. Even bordering on possessive at times (of course the same was true for the boys about you).

You were done.

You slammed the stall door open and sort of enjoyed how startled they seemed when they saw you, their jaws dropping when it hit them that you heard everything.

You hurriedly wash your hands and slip your gloves back on, gripping your mask in your hand tight as you spare them a backwards glance before leaving the lavatory to find Steven.

You felt sick to your stomach and you wanted to go home...

When you found him, his brows knitted upwards in concern at how tight-lipped and tense you were when you gripped his sleeve tight.

"Ey luv, what's wrong?" He murmured to you, leading you away from the crowd.

"I... I just want to go home." You say, the words those women said about your body weighing down on you, and the things they said about Steven burning hot in your gut. You weren't sure what to feel with this cocktail of emotions.

"Hey hey, okay we can leave." He says, kissing you on the forehead.

"Let's go."

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The walk back to your flat was... Difficult. You could barely hold yourself together, suddenly hyper-aware of every roll and stretch mark on your body, even the slight double chin you had when you moved your head a certain way.

It wasn't until you were in the lift of your building that you finally broke down, your reflection staring back at you in the walls of the tiny space, crushing down on you with every imperfection you saw.

You couldn't keep in the bubbling sobs, or the fat tears that rolled down your cheeks and ruined the makeup Steven worked so hard to put on you.

He cradled you against him and cooed to you, saying sweet nothings and whispering nothing but praise for your looks, rubbing your back and kissing your hair.

In the various angles of the reflections, and the oppressive feeling weighing down on Steven... He could see and feel Marc and Jake.

Both looked pissed. Marc almost looked violent.

(If anybody talks like that about our muñeca again...) Jake trailed off.

(Oh trust me, I'll do the honors.) Marc growled.

The walk back into your flat felt horrid. You didn't just cry, you ugly-cried. You ruined your makeup, your hair fell out of the pins, and your skirt rode up more with every rushed step you took to hurry up and get in to get into some baggy clothes that didn't showcase your body.

You didn't feel cute or sexy anymore, you felt... ugly.

And Steven didn't like that one bit. Marc and Jake retreated, knowing that their anger at your injured self-opinion wouldn't help. This kind of situation was a Steven situation. He knew best how to be the sweetest person on the planet with you.

But right now he wasn't feeling particularly sweet. Sure, you were upset. But he couldn't help but get a good look at you as you walked ahead of him, the skirt riding up so much that he could just barely see the black and blue panties you wore beneath, your cheeks peeking out from the edges of the fabric, the garter straps clinging desperately to your stockings in effort to keep them up your gloriously plush thighs to keep them up.

He felt hot beneath the collar, his trousers getting uncomfortably tight as blood flowed straight to his cock.

The moment the door closed behind you, your hands, trembling and rushed, went to unbutton the blazer to get it off of you quicker, sniffles and tiny sobs sneaking out of you in the process.

However, your actions were halted when Steven placed his hands gently on your shoulders from behind, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles through the fabric of your blazer, trying to soothe you.

"Love. You're gorgeous. Beautiful." He breathed, resting his forehead against the back of your head, inhaling the lingering scent of your shampoo.

"Steven, I'm... I'm not." You sniffle. "I'm fat, I can barely squeeze into a pair of jeans, I can't even shop at normal clothing stores for women. I get looks when I wear anything tight, and--and the things I hear people say about me--"

Your voice is broken off when you hiccup, feeling another sobbing fit try to get out of you.

"You don't understand what I'm sayin', luv." Steven smiled into your hair, ever patient.

"You're the prettiest girl in the world to us. You don't need a flat belly, or toned thighs to be pretty. You're funny, you're warm, and you're soft."

You made a shocked squeak when his hands snake around you, his gloved hands gripping at your belly and squeezing the plushness there through your clothes.

Your denial died in your throat when Steven rolled his hips into you, his hard cock throbbing as he rutted into the curve of your ass.

"You wouldn't be able to get to me like this if I didn't find you the most gorgeous woman on the planet. You wouldn't get Jake to say the filthy things he tells you in bed. You wouldn't have Marc snuggling you and resting his head in your lap or on your belly..."

His breathing got heavier as he rocked his hips into you further, a bitten-back whimper dying as he swallowed hard.

"S-Steven--"

"You've been driving me insane all night. This skirt looks so good on you." He says hotly in your ear, his fingers rolling up the hem of your skirt to reveal your panties and garters, making you gasp again.

"Those stockings huggin' you so tight. Been thinking about how badly I want to have my head between your legs, tonight." He growled.

Before you could say anything else, his gloved hand went up to your mouth and he tapped your lips, begging for entrance. Powerless to resist him, you let him press his fingers into your mouth, your tongue wetting them effectively before he pulled them away, and slipped down into your panties

He dragged one of his fingers up your puffy lips, parting your folds before he turned his attention onto your clit.

"S-S-Steven--" You whimper when he starts to circle the little nub.

"Hush, now. Let me show you, eh?" Steven said, biting at your earlobe softly.

You couldn't fight it, you couldn't fight the warm nectar that gushed out from you at his words and affirmations. All your mind could focus on was how wonderfully his fingers toyed with your cunt, deftly rolling, pushing, and pinching your clit in every way he knew that brought you the best pleasure, the fastest.

Your mind practically went blank when he curled two fingers into your weeping hole, the leather around his digits making them thicker than they normally would be, and providing a luxurious texture to your clit as he massaged you with his palm. His mouth trailed down your neck, breath hot on your skin as he bit down and sucked.

It wasn't like when Jake did this to you, no. Every one of them had different methods, different touches...

And Steven was particularly good at balancing out the sweet and the hard, paying more attention to your own pleasure than his. Sometimes, he would get so lost in pleasuring you he'd cum in his pants without even being touched.

This time was no different... in no time at all, he had you cumming so hard you almost fell to the floor, your slick gushing out and soaking the glove.

He smiled sweetly into the skin of your neck as he eased you forward, so you could press your palms on one of his desks, thighs quivering as you recollected yourself.

You barely saw through your haze clearly enough to catch Steven licking his glove clean through the reflection in the mirror on the desktop, his eyes closing in satisfaction at your savory taste.

You half expected him to drop to his knees and eat you out, next, but he doesn't. He just stands there for a moment, staring at you with a lidded and loving gaze, curls falling forward over his forehead as they always do.

That's when your self-consciousness rears its ugly head, and you pinch your legs together, and try to wiggle away from his gaze, to retreat to the safety of the bathroom and escape from his heated staring.

But in a flash, Steven is on you again, his hands gripping at your hips and that's when you feel the hot, heavy weight of his leaking cock slap against the barely clothed flesh of your ass as he rolls your skirt up completely over your hips.

"Steven!" You squeak.

"Hey, now... 'M not done showing you yet." His voice croaks out, heavy and barely coherent as the silk fabric of your panties brushes the head of his dick.

He groans, giving one more roll of his hips against your ass, smearing more precum on the fabric and skin, there; before he gripped the base, lining his cock up to your weeping hole.

"Fuck, luv. So soft. So wet f'me." He said, voice strained from barely contained arousal.

You squirmed, still feeling inadequate despite Steven's words and assurances.

God, you wanted him. You wanted him so badly. But right now you just felt so... so...

Your thoughts cut themselves off when he reached behind him, and from beneath his coat pulled out one of his engraved truncheons.

Placing it in front of you and gripping it with his other hand, pulling you tight against him as he thrust sharply into you, sheathing himself in one whole go, the tip of his cock slamming upwards so suddenly you felt his tip smush your cervix before he eased back.

"B-baby--" You whine, despite yourself.

"Not runnin' away, luv." Steven grunted into your hair as he thrust into you, his hands gripping tightly on the truncheon, using the bar to squeeze against your belly and hold you against him while he fucked you raw.

You couldn't fight the snapping of his hips or his raw need for you, right now. You couldn't hold back the moans and whimpers he wrenched out of you with each punctuation of his hips.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck--" You hear him wheeze as his thrusts get more and more desperate.

There is a metallic clang as he tosses the truncheon to the floor in favor of gripping your thigh and lifting your leg so your knee was on the desktop.

You let Steven guide you so you're practically laying face down on the desk, his cock still spearing you open, pussy fluttering around him at the change in position.

You were taken by surprise when he grips your wrists next, ripping off his tie before slipping it over your hands, before tying them together at the curve of your back. Not tight enough to cut off circulation, but tight enough you couldn't squirm free.

He hesitated a moment. As nice as it would be to watch the soft flesh of your ass bounce and ripple while he fucked you... He didn't want to do it like this.

So, without further hesitation on his part, he gripped you, lifting you off your feet and rolling you so you were laying with your upper half on the desktop, pulling your legs up so your calves rested on his shoulders, all without dislodging from the warm tightness of your cunt.

You whimpered as he does this, and try to wriggle from his tie so you could cover your face, your running makeup and smeared lipstick.

Your pitiful, chubby face--

"Hey, hey..." His voice is soft and shaky as he leans in, cupping your cheek with one hand as your thighs squish against the both of you.

He caresses your soft cheek with a thumb and he smiles.

"Don't hide from me, sweetheart. You're gorgeous and I want to see you."

"Steven, I..." You whimper as your pussy clenches around his shaft, making it twitch inside of your tight, gummy walls.

His eyes rolled back with a groan.

"I'm not gonna stop until you see what I see." He grunts, dragging his cock out slowly until only the tip remains inside of you, the rest of your cunt squeezing desperately around nothing.

You're barely given a moment of respite before he snaps his hips into yours again, fucking you relentlessly and hitting your sweet spot over and over withe every arch of his hips.

Some of Marc's precision was bleeding into him as he aimed the tip of his cock like a weapon against your g-spot, pounding into you hard and fast, stoking the fire in your belly so hotly that you felt the embers scatter throughout your veins, every nerve in your body aflame in pleasure.

His left hand kneads the soft skin of your thigh, squishing and rolling the plush flesh beneath his gloved fingers before he slips his other hand between you, circling your clit mercilessly, making you shriek with every sharp thrust of his hips.

He loved how your body jiggled and bounced with every thrust; how your tits were bouncing so hard that they were spilling out of the top of your bra cups, your blazer falling completely open around you, now.

Despite still being fully clothed, you felt utterly naked beneath his gaze. Fresh tears burned in your eyes as he crammed his cock into you over and over again, his fingers working your second orgasm out of you faster and faster with every swipe of his fingers.

"It's okay, luv." Steven moaned, turning his head to plant a kiss on the inside of your knee, the leg he was squishing in his fingers.

"Cum for me, yeah? Show me how pretty you are." He pants, his thumb pressing hard into your clit.

That was all it took, the friction of his fingers, the thrusts of his hips, and each jab of his cock, plus his words? You were on cloud nine, brain fried and all sense gone as drool dribbled down your chin and you cum with a choked cry, babbling out his name over and over as your body clamps down, gushing around his cock, spraying out and soaking his hand and the front of his suit.

Steven, poor, loveable, goofy Steven could never hold out too long after you came, the squeezing and milking of your pussy was simply too much for him to bear.

Your eyes rolled back and you felt yourself spasm in an aftershock as you felt the hot ropes of his cum painting your walls a milky white, flooding your hungry cunt with everything he had to give you.

He drops your leg, wrapping them around his waist as he leans in and kisses you roughly, his tongue pushing past your lips to twine with yours and steal your recovered breaths.

"See... You're fucking beautiful. Wouldn't do this to us otherwise." He mumbles against your lips.

"Oh... God." You whimper.

Your mind ticks back into sanity and you realize the two of you are still clothed. Your outfit was of course mussed, but Steven was almost completely immaculate. The only thing he was missing of his suit was his tie, and the only sign of mess was the wet stain on his front, and his cock still sheathed inside of you.

"Hmm." He hummed softly, looking down at you with the softest gaze he could fix on you.

Steven gave you a sweet kiss to your forehead before he moved his mouth to the shell of your ear.

"And if you still don't believe me... Jake and Marc want to have a word with you."

[britishmuffin]

I guess since we're talking about hands, I'd like to share something I made a few months ago :D

Shape, proportions, palm squish — it's all in my casual little 8 page tutorial on how muffin draws hands 🖐️✨

Here's the first page!

Includes tons of little notes on how I draw hands

and over 30 awkward ref pics, with a stash of free-to-use photos!!

Since hands are famously difficult for many artists, beginner and pro alike, I made a modest rundown of how I go about drawing them. It's available for everyone over on my patreon for as little as £1

Thanks! And now back to posting artwork~

★ patreon || website || twitter ★

[littlebluespoon]

Isolated ~ Stuck (Octo!König) Ch 5

Apologies for the longer wait, I had uni and family and new tattoos to deal with and I also tried to make this chapter longer.

But here we are, chapter 5

König reaches out to you. You reach out to someone else.

2K, MDNI 18+ stalking, mentions of vomiting, hybrids and all that jazz.

🤦🏻 knew there was something I’d forgotten to put in the notes.

Perle is German for Pearl and kleiner artz is German for little doctor

A03 link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/51314596/chapters/131934805

~~~

It had been weeks since you received the pictures. You were going to throw them in the pile of rubbish for the incinerator but realised that would leave a chance for other people to see them and if whoever this was found out you’d thrown the pictures out well, you didn’t want to think about it. You scavenged a box from recycling and shoved everything from the first ‘gift’ to the pictures in it and kicked it under your bed. Out of sight and hopefully out of mind was what you were going for.

By the time you had dealt with the ‘gifts’ and rechecked your room for any signs of another person or hidden cameras you had missed breakfast. It was a big deal though as you were spending the morning doing inventory and ordering supplies, busy work that kept you at your desk where you knew you had a stash of protein bars. Where you were supposed to have a stash of protein bars. Either you’d miscounted how many you had left or you had a thief. Your thief had to be Gaz, the fox hybrid had a habit of stealing when he was bored. He never took anything that was important to you or work related, usually food or clothes he knew you had spares of. You’d had to hunt him down several times to find your missing hoodies and socks. It seemed you were destined to go hungry until lunch today. 

The knock on your door was unexpected. You were off medical duty today in order to stock count so no one should be coming to you for medical care,

“Who is it?” you call out through the closed door.

“It’s me Perle, can I come in?” the heavy, Austrian accent gave him away. König. It was here you realised you’d never actually spoken with him, too him certainly but never with. You’d never heard his voice. 

Another knock startled you, “König? Yeah, come in,” You got up and made for your med kit, you might be off duty but you’re still the only one on base with the training needed for König’s medical care and considering your past experiences you were expecting the worst.

A muffin. Your favourite muffin. König was holding your favourite muffin. He was holding your favourite muffin? You stared at him as he crossed the doorway, assessing him. No blood, no missing or extra limbs, no limp, no obviously broken bones. He didn’t need medical attention from what you could see. Unless it was something embarrassing and private but unlike other soldiers on base you didn’t think the Colonel was the type to sleep around and contract several STDs. 

Confused, you just continued staring at him until he offered you the muffin,

“You missed breakfast this morning. Thought you might be hungry.” He gave a small shrug as he handed you the muffin.

“I did. I am,” you give him a bright smile, “Thanks, these are my favourite too!” munching on the muffin and assured that he wasn’t in danger of passing out on you, you settled back behind your desk and gestured for him to sit too.

“So just a muffin that brought you down or do you need something from me?” you ask around a mouthful, thinking that maybe this was a more routine medical issue.

“I can’t come and see my favourite Kleiner Artz?” his eyes scrunch up underneath his mask, it’s a small sign that tells you he’s smiling. Ghosts’ eyes do the same, that how you know, “You missed breakfast and it was pancake day, you never miss pancake day so I wanted to check on you. Noticed your teammates didn’t come see you, is that how the legendary 141 operate?” His concerned tone is what you notice most, it sounds genuine enough but there just something about it that leaves you on edge.

“Ah, you’re scouting.” Throwing the wrapper in the bin before mustering your professional voice, the one you use on superiors who try to refuse medical treatment, “While I appreciate the concern Colonel, my team and I operate just fine. I’m quite happy with my working conditions and no, I’m not interested in a pay rise. Does that satisfy you?” plastering a fake smile on your face you wait for him to dismiss himself, even though you don’t technically have to conform to the PMCs ranks you feel it’s disrespectful to fully dismiss them. 

He slowly shuffles towards the door, stopping and shaking his head before closing it behind him. Like he had something else to say however you didn’t have much time to dwell on it as you had supply forms to be completing. 

~~~~~

It was after 3pm before you had finished all the forms which meant if you wanted them ordered today you had to hand them to your lieutenant personally, which was no easy task. Figuring one of the sergeants might have seen him at some point you stop by their shared office first,

“Hey, has LT been around today?” standing in the doorway you watch as Soap lines up a spit ball with Gaz’s head,

“Something about meeting with the Cap and paperwork. Probably in his office.” Comes the reply from Gaz. Just as he looks up towards you Soap sees his moment and fires, hitting Gaz right above his eye. 

“Ha, that serves you right for eating all my snacks. I’ll be back, gotta get these to LT before four.” You walk off, throwing a wave behind you and keeping an ear out for the chaos that often followed the two.

Just as Gaz had said, Ghost was in his office. Cursing at paperwork and idiots and probably every officer on base by the sounds of it. Knocking on his door you waited for the command to enter and give him your request,

“Supply forms sir, there’s a few of them that are urgent. Should probably take priority over field reports.” You hand him the forms, knowing he’d take the opportunity to do anything other than read recruits reports.

“Thanks, I’ll get them in tonight,” he puts them on top of a pile but doesn’t dismiss you as expected, “You missed breakfast. Everything solid?” he asks.

“Yes sir, just overslept.” You give him nod, keeping it short so he has less time to sense the lie.

“Alright, let me know if you need anything though yeah?” He doesn’t dismiss you until you acknowledge his indirect order after which you make a beeline back to your office. You always feel like Ghost sees your soul whenever you stand in front of him like that and you need some time to decompress. Especially with the paranoia from last night still lingering.

~~~~~

Your office was a safe space, despite all the physical trauma it sees, it’s where you go to centre yourself. To just be. For you it’s a sanctuary of hope, of where you do your best work and in the moments where there’s no emergency to be dealt with its tranquil and peaceful. With the rain tapping against the window and all your paperwork done, you settle in to enjoy a quiet moment. Closing the door and with your back against it, eyes closed and just breathing. In, out. In for one, two, three, four, five. Out for one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

The silence you can hear is a rare thing on a military base. No shouting, banging, not even a vehicle passing. Just the rain. And? Bubble wrap? Focusing on the sound, pop, pop, pop. It’s not a gun, you’re far too familiar with those and it’s not bubble wrap. The sounds are too long, it’s like someone blowing a bubble with gum and then it pops. The sound echoes in the empty hallways so you settle for counting the pops until you can’t hear anymore; one, two, three… seventy two… ninety five… one hundred and sixteen. The pops eventually faded and after the last one you opened your eyes. Your office the way you left it, except for one detail. A peach envelope.

There, in the middle of your clean desk lay a nightmare and all you could do was stare at it. Frozen. Your door was locked. You double checked. You always double check because of all the medications in it. Your door was locked and your window doesn’t even open, the key to it being lost forever ago. Your door was locked, how was this envelope on your desk. What else had this person done? Where else had they been? How? Where? When? Who?

The questions swirling around your head left your heart rate climbing and your hands shaking. You could barely open the envelope because of the shaking. As you tore it open you took another moment, in and out. Breathe in, breathe out. Getting a hold of yourself before you read it. As the shakes slowed you could make out the typed writing;

My Dearest Heart,

I hope you had a pleasant rest. Mine was wonderful, dreaming of you. I hope that pleasant dreams were the reason you missed breakfast and not anything nasty. You looked so worn down when I saw you in his office, I do hope he isn’t making your life difficult. Oh My Heart, I hope you know that I would do anything for you. I would damn the world if it was what you wanted from me. I’ve left you some presents in your drawer, hopefully this time that dreadful fox doesn’t steal them. I can’t have My Heart going hungry after all.

With all my love,

Your Soul

Retching you lunged for your bin, throwing up what little you had eaten that morning. They had been following you. You knew they were watching but they had followed you this morning and you hadn’t seen them. What good was a soldier who isn’t aware of their surroundings? How could you have missed them? The halls were empty, they should have been obvious but they weren’t. Unless they weren’t physically following you? Could they be watching from the cameras? Could the be using other people to follow you? You were all trained military personnel, there were hundreds of ways to follow a target, you knew that. They could be anywhere. You might have never even seen them in person. 

~~~~~

The letter burned a hole in your combat pockets until you could make it back to your room after lunch. You had to constantly remind yourself not to reach to check it was still there and hadn’t fallen out. Lunch was quiet, with the Lieutenant still drowning in paperwork and Soap running a demolitions class for recruits it was just you and Gaz. Until he had to run before he was late for a meeting and it was just you, alone at your table in the noisy mess hall, picking at your food until you deemed you’d spent an appropriate amount of time being seen by people.

Walking back to your room, your legs felt like lead. Like they were getting heavier with each step. You took the longer route back, sticking to hallways that were always populated, saluting where necessary and saying hello to other people just to prolong your pain. You didn’t want to go back to your room. It’s peace had been ruined. You didn’t want to go back to your office, it too being soiled.

Your feet kept you along the familiar paths, pulling you closer with each step as your mind wandered. Lists of people. Theories about how. Questions about why. With your head buzzing with paranoia and questions, you didn’t even notice when your feet stopped outside a door and your hand had already knocked,

“Enter.” The gruff voice called out through the wood. Breathe in, breathe out. The questions in your head stopped abruptly as you opened the door and stepped through, the click of it echoing in the room. Breathe in, breathe out. Looking at him across the room, the one person you feel certain your stalker can’t be, one last big breath in and out,

“Lieutenant Riley? I need your help sir.” Your voice shakes, your whole body tensing, as if preparing for a fight as your hand reaches into your pocket and pulls out the envelope. He stands slowly, reaching out for the letter as he assesses you, he watches as your body collapses the second the paper leaves your hand.

[aoral]

I'm not good at this :( I guess I will just... go on . ? (for @tubborucho 's soulfire headcon) (Tubbo's origin edition) (prev hc post)

Tubbo doesn't know how to do this at first. Bad reached out to him before the 20-year-old had even half a heart to pay any attention outside of the funeral, his hand still gripping the last flower Fred had gifted him. Bad dragged him to the small picnic space that Bad built - somewhere around the recreation of the soulfire base that he would later realize - it's warm. Warmer than his factory, somehow, and you would think that the factory was pretty stuffy and hot because of the machines constantly powered but that is wrong, the factory is cold - the floor is cold, and he really didn't care where he slept, so he slept through the windy and windless nights on the oil-stained ground, passing out with a wrench in his hand and nothing but thin and torn clothing.

We are getting off-topic. Anyway.

Bad brought him muffins. Chocolate, mostly because he was baking them with Dapper. With his warmth and underlying, subconscious trust in the man, Tubbo fell asleep under the distractingly good smell of muffins. It is not something he used to have, purgatory is leaving him paranoid and anxious but staying here makes him feel safe. Perhaps it's because he only felt safe at the base during purgatory. Maybe he knew Bad made a base near here. Maybe that is why he felt safe. Maybe it's because Bad himself, his right-hand man, his trust that was not misplaced.

They made muffins together after he woke up (waking surprisingly earlier than he had in mind is tiring) Bad insisted on him staying but Tubbo needed to go back to Sunny, she must've missed him (for compensation he brought a stash of muffins back to the factory)

[chillymuffins]

First post! Here's my (rough) interpretation of the mane six✨🌈

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

You're Just a Fellow, Darlin' (Severen x F!Reader)

Summary: When trouble in paradise ruins your otherwise perfect life, you find yourself fleeing in a rented car and heading off into the sunset. Stopping for a quick bite to eat along your journey in a dusty roadside diner, trouble finds you there too. And things quickly take a turn for the worse.

Notes: Around 11.4k words. This is a prequal to my first fic, Stripped Bare, but you don't have to read it for this one to make sense. Caleb remains turned and everyone lives AU.

Warnings: Cannon typical violence, death, blood. Severen is NOT nice in this. He sees the reader as prey and treats her as such until right up at the end. He gets a little nicer. The reader does not like Severen in this, apart from mild flirting in the beginning, but all those feelings quickly go out the window due to regular Hooker clan antics. The reader goes through it in this. Violence such as biting at and aggressive hair pulling is committed against her, so please don't read if that is triggering to you.

Part II

You should have known it would have turned out this way. It was doomed from the start, feigned interest and superficial attraction embellished underneath plastic "I love you's" and planned kisses. What hurts you the most is how blind you were to it all. Force fed lies by everyone in your life, Sam, his father, your friends- hell even your own parents had told you that you were just making assumptions. Being paranoid.

That all of the late work nights, the impromptu business meetings, the abrupt hushed phone calls throughout the day. They were perfectly normal things. Nothing to be concerned about. "It's just business, muffin. " Your father had told you once, reading the morning paper while sipping coffee from a ceramic mug. " He has to make money for all those pretty dresses you wear somehow." 

God, you had been so stupid. You had let everyone blindfold you and muffle your ears because you were too afraid of the truth. Too scared to accept the fact that the man you have loved since you were nineteen had turned his back on you. He spat on your three-year long relationship like it was nothing. All for his secretary . . . And that cute blonde maid at his father's country club. 

You can't help glancing away from the cracked backroad to sneer at your left hand that clutches the steering wheel in a death grip. Your ring finger is now startlingly bare, no longer shackled by the thick band of yellow gold and the obnoxiously large sapphire diamond - a horrid caricature of princess Diana's engagement ring. Lack of originality is what it was.  And to think you had been so overjoyed when he had gotten down on one knee and proposed. But you do still feel some satisfaction to know that the ring is gone. Sold off in some greasy pawn shop off the street corner back in Scottsdale.  About 90 miles behind you. You technically didn't need the money. You had your own little stash of savings despite Sam's insistence that you didn't need to worry about such things. That he'd provide for you. Yeah, right. Initially you had been tempted to flush it down the toilet. The less petty side of you had even contemplated simply leaving it on the table next to his side of the bed. But then you had a thought- why give up all of that free money? It is technically your ring. It was bought with you in mind, right? You could at least get something out of it. 

And so that afternoon, you had found yourself standing behind the glass case of a pawn shop. Scanning the numerous arrays of items from the safety of the display case. Everything from antique pistols to frosted bracelets, passing the time while the man on the other side of the counter examined the ring you had proudly worn only a few hours ago, squinting at it through a loupe magnifying glass, delicately turning it this way and that. 

"I'll give you five thousand for it," he suddenly speaks, pulling your attention away from a velvet tray showcasing old war medals. You can't even contain the scoff that leaves you, all decorum and self-restrain completely ran thin after the night before. "That's nearly a twenty-thousand-dollar ring." You counter, eyebrows pinching with poorly disguised frustration. 

He chuckles with a loose shrug that telegraphs his opinion better than his words ever could. Not my problem, it had said. His stained dentures peeking out from behind his lips when he goes to bite in a horridly dry looking donut, flakes of the glaze chipping and falling onto his button up. 

"That's my price. Take it or leave it." 

As previously stated, you didn't technically need the money. You had your cheque book, but not all places took cheques. You had your bank card, but a lot of places outside of big, wealthy cities still didn't have the machines to even use them. You needed the cash. And despite the fact that the man is woefully skimming you on the price, five thousand is still five thousand. 

So, with a great amount of swallowed pride and defeat you managed to grit out a stiff: "Fine. I'll take it." 

And now you're driving down a desolate road, seated inside a rented Ford Escort, with long stretches of the vast desert on either side of you. It's a boxy little car that Sam would have absolutely turned his nose up at. Good. Both of the front windows are completely down, letting the warm summer air tunnel inside the cabin of the car and tussle your hair around. The radio is on full blast, with a random rock music blaring out the vehicle's speakers without care. You tried to find a steady station earlier but had quickly given up whenever the music would dip down low and speckle out into static every time you drove through a patch of slopping hills. It was gorgeous, you have to admit. The way the landscape shifted from soft creams and rich rusted oranges and browns, with saguaro cactuses looming across the expanse of the dry desert floor like tall watching figures. 

But what struck you the most was sunsets. The ones you got back in New York were often dull. Muted by layers of pollution and the glow of the city lights, blocked by the sheer scale of the skyscrapers that blocked out the sun. It couldn't compare to the sheer vibrancy that painted the sky out here. 

With the sun dipping low, just barely peeking over the horizon, splashing shocking shades of pink and gold across the faint blue. It was also a painful reminder that this was all temporary. That eventually your little joy ride would have to come to an end. You would have to return to New York and face reality. Listen to the barrage of questions and accusations that would no doubt be thrown your way like stones and rotten tomatoes. You couldn't wait for the disapproving glare your mother would give you. The disbelief and disappointment. The excuses from Sam and the arrogant satisfaction that would waft from his parents. They never liked you anyway. Luckily, you still had your own apartment. Thank God that past you had the foresight to keep it and drag your feet on it giving up. That at least means that you won't have to stay with your parents or burden one of your friends by laying up in their place. You're not sure if you could stomach that honestly. 

Up ahead you notice a glint of a red light shining in the growing dark from a muted outline. It takes a few more minutes for the building to take shape, but you're quick to recognize it as a quaint little diner. The first thing you notice when you pull into the gravel parking lot is that the roof is in shambles, the old tiles cockeyed and skewed looking like they might take off in a good storm, and a red neon 'open' sign flickers unsteadily from behind a window - the only thing that would let you know that the building isn't abandoned, if not for the couple of cars scattered about out front. And there's a random statue of a horse standing next the dusty glass entrance. It looks like someone tried to paint it brown some time ago, but the paint has begun to chip from years of enduring open weather, exposing the grey base underneath. 

It's . . . cute . . . in a rustic sort of way. But you could hardly care about the aesthetic. Your legs could use a stretch and you honestly haven't eaten much today apart from a hastily grabbed bag of potato chips the last time you were at a gas station. And you should have a decent amount of distance put between you and your fiancé - ex fiancé. 

The bell above the door chimes when you enter, announcing your arrival. But the first thing you notice is how empty it is. Not that you were expecting it to be packed full and brimming. The lighting is a tired gray tone, which does nothing to combat the cool tones of the white walls and you can hear the light fixtures buzzing with electricity, almost competing with a low energy country song playing in the background. You don't notice any staff, but you do spot an older couple - the only customers apart from yourself - sitting at the first booth to your right, the pair leaning conspiratorially over a collection of post cards spread over the tabletop. Old love birds probably here to see the Grand Canyon and Tombstone. You wonder how long they've been together. How they've managed to find love in someone over all the years.  "What do you think about this one, Curtis?" She's asking, tapping a glazed card with a manicured nail. "Do you think he'll like this one?" 

You turn away from the private exchange to perch yourself at the L shaped counter, sitting on the tearing and stiff vinyl of the stool cushion and notice a sheet of pale paper sticking out against the faint yellow of the counter. The bold letters atop proudly declare that it's the menu that you notice as the standard font from a computer and the page is laminated with thick strips of packing tape. The low effort does have you wondering if you might be risking the chance of food poisoning, but with the combination of a shitty few days and a rumbling stomach, you can hardly find the energy to care. 

Suddenly there's an exchange of yelling coming out from past the serving window that peers into the kitchen, making you pause in your examination of the menu. You can hardly make out the words thrown back and forth, but the tones are heated. It sounds like a man and a woman, and the latter is confirmed when a frazzled woman comes barreling out of the kitchen, leaving the swinging door to slam up against the bar, rattling the glass cake displays and napkin dispensers. And based on the name tag - Rachel it read - she seems to be the waitress. The man's voice must belong to the cook . . . or maybe the owner then. She looks mortified when she sees you, face flushing pink and you do your best to reassure her with a soft smile. 

" I'm so sorry you had to hear that, " she tries to laugh but it's strained and short and not at all convincing. 

"It's alright, " you replied with a light shrug. "I could hardly make out what was said. And I think the pair behind me are too engrossed in their post cards to notice." 

That seems to settle her a bit, shoulders relaxing. Her eyes notice the menu in your hands, and she nods her chin. " You see anything on there you'd like?" 

You glance back down on the back, going back down the quaint list available with a hum. "Just a cheeseburger with cheddar and a side of fries is fine. And a coke. "

She's quick to give you your drink before she leaves with your order, slipping back into the kitchen to deliver it personally. And you can't help but feel bad for sending her back into the hypothetical lion's den. You take a moment to breath and really focus on events of today. How you wound up in a dusty diner in the middle of nowhere after spending the first few days of your vacation alongside the country clubs pool in a sleek hot pink two-piece bikini, drinking mixed drinks and enjoying the sun while Sam spent his time playing golf with his father and new colleagues. 

And that's how you found him. After days of trying to get him to go out, to go on a date like a normal couple, and him deflecting, saying that he was busy with his father's business friends, you found him balls deep in the young housekeeper that you had seen pushing a maid cart down one of the halls a few days before. She was moaning in that exaggerated way that porn stars do. 

For a moment you all you did was stand there. You didn't know how to react, water soaking the carpet from your damp feet, still wet from your recent swim in the pool. And there was a nasty voice in your head telling you that it was your fault. That it was all of your paranoia and insecurities that had drew him away from you. That it had probably made you distant and cold and you were too caught up in your own fears to see the strain you had put on him and your relationship. 

But it wasn't your fault. You weren't crazy. You were right the entire time. All of those little glances that his assistant used to send him, the looks that would linger a bit too long. Like the time that you had showed up to his office to surprise him. You had known how stressed he was at his job, the workload pilling up with no end in sight and so you figured you'd pop in and see him. It was after hours but the guard knew you and let you in regardless. And when you were rounding around the corner of cubicles the door of his office had swung open and she had walked out, tugging at the edge of her skirt to smooth it out. And when she had saw you, her body visibly stiffening while she blurted out a quick hello, quickly followed by a hasty excuse for her rushed leaving. Something about being late for something. 

When you had entered Sam's office, he looked put together enough, except the first few buttons of his shirt were undone and his tie was on his desk. It was the first red flag that you had avoided, slipping on your rose-tinted glasses. And the worried phone calls to your mother did nothing but convince you that you were trying to make something out of nothing. "You're just nervous about the wedding, " she had said, " Sam is the best thing that's happened to you. Don't go and ruin this opportunity over some cold feet." 

And then there you were last night. Him and the maid. She had screamed when she noticed you standing there, nearly kicking him with her foot and sending him off the bed. She was up faster than you could blink, snatching up her clothes and taking a linen sheet with her as makeshift cover, rambling apologies under her breath, saying that she didn't know as she slipped out of the room leaving you to numbly stand and stare at your naked fiancé. 

He had tried everything to get you to stay. A pathetic amount of 'I'm sorry's" streaming out of him. Claiming that it wasn't you it was him, it was stress from work, that he didn't mean to, that he'd never do it again. You had spent the night in a separate room, and you were gone in the morning without as so much as a note. 

The bell above the door chimes, too cheerful for its gritty environment, and you boredly look over your shoulder to see what other wayward soul has stumbled in. It's definitely an interesting band of characters to say the least, a family you'd assume. With a platinum haired woman ushering a young boy in by the shoulders who looks less than enthused about being guided to a booth on the left side of the diner, openly grumbling under his breath. They're closely followed by a lithe, stoic looking man who looked about as friendly as the mean dog that your old neighbors had chained out in front of their house. The one who would lunge at the fence and snarl whenever you'd walk past to get to the bus stop. The glare he had cast across the room felt like the blade of a cold knife running across your skin. And there was a young couple behind him, the young man's arm curled around the girl's shoulders while she tried to lean into him as they walked, whispering secretly to each other like they were the only people in left in the world. 

Young love. They'd be at each other's throats soon enough. Or maybe you're just bitter. 

And despite the clear dynamic between the group, the sense of family that comes from them you can't help but feel like you're looking at something odd. There's a faint chill that runs down your spine like some quiet subconscious part of you is trying to get you attention. You feel a bit of guilt gnaw at you. You had no right thinking about a random group of strangers like that. 

And you nearly look away but then a hand is catching ahold of the door before it can swing closed and someone else is stepping inside with the sound of jingling accompanying each step. It takes you a second to notice the spurs strapped to the heels of his scuffed cowboy boots. Your eyes continue to trail upwards, past the glinting silver of his belt buckles - two belts? - and up the expanse of his torso, taking in the black leather jacket, decorated with badges and medals and other little embellishments like the tiny metal longhorn heads that decorate the edges of the coats collar. There's a beaded necklace around his throat in a pattern of yellow, red, yellow, and black. And it reminds you of that little rhyme you heard a long time ago about how to tell if a snake is venomous or not. 

Red and black, safe for Jack. Red touching yellow, kill a fellow. 

You can't help but wonder if it applies to him as well. Then you get up to his face where an all too wide grin sits. Like a jack o' lantern, you muse. But despite the unsettling quality to his smile, you can't deny that he's an attractive man in a rough and wild sort of way. He looked like someone you'd see mentioned in a Rolling Stone publication or in a messy pop culture magazine discussing rockstars. 

" Looks like we struck gold again!" He hoots sarcastically, either completely unaware of the volume of his voice or simply not caring and you take note of the southern drawl that honeys his words. His eyes scan over the room, trailing over the older couple in the corner who have since looked up from their cards to squint at the man causing all the noise. He winks at them in a cheeky sort of way, completely shameless. "It's gonna be slim pickins' tonight!" 

Before you have time to evaluate that little remark, the waitress is pushing the kitchen door open, carrying a plate holding a burger and fries in one hand. It's either the sudden sound or the weight of your stare that has the stranger looking over in your direction and the hold of his eyes on you seems to siphon the air from your lungs. Blue, the thought rings across your mind, they're a stormy sort of blue. 

You turn away from him, like a scolded child who got caught doing something that they shouldn't have and focus down on your plate, the hollow pit of your stomach reminding you why you're even here. To eat, not to ogle at strange men. No matter how handsome they may be.  

"Well, they sure are a colorful little group, aren't they," Rachel whispered in an amused sort of way, watching as the family piles into the booth. With the mother, her son and the father filling up one side and the couple on the other. The cowboy straggles behind, instead opting to stay outside the table, leaning over it and propping himself up on both hands while the group discusses something amongst themselves. But you see a bit of unease flit across her face, and it gives you some pause. Surely, they couldn't be that much different from the other types of people that frequent this place. It makes you wonder if she felt what you had. The feeling that came with crossing paths with something dangerous. Like walking into the grocery store and seeing a bear ransacking the shelves. 

"I'm sure they aren't as bad as they look, " you encourage before biting into a fry. And she nods along like she's trying to amp herself up. " A customer's a customer. " She replies in a worn but robotic drone, like the words have been drilled into her head. Probably by management. And then she's dipping out from behind the counter leaving you to enjoy your meal by yourself. You nearly moan at the first bite of your burger. It's nothing show stopping. But it's good. Good enough to quell the empty rumbling in your gut with a couple of bites. 

"What's a sweet thing like you doin' in a shithole like this?" That sugary voice breaks out across the quiet. And it takes a moment for you to realize that the question is even addressed to you. And you're twisting around on the stool with a mouthful of food bulging from your cheeks while your mothers voice scolds you from the recesses of you mind for having such bad manners. You come face to with a chest covered in a worn white wife beater that's definitely seen better days and you're swallowing the bite of food as your gaze continues upwards until it locks with a set of piercing baby blues.  

The rockstar.

"I was hungry," you respond bluntly. Cut and dry. You figured that would have been enough to give him the hint that you weren't in the mood for idle chit chat or mindless flirting, but he doesn't remove himself from the way that he leans against the countertop, suspending his weight on a single elbow and cocking a hip. "Well, shit darlin' I've ate better slop from the inside of a jail cell," he chuckles at his own joke, and you honestly can't tell if the comment was a joke or not. Firstly, the food isn't even that bad. A bit greasy but not bad. Worse case you'd probably get a stomachache, which is pretty small in terms of how awful your past few days have been. 

"I'm sorry, are you trying to flirt with me?" you ask, huffing incredulously. "Because, if you are, most guys like to leave out the fact that they've been arrested. " 

He doesn't take offence to it like you'd expect, but instead little hiccups of laughter bubble up from his chest like it's the funniest thing he's heard in a while. " Oh, those? Just a coupla thievin' charges." He admitted airily, like he was talking about something casual. Like work or he was commenting on the weather. "Plus, that was years ago. " And he's waving a hand in the air, gesturing like it isn't important, and all you can do is watch him, smiling from disbelief - not amusement - while you rove over his features like they might be the answer to the oddness of the entire situation. 

"What is your plan exactly? " You ask, sipping from the straw of your coke without looking away from him. "I mean, you're here with who I assume is your family. Probably on vacation. So, what was the goal? That you were going to sweep me off my feet and we'd grind one out in the bathroom?" You shake your head. At one time you would have had more tact. You would have chosen your words carefully and danced around the topic. But not tonight. You look away to read the clock that hangs above the serving window, silently reading the minute and hour hand. 8:13 it told you. You should probably get a move on in a bit and find lodgings for the night. Hopefully the next town over won't be too far over, but everything is so spread out on the west coast, less compact and huddled than the east." Classy." You remark without any sense to cover your scorn. 

"Shit, girl what kinda John's are you used to? I was just tryin' to make a bit o' conversation," he laughs, combing a hand through his hair as he turns just a notch to look over at his family and Rachel is standing in front of their table, no doubt trying to get their order, but she looks tense and rattled. But then again. you've practically known her for five minutes and that seems to be her default state. "I ain't that bad, am I?" 

The group doesn't answer verbally instead chortling at the question like a pack of coyotes yipping at the joy of a successful hunt and it gives you the feeling that he might be worse. 

"You're about as welcomin' as shit on someone's doorstep, " the kid sneers, and you can't help but gawk at the language that comes out of his mouth and how openly he insults an adult and assumed relative. But what is even more surprising is the way that his mother doesn't make a move to scold him. Instead, it's the cowboy that speaks out, leaning forward like he might leap across the distance that separates them and throttle the kid, hissing out a strained " shut up, Homer before I tan yer hide," between his teeth and then he's turning his attention back to you, the irritated scowl that he wore was now gone in a flash, like a switch had been flipped he was smiling like the exchange hadn't happened. "Aw, shit darlin' - I've seemed to've left my manners at the door. The name's Severen," and he's extending his hand for you take. "Do I get a name to go with a pretty face?" 

You let go of the hold you have around your plastic soda glass to accept his hand, exchanging a firm shake. You really don't know why you're even entertaining this random stranger. Severen. An odd name if you've ever heard one. It defiantly fits the leather cowboy rockstar aesthetic he has going on. Sure, he seems a little shady, but he has a sort of magnetic charm that keeps you from tossing a few bills on the counter and leaving the diner all together. It also helps that he seems to be a complete one-eighty of Sam, who was all forced politeness and feigned confidence. His words always seemed a bit too rehearsed, like he was a part of a scripted play and was forced to do improve on the spot. He was always trying to sell something, even outside of the office. Whatever dominate personality was in the room he'd mold himself to imitate it like a chameleon. An old business trick he had told you. And maybe it was. It had certainly worked on you. The empty promises, the constant stream of expensive gifts, the vacations to private islands and resorts. They were all just pretty distractions to keep you blind to his awful personality. 

But this random stranger carries himself like time operates on his whim. Like he could tell the world to stop, and it'd quit breathing entirely until he gave it the okay. He was the kind of man that your mother warned you not to go near. The type you'd see hanging outside of seedy bars on the nights that you and your friends would sneak out of your homes to go wander around town, sipping from gas station slushies and gossiping near the old train tracks. And your mother was right to warn you all those years ago. Guys like him can be dangerous. Maybe it's all your bent out emotions getting the better of you, but you kind of like it. 

And truthfully, it feels a little validating to have a guy - especially one as attractive as he is to approach you and strike up a conversation. After Sam's betrayal and the menagerie of twisted and self-depreciating emotions that came with it, it feels good to know that you're still wanted. Even if the attention is coming from a random man in a lonely roadside diner that ultimately won't go anywhere. You've never been the type to entertain men. Granted it's mostly due to the fact that you and Sam had officially put a label on your relationship when you were twenty-one, so your experience with flirting and one-night stands are quite limited. But this wasn't something that was going to go anywhere. It was simply something to pass the time before you set off and head back out on the road. Two strangers sharing a conversating before going on with their lives. It was harmless. So, you tell him your name and he parrots it back like he's trying to memorize it and it shocks you how much you like the sound of it dressed under his voice, sweetened under his southern drawl. It's Texan you think. 

"A pretty name for a pretty lady." 

"You lay it on thick, don't you?" 

"Well, I've never been one to skim it when it comes to the truth. " He flashes that charming grin again, and you glance down at the fries and shuffle them around the plate to distract yourself from it. You hate the heated flutter that fills your stomach at the sight of it. "So, what's a guy like you doing in a place like this?" You shoot back at him, not word for word but you can tell by the twinkle in his eyes that it amuses him, nonetheless. 

"About what you said, family vacation. Sightseeing and all that. " You nod along with him, thumbing at the straw of your drink while you meet the dark blue of his eyes. The conversation fizzles out. But not in an awkward or uncomfortable manner. It feels completely natural; the silence that falls over you both. And you just barely register the outside noise. The soft, idle chatter of the elderly couple, the hum of the old lights, the dull drone an energetic rock song, but then a sharp abrupt sound is breaking the spell that fell over you. The sound of someone clearing their throat. Not in the way you might do to dislodge something from your throat but in a way that demands attention and both you and Severen are looking back over to the booth where his family sits. It's the older man who fixes Severen with a stare. Firm and a little chastising. There's another quality to it that you can't make out and it has a cold shiver trickling down your spine. Severen doesn't verbally respond, but the exasperated look he gives the man seems to carry words of its own, the two of them seemingly having an entire conversation with only two heavy stares. It makes you feel awfully singled out. The shift from the flirty banter and light energy to a looming, heavy air happens so quickly that your brain is still struggling to comprehend it. It's like you've been foolishly stumbling about and have suddenly walked into a room that you shouldn't have, and then there's a cold nagging feeling that you need to get up from the stool and leave the building. But you don't. 

"We gotta get a move on now, Severen." His voice is resolute and fixed, holding no room for argument and despite the fact that his attention hasn't shifted from the man standing next to you, you feel just as affected by the piercing tone. You just so happen to glance down on the table, noticing the lack of drinks or appetizers on the counter and for some reason it flares up a little red flag in your brain. 

Severen sighs in an exaggerated way, like a kid who's been told they couldn't have something and then his attention returns to you, but it feels too stifling. The playful warmth that was once lighting up the blue is now gone. His eyes are sharp and burning with laser focus and you feel like a rabbit caught between a lethal maw. "Sorry to cut our time short darlin,' " he purrs out from an almost manic grin. " You've been a real treat." 

It's all a blur then, cuts of color and streaks of light, and you think that you can hear someone screaming, shrill and pained, but that can't be right, right? There's a white expanse above you, stained with water marks and muted from years of being exposed to cigarette smoke. It's all sluggish, like trying to focus when you're several drinks deep and seeing double, but there's a searing, overwhelming sting slicing throughout the column of your neck, and it grounds you somewhat. Enough to blink back the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Enough for you to realize that you're staring at the ceiling and that there's a rough, white knuckled grip threaded through your hair keeping your head tilted at an excruciating degree. And then you can feel a body pressed against yours, an arm cinched across your waist to hold you close. 

You can feel a damp heat pouring down your throat and underneath your shirt. Every bit helps you focus. But it's the throbbing ache that takes ahold of your mind and jostles the fog free, lifting the curtain to expose you to all the pain. The sting, the white-hot scorching burn of teeth embedded in the flesh of your neck. There's a tongue laving at the skin held between his jaw, working blood into his mouth. Blood. Your blood. He's biting you. He's fucking biting you! 

A freezing cold grips your heart. A terrified fluttering thing that seizes your limbs and keeps you frozen in place while your brain short-circuits between the conflicting commands of either fighting or remaining still in fear. In the midst of your panic some tiny shred of self-preservation takes ahold of you, and you reach into your front jean pocket with a shaking hand while the man continues to gulp at the red that flows from you, moaning around your neck. Your fingers quiver unsteadily, from the fear, the overflow of adrenaline, the blood loss that starts to mist the corners of your vision. But you continue your blind search until your fingertips curl around the set of keys in your pocket. Ignoring the other horrified cries that echo around the diner, the sharp clatter of glass breaking on the tiles, the squeal of someone's shoes slipping across the floor in a wild struggle you secure your grip on the keys and pull them from your pocket as quickly as possible without having them slip from your unsteady hold. 

Your sight blurs just a bit. From the tears or the blood loss you aren't sure and the rock song, despite the low volume being projected over the speakers is suddenly too load, drumming in your ears along with the erratic pulse of your heart and the gulping of the man latched to your neck. And your sluggish brain is suddenly grappling with the fact that you might die here. 

It's enough to still your shaky resolve, thumbing the key to direct the point of it forward like knife. It's small, the edge quite dull. You'd have to drive it in deep for it to do any damage. It won't kill him, but hopefully it will be enough to get him to let you go. 

You draw in a frail gasp, pulling a weak draw of air into your lungs to try and give yourself more focus around the panic that's currently fraying your nerves. Securing your grip around your sweaty palm you don't give yourself time to think, to second guess yourself that it may not work. You're drawing your arm back and striking forward, hoping that you manage to hit something of importance in your visionless jab. You're right in your aim, and the tiny strip of steel is burrowing deep into his side, wiggling your wrist to work it in deeper. 

There's a brief feeling of elation, of righteous satisfaction that courses through you when he jerks away from the crook of your neck with a startled yelp that tells you he's more surprised than injured. He practically pushes you away from himself, spitting out insults and curses. The shove sends you falling, your body too weak in your current state to keep you upright, lethargic and drained, and you land on your knees and the heels of your palms. The deep ache you feel from the impact is quickly shoved to the side, while you clumsily scramble back upright, shoes slipping in a puddle of a deep scarlet that you distantly register as blood.

You try not to look, to take in the carnage that taints the room. You try not to notice the young couple who now sit at the bar, sitting side by side while they both drink from Rachel's body like they're sharing a milkshake with their faces smeared red. You try not to see the elderly woman slumped at her booth with her neck sliced open cleanly; blood splattered across the little postcards that she had just been excitedly prattling about sending off to family or friends. And there's a blood trail dragging across the tiles and at the end of it is her husband. And the kid - Jesus even the kid is in on it, curled over her dead husband's body, latched onto his throat. 

The sound of Severen's angry cursing has all of their attention snapping over to you, and you feel like a wounded rabbit surrounded by a pack of rabid coyotes. 

Everything falls to a standstill like you're all collectively holding your breath, waiting to see who will make the next move. And it's you who does, bolting towards the exit, and you can hear them all collectively move after you, but you don't look back, not even when you hear someone shout out: "God dammit! Someone grab er!" 

You're barreling out past the door, and Severen's swearing has melted into a deranged string of laughter, and it follows you on your way out like a taunt, still ringing in your ears while you're crossing the stretch of the parking lot, running faster than you've ever ran in your life. Like you've got the hounds of hell at your heels. Your shoes slip in the gravel, still slick from the blood that had coated the tiled floor and it feels like you're running in a dream, no matter how much distance you cross you're still in place, every foot between you and your car expanding out into a mile, and you think that you might not make it. You feel the tips of someone's fingers brush against the nape of your neck, but you don't even know if it's real or if your brain is just playing tricks on you. You almost miss the handle of the vehicle when you skid to a halt, key already at the ready to slip into the lock, but it's slick with blood and your grip is lose, and you're praying to someone out there, some higher power, or even the universe to not let it slip.

And you can hear the sound of rushed footsteps running up on you and it has another pump of adrenalin shooting into your already overloaded body, and it feels like its frying you alive. And one of them is shouting, a light feminine voice chanting "get her! You have to get her!" with a great deal of panic. You don't let yourself look back up to the diner, no matter how much you want gage the distance between you and them. You can't stomach the thought of glancing up and seeing one of them standing directly in front of you, dripping with blood and gore and so you force yourself to focus on working the key into the slot and twisting the lock open, and you nearly sob with relief when you swing the door open and slip inside the car. 

You're peeling out of the parking lot before you can even fully register it, fumbling to slam the driver side door closed, tires spinning in the dirt and gravel while you wildly careen out of the lot and onto the road in an unsteady swerve. And there's an unsettled laughter bubbling from your chest, rupturing from it like a geyser in an uncontrollable fit even though all you really want to do is scream and cry instead, and the music blaring from the radio does little to dampen your current hysteria, but you can't be bothered to reach for the dial and turn it down. Trying your best to breathe so that you can place your attention on maintaining your grip on the steering wheel and getting the hell away from here as quickly as possible. You glance back in the rear-view mirror despite every cell in your body telling not to. You don't want to see them. But you do. Standing out in front of the diner as still as ghosts, faded into dimensionless dark figures from the red neon of the building projecting from behind them in a hellish glow, growing smaller and smaller until they fade into nothing, and the lights are but a tiny pinprick in the distance. 

It takes you a moment to register that you're heading back in the direction of Scottsdale, which is now an uncomfortable distance away and now you're cursing the broad expanse of the desert. How everything out here stretches out for lonely, horrid distances. Mile's gapping between towns and houses. But you should have more than enough fuel to get to the gas station that you had stopped at about an hour or so into your journey. You should be okay. You just have to make it there and hopefully they'll have a landline phone that works, and you can call the cops. But what if they don't? A despairing voice laments somewhere in your mind, what if they aren't even open? You have to force the thought away to keep yourself from spiraling. You glance back into the rear-view mirror expecting to see headlights of a car speeding towards you, but it's nothing but a vast empty darkness. They aren't coming after you. 

But their lack of chase does little to quell the fear and cold dread nestling inside your body, if anything it fuels the panic. It's suspicious, the way they just gave up once you got to your car. Surely, they had done this before, if the way that they had all walked in the diner with ease and promptly dispatched of all the patrons and employees with a horrifying air of calm was any indication. They did it like it was routine. Like it was normal. And perhaps it was. Maybe this was a normal thing for them, slaughtering the poor souls who cross their paths in obscene acts of violence. But this wasn't even the typical serial killer stuff you often hear about. Kidnappings and stabbings. They were drinking their blood. He was drinking your blood. It reminds you of all the times that your mother used to go off on worried tangents about all the supposed satanic cults that are apparently spreading throughout the country, poisoning the children through rock music and D & D of all things.  "I heard it on the news," she had said with a vehemence that you didn't have the energy to challenge anymore. You had never put much stock into it all. The obvious fear mongering that daily new papers and overzealous preachers on the FM radio pumped out in a constant drivel. It had always sounded like bullshit to you, but now that you're speeding down the highway with a massive gash in the side of your neck, shaped by a set of teeth, you're starting to think that maybe there is a shred of possibility to it. You can't help but brokenly giggle at the prospect of it, the insanity of it all. Attacked by a psychotic blood cult. You sound crazy. This entire situation is crazy. 

You reach up to touch the wound on the side of your neck, initially flinching at the tender sting. You should probably try to find something to clean it up with, one of your old bottles of water is probably lying around on the floor, tucked underneath some seat, but you can't stomach the thought of pulling over and parking the car long enough to find it. You don't have anything to dress the wound with but luckily it seems as though the bleeding has stopped despite the skin around it still being damp with recent blood. You pinpoint the inflamed edges of the bite with your fingertips, lightly brushing down the expanse of it so not to irritate it any further. It starts just a few inches beneath your ear and stops just short of meeting your shoulder. That's odd. It feels a whole lot thinner than you would expect and less gnarled. Especially considering that it was a grown man that took a bite out of you. It has you flipping the sun visor down and angling it down to properly investigate the damage in between careful glances at the road. 

It's difficult to make out from underneath the grimy red coating your neck, but you can see the torn strips of flesh glinting underneath the dim glow casted by the rectangular lights bordering each side of the visor mirror. Two narrow gashes that are nowhere near the size you had expected. The wound is strangely small, the angry indents left by his teeth are thin like they're a few days into the healing process and not just a few minutes old. It must have been the adrenaline making it seem worse than it was. But then again, this entire night feels like it isn't real. Like it's a dream -a nightmare that you'd wake up from at any moment. 

Images of the diner flash across your mind, the gore and violence. Rachel's lifeless eyes staring at you, jarringly blank and empty like a broken doll while the young couple fed from her wrist and neck. The red smearing the pale floor, the screaming and banging of pots and pans from the kitchen that had told you that one of them had gotten ahold of the cook somewhere in the back. And it sounded like he was trying to fight them off. And you had left him. You had left him behind without a second thought. The realization hits you like a punch to the gut. You had been so desperate to get out and save your own skin that you didn't even think about anyone else or the chance that they might be alive before you ran out.  But what were you supposed to? If you had stayed behind even a second longer, he would have killed you. You would have been dead-

A short metallic scrape sounds from the roof of your car. Sudden and jarring and abrupt enough for you to jump in your seat and nearly jerk the steering wheel from your shaky grip. A rattled breath leaves you while you glance up at the cloth ceiling like it'll help identify the cause of the sound, and you all you can do is hope that it's something like the wind even though the idea of it sounds completely stupid. But you can't let yourself think of the other possibilities right now. Not when you're still two seconds away from a panic attack while behind the wheel and doing 85 mph down the road. You should probably slow down some now that you've placed some distance between you and them, but you can't seem to move your foot from the gas pedal no matter how much common sense is telling you to. 

And then you hear it again. That harsh cutting noise is slashing through the air over the droning of the engine and Joan Jett's blaring vocals. Definitely not the wind. And there's a dull shuffling that follows after it, heavy and scuffed, almost like -

A large bang erupts from above like a gun shot and a panicked fleeting looks up reveals that there's a dent in the roof, dipping inwards like someone had punched it, and it douses you like cold water and floods your system with another hefty load of adrenaline. The realization that someone is on top of the car. But before you can do anything, the roof above you is bursting open with a shrill grotesque shriek, splitting as easily as tinfoil and a hand is blindly reaching down, frantically snatching at the open air with bloodied fingers. You can't help the scream that escapes your lungs, tearing your already raw throat from its volume. And your already sluggish brain stalls between the directions of either slamming on the breaks or swerving across the road in the hopes of shaking them off that you don't do anything other than try to remain in control of the vehicle and evade the hand trying to claw its way into your hair, its rings snagging on the strands. Rings. You remember the jewelry that Severen had worn on his right hand, how he had tapped his knuckles on the counter when you were talking.  He's the one on your car. That's why they didn't all bother chasing after you, because they already had you. He must have leapt on when you were speeding out of the parking lot, too rattled and busy panicking to notice him climbing up the roof. 

While you're busy grappling with the situation his hand successfully snatches at your roots, pulling painfully tight at your scalp. You cry out in pain, trying to keep your eyes on the long stretch of road and keep control of the wheel while you reach up to claw at his wrist with your own nails, but it does nothing to deter him. If anything, he grips your hair harder, and you know that you're going to have to stop. Maybe if you break hard enough, you'll be able to shake him free and you can run him over on while you're on your way out of this shithole. So, you remove your foot from the gas pedal in the hopes of slamming on the brakes, but then he's securing his hold on your scalp and harshly jerking your head back against the head rest. Even though it's a dull pain, it's enough to disorient you and then the tires are squealing with the acrid scent of burnt rubber tainting the air. 

From the angle he has your head held at you can't see out of the windshield, but you can catch glimpses of the world rushing past you out of your peripherals. Blurs of the desert floor and dried shrubbery rushing past, and the car is harshly jolting over what must be rocks and dips in the ground. 

Admits the chaos you're able to free yourself from his grip just in time to see the barbed wire fence that you're approaching at full speed. But it's far too late to anything, not even the brakes would help to lessen the blow and all you can do is watch as the front of the car hits a heavy wooden fence post, crumpling inwards from the impact. Then it all flashes black under a blaze of searing white hot heat, a steady throb traveling across your skull in steady pulses. You can't help but groan from the pain. You have to force your eyes open and blink away the blurriness that obscures the edges of your vision. You don't know if it's been seconds or hours after the crash, but a quick scan of the pitch-black night around you and the thick stream of smoke that pours from the grill and twists up into the air lets you know that it couldn't have been too long. 

Then you hear the shifting of feet above you, shuffling against the roof and every step is like a gunshot going off. Another nail in your coffin. It fills you with pure dread, but you're too weak- your brain too muddled to move. You watch as a pair of cowboy boots drop onto what's left of the hood, jostling the body of the car from the weight of it, the spurs jingling in a way that sounds light and cheery, like a set of mocking giggles. 

He's dipping over at the waist so that he can look at you, eyes twinkling with crazed mirth and wearing a bloody grin that's too wide. And then he fucking waves at you. You're still too dazed to get out and run, or cuss him out, or do anything, so you settle for pinning him down with a steady glare, hoping that it conveys all of your boiling hatred while you try and shove down the fear running rampant inside your chest. 

Then he's excitedly leaping from the hood and landing on the ground hollering into the air like he just got off a rollercoaster. It's horrifying, the blatant joy that he's exhibiting like the killing and the chase were the ultimate pleasure of life. And while he's celebrating, you're doing your best not vomit. From the head trauma or the sudden empty gnawing in the pit of your stomach you aren't sure. But nausea is swimming in your head and gut and you're blindly fumbling for the door latch. You need to get out, you need to vomit, you need to run. And all the while he's dancing in place, clearly riding some sort of adrenaline rush. "God damn, yer a wild cat!" He's hollering, practically skipping over to the driver side door. You whimper under your breath from the pain and the fear and pathetically try to crawl over the center console to get to the opposing seat, but you can hear the door being jerked open while he chuckles and snatches your ankle. 

"Get off of me!" You shout, kicking out in the hopes that it would deter him some. Of course, it doesn't. If anything, it seems to amuse him further, even when one of them lands and you strike him dead center in the chest. It doesn't get so much as a gasp of air from him, like there isn't any in his lungs. He still has that unsettling feral grin on his face.  "No can do, sugar. Shoulda thought about that before you went an' stabbed me." 

The wild fear is overshadowed for a moment, as short as it is. "You fucking bit me!" You snap back, like a child bickering but you're still to dazed and caught up in the moment to even register how fruitless and bizarre the exchange is.  

"But you smelt so good, " he croons in a sing-songy lilt, still pulling your wiggling body towards his, now gripping ahold of your hips. "You can't blame a man for wantin' a taste." And he's pulling you up by the shoulders completely unbothered by the way you try to claw and rip at his chest and the exposed skin of his throat. His eyes are lit up under the dull cast of the interior light, barring you completely to the wild nature that lurks inside them. 

His teeth are fully exposed behind that horrible grin, and it feels like he's going to try and eat you alive. And you think he is. Of course, he is. Here to finish the job and drain you dry. They were always going to get you. Your car- your only chance of escape is totaled. And even if you somehow managed to overpower him and kill him the group he had traveled with is still out there. No doubt counting the seconds for his return. And the second they realize he's not coming back they'll be coming for you. In this dead empty desert with no houses or towns for miles. You'd collapse from exhaustion before you manage to find help, or some random person finds you alongside the road. 

A sense of helplessness rushes over you. A reluctant defeat. And you look up at him like hundreds of others have probably done before you and ask the question that that you've always made fun of the heroines and victims of countless movies for asking: "Why are you doing this?" 

But you need some sense of closure at least. A reason for all of the violence and horror that you've endured tonight. You try and focus through your blurred vision to search both of his eyes like you might find something of substance in them. Two deep pools of a smothering blue. There isn't a shred of sympathy in them.  He's shushing you in a dramatic mocking sense of kindness, cradling your jaw in his hands like he cares. You try to remove your face from his hold, but he doesn't let you, following your retreating face and caging it between his calloused grip. "There ain't nothin' you coulda done. You were jus' at the wrong place at the wrong time." It's said so matter-of-factly it shreds the final bits of hope that you clung to. 

And then he's leaning closer, dropping an arm to nuzzle at the wound on your neck, ignoring how you hiss and jerk away from him, desperate to evade the sting of his teeth, but it never comes. You feel him go still underneath you, muscles seizing like he's been struck, and it also gives you pause letting you focus through your aching muddled head and pick up on the little puffs of breath bursting across your throat. Is he . . . sniffing you?

Your head is suddenly back in his hands and he's peering down at you, squinting in the dim light like he's searching for something and all you can do is force your drooping eyelids open to warily watch him, trying to ignore the persistent vacant throb in your gut. A series of emotions cross his face, bewilderment, anger, and lastly a frustrated sort of acceptance. "You gotta be shittin' me."  Then he's tearing away from you, leaving your body to weakly sag back up against the driver's seat while he stomps at the ground and swears. You think about trying to make a run for it while he's distracted and busy throwing a fit over . . . something, but when your place your feet on the ground and try to stand you're startled by how horribly they shake. A tremor runs up your body and has you falling right back down on your seat. The blood loss and your crashing adrenaline rush seems to be catching up to you, leaving your body nothing more than a useless painful quivering mess and you could cry but you'll be damned if you give this bastard the twisted satisfaction of seeing your tears. 

The sound of you trying to stand seems to remind him of your presence and he's twisting around to look at you. And the two of you pause in a strange sort of standoff. He briefly gazes back off into the night like he might find an answer somewhere out among the darkness and rolling hills before looking back to you with a dejected sigh. Then he's walking back towards you, lifting his wrist up to his mouth and biting into it without flinching. 

The sight of that alone has you trying to scramble back again, but he's on you before you can blink. "Oh, quit yer fussin'. " He chides while holding you close against his chest. 

"Wha-" you can't even get the question out before he's sliding a bloody wrist against your open mouth. You flinch away from it, smearing it across your cheek and he tuts disapprovingly like he isn't trying to force feed you his blood. "C'mon now, don' be difficult." 

You had fully intended to scold him, whip out some barbed quip to get some sense of having the upper hand, no matter how miniscule it was in the long run, but then a bit of his blood drops along your tongue, and your brain is wiped clean of any coherent thought. You don't know what compelled you to do it, honest to God.  But suddenly you're latching onto his arm like it's a lifeline and gulping down the thick red that pours from the open wound. A thick metallic gush coats your tongue and it's almost too much but he's cradling the back of your head to keep you fixed to his arm. Then notes of something salted and faintly sweet rises up from the coppery flavor and you're pulling it into your mouth like its melted sugar. And you think you can hear him murmur something to you, something like, "see it ain't so bad, is it?" but his voice is distant and far away like he's talking to you from under water. 

That strange hollow pinch inside of your gut is back. It's like hunger almost, but it's also leagues away from any hunger you've ever felt. It feels like a sharp rabid thing is lose in your stomach, all teeth and claws, scratching at you from the inside, begging for you to give it more. And the flow of blood the pours freely from his wrist suddenly isn't enough. And you're pulling away from him with as much strength as you can muster, successfully standing on your feet and snatching at the clothes on his chest for a completely different reason now. You catch the surprise in his eyes, the little puff of disbelieving laughter that leaves him when he lets you roughly nudge his head to the side and place you mouth on his throat, running the sensitive tip of your tongue along the rough texture of his five-o clock shadow. Just keeping the edges of your teeth there. But you can smell the blood underneath his skin and the wild, gnawing hunger inside of you demands to be fed and then you're sinking them in deep. His skin breaks underneath the pressure and the thick red fills your mouth like nectar. The flow of it is much stronger here, gushing across your tongue beautifully. You almost moan from the elation you feel, the stabbing pain muting out in pale distant throbs and the shaking in your arms and legs dies down. 

He groans and grips your hips tightly and whether it's from discomfort or not you don't know. And you don't care. You can hardly think at all, left adrift under the pull the blood that steadily pours down your throat, and if it weren't for the sudden burst of sound to tether you, you might would have floated away under it.  Somewhere in the distance a pack coyotes howls and yips rise up like a delighted strip of laughter, the wind rustles over the desert floor like a wane breath, and far past the horizon something warm and primordial rumbles, but it's still hard to focus on over the sound of your own feverish gulping. Even though the foreign, wild hunger has since died down, you don't want to stop. You want to stay here forever and drink and drink and drink. 

You're being pulled back from his neck before you can register it, pitifully whining at the loss of his blood. It takes you a few moments to come to, the annoying steady tapping of his hand on your cheek helping to rouse you from your drunken stupor. And the grin on his face is too cocky and smug for your taste and something about the look in his eyes tells you that you've just done something irreversible. That you've sealed your fate and won't be able look back. It takes a minute for your slow-moving syrupy thoughts to catch up. The realization of what you've done hits you with the subtly of a charging bull and your entire body runs cold. He must see the change in you because he's lurching forward and snatching you before you can run off with your newfound strength. "Hold on now, " he's laughing. The bastard is laughing. " I mean, shit the way you were sucking on me, I thought I'd be seein' the big man upstairs soon!" 

"Get your hands off of me!" You snarl. Because it had worked so well for you last time, but you don't care. You're angry, you're betrayed. But you can't blame anyone else but yourself and that's what terrifies you the most. 

"I can't do that now. It's gonna be you and me sweetpea! " He practically sings." For a good long while." 

You can't even form a sentence to ask him why. Why he suddenly has an interest in you, why he fed you his blood, why you wanted his blood. It all fades from the tip of your tongue before you can form the words, and then he's lifting you up like a bag of dog food and tossing you over his shoulder despite your protest. "Oh, hush now. " He scolds you lightly with a few pats on your rear and you try to knee him in the stomach but he's quick to catch the wayward limb. He walks past the totaled Ford, still smoking and crumpled against the fence post and heads off towards the road, whistling jovially as he goes with an arm secured around your waist to keep you held down in place. All while you limply hang from his shoulder, distantly watching the asphalt pass underneath his boots, and the way that the rowels of his spurs slightly rotate between their shanks with each step. You can't help but wonder what your family will think when you never come back home. When a cop or some person on their way into the nearest town spots your crumpled up car on the side of the road or whatever is left of the diner and reports you as a missing person. Or dead. 

Will they look for you? You think about your father sitting at the dining room table, awake too early and drinking a mug full of coffee so black that it'll make your lips twists up like you ate something sour and your mother sitting in front of the TV every night to watch her reruns while she picks out a new novel for her book club- which is really just an excuse to gossip and complain about the neighbors. 

You may never be a part of that again. You may never see them again. And a heavy lump is inside your throat threatening to push tears up. Even Sam and his cheating and his sweet, dimpled smile and his constant prattle about business sales - you'd take it all back in a heartbeat. You'd take the pain and the lying and the hurt but instead you're here. Tossed over some psychopath's shoulder. 

"Calvary's here!" He suddenly cheers, breaking you from your spiral. You have to prop a hand on his lower back suspend yourself up enough to look back over your shoulder, but it gives enough leverage to make out a pair of headlights piercing the through the darkness ahead. The sight of it has a lump of dread forming in the pit of your stomach, heavy and unforgiving. And Severen seems to sense your unease, because he's working a hand up the back of your thigh in what he seems to think are soothing stokes. " Yer gonna be alright, the family is gonna love ya!" 

And some helpless part of you still stupid enough to cling onto hope wants to cry out, to beg him to let you go. To pretend that this entire night never happened. But you know its fruitless. You're in too deep now. You were as soon as they stepped into that diner. Whatever happened now you'd just have to hope that you make it out alive. But maybe you wouldn't want to. 

"Shit sugar, me and you might have some fun after all!" 

[layton-heritage-posts]

I am so, so sorry. 697 words, Coffee Shop AU, strangers to lovers, first date

She settles into a window seat with her laptop and cup. The steam from it rises into the sunlight, tinted aqua by the sheer curtains, and curls on invisible currents. There’s not too much chatter for 10:00 am, but it’s the perfect amount of background noise as she opens up her email and gets to work reviewing all her notes for the latest client.

There’s just the basic information so far. She’d only questioned the client yesterday, so now it’ll be on to finding witnesses. Standard break-in. Curiously, only an expensive watch was missing. The safe in the bedroom was never touched, nor were any of the artisan vases on the mantle.

“It was a gift from my past marriage,” the client had said. She’s got one guess off the bat of what happened to the watch. Wife, watch, garbage truck. But saying so on nothing more than a well-experienced but still-unfounded prediction is bad detective work, so here she is poring over the documents.

She’s just finished rereading the client’s testimony when there’s a commotion at the front counter. A woman stands there, coffee in one hand outstretched, lid in the other as she waves it angrily. Her voice grows louder the more incensed she gets, and soon every word out of her mouth can be clearly heard by everyone in the room. The poor barista is new and looks terrified.

When it’s clear the woman is not going to stop her tirade any time soon, she gets up to go help the barista. Someone else seems to have the same idea, as another woman joins her on the way up to the counter.

“Hey, what’s up with your coffee?” she asks.

The yelling woman pauses for just a second, then turns and starts up again.

“I ordered a venti macchiato with oat milk and this is NOT a venti,” she rants.

The woman who also walked up is unimpressed, but waits for the yelling woman to pause to breathe before speaking. “They switched to different cups last week,” she says coolly. “That’s the new venti cup.”

Venti Macchiato looks down at her cup, then back to Cool Woman, caught off guard.

Cool Woman just raises an eyebrow.

“Well, a warning or something would’ve been nice,” Venti Macchiato snips, and then she turns on her heel and walks out.

“Are you alright?” Cool Woman immediately turns to the barista and asks.

“Fine, fine, thank you,” she says. “Can I get you something? On the house.”

Cool Woman hums. “How about one of those muffins?”

As the barista gets the muffin for Cool Woman, she heads back to her seat at the window. On to the evidence. No broken locks, no broken windows. The wife is looking ever more suspect.

“This muffin is huge. Want to share it?” Cool Woman sets the plate on her table with a smile. She’s beautiful, sitting in the soft blue light.

“I’d love to.” She sets her laptop aside and picks off a piece. It’s banana. Not her favorite, but it’s a small price to pay for having this stranger at her table.

“Nothing like being screamed at to start off your morning, yeah?” Cool Woman says wryly.

“It’s a cup, you know? No need to get all up and arms about it. Maybe try politely asking for a new one, or just drinking it,” she rambles.

Cool Woman is just as cool as she seems. As noon approaches, they talk about their jobs (attorney and private investigator. How similar) and find their love for video games in common. She finds that she could sit there all day just talking, but she realizes she has a witness appointment in half an hour, and it takes 20 minutes to get there.

“I’m really sorry, I have to go to an appointment,” she says as she stashes her laptop in her bag.

Cool Woman smiles. “No problem. Hey, maybe we could get lunch some other time.”

She nods and scrambles for her notebook, scribbles her phone number down, and holds it out. “I’d like that.”

“Hey, wait!” Cool Woman calls.

She turns.

“I never got your name.”

“layton-heritage-posts.”

Cool Woman smiles. “aceattorneyheritageposts.”

@aceattorneyheritageposts HERITAGE BLOG YURI IS REAL!

[stabbyfoxandrew]

OH it's so late I thought I missed it! happy wipwednesday <3

I hope you're well I am humbly requesting my gay disaster of a firefighter and his arsonist

<3<3<3<3<3<3

WIP Wednesday (3/20) | Arsonist Neil / Firefighter Andrew AU (Part 117)

Neil spends the better part of his evening looking through his meager wardrobe. He assumes it’s commonplace to not look like a hobo when you meet up with a friend. But unfortunately, homeless-chic is his style. He pushes a hand through his hair. Well, at least his clothes are clean. That’s the main thing.

He’s got access to a laundry room and a hot shower, thankfully. He can remember several instances when he would’ve killed for one or the other. Montreal, for one. And that summer they spent squatting in Texas. Neil wouldn’t recommend living in a rundown house with no plumbing or air conditioning, in the middle of July in Austin. He can feel a sweat-soaked shirt sticking to his back and tugs at his clothes before he realizes it’s just a shitty memory.

Still though, he can’t shake the feeling of being grimy. So Neil goes to take a shower before bed, then climbs into bed with the air conditioning on just in case. Even though it’s November in Columbia, SC. He pulls the blanket up to his chin, because with the A/C blasting, it’s almost freezing. But it’s quite nice here in his little cocoon.

Neil goes through his clothes mentally and decides his nicest outfit is jeans and a t-shirt that isn’t faded. So he’ll wear that tomorrow. And he can’t forget his wallet, because the whole premise of this bet was that Neil would buy Andrew coffee. Besides that, it would be rude to have a new friend pay his way. Especially when Neil has bookoos of blood money to spend.

-

The next morning, Neil wakes up at a decent time and grabs some complimentary breakfast from the hotel’s buffet. It’s so convenient. A nice, hot meal waiting for him as soon as he wakes up. Perhaps he should stay in hotels like this more often.

A tiny voice in his head tells him to take more than he needs and stash it in the room, but once again, he doesn’t need to do that. Neil eats his fill and grabs a couple of individually wrapped muffins to stuff into his pocket before going back to his room.

There aren’t any games today, which is a bummer. Neil supposes he could try and watch something besides exy, but it would most likely be a waste of time. He’s never cared for any other sport. He flips channels and watches the clock until one o’clock starts creeping up on him. Then he changes clothes and gets in his car and goes.

[katcadecascade]

If you believe the lies I tell

This is a preview chapter of my self-indulgent Snowjanus fic. Some of it has been edited to conceal some other stuff I have already wrote. For the entirety of the fic, I am still writing it and once it is completed is when I'll start posting to Ao3.

That will definitely take a while so I wanted to at least share this fun chapter as a new years special.

-

Coriolanus has to formulate a plan on what to stash away from the dining hall, anything to join the muffin intended for Tigris. He has to make backup plans after backup plans if Clemensia ever interferes. This is all he can think about during their class before lunch hour. 

Their calculus lesson had to take a pause for their professor to receive documents from the ink and printer room. Urban Canvill, top student of the subject, was asked to assist. 

“And there he goes, our calculus genius,” Gaius mourns like a nurse bidding a soldier farewell. 

Apollo taps a pencil on his textbook, “I swear there is a calculator in his head, it’s the only explanation.” 

“Or you’re bad at math,” Diana teased. 

“Hey, I scored higher than you last I checked.”

“Well, twins, you’re both beneath me,” Arachne butted in, believing she was always a part of the conversation.

“Okay, can we just all agree we hate math,” Domitia said.

“Minus Urban Canville,” Festus winked. “Get it? Minus?”

Only Persephone Price laughed. 

Gaius fake-yelled, “Boo! Get off the stage!”

“I’ll be here all week, folks!”

“Besides, I don’t think anyone is gonna out calculate Urban,” Florus said, tapping a pencil on Apollo’s head. 

Diana had to interfere before the boys started sword fighting with their stationary. 

“Really? That’s quite the statement.”

No one expected such a mocking tone from Sejanus. 

Coriolanus feels his eyes burning at the rich boy. He gives the attention no mind, soaking in the way their classmates stare curiously or irritatedly.  

“I’m surprised that none of you have tried hard enough to beat Urban’s score.”

“Excuse you,” Vipsania stands up and points at the mocker, “I am one of the top ranked students here.”

“That doesn’t sound like you’re actually the top student. We all know that’s Coriolanus.”

Eyes flicker to him and Coriolanus burns at the way Sejanus said his name. He’s using his name to further make their classmates inferior. 

It’s a brag, is his delayed thought. It’s equally a praise. 

Coriolanus still refuses to visibly acknowledge Sejanus, so he turns to Clemensia, “Do you have any idea what’s going on? It sounds like a mess.”

She tuts, as if she’s a disappointed mother, “They are a mess.” 

While that further infuriates most of their classmates, besides her, Lysistrata giggles at Clemensia. The girls exchange more laughter, like they’re sharing an inside joke. Coriolanus merely raises an eyebrow at her, surprised that Clemensia’s partaking in the biting comments. 

“They can still clean up their act.” 

Sejanus commands everyone’s attention back to him. 

It’s effortlessly done. 

Coriolanus wonders where Sejanus learned to say all the right words. To manipulate the crowd. It’s the opposite of what Coriolanus does. 

Coriolanus Snow charms the audience to keep everything in order. 

Sejanus Plinth riles up the audience for chaos.

“The upcoming calculus test.” He scans his audience, yet somehow skips over Coriolanus. Air is trapped in Coriolanus’ lungs. “Anyone who replaces Urban Canville’s number one spot gets a Plinth prize of my own.” That gets people to mutter about but once again, Sejanus shuts them up. “Not money, that’ll be real boring. I’m offering up a favor.” 

“What are you on about?” Arachne scoffed, “We don’t need anything from-“

“Shush!” Festus nearly throws his body on top of her desk, shoving a single finger against Arachne’s red lips. “Let the man bake!”

Persephone corrects, “Don’t you mean cook?”

“Yes!” 

His enthusiasm is uninterrupted when Felix strong-arms him off the desk. Festus straightens up and behind him, everyone ignores Arachne dramatically gagging into a napkin that Felix passed her. 

Festus explains, “He’s right, we don’t need his money but making Sejanus Plinth do whatever we want? Now that’s a real prize!”

Persephone winces, “You’re making it sound cruder than it would be, Festus.” 

He winks at her, “Only if you think that way.” 

Besides them, Arachne and Domitia shared appalled, mocking faces. 

“Actually, I'm with him on this. It would be interesting to see Sejanus hold his end of the bargain.” Felix Ravinstill approaches Sejanus Plinth, “Anything we ask?”

“Don't make him do anything illegal,” Persephone warns, proving that she really is the nicest girl in class. “That’ll be too far.”

“We’re not that chaotic, can’t let our families find out after all,” Their class president assures her with a smile, but to Sejanus it is anything but warm. “But, Sejanus, don’t think it’ll be anything simple.”

“I would hope not,” he smiles and reaches out a hand.

The most politically rich boy shakes hands with the richest outsider of all of the Capitol. 

A deal has been struck. 

“Sejanus, why are you doing this to Urban?” Gaius asked, so far the only one willing to defend Urban. 

“I’m not doing this to Urban, this is about all of you.” False gratitude has never sounded so much like a threat before. Sejanus has them all eating out of his palm. “Prove that you really are the best and brightest of the Capitol. Also why not have some fun with academic rivalry.”

“I hate calculus, but I admit I’m intrigued,” Apollo grins even though his twin elbows him roughly. 

“This is what finally gets you to take math seriously?”

“Hey, I’d love to win something. After all, it’s gonna be Coriolanus who wins the actual Plinth Prize.”

A few heads turn to the leading candidate for the scholarship money. 

He only has mere seconds to decide what mask he has to wear. Anything to maintain the image of the perfect Snow. 

“Do you really think that Apollo?” Coriolanus performs with a million dollar smile, “Well, one more test to ace isn’t a real problem for me.”

Now that raises everyone’s ego. The chance to take something away from the untouchable Coriolanus Snow. 

He sees in the way Arachne whispers to Felix. As Florus and Apollo immediately plan a study session that Diana of course invites herself in. Coriolanus despises them a little bit more. They just had to prove his thoughts right. 

Everyone in this school feeds off of others’ failures. 

Urban Canville, the challenge, no - the obstacle, arrives and the tension in the room shifts. 

“Why’s everyone staring at me?” 

“We’re just talking about calculus, buddy,” Festus is instantly at his side, very touchy-feely, roping an arm around Urban’s neck, “and how you’re so good at it.” 

Behind Urban’s back, Festus glares at everyone to not snitch. It's mostly aimed at Gaius who does concede. Class resumes without a hitch. 

Coriolanus has to wait until everyone leaves before confronting the most annoying person in his life. Clemensia needed to be placated with a promise of not taking too long, that he’ll catch up later. 

When it’s just them, there’s no more performances. 

“What the hell was all of that?”

Sejanus squirms in his chair, finally acting like his usual, uncomfortable self. 

Seeing this just makes Coriolanus angrier. 

If this guy can behave two-faced so easily, manipulate their classmates, how is Coriolanus’ own mask believable?

He has the urge to pace around, think of better ways to lie, to analyze how exactly their classmates were suckered in by Sejanus. As suspicious as his actions were, they only focused on their own world. 

Pride on the verge of narcissism. 

It was too well played out but it was enough to pique their interest. Coriolanus would be impressed if not for his irritation over Sejanus. Specifically about how he knows Sejanus better than anyone else. 

And right now, Sejanus knows him better than anyone Coriolanus has allowed. 

He stays rooted in front of Sejanus, needing to figure out what’s exactly in his head. 

Sejanus bites his lip, for once considering his words. If only he was always like this. 

“Sejanus,” the name is harsh on his tongue, “tell me, now.”

The command should make him feel powerful, from just the way the he looks up at Coriolanus. But those brown eyes full of pity sends poison down his veins. 

It almost makes Coriolanus squirm, targeted under the weight of Sejanus’ undivided attention. 

“It was the only way I could think of to-”

“To give me food?” His pride takes over, already regretting this conversation. “You’re telling me that you proposed some idiotic bet for all your enemies on the chance that I would accept your generosity?”

He expects Sejanus to lie to him. Or say something absurd like he’s doing this out of the kindness of his heart. How Sejanus’ sense of judgment and righteousness demands to treat Coriolanus like this. 

That’s a terrifying relationship. Coriolanus refuses to be an object that sits pretty for every compliment, to receive a feast for doing absolutely nothing. 

“Yes, I did.” Something just clicks behind those brown eyes and Sejanus’ expression hardens. “You said it yourself, you’re not spoiled. Coriolanus, you’re hard working and twice as stubborn than everyone else.” He stands up, preparing to leave with his bag slung over his shoulder. “You don’t have to win this competition though, that’s up to you.”

He sees it and he hates it. 

Sejanus is trying to rile him up, trap him into admitting that he has something that Coriolanus Snow needs. 

As if. 

“I don’t want handouts.”

“This isn’t a handout. This is a choice.”

He is right. Coriolanus could choose to not partake in zealous efforts of reaching the top. 

But it is not in his nature to lie down and let his competitors gain what he deserves. 

Coriolanus deflects, “So you made a spectacle? That doesn’t sound like you, Sejanus.”

“I’m just speaking your language.” At Coriolanus’ scoff, a reflex to mask his confusion, Sejanus steps closer. He lays a hand on Coriolanus’ arm. “I know you can beat everyone in this class. Do what you do best, Coriolanus Snow. Be at the top.”

An exhilarating thrill buzzes throughout Coriolanus Snow. 

He does not need Sejanus Plinth’s permission. 

It’s natural for the sun to shine brighter than the stars.

For the ocean to knock down sandcastles. 

For snow to land on top. 

The real Plinth Prize waits at graduation day.

But today?

His classmates saw a chance, no matter how small, to best him. It’s maddening to have a target on his back but at the same time, Coriolanus welcomes them to try. Eager to see them all fall. Graduation and university is too far away. After seeing their glimmer of hope, he craves their defeat now. 

This is more than a predator nature or survival instincts born from starvation. This is what Coriolanus truly greeds for. To actually feel like the top of a mountain peak. 

Anyone else would tear at him with teeth and claws, exposing this bloody animal he locks under a perfect mask. Yet with Sejanus it’s a scalpel, a clean cut. 

In an impossible way, Coriolanus feels seen. Layers of flesh exposed and undone, revealing a hungry creature, a void that will devour. 

Beyond status or wealth, Corionlaus Snow can and will dominate any who opposes him. 

It’s a taste of something better than any food served on a silver platter. 

All provided by one Sejanus Plinth. 

He gives Sejanus one last glare before storming out of the room. 

-

Thanks for reading!

[suzteel]

List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the askbox for the last 10 people who liked or reblogged something from you! get to know your mutuals and followers (ू•‧̫•ू⑅)♡

(hiii suz ❤️)

Hi Fleet! I hope you are doing well <3

Knitting - Trying knitting was one of the best decisions I made this year. It brings me such joy. I just finished making my first hat and while mistakes were made and I probably won't wear it much for multiple reasons, I'm so goddamn pleased with it. I made that! And there is something so joyfully freeing about making something with my own hands and really not needing it to be perfect to be great. I love it.

Cat Helpers - Where would we be without the emotional support they give us while working on our little projects or reminding us that it's bedtime?

Blueberries - Tis the season! Now that we have three fruit producing bushes, it's amazing to be able to just go out into the garden every couple of days and pick fresh blueberries. I really should be saving them to bake some muffins or something, but tbh they are all going straight into my mouth. So yummy.

Old Fandoms - About a month ago my TOS watching group finished the series, and we started watching/rewatching SGA. SGA was my first fandom, so I'm having so much fun taking a trip down memory lane and getting fresh perspectives on the show. I'm especially enjoying @ober-affen-geil's commentary because he's so genre savvy that he's correctly guessing how each episode is going to play out and it's a delight (though also hard to keep quiet about when he guesses right).

Stickers - In a fit of whimsy at the beginning of this year, I decided that instead of crossing out the days on my wall calendar at work, I would place a sticker on the date at the end of the day, and it's such a simple but lovely way to end my workdays. I'm going through my sticker stashes but also now have an excuse to buy more stickers.

Thanks for the ask, this was fun ^_^

[fanficfanattic]

🌩️? 🌈?

🌩️

Share something funny/cracky from your WIP:

“Jamie fucking Tartt. Explain yourself!”

“Wait, what did I do?”

“I want to know how you tricked all these people?!? No one in this entire godforsaken place knows you are the world’s biggest fucking nerd!”

Season One Jamie has some friends from pre-academy schooling surprise visit. They had it cleared with Ted of course. He and the rest of the Greyhounds discover they don’t much about the real Jamie Tartt.

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Share something soft/fluffy from your WIP:

The seriousness of his face, and of the moment, was wiped away with a quick grin once they could all hear the thunder of Jamie’s approaching feet and his mom’s delighted laughter. Simon’s happiness was written all over his face even as Jamie stumbled a bit with the momentum of stopping, then let Georgie down.

“Fucking, hell, Jam Jar. That might be a new record for ya!” And she shook her phone in his face. He just grabbed it to take with him as he collapsed onto the bench, barely noticing as his back brushed against Roy’s thigh.

“Don’t thinkit. Gotta do the maths, that pitch ain’t the same size as what’s at Man City.” Looking down over his shoulder, Roy could see Jamie opening up the calculator app on his own phone, still holding his mom’s with the timer screen showing.

“Okay, baby, I’ll leave it to ya.” And then she was dancing her way to where Lasso, Beard and her husband were.

“Mint, you gave’em the muffins you made, love?” He nodded as she grabbed his left hand in both of hers so she could pull herself up to smack a kiss on his mouth. On the way back to standing fully on both feet she took her sunglasses out of the pocket Ted had stashed them in, and then pulled her husband over to stand next to Jamie.

She dropped herself into his lap, not bothering to check if he’d moved the phones out of her way first. Again, eerily in sync, he had held one each to the side as she sat before bringing them back together over her legs.

“Yeah, close, but not quite as quick as your visit my last year at academy.”

“Oh, but that was before Simon, and his muffins. I probably put on ten kilos since then. Weighed you down.”

“Not even, fuck off with that. More, I’m not a teenager anymore so I shouldn’t be sprintin without a proper warm up, yeah?”

“The fucking Twilight Zone,” Roy whispered at hearing Tartt be the sensible one in a group.

I’ve shared some of this previously, it’s also a Season One Jamie fic. Ted has the First Annual AFC Richmond family day. Jamie invites his mum and stepdad to attend. And as @mitskijamie once said “It absolutely makes sense that Roy was raised by an old man and Jamie was raised by a teenage girl.” Some things make a lot more sense suddenly.