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asumofwords · 1 year

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Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello hello hello! Behold, another chapter, I know these ones are quite heavy, and so I am doing my best to post as often as I can so that we aren't all left in the pit of despair. <3

Chapter 76: Unlikely Ally

The soft brushing of hands through your hair drew you up to the surface of consciousness, a gentle stirring that did not jerk you to the front, but caressed you. Sandalwood and musk, smoke and leather, hints of dragon, all curled around you, creating a feeling of safety.

It was him.

It was okay.

It was over.

Your eyes cracked open, your limbs heavy and tires as you looked up.

Long silver hair, deep black leather robes, a scar through cheek and forehead, a shining sapphire eye and a stormy violet one. Aemond sat as he had the day before, back stiff and seeing eye still on the chamber doors.

He had not slept.

And he had not taken his eye from the doors, not even for one moment.

His other hand however, was not clutching the side of the chaise as it was when you drifted to sleep, but instead cupped your face, thumb smoothing the soft skin along your jawline.

You blinked at him and shifted, dull pain sparking in your neck, and throbbing through your core. At your stirring, the Prince turned his sight away from the door, to cast his eye down to look at you, jaw clenched as his gaze slipped to the bruises upon your neck.

Slowly you moved to sit up, ignoring the way your body begged to stay still, to keep laying on the chaise, to go back to rest and exist in a world of non-existence. To sleep in the emptiness void and bask in the silence of your dreams.

Your uncle made room for you to sit beside him, feet moving down to brush against the cold stone floors.

“Easy.” Aemond breathed as you winced from the movement, your eyes finding the fireplace, with no sight of Lucerys or Helaena.

They were gone.

He lifted his hand to brush a lock of your hair behind your ear, evidently pleased that you did not flinch at his touch. But how were you to flinch when you had no one else to go to.

There was an emptiness that settled in your chest, a hollowness that lingered around you and had not left, despite his presence.

Aemond's violet eye searched your face, looking at your profile before he whispered your childhood name to you. A soft coo. A gentle command. A come hither of the kindest notion.

You turned your head to face him, and watched as he softly gripped your chin, tilting your head up, pain in the movement of it, allowing him to see the bruises that marred your neck.

Cause by his brother.

The King.

He breathed a sharp breath through his nose as he looked at the purple blotches. Long angry lines marked the shape of fingers around your neck, pink and purple blooming around the skin, with tinges of yellow creeping along the edges.

“Skoros ēza ziry gaomagon naejot ao.” What has he done to you, He murmured, and you shut your eyes.

You didn’t want to think of what he had done to you.

You didn’t want to think about the feeling of his hands on you.

The feeling of him inside of you.

A knock rattled the wood of the doors, echoing in the solemn space. You jumped beside him, heart lurching in your throat as you spun to look at the entrance.

It was him.

He was back.

It was not o-

“It’s alright.” Aemond whispered before turning his head, but his posture said anything but it. His spine had stiffened more than it already was, and he looked as though he was ready to jump from his spot beside you. It set you on edge.

“Come.” His voice boomed across the room.

The two large doors opened, and the knight who guarded your chambers entered meekly, eyes on the floor, not daring to look at you or Aemond.

Where was he?

Had he heard?

Did he know?

“My Lord, My Lady.” He greeted you both, finally raising his eyes to look across the room. “The King has requested your presence this morning to dine with the Small Council.”

The King.

To Dine.

The King.

The words caused nausea to roll through you, tears springing to your eyes. Please Gods, not again. Please. Please. Your breath quickened as you stared, heart racing against your ribcage.

Aemond inhaled deeply, with anger.

“Has he commanded it?” He growled.

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Leave.” Aemond grunted.

The world around you got smaller.

The King.

You were to see him again.

Two large hands grasped your face and turned you to gaze upon Aemond’s.

“Paghagon, zaldrītsos.” Breathe.

A sob broke through you as you tried to steady your breathing.

The King.

The memories of him on top of you.

His grunts.

His hands.

His-

Aemond murmured your nickname and you looked into his eye.

“Do not show that him that he has broken you.”

One hand released your face and came down into your lap, pulling your hand into his own, finger sliding up and down on the scar of your palm.

It was intimate, it was soft, and it grounded you.

“I promise, he will not touch you again. I give you my word.”

You said you wouldn’t leave.

You promised I would be safe.

Your breathing quickened again.

You said I would be okay.

I told you.

I to-

“Where is your fire?” His eye searched your face.

You blinked at him, tear rolling down your cheek.

“Skoriot iksis ñuha zaldrītsos?” Where is my little dragon?

Where is she?

Snuffed out.

Tired.

Broken.

“Gone.”

“You and I both know that is not the case.” He whispered, thumb still smoothing the scar on your palm, “Iksā se ānogar hen Uēpa Valyria. Perzys dakogon rȳ ao. Iksā se tala hen Rhaenyra Targārien, se se Rogue Dārilaros."

You are the blood of Old valyria. Fire runs through you. You are the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, and the Rogue Prince.

Aemond leant forward, eye determined and shadowed as he spoke, with conviction, slowly, sternly, and reverantly.

"Iksā ñuha ābrazȳrys.” You are my wife.

My wife.

You blinked again, heart still thumping a racing rhythm in your chest.

“My wife is not weak. My wife is not broken.” He squeezed your hand and you squeezed it back, trying to calm the awful anxiety that caused your stomach to tie up in knots.

“We will dine with the King, and we will show him… Who you are.”

Who you are.

Who are you?

Zaldristos.

Dracarys.

You sniffed and nodded, swallowing thickly as you began to push down the tide of overwhelming terror.

Where was your fire?

Where is your fire?

Where?

The Amala and Joanna came to dress you, and had sat you gently at the vanity to brush and braid your hair together, both there to support you. There to offer you support with their mere presence alone, and although it did not relieve the trepidation that you had, their non verbal show of care was a stepping stone you had not known you needed.

When you looked at yourself in the vanity, your eyes scanned the bruises along your neck and the visual state of your wellbeing. Your eyes were dark, heavy shadows beneath them, and your cheeks had lost a fullness to them, as though the life had seeped out of you.

The bruises told a story of its own.

Dark purple blotches of fingers along your neck stood out as a reminder to you, mauves and blues pressed harder in some places than others, like splatters of paint, and yellow bleeding at the edges. You had to suck in a shaken breath and turn your head away, not wishing to look at the evidence of his touch on your flesh.

It is over.

The gown they dressed you in was high necked to cover the bruises, to hide his crimes. To hide the horrors that you had to endure. To hide your sorrow

The dress was long and heavy, sleeves tight against you with silk threads of black flames that were embroidered along the sleeves, skirt, and bodice. The high neck buckled at the front with silver clasps, and a large chain of Valyrian steel was secured around your waist, the head of a dragon biting down on its own tail.

When you were dressed, you sat once more in front of the vanity and looked at yourself.

Though the dress hid the bruises that marred your body, your face betrayed you with your hollow eyes and gaunt cheeks. But the gown helped in a false sense of power and pride, and the hair made you feel closer to your family in a moment when you needed them most.

Do this for them.

What more could be done?

The worst has already happened.

Endure.

“Are you ready?” Aemond stood behind you, one hand on the side of your shoulder where his thumb rubbed against the junction of your neck.

You swallowed.

Were you ready?

You would never be ready.

But you had to be.

For them.

For yourself.

You nodded and stood, turning to face Aemond.

Shock crawled through you.

Today, he was not in his leather robes that he always wore.

Today Aemond wore something similar to you.

All black.

Your eyes roamed over his body.

The tunic and pants were similar to yours with a black vest tightened at his front. Large silver clasps held the tunic and vest together, and from one point of his shoulder down to his waist was another steel chain.

One dragon head on each end, their jaws biting down on the black to hold to the material.

Aemond was wearing black.

Not his black leathers.

But black robes.

Matching black robes.

He was wearing your colours.

Aemond’s eye was half hooded, and his sapphire eye twinkled lightly as he shifted his head to look at you. His hair had been braided back, away from his face and fastened at the back of his head half up and half down.

It reminded you of your father.

The Prince held out his hand to you, palm up. The scar ran across the expanse of his large hand, the pink skin raised and delicate. His hands were so much larger than yours, and he had calluses from years of sword training, and the wear of Vhagar's reins upon his skin.

Placing your own in his, you felt the two of your ceremonial scars press together.

As one.

And so you walked together, as one, in unlikely circumstances fated by the Gods or others, to the small Dining Hall.

His grip grounded you as you counted the steps.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

You breathed in with every second step and out with every fourth, trying to set an easy rhythm to concentrate on and follow.

The walk passed quickly, and by the time you stood in front of the two doors, Aemond’s eye was set on the entrance in front of him, his hand tightening around yours painfully. You watched as his jaw clenched, and the lips you had come to chase, pursed.

“Dracarys.” Came the familiar whisper of Lucerys.

Dracarys.

The doors opened, and you struggled to keep your fear in check, but you pushed it down, as you had many times before. As you have always had to do. And the cold steel mask that you had grown accustomed to wearing in your time, since even before the war, slipped on.

There was something about entering a chamber full of the Greens Small Council, and having all eyes on you. All eyes on the treaty bargaining piece, and her husband, the One-Eyed Prince, dressed head to toe in matching robes of black.

A symbol of unity.

A symbol of rebellion.

A symbol of hope.

When your eyes landed on Aegon, your stomach lurched into your throat, hand jerking in Aemond’s grip, who thankfully kept it tightly in his as you ascended the small stairs.

Aegon continued to stare at the both of you, a wide smirk on his pale face as he looked at the state of your dress, focusing on the neck of the gown, which split his face into an even wider smile.

“Brother! Welcome home.” The King boomed.

Alicent sat nervously at the seat beside him, hand tucking a thumb into her palm on the table. A nervous habit.

Aemond did not reply, and pulled out the seat for you to sit in. You sat down and held your breath, heart rising in your throat as your eyes could not tear themselves away from your eldest uncle.

“How do you fare, niece? You look unwell.” Aegon falsely asked, and the shift in the chambers was palpable.

You swallowed thickly, teeth grinding down against one another in your jaw as you dug your nails into Aemond’s hand.

Dracarys.

“Tired, Your Grace." Your voice crackled, "Aemond’s return was swift and unexpected. We had much to catch up on.” You felt your teeth slide across each other roughly.

Aegon grinned, “I am sure you did.”

Otto inhaled deeply, and Aegon leant back to snap his fingers at the servers, having them bring the food to the table.

The food was brought over and piled high, the smells of the meats and fruit turning your stomach. There was even a bowl of starfruit on the table, which you dared to not touch. But most notably, there was a large roasted pig sat in the middle in front of you and Aemond. You felt his own hand clench in your grip, whilst Aegon watched with bright eyes, waiting for the reaction he desperately sought out.

“Mother, a prayer?” Aegon looked to Alicent, who’s eyes nervously danced between all of you.

You wondered who else in the Small Council had known of what had happened.

Anger began to stir inside of you, and Lucerys’ whispers got louder.

Dracarys.

“May we pray to the Crone for wisdom in these times, may she carry her lantern to us to guide the path in which we move forward. May-“

“We pray to the Mother,” Aegon began, interrupting the Dowager Queen, and all eyes flicked up to him, “For a healthy babe and fertile womb for the Princess.”

It was a blur of black and green.

Black and Green.

Green and Black.

“Hen Kasta, Hen Zōbrie.” Of Green, Of Black, Helaena whispered.

The world around you spun.

Breath caught in your throat, the sound of guards being summoned and the yells of Alicent and Otto Hightower brought you back to the present.

Aemond had launched himself across the table, fist catching the Kings jaw, sending the Conquerors Crown flying across the floor with a clang. The chair he had been seated on swung backwards, and the two brothers landed on a heap of fists on the floor.

You could scarcely move, standing as you watched punch, after punch was thrown by both men on the stone floors of the Small Dining Hall. The other Council members stood watching, others sitting, unsure of what to do as Ser Cole rushed over to the blur of silver hair, trying to yank the youngest brother from the King.

“Aemond! Stop this!” Alicent screamed, watching as the One-Eyed Prince wrapped his hands around the King’s throat.

“Aemond!” Otto bellowed, hand raised to stop the King’s guard from reaching the two.

Dracarys.

“Aemond.” Your voice felt foreign as it left your lips.

The two men struggled still, the king beneath Aemond who's hands only continued to tighten on around the King's neck.

Hands around your neck.

Aegon's hands around your neck.

His grunts.

His breath.

His-

"Aemond!" The yell escaped you without a second thought.

You watched as the Prince stiffened and jerked his brothers head down onto the stones, rolling off of him to stand. His chest heaved as he looked down at Aegon who was pulled up by Ser Cole, blood dribbling from his lips and nose.

Dracarys.

Hen Kasta, Hen Zōbrie.

Aemond was yanked backwards by Alicent, his shoulder jerking her hold from him as he breathed staring at his brother who sneered.

“You dare put a hand on the King?” He growled, “I could have your head.”

"Touch her again and I'll-"

"You'll what?"

A tear slid down your cheek.

Dracarys.

“Enough! Is it not bad enough that we are at war with your half-sister, that now you seek to war with your own brother? Have you gone to madness?” Alicent snapped at her son, staring Aegon down, who spat a glob of bloody spit onto the stones at Aemond's feet.

“I will not have this family fallen over the petty grievances of two men grown behaving as little boys.” Alicent snapped her head to the Council members who watched on awkwardly, “Leave, and do not speak of what you have witnessed.”

“Not a word to anyone of this.” The old man had bowed his head, and uttered a quiet, “Your Grace” in acquiescence.

“Return to your chambers,” Alicent spun around looking at you and then to Aemond, “All of you.”

You blinked, once, twice, three times.

Aemond was at your side, lip split and hair tousled, though the braids holding firmly. His knuckles were bloodied and bruised, his attire was messed, but his face checked over yours to see if you were okay.

To see if you were safe.

You had an ally.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

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the-mortuary-witch · 3 months

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DAY OF THE WEEK MAGICKAL CORRESPONDENCES

MONDAY

Planet: Moon

Tarot: High Priestess and Moon

Colours: white, light blue, and grey

Stones: moonstone, pearl, fluorite, amethyst, quartz, and sapphire

Herbs: moonflower, jasmine, gardenia, and white rose

Influences: astral realm, clairvoyance, creativity, dream work, emotions, family, fertility, healing the home, illumination, inspiration, intuition, love, prophecy, protection, psychic ability, travel, and truth

TUESDAY

Planet: Mars

Tarot: Strength and Wands (5 and 6)

Colours: red and orange

Stones: carnelian, ruby, bloodstone, garnet, and red jasper

Herbs: basil, ginger, black pepper, patchouli, holly, dragon’s blood, nettle, thistle, thorns, wormwood, and hawthorn

Influences: power, war, courage, aggression, revenge, hexes and curses, destruction, ambition, sexual identity, sex magick, and self confidence

WEDNESDAY

Planet: Mercury

Tarot: The Magician, Wheel of Fortune, and Pentacles (8)

Colour: blue

Stones: agate, citrine, aventurine, sodalite, lapis, hematite, and emerald

Herbs: lavender, rosemary, fern, cherry, liquorice, poppy, mugwort, plantain, apple, and fennel

Influences: communication, arts, change, mental power, education, divination, psychic power, divination, wisdom, knowledge, traveling, spiritual enlightenment, and mischief.

THURSDAY

Planet: Jupiter

Tarot: Pentacles (ace, 9, 10)

Colours: royal blue, green, and purple

Stones: amethyst, sapphire, turquoise, lepidolite, and sugilite

Herbs: cinnamon, sage, nutmeg, melissa, clove, and honeysuckle

Influences: money, business, manifestation, justice, healing, abundance, luck, fidelity, honour, justice (legal matters), leadership, loyalty, prosperity, relationships, well-being, and success

FRIDAY

Planet: Venus

Tarot: Empress, Lovers, and Cups (2)

Colour: pink

Stones: rose quartz, pink tourmaline, moonstone, jade, peridot, emerald, and ruby

Herbs: red hibiscus, rose, lavender, rosemary, jasmine, blue lotus, violet, birch, sage, and ivy

Influences: beauty, emotions, fertility, friendship, happiness, love, passion, pleasure, sexuality, and wisdom

SATURDAY

Planet: Saturn

Tarot: Temperance and Swords (knight, 2)

Colours: black, dark grey, indigo, and dark purple

Stones: onyx, obsidian, smokey quartz, jet, and pumice

Herbs: myrrh, moss, thyme, basil, hemlock, nettle, peppermint, pomegranate, hyacinth, mallow, and juniper

Influences: banish, binding magick, death, protection, freedom, justice, karma, banishing, uncrossing magick, hexes, and curses

SUNDAY

Planet: Sun

Colours: yellow and gold

Tarot: Chariot, Sun, and Wands (ace)

Stones: citrine, sunstone, pyrite, gold, goldstone, carnelian, orange calcite, tiger’s eye, and amber

Herbs: sunflower, chamomile, calendula, marigold, bergamot, oak, rosemary, and oregano

Influences: accomplishment, action, ambition, attraction, authority, beauty, confidence, creativity, energy (solar), fame, freedom, friendship, goals, personal growth, healing, hope, illumination, justice, leadership, light, protection, and spirituality

#fyp #fypシ #fypシ゚viral #fypage #fyppage #tumblr fyp #witchcraft #beginner witch #baby witch #witchcore #witch community #weekdays #magick #information #helpful #occult

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aspens-apothecary · 1 year

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Mabon Celebration Ideas!

As some of you know, this Saturday is Mabon, the celebration of the Autumn Equinox. Some also refer to it as the "Pagan Thanksgiving", as you celebrate the bountiful harvest and are thankful for the earth and its many gifts.

Mabon marks the time of equilibrium, where the days and nights are of equal length. During this time, it is good to set intentions that involve decrease, such as ending unhealthy habits, self-destructive behaviors, or bad relationships.

Decorating for Autumn

This a great time to decorate for the coming autumn and spooky seasons leading up to Samhain! I like to open the windows and then cleanse my space(usually a simmer pot and smoke cleanse) and after, i actually physically clean the house.I then close the windows and stir my simmer pot, while setting new intentions for the household until the spring equinox. I then collect the things I want to decorate with(the usual fall decor; pumpkins, pine cones, leaf garlands, gourds and an autumn wreath on the door) and then decorate to my hearts content!

Release and Move Forward

Another thing I usually spend time on is meditation, centering myself, letting go of past baggage from the year and setting new personal goals and intentions until spring.

Find a nice spot outside, where you feel connected to the world around you. Take a journal with you, and meditate. Write down what you want the next few months to bring into your life. Set those intentions in any way you choose.

Have a nice Hearty Meal

Who doesn't love a good meal with great people? You can make a roast, hold a potluck Mabon dinner ect, I usually host a bonfire night and everyone brings their own dishes to feel the group. During covid, I made a pot roast for my fiance and I! You could also do a picnic!

Fall Activities

Apple Picking, Corn Mazes, going to a Pumpkin Patch, all fall activities that are fun for the whole family, as a cute date, or great solo fun!

Honor Persephone and Demeter

If you are one to honor deities/spirits during the holidays, Persephone and Demeter are two that will definitely fall into Mabon.

According to the myth, Autumn is the time where Persephone must leave her beloved mother and travel to Hades, to fulfill her role as the Queen of the Underworld. Each year she lets go of the concerns of the upper world, and willingly descends to guide the souls of the dead over the threshold of Life and Death.

Creating an altar, and leaving offerings for them in honor of their sacrifice is an amazing way to celebrate.

Other

Other things you can do include cleansing ritual baths, Divination for the new few months, hiking, offerings for the local nature spirits, make a gratitude list for the last few months and thank the earth for her gifts

Mabon Symbols:

Cornucopia (horn of plenty), pinecones, seeds

Colors: Orange, red, yellow, brown, copper, dark yellow, dark green

Foods: Corn, beans, squash, apples, pumpkins, cider, root vegetables, pomegranate, wine

Herbs: Yarrow, rosemary, sage, mugwort, rosehips,

Stones: Amber, citrine, cat’s eye, aventurine, sapphire, jasper

Flowers: Sunflowers, thistle, marigolds

Deities: Mabon, Green Man, Demeter, Persephone, Morgan, Pomona, Inanna

Animals: Owl, stag, blackbird, salmon

I hope this gives you a few ideas! Add your own ideas to this list! These are just the ways I like to celebrate!

#pagan witch #witchblr #witchcore #witchcraft #beginner witch #witch tips #witchy vibes #mabon #mabon 2023 #autumn #autistic witch #autumn equinox #witchcraft spells #witchy #witchcraft supplies

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puddle-nerd · 8 months

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Lean on Me

Summary: Tsu’tey gets a moment away, just to relax with you.

Prompt #4 for my submission for #𝐂𝐫𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐞𝐬𝟏𝟒𝐃𝐎𝐋𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒

Story Tags: No use of Y/N, Female Avatar Reader, Tsu’tey te Rongloa Ateyitan Lives, Omatikaya | Blue Flute Clan,Na’vi Language, Established Relationship, Tsu’tey te Rongloa Ateyitan Adopts Spider

Author’s Note: It is not outwardly stated but the reader in this is an Avatar driver.

Na’vi Translation: Olo’eyktan – clan leader | generally gender-neutral Sa’nu – mum | mommy Sempu – dad | daddy Tsahìk – a spiritual leader of a Na’vi clan, and the most important member next to the clan leader. The job of the Tsahìk is to interpret the will of Eywa, guide the clan spiritually, and perform important ceremonies Vrrtep – demon

AO3 Link

Part 2

“That feels nice, vrrtep,” Tsu’tey mumbled as you softly, slowly ran your fingers through his braids while his sapphire-colored head rested upon your thighs. You hummed and playfully tugged at one of the yellow carved beads ever so slightly in retribution.

Had it been six months prior, the word “demon” coming out of his mouth would have been contemptuous and sneering but now, it came out rather affectionate because you knew he cared deeply for you though he was absolutely terrible at expressing it verbally. Still, you weren’t entirely sure if you were officially his girlfriend or not as every time you tried to initiate that that particular talk, something always interrupted you. And it wasn’t like he had created an official courting gift for you yet either so…

You guys had time to figure it out, though.

“You’ve been working so hard… so think of this as a temporary reward, Olo’eyktan—of—mine,” you replied quietly, moving your fingers through his braids once more, your nails stroking over his scalp teasingly. “You became the next leader of the Omatikaya People. You led a war with Jake of over twenty-thousand Na’vi. You’ve been healing from your gunshot wounds from previously mentioned combat. You then had Jake and Neytiri assist you get all the bad tawtutes off of the planet. You’ve been helping your People heal from the trauma of it all while also locating another place for the clan to live. And on top of that, you also adopted the human baby boy orphaned and have been learning to be a sempu. You need a break, Tey. You do not have to carry it all upon your shoulders. It is okay to lean on me when you need a moment to pause.”

He sighed, turning to press his face into the soft curve of your belly, his ears twitching as he listened to your words with a grunt.

You began to hum as you continued to soothingly run your fingers over his head and bask in this rare moment when Tsu’tey wasn’t busy with this, that, or another thing with his never-ending pile of duties and obligations and everything. Luckily, he had Mo’at as his current Tsahìk with Jake as his right hand and Neytiri as his left hand not to mention a whole mess of other elders to assist him when he needed it most.

And in times like this, he had you.

Tsu’tey sighed and turned his head to open one of his golden eyes and met your gaze. He commented, “You know… the child – Spider – thinks of you as his sa’nu. And you are so good with him.”

You shrugged with a grin down at him. “He’s so easy to love upon,” you replied to his off-handed remark. “Maybe even easier to love upon even than you are,” he grunted, wrinkling his nose in disgruntlement at your mischievous joke, “except during those rare but explosive temper tantrums of his. Tawtutes call this phase the ‘terrible two’s’ so hopefully he’ll be getting better behaved soon. Then, he only listens to you, Tey, no matter what I try to say or do. He is such a sempu’s boy.” The Na’vi male chortled quietly at that, grinning in such a way that his fangs glinted in the low light of the day.

Giving into your impulse, you leaned down and pressed your lips to his, grinning when he hummed and pressed up into your kiss. Only for the neck comms you both wore around your throat to choose that exact second to crackle to life with the resonating sounds of a very, very unhappy toddler coming in as background noise when Jake’s voice could be heard from the small speaker. The hybrid male sounded both exhausted and frustrated as he commented in English, “~Uh, guys, sorry to break into your time, but Spider won’t calm down and he’s been screaming for both of you for almost an hour now and Neytiri and I have no idea what to do anymore. Please, for the love of Eywa, come save us.~” You and Tsu’tey sighed, breaking apart. He sat up while you pressed the microphone button on your throat comm to reply. “We’re on our way, Jake,” you announced, watching the young Olo’eyktan push himself to his feet before he offered you, his hand. “Tell him if he starts to calm now, I’ll take him to the springs for a nice bath. That should help.” To Tsu’tey, you murmured as he pulled you upright, “I swear, Spider is part fish. And thank you, by the way. Guess it’s back to the grindstone.” “Yes, but it was a good moment to ourselves,” he replied. You nodded in agreement with him and with your hands still intertwined, went to go retrieve the tawtute Spider-child you and he had found yourself raising together, no matter what status your relationship was currently at.

𖥸 · ─────── · 𖥸 · ─────── · 𖥸

Originally Posted: 04 February 2024 Word Count: 817

@crybabies-heart, @cryingwhilereading, @ikeyniofthetayrangi, @erenjaegerwifee, @bambithewriter, @lloreya

AO3 Link

Part 2

#𝐂𝐫𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐞𝐬𝟏𝟒𝐃𝐎𝐋𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 #avatar #human reader #avatar driver reader #tsu'tey te rongloa ateyitan #tsu'tey avatar #tsu'tey x reader

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would-this-pokemon-be-a-friend · 8 months

Note

Would Slowpoke or Slowbro be good pets? I think they're so cute!

[I’ve already covered slowpoke, so I’ll link that one at the bottom of this post!]

Slowbros would indeed make a pretty good pet to some very specific owners, but it’s difficult to give them a blanket recommendation for a few reasons. Let’s have a little test: can you tell already what one of the more significant issues is?

Their size! Five feet tall?! Woah! This was surprising to me as I was reviewing the data on slowbros. As you may already know, slowbros evolve from slowpokes when the latter is bit on the tail by a shellder, another aquatic pokémon species (Red/Blue, Yellow). The individual’s slowbro classification is entirely reliant on this symbiotic relationship, as if the shellder is shed the pokémon reverts back to a slowpoke (Yellow). Clearly, the presence of this shellder allows the slowbro to grow significantly larger. Unfortunately, this is likely to be an issue in the way that it interacts with the other affects of this symbiosis.

Let’s clear something up real quick: I’ve said a few times now that the relationship between the slowbro and the shellder is symbiotic. It’s complicated. While at first glance it appears that the shellder is a parasite, as it feeds off of the fluids contained in their host’s tail as well as their leftover food (Red/Blue, Crystal). However, when you observe the slowbro, you find that they have become stronger and more powerful as a result of this relationship. Since the shellder prevents the slowbro from using their tail to fish on the shore like a slowpoke, it pushes the slowbro to become a more proactive hunter (Ruby Sapphire). While slowpokes are known to be pretty dull-witted, in slowbros’ case their shellders’ bites stimulate their brain, giving this species an occasional boost in intellect (Diamond/Pearl/Platinum). These effects have led to slowbros being better able to protect themselves from threats, which is a benefit to their survival. They don’t feel pain from the bites of the shellder, as the shell-like pokémon’s venom has an intense numbing effect (Silver). This is great for battle, but not the best when it comes to the slowbro’s overall health and well-being. In the end, both the slowbro and the shellder seem to benefit from their relationship.

So what does this all mean for slowbros’ pet compatibility? Well, their ease of care is significantly lower than a slowpoke’s. While you won’t need to feed the shellder, since it receives all the sustenance it needs from its host, you will need to provide the slowbro with some aquatic space to exercise. While you may not want to provide your pet with live prey to hunt, you will want to provide them space to move around to that they don’t become restless or out of shape. Given their size, providing this space may be beyond some owner’s means.

Given slowbros’ lack of pain sensation due to the venom of their shellders, you will really need to keep an eye on your pet’s health. A slowbro might not be able to let you know if they are injured or not feeling well, since they don’t experience any pain sensation. A slowbro’s healthcare needs may be higher than a lot of pokémon pets.

Slowbros, while more fit and dangerous that slowpokes, aren’t significantly more dangerous. They make use of many psychic-type special moves, which, while they may be inconvenient or even painful, are unlikely to be lethal. The chances of a slowbro attack are pretty low, however, so long as both they and their shellder feel happy, healthy, and unthreatened.

Keeping a slowbro as a pet is far from impossible, but in most cases a different pet might be a better choice. I’d recommend a slowpoke over a slowbro to most owners.

The Slowpoke Post:

#pokemon #pokémon #slowbro #pkmn irl #PR-B #shellder

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e1dritchjackal0pe · 10 months

Text

ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ꜰᴇʟʟᴏᴡ, ᴅᴀʀʟɪɴ'

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!"

#severen x reader #severen van sickle x reader #near dark x reader #near dark #severen near dark #severen #near dark 1987

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siren-serenity · 1 year

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SUB! JADE LEECH

"I need you," jade rasped out, nuzzling his face in the crook of your collarbone. he met your eyes, looking absolutely pathetic as he whined for your cock in him, to stuff him up to be so full. a hump was pressing harshly against mostro lounge's signature pants and the fabric was getting damp with pre-cum. "fuck me senseless. please."

characters: jade leech, gn!reader (has a cock but can be a strap on) warnings: nsfw, dom/sub relationships, dubcon (potion) a/n: - after taking a break from nsfw to write some sfw, i'm back~ - feedback is appreciated!

From the moment you entered Octavinelle, the cool greeted you like an old friend. Sapphire light glinted off the reflection of the aquarium and onto your face; the warm scent of Mostro Lounge's finest dinners wafted into your nose. You took a deep breath in, stomach rumbling almost immediately.

A chuckle. You spun around to meet (e/c) eyes with heterochromia eyes of yellow and amber-brown. Jade Leech immediately sweats and blushes, which should have been the first warning sign. However, you were more entraced by the fact that the Jade Leech, the poker-faced devil of Octavinelle was actually showing you the vunerable feelings he always tried to hide.

"Aww," You cooed, caresses his face in your hands. Jade nuzzled into them, nearly enveloping your body. "Is my Jade blushing?"

Upon hearing your words, Jade's face turns a deeper shade of red. He leans in, whispering to you. "Can we head to my room?"

You nodded, letting Jade direct you. You two pass by Floyd and Azul, who waved politely.

"Ooooh!" Floyd grinned madly before winking at a flustered Jade. His eyebrows were raised expectedly. "Is Jade gonna get some action? Hehe, how exciting!"

Azul hit him on the shoulder before pushing Floyd away. "Apologies, Jade and Y/N! I'll make sure to teach Floyd a lesson or two about courtesy!"

...that should have been the second warning.

Your third warning was how Jade immediately locked the door behind you before banging you against the wall. His body heat wafted off him as he leaned in closer.

"Y/N," Jade breathed out desperately, wandering hands scrambling to take off your clothes. Feather-light touches to your skin left behind warm trails of sensitivity and you shivered as the cool air of his room met your normal body heat. "Please."

You cradle Jade's maroon face in your hands, stopping him from taking off your pants. He let out a whine but paused obediently. Furrowing your eyebrows, you looked at the merman carefully. Jade wasn't normally like this when it came to your... nighttime sessions. He was more composed, more poker-faced until not even you could tell when he wanted you or not.

"What brought this one, darling?" You murmured, a thumb brushing repetitive strokes. Jade shivered from your touch, nuzzling into your warm arms.

"P-potion," He panted out, pressing hot kisses on your skin. Instantly, your hands wrapped around Jade's waist and pulled him into your lap. His legs automatically wrapped around your waist, his clothed erection subtly grinding against your cock. He threw his head back, a low moan escaping his throat.

"I need you," Jade rasped out, nuzzling his face in your neck, leaving hot, wet kisses. His sharp teeth nipped and sucked on your skin. He met your eyes, looking absolutely pathetic as he whined for your cock in him, to stuff him up to be so full. A hump was pressing harshly against Mostro Lounge's signature pants and the fabric was getting damp with pre-cum. "Fuck me senseless. Please."

"Jade, you're underneath a spell- ngh!" You groaned under your breath as Jade's lithe fingers trailed down and slid underneath your pants. His fingers squeezed around your cock but stopped when you growled.

"Jade, what did we say?" You held onto his hands, squeezing his wrists tightly.

"But Y/N, please! I need you," He panted, eyes rolling back as he continued to grind his erection onto yours. "I fully consent to this, so please!"

Raising his hand, he quickly twirled his purple-gemmed pen. In a sparkle of light, he removed both yours and his clothing, and leaving both of you naked with goosebumps raising from the onslaught of chilly air. Jade quickly pushed you onto the mattress before moaning.

"Please, please, please, let me ride you! I need your cock in my ass so badly, I'm so fucking wet for you already!"

You could see slops of pre-cum already dripping from his hole and sighed before nodding.

"As you wish, love."

#jade leech #twisted wonderland oneshots #twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #twst #twst jade #jade leech x reader #dom reader #sub jade leech

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dr-trafalgar-law · 5 months

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Law X CisFem Reader - NSFW - 18+

- Prologue -

Heavy rain thrummed against the large display window of your shop. The streets had darkened sooner making it feel later in the evening than it was. Your staff cleared out just after closing leaving you behind to work on this large order alone. You preferred it that way with special orders.

This cake wasn't special because it was a high-profile client or a family friend. It was because it was his.

A massive three-tiered chiffon cake with alternating raspberry and white chocolate fillings sat before you dirty-iced and ready for sheets of fondant to be spread over.

The groom's cake, finished that morning, already sat in the refrigerator. He hadn't ordered anything specific just simply saying, "Whatever you decide will be fine, yoi."

As sort of a joke you went the unconventional route making a small layered pineapple upside-down cake. Dabs of purple, teal and yellow Italian buttercream smeared out to look like flames with an offset spatula decorated the outside. Not your best prank against the blond but his brothers would think it's funny

You slipped into the flour dusted hoodie kept in your office and approached the thermostat, turning it down to combat the humidity seeping in from outside.

After rolling out some fondant you headed to the sheeter losing yourself in thought.

__________

The screen door bounced against the door jamb as you passed through the back entrance of the Newgate house. Ace chased Luffy through the room flailing a ruined shirt and shouting curses at the younger male. There was never a dull moment in that house.

Reaching the dining room, you finally located the blond you'd been hunting for slouched over the table, head resting in his left palm while he flipped through pages in front of him. The room felt heavy making your guts twist. He knew you were standing there but couldn't bring himself to face you.

"Babe?" You called in an unattractively weak voice.

Half-lidded sapphires swayed in your direction, a cigarette pressed between his lips looking unamused as ever. You'd been together for six years and despite his nearly void expression you could tell whatever he was reading wasn't good news.

"I got my match today, yoi." He removed the smoke to speak.

Your heart dropped.

It was foolish to think he wouldn't be matched just because he was older, glitches happened all the time.

This was a new era law of the New World Order. A few generations before you the world had come together in peace forming this new world government. For the most part life carried on as usual, until people stopped marrying leaving reproduction in a rapid decline. The NWO stepped in making arranged marriages law. You were matched with someone of 85% compatibility or higher. Weddings were to be held after a six-month grace period allowing pairs to get to know each other and adjust living arrangements.

Dating prior to being matched was frowned upon but not illegal and required by law to end the moment you received your partner's information. Most non-matched relationships didn't last as long as yours. Generally, arranged couples were excited and threw huge weddings. You had friends who waited for their matches rather than dating around.

Marco was special; he could handle your sass and loved you without condition. Who needed a match? You already loved each other.

With a shaky sigh he rose left arm outstretched to catch you. Reeling you in so he wouldn't have to watch your heart break he buried his nose in your hair for probably the last time.

"W-hen?" You sobbed, makeup staining his white t-shirt.

"We meet later today, yoi."

All contact was severed the day he met her.

For a while you just went through the motions, taking on the biggest projects alone so you could work into the night and wake after only a few hours of restless sleep to start the process over. After a few months you even began to smile again, but it was just a weak facade.

You were taking a short break in your office when your head decorator, Usopp stepped into your open doorway.

"Uh - hey F/N, your tasting appointment is here, b-but I can take care of it if you'd like."

You rose brows furrowing, "Why would yo-"

Your sentence was strangled by your jumping heart when your eyes fell over Marco standing in the entry with the woman you hoped to never see.

She was terrifyingly beautiful; half-lidded seafoam green eyes complimented her perfect complexion and full lips. Teal waves lapped at her waist, a few locks draped over her shoulders framing the two heart tattoos at the base of her throat.

Usopp's fidgeting pulled you from your spiral.

"Lovely to meet you Ms. Charlotte," you stepped forward to shake her hand pausing unsure of how to address the blond.

"Hey F/N." Marco smirked saving your stumbling brain.

"H-ey." You greeted turning back to his fiancé, "The flavors you chose are all set up in our tasting room. Usopp will show you the way and I will be right behind you."

The intimidating woman's green eyes dropped down to you briefly before she nodded and followed a frantic Usopp to the back of the shop.

"Warning would be nice." You sneered at your ex.

"This way was more fun, yoi." He glanced at you sideways digging his elbow into your side.

"Are you having a good time Mr. Newgate?"

"A little," he admitted with a shrug, "I didn't think I'd get to see you again until her mother suggested your shop, yoi."

A flustered groan pushed passed your lips as you picked up your pace.

The tasting went as well as it could with the exception of your stumbling. You hated that his future wife only saw you as a fumbling idiot.

"Thank you again Amande, we're honored to create your cakes." You shook her hand again glancing over at your ex, "Nice to see you again Marco."

The blonde nodded calmly.

"Usopp will you please see them out, I've got another appointment to set up for." The decorator nodded at your request as you nearly sprinted to the safety of your office.

As you were catching your breath at your desk there was a tap on the door.

"What." You sighed face down on your keyboard.

The door opened slowly, "That's not a nice way to greet a client, yoi."

"Shouldn't you be with the ball and chain?" you sat up.

"I'm not tied down yet," he smirked holding up one of your bags, "and Pops wanted one of your tarts."

"Well if that's all." You rose to see him out, but he stepped forward meeting you in the center of the small space.

"It isn't." He bent down pressing you against the desk.

Your breaths mixed in short anticipated pants as his nose brushed against yours sliding down to nuzzle your cheek. Strong arms slithered around your waist pulling you flush with his torso. The two of you stood there for what felt like hours breathing each other in.

"You look good, yoi." he whispered, lips resting on your earlobe.

Tears welled on the edge of your lashes as you choked out a bitter laugh, "I'm a mess."

"I miss you."

Sparks lit up your spine when he shifted, lips grazing your damp cheek. Your hands shot up, fingers gently covering those lips you craved so much. Marco looked down at you honestly surprised by your reaction.

"Don't," you sniffled, "we both know what happens if someone finds out."

He very sweetly kissed your digits and palm bringing his hands up to wipe away your tears. It hurt. It hurt that he'd had no choice but to come in with her, that there was nothing you could do, that neither of you could handle it, that after the last few months your feelings hadn't changed.

Finally, he stepped back.

"Tell the boys I miss 'em." You voiced shakily rubbing your wrists under your eyes.

"I will, yoi." he opened the door, "See you around."

___________

Now you sat alone on a rainy night layering gum paste into fifty different but similar dahlias. It was quiet save for the pounding rain and the hum of the A/C.

You shouldn't be making this stupid cake and supporting his marriage to another woman, but the Charlotte family was enormous and a big client of yours so sadly business played a small factor. The least you could do was make sure it was perfect and hope you didn't have to see either of them at delivery the next day.

After giving the white flowers a pearly finish with some luster dust you began arranging them on the cake you'd covered a few hours ago. It turned into a fight to keep your hands steady as the closer you were to finishing the more real the situation became. It didn't feel like your poor heart would ever recover. You couldn't help but wonder if Marco felt the same. Probably not. He had that gorgeous distraction. You winced at your tortuous thoughts.

The tinkle of the storefront bell caught your ear. You placed the last flower on the cake and stood.

"You usually text before..." You trailed off entering the front room to see the blonde you'd been agonizing over all evening.

"Expecting someone else, yoi?" he slurred passed the cigarette clamped in the corner of his lips.

"You can't smoke in here." You scolded moving forward.

"Isn't lit." He tossed it in a nearby bin, "You should keep that locked this late, yoi. Anyone could walk in."

"Can I help you with something?" You asked trying to sound unfazed as you stepped closer to the blond.

In two quick strides he was enveloping you, fingers running up the back of your neck and pulling you in. Bourbon and tobacco filled your senses as he devoured you in an aggressively hungry kiss. You submitted immediately clinging to his drenched plum button down.

He knew if he wasn't fast enough you'd stop him like last time and that wasn't an option.

This felt normal.

This felt right.

All these months without you were horrible. If he wasn't drunk he was chain-smoking, no vice filled the void you left. After spending the evening drinking with his brothers he'd gathered the courage to drop in. He knew you'd be here late, after all he knew what cake you were working on and it was a habit when you were stressed to take the workload on by yourself.

Tugging at the collar of your hoodie his lips trailed down your jaw and neck allowing you to gasp for air. Goosebumps erupted in his wake as you tried to gather your composure.

Was this some sort of dream? If it was you have a pretty sadistic subconscious.

His name left your lips in a sigh when he aimed for the weak spot just at the base of your throat.

"This fucking hoodie needs to go, yoi." He grumbled sliding his hands under the thick cotton fabric covering your torso.

A tiny voice in your head was shouting at you to stop but was quickly stifled when his lips gently came back over yours. Continuing to tug at the hoodie until your left arm was free, you reached up to cup his cheeks and pull away.

"Not here." You breathed nodding toward the display window.

Though it was well passed midnight you didn't want to risk being seen.

An amused laugh rumbled through the male as he turned taking your wrist and dragging you toward your office. Once inside you closed and locked the door for good measure. You hardly had time to turn away from the door before you were met with those lazy blue eyes and a sexy knowing smirk.

There was a lot he wanted to say, but now wasn't the time to speak. As you wiggled the rest of the way out of your hoodie he pushed you up against the dark wooden surface bringing his left knee up between your thighs causing warmth to bloom and spread through you. This time his name took the form of a needy whimper sending a shiver down his spine. How he'd missed your voice.

Deft fingers stripped you of your shirt allowing his sleepy gaze to drink in your curves. You fumbled with the buttons on his shirt giving up midway as the tattoo that covered the expanse of his chest came into view.

Lips still crashing together desperately another shiver wracked through the blonde as you ran your hand roughly over the front of his jeans. If you were that ready he was no longer going to hold back, quickly he stepped back to make work of your leggings while you unbuckled his belt. Once your clothes had been disposed of and his jeans hung loose on his hips he moved forward running his hands down your rear to pick you up by your thighs. Not wanting to waste another second, he adjusted you slightly before sheathing himself completely in your warmth.

You gasped gripping his shoulders as he attempted to set a steady pace, quickly finding the wall didn't allow enough leverage.

Clinging to his neck, lips brushing over his ear you spoke, "The desk babe."

Your lust filled tone made him shudder and quickly lift you away from the wall. Once the back of your thighs met the metal surface you released the blond to rake whatever you could onto the floor.

"Ah, like old times, yoi." He chuckled forcing you to lie back.

Soon soft moans and the clap of your hips meeting reverberated off of every wall. What items were left on your desk shifted with every thrust, some eventually falling to the floor.

Marco cursed between ragged breaths as his pace grew sloppy. You gnawed on your lip to hold back from shouting his name. Digits dug into your hips and ass as he bent down to lap at your throat.

Long teasing thrusts turned sharp and deep sending you into a euphoric haze. He felt your legs tighten and knew you'd reached your limit.

His lips trailed teasingly up to your ear, hot uneven breath fanning over your flushed cheek, "Just let go, yoi."

One final intense kiss was all you needed, it worked every time. He reveled in every lewd sound you made as you unraveled just for him eventually pulling him into his own orgasm.

Half-dressed you sat on the floor between Marco's legs, back pressed to his chest, head resting on his shoulder. Assessing the mess you'd made his gaze dropped to a familiar pink legal sized envelope.

He nudged it with his foot, "Who is he, yoi?"

"A doctor if you can believe it," you sighed, "we don't see each other much. I suppose that's my fault."

"Is he good to you?"

You chuckled, "He can be an asshole, but that's kind of how I like 'em."

He smirked kissing your temple, "This is it huh?"

"I guess." you frowned.

You stood and finished dressing. His arms wound around you pulling you close to savor your warmth one last time. Gently he tipped your chin and tenderly kissed your lips. There was no more urgency, no more need just a sweet finality laced with understanding. For the first time you didn't feel like crying as you watched him dip through the doorway followed by the jingle of the storefront bell.

Your phone buzzed in your hoodie pocket.

Law: Shift just ended. I'm coming by the shop with bad cafeteria food.

#Closure #trafalgar law #trafalgar d law x reader #one piece #x reader #marco the phoenix #heart pirates #slow burn #fem reader #lyndsyh24 #18+ mdni

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