#He would still try to straight up kick Danny into the curve as soon as he sees him though so Clockwork forbade the two from interacting | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

plush-rabbit · 3 years

Text

A Blurry Photo

Picture Perfect | Aftermath of Picture Perfect Headcanons | Smile For Me

Warnings: Manipulation, Slight non-con

Word Count: 2.5K

A/N: I’m gonna do a part 4 with the pregnancy so keep an eyes on that ;P

He watches you, edging closer to the bubble you’ve created around yourself. The way you make sure that not a single thing of yours touches someone or something and that not a single thing that isn’t familiar touches you. He can walk close to you- enough to see the red lines around your neck and he salivates, spit pooling in his mouth. As perceptive as you are, you don’t seem to notice him. There’s something deeper inside of him now. It isn’t lust that he feels for you. It’s deeper than that, something more, something that makes his chest ache, that makes him want to do something idiotic and he does. It’s daylight, the sun is out and you’re safe. Eyes and hands will stop from any crime being committed upon such a sinful, innocent person. It’s easy for him- everything is when it comes to you- all he has to do is reach into your pocket and slip out your phone, he’s sure someone has caught him in the act, but no one says a thing. Slender fingers tap against your shoulder and you jump and you look at him with wide, tearful eyes and there’s a shock that shoots straight to his crotch, awakening his flaccid member.

“I’m sorry to startle you, miss, but it seems like you dropped your phone.” He holds the phone, hands large and imposing, covering all of the device, knowing you’ll have to touch him to retrieve it.

You look down at it and then back to him and his smile never wavers. “I- Thank you-”

“Danny.” You were never going to ask his name, he knows that. You’re too scared to do anything like that. “You can call me Danny.” He smiles sweetly at you and he has to bite the inside of his cheeks to stop the growing smile when you fingertips touch against his fingers.

You clear your throat, a forced smile making its way onto your lips and while he knows that it makes sense, he can’t help but feel anger at the expression given to him. “Thank you, Danny.” You pull on the phone, holding it tightly in your hands. “I uh- I hadn’t noticed it fell so thank you.” Your foot turns, ready to turn your body and he pushes forward, so desperate to continue talking to you.

“You uh-” his voice cracks and he clears his throat, walking beside you- “You seem a bit stressed, everything okay?” You glance at him through the corner of your eye and he can only give you a practiced nervous smile. “I really don’t mean to pry-”

“Then don’t,” you cut him off, hurrying your steps. “I’m fine. Thank you for picking up my phone but I have to get going.”

The corners of his lips pull downwards. Fury hammers at him, his hands curling and brows furrowing. “Listen, I’m just trying to say that you seem a bit stressed. Are you sure you’re okay? I work for the news and I know there have been a number of break ins-” that word causes you to flinch- “and I don’t want to leave you scared during this difficult time.” He makes sure to stumble in his footsteps when you turn a corner, jogging slightly to catch up to you, hands pushed into his pockets. “You’re shaking, you know?”

You falter in your steps and he has to refrain himself from smiling. “You’re being sweet and I- I appreciate it but really, I’m fine.”

“How about we go get some tea?” You turn to look at him and he considers it progress. “I think coffee might do you something bad, so tea sounds nice, right? Have you had bubble tea before?” Your eyes light up and his smile turns softer. “I’ll pay. Listen, I’m not trying to do anything weird, I just wanna make you’re okay before you go back home. I know a scared face when I see one.” You just need a little push and he can provide that. He stands in front of you and the tip of your sneaker nips at his, and holds his hand out to you, unblemished and giving. “Would you like to go get bubble tea with me?” Your hand twitch, fingers curling to place themselves against his only to pull away and he’s sure that if he hadn’t ruined you, you would have touched him. You nod your head, your answer a soft whisper and tears welling in your eyes and he does not comment, only smiles and holds your hand. “Great. I know the perfect place.” You’re already so broken, all he has to do is show you a bit of kindness and he can fix you.

You are curled up against Danny under a thick blanket, hands interlaced as you both watch the news, the tone somber as the woman recounts the latest murder. Your thumb rubs against his knuckles, the room quiet. It takes all his might to avoid looking down and seeing your reaction. He can remember the murder quite well. He’s just surprised it took them so long to find the body. It wasn’t as if he had hidden it but he must have mistaken the kindness for people to check up on others. He mistakes the kindness that you have for others. It was something that happened, a pull on his heartstrings with the time he has spent with you.

“It’s crazy, isn’t it?” Your thumb stops its melodic rhythm. “All the murders. I man, it’s just one guy and they can’t even seem to find him.” You laugh and it’s bitter, empty and makes a shiver run down his spine. “You- You go there, right? To take photos and stuff?”

“Yeah,” he responds, reaching over to grab the remote, holding his hand over the pause button, waiting for the right moment to hit it. “I get a few things, nothing ever tramuzitng, by the time I arrive the body is gone and there are markers all over.” A still image of Ghostface appears, he’s frozen in time, a hand raised with fingers curled in a mock greeting with the knife raised. He can feel your body stiffen, the small breath of air that is sucked into your body and the way your nails dig into his skin. “I’m safe, you know. I’m not leaving you anytime soon. Plus-” he turns his hands over, grabbing yours roughly- “the murderer never returns to the scene of the crime.”

“I just-” your voice shakes and he wonders if you’re going to tell him the details of your encounters with him- “I worry.” He frowns. It seems like you won’t.

It’s his fault, of course. He’s ruined your trust in people, invaded every aspect of himself into you, has felt your body as you cried and he was so sure that the last time he was here- which at this point was months ago- that he had gotten you pregnant and yet here you are with a regular period and consuming what you want without worry. But he can’t give up hope- you let him have a key to your place, you spend the nights with him or vice versa, you kiss him against the lips, breath shaky and hands gripping onto his shirt like it's a lifeline while it is a peck, he has to rush somewhere hidden to fist his cock in his hand and think of the way you’d be so giving and so fearful to him. It’s like you’re teasing him on purpose.

“Look at me?” He asks, already grabbing your body and turning you over. You look at him, your tongue peeking out to wet your lips, eyes wide legs straddling him, your clothed cunt pressed against his crotch and if he closes his eyes he can imagine the smell of it. His hands cup your face, encasing you and forcing you to look at him as the image of Ghostface is frozen on screen. “I’m going to be okay. No silly murderer who hides his face is going to get me. After all,” he smiles, leaning close to you, “I’m just a photographer. It’s not like I know anything.” He presses his lips against you, your words muffled against his tongue.

His hands slip down your face and onto the curve of your neck. He can feel your body stiffen, the soft murmur of his name on your lips, the way you latch onto his shirt and tug on it, scratching your nails against the soft cotton. His hands lower, hands slipping down over the curve of your chest, your legs instinctively trying to squeeze together, only to rest against your stomach. A hand curves to your back, sliding under your shirt where his fingertips tap lightly against your bare back. His other hand slips under the front side of your shirt, trailing above, fingers ghosting over the soft curve of your stomach until he reaches the band of your bra, his hand cupping a breast and your hands on him go flat, a feeble attempt to push him away as his hand pulls down your cup, exposing your breast, a hardened nipple poking against the palm of his hand. Danny wonders how close he can get until you really try to get him off of you- until you’re crying and hitting against his body, until all the small progress that you’ve made with him can be broken once again.

He tries to restrain himself, to hold back any of his primal urges to claw at your skin, to mark you until you’re sobbing against him. The most he allows himself to do is pinch at your nipple which makes you whimper against him, your hands now clawing at his chest and he can pretend for a second that you want this as well, trick himself that you’re gentle shoves that grind yourself against him are on purpose. He’s gasping against your mouth, pushing himself close to you, spit dribbling past the corners of both mouths. His fingers are pinched against your nipple, pulling taut on it and twisting it until your body goes rigid and he can hear a cry of pain muffled by the wretched kiss he’s placed onto you.

It isn't until you bite against his lip that he lets go. He curses, bringing a hand up to cusp the wounded piece of flesh that burns. Other than the small curse that leaves his lips, he’s calm, cupping his clothed mouth allowing for the blood to pool and fill his mouth with poison. You, on the other hand, are a mess. You’re entangled in the blankets, kicking them off, crying and sniveling, trying to fix where he’s touched only to start sobbing when you mimic where he had just touched you.

“You know, if you wanted to bite, you have to be a bit gentler than that,” he tries to joke, letting his tongue graze over the wound, blood spilling onto the flat of his tongue, filling his mouth with copper.

His fingertips touch against his lip, a thin, shining blood on his finger pad, staining him in his natural color. His eyes glisten, fingers still as he stares in fascination. His mind is fuzzy, static stuffed inside as the room is filled with a high-pitched noise, eyes never wanting to look away from the blood on his fingers- from his own blood. He never took you for the type to fight back. He meets your eyes- cruel, wicked eyes that meet fearful ones, ones that are rimmed red and look upon him with the same look that you gave him many nights before when he’s invaded your home. His fingers curl, the palm of his hand dotted with the same blood that had been spilled by you.

“I- I told you to stop,” you hiss, grabbing fistfuls of the blanket until they’re spilling from your hand, bringing the bundled bunch to your chest, where it rises and dips with such exaggeration. “I didn’t want to.” He tilts his head, his nails digging into his palm. You keep your gaze on him, never faltering, never looking anywhere else. “I’m-” more tears well in your eyes, voice cracking and a shiver runs through his body- “I’m sorry, Danny.”

With a sudden switch, he’s snapped back into reality. His smile is warm, gentle even, as he opens his arms and welcomes you inside, staining your bicep with his blood as your sob into his chest. He smiles, his fingers dancing along your spine in a spindly dance. You clutch onto him and he shushes you gently, letting you apologize and cry as he watches, so desperate for you to know edge closer to him and feel him poke against you, so perverted to have you never find out how your tears excite him more.

He moves slightly, a soft press of his chest against your body, and you collapse further into him, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and pressing against him, no doubt feeling him and you remain silent save for your sobbing. You refuse to say a single word about your disastrous meetings with Ghostface, even as he stares right at you through the television screen. You don’t speak ill of the monster who holds you in his arms. You hold the monster tight, finding comfort until your sobs have turned into hiccups and whimpers, until you’re kissing against his bitten lip, your lips shining with a thinned blood that appears almost pink on your lips.

“I didn’t mean to push you so much,” he says, his hand flat on your back. “I just thought we had been dating for so long and well-” he sighs, pressing his lips against the crown of your head- “I didn’t mean to push you. There’s no excuse for that.” He moves, squirming under you and you rise, looking at him with

“I just- I don’t have the best record with relationships.” He can feel your hesitation, the way your body tenses and the clawing against his shirt. “I don’t want to get into it,” you finalize, doing your best to not look at the screen where the image remains still, never moving and always taunting you. You pull yourself away from him, standing with your back faced towards the killer and he watches, eyes darting to the door where you begin your descent, his hand barely missing yours when he reaches to hold it. “I’m going to go home.” You turn to look at him, your mouth pulled into a straight line. “I’ll uh-” you stop midway, cutting yourself off as you lower yourself to the ground, adjusting your shoes and tightening the laces. Your hand wraps around the door knob, the humid air outside making you freeze, his eyes never leaving your retreating figure. “I’ll see you later, okay?” You look at him, a tense smile stretched on your face, as you give him a short wave goodbye. The door closes behind you and he collapses onto the couch, hand unzipping his pants and wrapping around his throbbing member, hissing at the contact.

#ghostface #the ghost face #ghostface x reader #dbd ghostface x reader #danny johnson #dbd danny johnson #dbd danny johnson x reader #dbd x reader #danny johnson imagine #jed olsen #jed olsen x reader #this was somewhat requested #a more pregnancy related one will be out later!!

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queenbirbs · 4 years

Text

waiting for rain | Ethan x MC

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x MC

Warnings: language

Word count: 2,786

Summary: After the funeral, Sloane catches a ride. Post chapter 11.

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It’s a beautiful day.

The last week has been nothing but blue skies and balmy temperatures, with autumn peeking its head around the corner. The city is lovely anytime of year, but Boston thrives in the fall. The Common and adjacent gardens come alive in a spray of colors as the leaves change, the canopy dipped in orange and yellow and red.

It feels wrong, then, that the day is so nice and bright as they trudge along the rows of graves and back towards Bryce’s car. Glancing over her shoulder, Sloane frowns at the swath of black as Danny’s family gathers around the grave to watch the interment. Their labored breathing and soft cries carry over the open lawn and down to the road.

“What a shitty fucking day.” Jackie kicks at a pile of loose gravel along the pavement with her heel.

“At least the rain held off,” Sienna pipes up from where she’s slumped against the car. Clenched in her shaking hand is a gladiolus that Danny’s sister gave her from the casket spray. Noticing Sloane’s attention on the flower, Sienna traces a finger along the white petals with a wobbly smile. “I’m going to press it in my copy of The Secret of Ninradell.”

“Nerd,” Jackie mutters, coaxing a tremulous chuckle from Sienna.

Beside them, the doors unlock with a droning whir. The three of them pile into the back; Elijah and Bryce’s voices drift down as they approach.

“You know, all those parking tickets you keep getting are starting to make a lot more sense now.”

“These hands are for performing surgical miracles, not parallel parking on an incline.”

“A kid with a learner’s permit could parallel park this, dude. Your car is the Chevrolet equivalent of a sardine can.”

“We’re well aware of that,” Jackie chimes in from the center seat. “So can you two hurry it up?”

As Bryce helps Elijah into the passenger seat, Sloane catches sight of Ethan’s car tucked in along the other side of the access road. She caught a brief glance of him at the graveside service, but he disappeared into the crowd of mourners soon after her impromptu eulogy. The sun’s reflection on his windshield prevents her from seeing if he’s even inside. But then, a few cars down, Harper gives a little goodbye wave towards his car as she and Aurora reach her own vehicle.

Sloane throws open the door. Jackie frowns and reaches out for her as she slides out.

“Hey, what are you--”

“I’m going to catch a ride with Dr. Ramsey.” At the wave of worried expressions she receives, Sloane sighs. “I’m okay. I promise. You guys shouldn’t… I’ll see you at home.”

With that pithy attempt at reassurance, she shuts the door and crosses over to the S-Class. The driver’s side window rolls down before she reaches it, revealing Ethan in his customary black suit. His striking blue eyes are tinged red -- a sight Sloane has become accustomed to over the last week when catching herself in the bathroom mirror.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hello,” he returns. He glances down her figure, as if cataloging something, and then back up to meet her eyes. “Come on, then.”

“Thanks.”

She crosses to the passenger side and settles into the seat, avoiding his curious gaze by feigning a struggle with the seatbelt. Thankfully, he drops whatever question is plaguing him and starts the engine. Within a few minutes, they’re cruising south down the highway. The classical station finishes its latest piece and the suave-voiced host segways into a round of commercials. When the local news spot starts, both of them reach for the volume button, their fingers bumping clumsily. Ethan reaches it first and turns off the radio, then reaches down to capture Sloane’s hand with his. He links their fingers and squeezes, once, then again, before resting their clasped hands against the leather armrest. His thumb makes easy, gentle strokes along her skin.

Sloane eases back into her seat. The dull roar of the road isn’t enough to fill the aching silence inside her head. It makes her think of being back in that tented room, all alone, waiting to die.

“The service was lovely, as was your eulogy.”

“Sienna should’ve gotten to speak. She -- those were her words, all she could bear to write, but she asked… well, begged me at the last minute to say them for her.”

“That was kind of you to do.”

Her eyes clench tight at his praise. She focuses on the measured sweeps of his thumb, but all the bitterness in her chest keeps building and building until it bursts free.

“It should’ve been raining. Why was it… why did it have to be so sunny today? It should’ve rained. He deserved that much, at least. He was one of the only staff on my side when Landry was trying to sabotage me. He didn’t need proof or need to hear my friends vouch for me. He just believed me, straight up. And he was so sweet, and so kind, and so funny and now he’s dead, and I know we took Lasagna’s oath to not play God, but if I could, I would bring back Travis just to kill him for all the hurt he caused, and I know that goes against every--”

“Hey.” Ethan glances up from the road and over to meet her watery gaze. “It’s all right. You’re allowed to feel angry, and hurt.”

“I know,” she says, but it still feels dirty, somehow, to agree. She survived, didn’t she? Why should she get the privilege to fall apart at the seams when two people are dead and buried six feet under?

She keeps quiet for the rest of the drive. Unfortunately, it’s a rather short one, what with the cemetery being only twenty minutes north of the city. All too soon, they’re crossing the Tobin Bridge. The city skyline crowds the horizon, stacks of gray and glass forking up into the cloudless sky. Ethan takes the wide curve of an exit that crosses the Charles River and into the tunnel, down below the blue blood streets of Boston. As he prepares to merge over to take them towards her apartment, she squeezes his hand to grab his attention.

“Can I…?” she trails off, regretting how weak the request sounds. She bites back a relieved sigh when he pulls his focus away from the side mirror and over to her.

“Of course.”

They make their way through the ever-present downtown congestion before he turns down a side street and into his building’s garage. Neither speak as they exit the car. His hand finds hers once more as they step into the elevator. Jenner greets them at the door with her favorite stuffed duck, insisting on meeting her quota of belly rubs before allowing them entrance.

“Would you like a drink?” Ethan asks as he steps over the sprawled form of his dog with practiced ease.

“Yes, please.”

After a few more pats, Sloane wanders over into the kitchen. Ethan’s suit jacket lays slung across the island, a more telling sign of his mental state than anything visible on his face. His tie joins the pile as he pours them both several fingers of scotch. She takes the tumbler and knocks it back, ignoring the fierce burn at the back of her throat; she hands it back for a refill.

“Fine,” he sighs, “but this isn’t a jello shot at some tiki bar in Panama City Beach.”

“I wouldn’t know, seeing as I spent my spring breaks waiting tables,” she mutters against the rim of her glass, taking a small sip at his behest.

“I hated every second of it, if it’s any consolation.”

The murmured confession draws her up short.

“Wait -- you were a PCB spring-breaker? You? The man who can’t name a single artist on the top forty hits? The person whose idea of a good time is reading the green journal and annotating the margins with all the mistakes?”

“I don’t see how knowledge of Harry Mars’s discography would increase my enjoyment in life.”

Sloane’s face breaks into a grin at the name faux pas, prompting a scowl from him. “What? You said it yourself that I don’t know--”

“No, no, ignore me. Go on.” She rests her hip against the counter. “Please tell me about how you wound up in Florida for spring break.”

“It was Tobias’s idea, actually. He told me we were going to a medical conference in Atlanta. It wasn’t until we passed through Atlanta and he showed no sign of stopping that he told me where we were actually going. By that point, it was far too late to request he turn around. I was, in effect, doomed.”

“Doomed to spend a week at the beach. Poor you.” Rolling her eyes, she knocks her elbow into his side. “Did you at least have some fun?”

“I did. Well, after I went into a store and bought some more... appropriate clothing. Everything in my bag was pressed khakis and polos.”

Her mind immediately conjures up a younger Ethan, wearing board shorts and flip flops in whatever searing color the local beach shop sold.

“There has to be pictures, right? I’ve met Tobias, he’s too much of a snake not to have snapped a photo or two.”

“I’m sure he does,” Ethan agrees. “For blackmail purposes, of course.”

“And here I was hoping that our time in Miami was your most memorable trip to the Sunshine State.”

“It was.” The weak little smirk she wears disappears, folding under the intense scrutiny of his gaze as it rakes across her. “Why did you ride back with me?” he asks.

“Because Bryce’s car is ‘the Chevrolet equivalent to a sardine can,’ according to Elijah.”

He doesn’t acknowledge her lame attempt at brushing aside the question. When the silence grows too long between them, Sloane drags in a shaky breath and caves. “Because being around them, having them dote on me and worry about me, it’s… suffocating. And not because I don’t love them, or appreciate them, but I don’t… I don’t see the point. They should be able to grieve without me burdening them.”

“Sloane.” The way he says her name with all the care in the world drives that guilt deeper. She wants to shrug away his hold on her as he wraps his arms around her shoulders, but she doesn’t. She sinks into his embrace, breathing in the scent of his cologne, feeling the thud of his heart against her cheek. “You are not a burden.”

“Hearing that and knowing that are two different things,” she points out.

“Then I’ll repeat it a thousand more times until you get it through your thick head.”

“I don’t know what to do. I’m sad, and hurt, and angry about Danny. He didn’t deserve what happened to him, and neither did Bobby. And Rafael, he almost died, and-- and I almost died. And I’m sad, and hurt, and angry about that. But what gives me the right to feel that way, when I got to live, and they didn’t? Danny, he… he begged Travis to let us go, and all I did was stand there. I fucking stood there and let him kill my friend.”

She doesn’t notice the tears on her face, not until Ethan catches them and wipes them away. “And even after you came in, even after I was wheeled out and got to see Kyra, even after I was discharged, there’s been this crushing weight on my chest. I even wrote goodbye letters on my phone, but I can’t bring myself to delete them. Because what if we’re wrong? It’s like… like what if my body suddenly rejects the antidote and I’m back in that bubble? Like I’m going to wake up and be back in that room, as if this is all a last-ditch effort my brain has conjured up to help me cope with dying.”

Ethan makes a pained noise in the back of his throat. Gathering her impossibly closer, he presses his lips to her hair.

“This is real. You’re okay. You’re safe, Sloane. This is real.”

“But I don’t want it to be. I want it to all be some sick dream. They wouldn’t’ve even been there if it weren’t for me. If I hadn’t stolen the senator from Mass Kenmore, Danny and Bobby would still be alive. I just… I want to go back. I want to order them all out of that room before Travis ever gets his hand on that canister. If I could trade places with them, we wouldn’t be burying our friends.”

“You’re wrong,” he tells her. “If you were the only one in that room, we’d be burying you. And after coming close to such a thing, it isn’t a reality I’m ever willing to face.”

Sloane shakes her head as the tears come faster and faster, her body trembling against his. She feels as if she’s drowning, but her head’s above water.

“The responsibility for what happened lies solely with Travis,” he tries to assure her. “He’s the one who pulled the trigger. He’s the one who was determined to get his revenge, no matter who got caught in the crossfire. He admitted as much to me in his last moments without an ounce of regret.”

“Ethan, I…” her throat closes around the rest of her plea, but somehow, he hears the words.

His arms loop around her waist, holding her up as her knees buckle under the sudden weight of her grief. His words become nothing more than soft murmurings as he picks her up and carries her off down the hall.

In his bedroom, he sets her down on the bed. Kneeling before her, he picks up one foot and then the next, unbuckling the strappy heels she wears. Sloane leans forward and strokes against the grain of his stubble; she drags in a steadying breath when he leans into her touch. She reaches down for the hem of her dress, but he beats her to it. Raising her arms instead, she lets him slide the dark fabric over her head. He adds his own clothing to the floor, then joins her in his bed, his naked skin warm against hers.

Under the covers, Ethan tucks her there against his chest. Her eyes flutter closed at the sensation of his fingers tracing along her bare skin. It reminds her of that last morning they shared together, after the trial. The heartache now is different, vicious in that way only death can be. Sloane burrows closer, wishing she could bottle this feeling of safety and drink from it on the darker days ahead.

“Yours was the longest,” she admits, her voice sounding small in the quiet room.

“Hmm?” he murmurs.

“Your letter.”

The line of him stiffens, his hand stilling its movement.

“Hand me your phone.”

She rolls over and digs through the pile of their clothing, retrieving her phone from the pocket of her dress and handing it off to him. He holds it between them so she can watch as he navigates to her notepad app. The letters are all there, just as she said, in alphabetical order. She doesn’t miss how his thumb hovers above Naveen’s.

“I asked him to look after you,” she explains, biting her lip against the rush of emotion at knowing the words hidden beneath the names.

“When did you write these?”

Ethan’s eyes move from the screen and over to hers, tears collecting in the cradle of his lower lid. Her gaze never waves from his as she answers.

“After you took Raf away. It… became real, after that. Not that it wasn’t real before, with Danny, but to see him fall into a coma right next to me was a wake-up call. I didn’t want that to happen to me. Not without being able to say goodbye to the people I loved.”

Leaning across, he kisses her temple, and then her cheek, and then her lips. Then, with a few, quick taps, he deletes the letters and returns her phone.

“Thank you,” he whispers. At her raised brow, he doubles down. “Not for-- that was for you. I’m saying thank you because you listened to me.”

She snuggles close once more when he curls his arm around her and flashes him a curious smile.

“Go on.”

“You didn’t give up,” he tells her, his voice gone thick with emotion.

Between the sheets, her hand finds his.

“You didn’t give up, either,” she reminds him.

“On you?” he hums, pulling their linked hands towards himself to press a kiss to her fingers. “Never.”

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Author notes and what-have-yous:

So, I learned that only eleven percent of medical schools still recite the Hippocratic oath verbatim, and about thirty-three percent use Lasagna’s modern oath (which is why I included it instead).This is coming from a few articles I read, all seemingly based in the U.S., so it may not pertain to every school.

The ‘blue blood streets of Boston’ is pulled directly from a Bob Seger song, though there is a historical connotation behind it.

The green journal is another name for the American Journal of Medicine.

#open heart fic #ethan x mc #ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #open heart #Kaila writes things #f: waiting for rain

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lantern-inthenight · 4 years

Note

How would it pan out if each of the boys accidentally walked in on you in your underwear and it was still early in the relationship?? Love your writing!! Xx

I’M BACK BABY

slightly nsfw under the cut

Sam

Stops in the doorway upon seeing you in the lacy set of bra and panties

He wasn’t prepared for the sight and his jaw just drops

Sam has always loved your curves but he’s not yet seen them so…bared

You turn around just as he snaps back to his senses, and jump at his unexpected presence

“Shit, fuck, I’m so sorry,” he babbles, as you blush. “The door was just open. I’m sorry–fuck.”

But for all his sputtering and stuttering, Sam doesn’t take his eyes off you

It’s like you’re a magnet, and he’s hopelessly drawn to you with zero thoughts of having it any other way

“What do you think?” You ask him, slowly, trying not to giggle

He watches you, watching him, and slowly brings his hand up to his mouth

You watch with the breath caught in your throat as he bites the tip of his finger, eyes sliding up to your face

The look in his eyes is sin, but suddenly the feeling of embarrassment leaves you

You hadn’t been expecting him to come over before the show, but that was just fine

He could use a reminder of what he was coming home to

Sam spends a good ten minutes kissing you silly before you finally manage to shoo him away

“You have a concert in two hours, go!”

But you bet your ass he comes straight to you when the show is over, kissing you in front of everyone backstage

Josh

Happens to walk by the bathroom door on his way to grab a coat from the closet

He has to do a double take bc his brain short-circuits at the sight of you in only your underthings

It’s nothing fancy, just your go-to bra and pair of panties that don’t match

But Josh doesn’t care in the slightest

Just the sight of you, doing your makeup at the counter, with next to nothing on, drives him wild

“Ahem.” You look up to see him leaning against the doorframe, eyebrows raised

You chuckle at him and turn back to the mirror, finishing your eyeshadow

“Are you trying to hospitalize me?” he asks, slowly stepping up to you

“No,” you answer coyly, but there’s a wicked grin threatening to break your pokerface

“Well, you’re an absolute vision anyway,” he replies, snaking his arms around your waist

“Thank you. You’re quite the looker yourself, you know.”

“Well, you know…” Josh trails off, blushing, still not very good at taking a compliment from you

You set down your makeup brush and turn to face him, throwing your arms around his neck

The look on his face is one of absolute glee as you smile at him, softly pressing yourself to his front

“What time is the photoshoot, anyway?” you ask, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw

“No idea,” he answers, kicking the bathroom door shut

Danny

Blushy boi!!

He had walked into your shared hotel room to grab his wallet before dinner, not realizing you were still changing

“Oh god, I’m so sorry! I thought you already went downstairs. I’m so sorry-”

He apologizes profusely, even as you laugh and tell him not to worry about it

The two of you had spent the previous night together, so who cares?

Sure, it had been your first time together, but still

Nevertheless, Danny is still a gentleman

So he turns around as you pull on your dress for that evening’s events

You place a hand around the crook of his elbow to let him know you’re decent, kissing him on the shoulder

“How do I look?” you ask him, grinning wide at his still-red cheeks

“You look beautiful, babe, as always,” he assures you, kissing your forehead

“Thanks. The lingerie was supposed to be a surprise for later, but that’s okay. You got a little preview,” you add cheekily, bumping your hip against his

Danny follows you down to the restaurant, smiling to himself bc he knows he’s gonna get it later

And that’s still nothing in comparison to the excitement of knowing you belong to him

You smile to yourself in turn when his hands brush along your body all evening, knowing you’ve got him wrapped around your finger

Jake

Plays it cool, but there’s a tinge of pink on his cheeks

He had let himself into the apartment, per your text, to find you in your underwear in the bed room

He turns to the side, averting his eyes, so that you can cover up a bit

But you don’t cover up at all

You had told him to come early for a reason, anyway

You were pleasantly surprised when he made no move to have sex after the first date, but you want him now

Jake tries so hard to just keep staring at the wall, don’t look at her for the love of God, but you walk up behind him and slide your arms around his waist

He can feel the lace of your bra through his shirt and it’s unbearably hot to him

“I hope I haven’t embarrassed you,” you murmur over his shoulder

Jake swallows, hard, and places his hands over yours

“Not at all. You…you’re gorgeous.”

“Jake?” Your voice is barely a whisper, mumbled into his hair

“Yeah?” His answer is equally quiet

“I don’t want to go to a movie tonight.”

Jake agrees, turning in your arms to face you

He reaches up to cradle you between his hands, leaning down to kiss you feverishly

Soon, all thoughts of a trip to the theater are forgotten as the two of you collapse together into a mess of tangled limbs

#gvf #greta van fleet #sam kiszka #jake kiszka #josh kiszka #danny wagner #hcs #writing #shut up shelby #anon

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Text

BTHB: Grabbed by the Hair

New @badthingshappenbingo piece: @special-spicy-chicken requested: Bthb grabbed by the hair for Nate?

Grabbed by the hair for Nate it is! Remember, bloodstain = requested, puppy sticker = fulfilled. Feel free to request off the bingo card or just, you know, anything - I’ve had requests for “please for the love of god let them be happy for six minutes”, “dog kennel/cage for Danny”, and my favorite ask so far “just please more Ashley please”.

Timeline: More than a year into Nate’s initial captivity with the Denners

CW: Knives, blood, forced shaving, manhandling, restraints, and some serious noncon-dubcon kissing and, uh, a bit more than that. Call it rated R? You have been warned/welcomed/disclaimed.

Tagging @bleeding-demon-teeth and @spiffythespook!

“I really don’t see why I h-have to do this,” Nate says, testing the leather buckled tightly around his wrists, subtly pulling to see if there’s any give. There isn’t, but he didn’t really expect there to be. Instead, the leather digs hard into his forearms and only seems to tighten with every hint of struggle, forced back and behind him, the inside of his elbows digging into the chair. He had to push himself against the wooden back, posture uncomfortably straight, just keep from aching. “I am perfectly capable of sh-sh-shaving myself.”

Shit, where the fuck did the stutter come from? He can’t even remember exactly when it started, a few weeks, maybe a couple of months ago. Like some connection between his brain and his mouth had gotten interrupted, living here, wires crossed. Breathing their air, cooking their food, sleeping with Bram, lost in his eyes every single time and it felt like it took longer and longer to come back, after.

Something had been snapped, inside of him, and he struggles now to speak where it had always, always been effortless before.

But he tries not to think about before. Bram always says it only makes things harder to try and remember a life before him. It’s easier if he doesn’t remember how proud he was to get his first teaching job, the time he’d spent putting together plans for that very first semester… just easier to live like he never did anything but wait around to be chosen, to be found.

(what kind of life did you live before me? no life at all, baby, so just forget it)

It’s just easier, to think of it that way - and still, in the back of his mind, Nate wonders if he can ever teach again. If Bram would let him, maybe, if he promised he’d come back home every day…

Don’t do this - this isn’t your fucking home. Don’t start thinking of it as home.

“I need the practice,” Ashley says with a shrug. She’s been back from a hunt for a few hours and she’s lit up from the inside out like she’s walked out of a lightning strike, wearing tiny black pajama shorts and a black tank top that does nothing to disguise the scratches she’s covered with, wounds from someone trying to defend themselves right to the end. They’re littered across her shoulders and neck, one thin mark up the side of her face. Her hair hangs lank and unwashed, totally unlike Bram’s shimmering waves of white-blonde, but predator snaps and cracks around her in the air, the deepest base-instinct part of Nate’s brain begging him to find some way to run.

When she leans over to look at him, the hairs stand up on his arms and the back of his neck. His hackles go up, around Ashley, and Nate hadn’t even realized people had hackles like this before her. He’d never been such a slave to his instincts before, to what he used to disparagingly call his ‘reptile brain’.

Reptile brain - primate brain, all the long millions of years of ancestors and evolution - begged him to do something, anything, to get himself out of this.

“Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I gave a man a good shave?” She sighs, mournfully, and her eyes are so like Bram’s but where things shift and move beneath the ice-blue surface in his, Ashley’s eyes are flat. Featureless. Empty.

If Bram’s eyes are a lake with monsters lurking just beneath, Ashley’s are a glacial desert where all the life has long since been desiccated and blown away in the wind. There might be bones inside Ashley, but nothing more.

“In general, or wh-where he survived the shave?” Nate is proud of the sarcastic note in his voice, his refusal to let his nervousness infect it. He settles himself back into the kitchen chair they’ve moved into the upstairs bathroom, eyeing the items laid out on the sink. It’d be a little reassuring if his ankles hadn’t been tied to the chair legs, at least, but no… he’s pretty thoroughly strapped down at this point, and he trusts Ashley Denner with a straight razor about as far as he can kick her.

Not that he technically wants to be anywhere near her, but with the two of them, he doesn’t get much of a choice.

Ashley snorts. “Oh, they rarely survived it. But they could have, if I had wanted them to. I just…” She waves one hand carelessly in the air, and Nate tries not to watch her fingers move. There’s always blood under her fingernails and ground into her knuckles, like a farmer’s hands caked in ancient dirt. “You know how it is.”

“No,” Nate says evenly. “I d-don’t.”

“You will,” She replies, a hint of irritation in her voice - but it’s a resigned, affectionate irritation, and he watches her eyes move to Bram, the indulgent smile on her face. “According to my brother, if he ever gets off his ass to dedicate you.”

“Not ready yet,” Bram says from behind him. “You know if they’re not ready, it doesn’t work.”

“Like me,” Ashley says, thinking, one bony narrow hip jutting to the side. There’s a flash of pale stomach were her tank top rides up, just a little, and Nate swallows back disgust at the deep fingernail scratches there, too - slowly closing up. By tomorrow morning they’ll be gone. “I wasn’t ready, and it didn’t work all the way.”

“Not like you, Ash. You were still ready. It still worked. Just… well. You came out of it just fine, right?”

“Did I?” Ashley’s eyes go down to Nate’s. There’s a flash of a smile, bright and shining, just like Bram’s smile but entirely devoid of the warmth, the affection, the love he gives. “Did I come out all right, d’you think, Nate?”

Nate doesn’t flinch away from her. Never flinch, they hate it when you pull away from them. Instead, he raises one eyebrow very slowly. It’s a skill he practiced over and over in the mirror, once upon a time. “That r-remains to be seen,” He says, and his voice is low and deep and perfectly even. It gives absolutely nothing away

Ashley’s smile widens, something dangerous and murderous there, and she spins to pick up the straight razor and leather strop. Nate lets out a breath of air all at once, telling himself he won this round.

“Ssshhhh, you’re okay,” Bram murmurs behind him, sitting on the edge of the old claw-footed tub. He’s perched there like some malevolent fucking pigeon in his own loose pants and shirt, feet resting on the spindle on the back of Nate’s chair, just below his hands.

Ashley and Bram might be dressed, but Nate has to be naked for the whole goddamn experience, apparently. Which he absolutely does not appreciate, especially not because when he looks up he can see himself in the mirror, the thinner face and shadows under his eyes, the bruises across his neck and body, bandages where Bram cuts him every fucking night.

If only he didn’t get so lost in Bram, lost enough to like it, he might be less ashamed of them.

“I know I’m okay,” Nate says softly, turning his head a little to catch the flash of clean, shining wavy hair behind him, the hint of Bram’s black shirt and pants, the curve of a shoulder. It’s all blurred in his peripheral vision, but still, he can see it well enough.

Bram’s presence is a constant cold along his back, the knowledge that he will melt away and fade, sooner or later, like he always, always does. But Nate turns his eyes back to Ashley, for now, and his mind stays clear.

Ashley slides the blade of the razor back and forth on the strip of leather, humming tunelessly to herself, and Nate finds his eyes caught on a particularly deep scratch that runs up her left arm, nearly from elbow to shoulder. “Wh-why did you l-let yourself get hurt like that?” He asks, and she pauses in her movements, a slow smile on her wide lips, nostalgic and starry-eyed when she turns to look back at him.

Schlip. Schlip. Schlip. The razor picks its rhythm back up, the sharp blade that will soon be at his cheeks, his chin, his neck.

“Because I was bored,” She replies, simply. “And starving. I let him think he had a chance, for a while. I like to play.” She sighs, dreamily, and Nate thinks of one of his students sitting in his office one day, sighing like that about one of the books he’d been teaching, thinking the hero was so romantic, and misunderstood, and Nate had thought to himself, Percy Shelley would have loved you. Briefly.

“When I’m done, I want him to cook me a steak,” Ashley says not to Nate himself but to Bram behind him. Schlip, schlip, schlip, goes the slow and steady rhythm of the razor on the strop. Nate tries not to listen, but feels something in him relax in relief - if she wants him to cook her a steak, she’s not going to kill him.

Not today.

“Mmmmn, when you’re done I need about forty-five minutes with him first,” Bram retorts, and Nate’s heart drops to his stomach, his eyes lowering to the tile floor. He’s scrubbed this grout for hours to get it clean after years of their mostly-benign neglect. “Then he’ll cook you a steak. He’ll be bloody, though.”

Ashley is silent, but Nate doesn’t look up, not this time.

“I like it bloody,” She says, finally. “I always like it bloody.”

“Mine,” Bram warns her, and one cold hand slides over Nate’s shoulder and down over his collarbone, fingertips skimming the line of the bone under his skin. His voice goes low and serious. Wolves fighting over an elk leg. “Not yours. He’s mine.”

“I meant the steak, of course, you jealous baby,” Ashley says with an affectionate sneer, and puts the straight razor down for the moment. She turns on the sink, and with a low gurgle of ancient pipes, the water starts to run in a constant, reassuring rush of sound as they wait for it to warm.

The main bathroom in this old house is halfway between the two largest bedrooms, right in the center of the hallway, just next to the staircase down to the first floor. Nate keeps it as clean as he can - Bram and Ashley don’t clean for themselves, and Nate had at first promised himself he wouldn’t turn into some kind of fucking servant, but that had lasted until he couldn’t take their squalor any longer.

Now it was all clean, which at least was reassuring, since he was pretty certain he wouldn’t die of an infection, even if he died of whatever they did when Bram lost this weird delusion he had that they were in some kind of relationship.

“Now, Nate,” Bram says in a voice that’s not quite a purr, right into his ear so he jumps at the sudden loudness of the sound. How does he move so fucking silently? “Ashley is going to give you a shave, with a straight razor. They used to do this way back-"

“I know,” Nate cuts in, his voice slightly softer for Bram than it is for Ashley. When Bram’s fingers graze the back of his neck and slide up into the back of his black hair, he swallows against the little shiver of pleasure down his spine, the faintest curl of warmth. Bram knows him by now, every inch of him, knows exactly where to touch and when and how much. “I know h-how shaving worked. I t-t-taught fucking 18th and 19th century lit, Bram. Historical context is k-kind of important. Everyone’s s-seen old-style shaving now, anyway, in Sweeney Todd or s-something.”

There’s a pause, and the arm over his chest tightens. Ashley shrugs, carelessly, her eyes on Bram behind him, and Nate finds himself laughing a little. The sound is a low, warm rumble pulled out of him against his will, and next to his ear he hears Bram hum a little in appreciation at the sound.

Nate doesn’t laugh very often, here. Not when his mind is still his own. When his mind is Bram’s, and he stops fighting the pull, sometimes he laughs all the time in the dark.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know what Sweeney Todd is.”

Ashley frowns, turning back to the array of tools laid out on the sink, her back to him. There’s a scratch along one shoulder blade, a couple of bruises. They’ll heal up over the course of a day and be gone. Nate has seen it happen, over and over and over again. Small wounds simply disappear, like they never happened. But deeper wounds stick - Ashley came home with a bullet in her shoulder weeks ago and she’s still healing from that - and there’s something there he can use, if he can only figure it out.

“We don’t do a lot of popular entertainment,” Bram says, fingernails scratching gently into his scalp, soothing and pleasant. “Maybe you can take me out sometime, Nate. I’ll see a show with you.”

Nate goes still, mind working, and Ashley laughs at him. “Oh, don’t look so hopeful. You’d be lost the whole time. He’s not stupid. Now let’s get that shit off your face.” Her eyes, identical to Bram’s but somehow totally different at the same time, flick up to meet her brother’s just behind his head.

“I like him better clean-shaven,” Bram says, his voice low and sweet and Nate finds himself curling his fingers until his hands are fists, cuffed together behind the back of the chair. “Always have. I think he’s been refusing to shave just to bother me.”

“Honestly, Brammie, just make him.” Ashley flashes a sharp-toothed smile, turning to the sink to pick up a washcloth as steam began to show from the water running from the faucet, finally hot. She stuck her hand right under the flow of water, letting the washcloth soak it up. That was another thing Nate had noticed, and didn’t know if he could use - they didn’t seem to feel heat very easily, either of them. Dead nerves, maybe? He’s been here for a year or so, trying to figure them out, trying to decide how to escape, and slowly beginning to wonder if there would ever be a chance for that. “He’s yours, right? Just look him in the eye and tell him to shave.”

“Hm, tried that.” Bram’s arm tightens a little around his chest, almost defensively. “He’s not so good with dexterity when he’s like that. Cut himself pretty badly.”

“Oh.” Ashley pauses, chewing on her bottom lip in confusion, then brightens. “Oh! I remember that. I thought you did that to him. You know, like…” She gestures at the bandage across Nate’s shoulder, the newest one from last night.

(listen to you… you like that, huh?)

Nate turned his head to the side, trying not to feel the way his face reddened at the reminder.

(every second of the life you lived without me was a waste of your potential, darling, we’re going to make something special out of you)

“Sadly, no. You know I don’t want to fuck up my darling’s face, Ash. Come on, let’s get him shaven. You’re the one who said you wanted to do this. I’m the one letting you. So let’s get it done.”

Ashley grins like light glinting dully off a rusty, bloody blade. Nate holds perfectly still for her, letting her rub the hot washcloth over his chin, his jaw, up over his cheeks and down his neck. The cool air kisses the wet skin afterward, making him shiver, goosebumps rising up his arms.

Bram’s arm around him tightens, and the grip on his hair slowly pulls his head back and back and back, until he can see Bram looming over him, the gentle sweetness of his smile as he leans down to slowly kiss Nate’s forehead, lingering there for just a moment.

Nate closes his eyes before he can look right at Bram’s.

He needs to be in his right mind for this, but he couldn’t have said why. Being in his right mind never did him any good.

Ashley takes a small boar’s hair brush with a knobbed wooden handle that fit perfectly in the palm of her hand, the end somewhat pale with what Nate was beginning to think might be centuries of use. She holds that under the hot water, too, taking up her humming again.

“The solitary bird of night,” Ashley sang, in a cracked soprano, vibrato trilling in her throat like an actress from the 1950’s. “Through the thick shades now wings his flight…”

She dips the brush into a small bowl, swirling it around. Nate keeps his eyes closed, listening to the clink of the brush against the side of the bowl. He could picture it, because he’d tried shaving the old-fashioned way a time or two himself (with a safety razor, because he wasn’t a murderous psychopath), the way the soap lathers up in a rush of whitish liquid and tiny bubbles. The scent of something clean drifts his way.

“Brammie, will you do the honors?” Ashley asks as she turns back around.

Bram’s grip on his hair tightens even more and he’s bent over the wooden back of the chair, the back of his neck digging hard into the old, worn-smooth wood. His back arches as his throat is fully exposed to her, and Nate holds back a nervous whine, just barely swallowing it back.

The only sound he makes is a gasp.

“Hold still for my Ashley, okay, sweetness?” Bram presses a kiss to the side of his forehead again, as Ashley leans over him.

Too close, the predator is too close, the prey instinct in him is screaming. Run, you have to run, the predator is too close.

His hands yank hard at the leather cuffs again, he’s breathing in audible panting gasps, his heart pounding in his chest in a sudden burst of fear. Ashley smiles at him, leaning over and steadying herself with a hand on his leg, thumb digging hard into the flat space just inside his hip, ice-cold palm settling over his thigh.

Run. Fucking run. These are the wolves and you are the wounded deer. Run.

He can’t run. He’s tied to a chair in a bathroom in a home he woke up in one day with no idea where he is. He’s being held by a brother and sister who seem to bristle and brighten at his fear, who look at him with pinprick pupils, whose eyes will drag him down into the darkness with them.

She lathers his neck and face with the little brush, and Nate clenches his eyes shut, trying to keep breathing through his nose, while Bram’s grip in his hair just grows tighter and tighter. She won’t kill me, he won’t let her kill me was a comforting thought but it wasn’t like it didn’t mean she couldn’t hurt him. God knew Bram hurt him all the time…

But usually Bram wanted him to enjoy it, and he is not being forced to enjoy this.

“He’s so scared already,” Ashley whispers playfully, bopping the end of his nose with the lathered brush, leaving a dollop of the white soap there. “I haven’t even started shaving yet. Hey, little man, what makes you so scared of me?”

Nate doesn’t answer her - there’s a retort in his mind, some kind of witty reply, but the connection between brain and mouth has been totally severed by the panic pumping adrenaline-soaked blood through his veins.

He doesn’t see her pick up the razor, but he flinches hard at the first pass of the cold blade, gentle as a whisker's brush from a cat, along his cheek, pulling his head to the side.

Ashley hisses. “Bad,” She snaps. “Hold still for me or this is going to get fucking bloody. Brammie, he knows the rules.”

Never flinch. Never pull away. Never flinch away from Bram or Ashley. Never pull away

Don’t flinch don’t flinch don’t flinch

“S-sorry,” He gasps out, as her thumbnail digs hard into his hipbone, a subtle, small flash of pain. A reminder. “Sorry, I f-f-flinched, g-g-give me a sec, I just, give me a s-second-”

“Sshhhh, I’ll allow it this time,” Bram murmurs, loving and sweet. His head aches where Bram is holding him but his fingers are so twisted into the thick black hair that Nate can’t possibly hope to pull himself free. “Breathe, baby. Breathe. There you go. Take it slow... slow and deep.”

"That’s what Nate said,” Ashley says gleefully, and she laughs, the shattered-glass sound, a broken echo of her brother.

“I really regret letting you watch that show,” Bram says, but there’s humor in his voice. “You’ve never stopped doing that since.”

“Oh, like you let me do anything,” Ashley snorts. “I do what I want. Now hold your fucking Prince Charming still or I’m gonna cut the shit out of him.”

“Will you hold still for my Ashley, now, Nate? Please, baby? Be good for me.” Bram coos the words more than says them, and Nate manages a silent, terse nod, letting Bram bend his head back again.

“I-I’ll be good,” He whispers, barely moving his mouth, words for Bram alone. “I can b-be good for you."

Bram hums, low in his throat. “I love you so much, baby,” He whispers just as the straight razor touches Nate’s cheek again. This time he holds still, he’s as still as a statue, as still as the bloody Jesus in the church when he was a child and his grandparents were still alive. Still as the saints at their weekly mass. Still as the God who never answered his prayers when he made them, and who seemed horribly dead and blind to him now.

Nate holds himself as still as the grave that waited, somewhere, for Bram to get bored of him.

Ashley lets the weight of the razor do most of the work, a gentle shave he can really barely feel, the blade only just touching his skin enough to shave off the stubble he had been stubbornly growing. His breathing starts, slowly, to calm.

Both cheeks, across his chin, just above his upper lip. Her movements are quick and expert, gentle as a lamb. The blade isn’t a cut, it’s a kiss.

Down his neck, and he tenses again, but his body is tired of trying to throw adrenaline at the problem and it’s easier to keep still this time. He focuses on the pull of Bram’s fingers in his hair, on the cold arm across his chest, on the thumb still digging hard into his hip.

Being naked felt vulnerable. Baring his throat to a fucking animal wearing a woman’s face feels worse.

She lathers him up again, takes another pass with the razor, slower this time. Taking her sweet, sweet time. And the longer it goes on, the more his heartbeat slows, the stronger he feels. Not so bad. It’s not so bad. She’s not hurting him, beyond the bruise he thinks will be on his hip in the morning from the pressure of her thumb.

Bram won’t let her hurt him, as long as he’s good. As long as Bram still loves him, he will get to stay alive.

Have to be good.

Stay alive.

Finally she steps back to grab the washcloth, washing the remaining bits of lather off his face and the end of his nose, surveying her work. “What d’you think, Brammie?”

Bram lets go of his hair and Nate gasps in relief, letting his head fall back forward. The arm is removed from his chest and Bram slips off the edge of the tub and comes around in front of him, the siblings standing side by side.

So alike, and totally different.

They cross their arms in front of themselves, and Nate fights back a hint of hysterical laughter at the image, looking at them from beneath the sweep of his hair, his chin still slightly tucked. Bram sighs and leans down, taking him by the chin and lifting it hard so he’s forced to look up.

Nate closes his eyes immediately.

He wants to stay here, as long as he can, in this place where he has his own mind.

“I think you did a great job,” Bram says after turning his face side to side, looking him over. “Didn’t miss a spot. You’ve always been so good at this, haven’t you?”

“I like razors.” Ashley shrugs and turns back to the sink. “Something wickedly sharp, right up against the blood under the skin. What’s not to like? I need to clean all of this. Take your boy and go.” She turns to look back at them, and catches Nate’s eyes. Something mocking is in her smile. “I’ll give you an hour, I’m a generous woman and I’ve decided to take a bath. Then I want my goddamn steak.”

“An hour it is.” Bram drops into a crouch, undoing the ropes that tie Nate’s ankles to the chair legs with quick movements born from long experience. Nate could kick him in the face like this, he thinks, but it wouldn’t do him any good and he doesn’t dare.

When he pulls Nate to his feet, he stumbles a little, but there’s an arm around him and a kiss to his damp neck, and Nate tilts his head back for it, swallowing hard against the curl of disgust and something darker deep inside him.

“She did a god job,” Bram whispers into his jaw, and Nate shudders. “Thanks, Ash.”

“No problem. Ugh, you’re disgusting with him, Brammie.” Ashley waves a hand at them, rinsing the brush out under the hot water again. “Get him the fuck out of my bathroom and go fuck him blind already.”

“I'm on it, big sister.” Bram laughs, barking and high-pitched, and Nate closes his eyes against the flinch he has to force down inside of himself, with all the other true feelings he has to hide, layered on each other like corpses in a plague grave.

“B-Bram, my… my wrists, will you m-maybe take the, the cuffs off?” He asks it softly, keeping his voice low and maybe a little flirty, the way Bram likes. If he can just have control over one thing, just one small thing, it’s easier.

Bram pauses, then the arm around him tightens. “No, baby. I want them on.”

Nate lets out a breath and slowly nods, looking down at the ground as Bram leads him out of the room. He's stumbling a little on legs that had fallen asleep while he was in the chair, pinpricks and static straight up his ankles as his feet were forced back awake.

“You want this, baby, right?” He blinks in surprise at the question, looking up, realizing only too late that it was a trick. Bram smiles as their eyes meet, and after a second, Nate smiles back at him.

Screaming in the back of his mind, hoarse and deafening, furious and helpless.

“You b-bet I do,” Nate breathes out loud, low with the sudden push of desire inside of him, and when Bram tilts his chin up for the kiss Nate moves forward first, pressing his lips to Bram’s, warm life to cold death, and he lets the dead thing take him, lets Bram pull him down the hallway by one arm, smiles when he’s shoved onto his back on the bed, arching his spine to try and take some weight off the arms still forced behind him and cuffed together with leather.

It’s easier, to let it take him, to let the dark things pull him under.

Just an hour.

It’s only going to be an hour.

He can go away for an hour, and that won’t be so bad. Then he'll come back again.

Bram on top of him is ice pressing down on his lungs, seeping under his skin, infecting every blood cell. There's a knee on either side of his thighs, a cold hand sliding up over his ribcage on one side, and Bram's mouth licks up his neck, trails of wet he blows cool air over that lights a heat in him, an electricity under his skin. Nate shifts under the attention, squirms a little when fingernails scrape over sensitive spots, press lightly against yesterday’s and last week’s bruises.

“Mmmmn, smooth,” Bram whispers as he kisses his neck, nips at the skin, teeth grazing just deeply enough for a hint of pain. Nate breathes in, holds for five, breathes out. His heart beats hard against his chest, but there’s no fear left, and his heart pounds for a different reason entirely now.

“Such a close, smooth shave,” Bram murmurs into the line of Nate’s jaw, and Nate swallows hard, pressing his hips up into Bram’s until the pressure is a warm rush of pleasure that shatters his thoughts, gives Bram an invitation for more. He pretends that he can’t hear the screaming trapped in the back of his own mind.

He pretends he is smooth, and cold, and empty. He pretends he is just like them.

Just for an hour.

And then again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. It stretches out ahead of him, endless days of this. When Bram picks the knife up off the bedside table and slips it into the skin along his collarbone, cutting him apart as easily as silk, he hisses at the pain at the same moment Bram bites hard into his neck and the cold hand slides down his hips and finds him hardening under the attention.

"L-look at me," Nate manages to whisper, not quite begging. "J-just look at m-me, Bram, first, please. Before you... before there’s more."

Bram lifts his head - and the pain and pleasure mix in him. When the ice eyes meet his, he can't tell the two apart any longer, and his hips buck to meet the seeking hand, the cold fingers, to ask for more even as warm blood trickles down his shoulder to soak into the sheets.

"Y-yes," Nate breathes. "Just keep looking at me. J-just like th-that."

"I love you, baby," Bram says, so sweetly, and the new slice along his collarbone bleeds and aches and Bram's hand moves and he is lost, he is so fucking lost.

Nate moans softly and smiles up at him, dazed and foggy and gone somewhere far within his own mind. "I l-love you, too, honey," he says, low and hoarse, his voice heavy and slightly thick.

One day I'm going to get out of this.

I just don't know how or if I'll be alive when I do.

"Please," Nate whispers, his hands clenched into fists against the sheets, cuffed together behind his back, Bram's hips moving against his. "Please."

"What, baby?'

"Just please d-don't stop looking at m-m-me when you hurt me."

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