#veins become infected and spread along the burns deep under skin

[pechrpeach]

Void Burns - Lizzie

(Finale countdown pt.2)

#second of the loner povs #will do scar’s last to motivate myself to finish all of the before the last ep drops #finale countdown #trafficblr #life series #secret life #secret life fanart #life series fanart #ldshadowlady #ldshadowlady fanart #lizzie ldshadowlady #secret life ldshadowlady #secret life lizzie #they’re called void burns #when healed the skin is stained the color of the void #veins become infected and spread along the burns deep under skin #even where there wasn’t direct contact #pech’s art

[inkykeiji]

you be the match, i will be your fuse

fluffy anon said: dabi coming home after an absolutely horrid day at work and just needing to be absolutely BABIED by reader (i’m talking cuddling in bed, taking a bath with him and washing his hair then getting out just rubbing his back as he sleeps with his head on your chest)

genre: angst + fluff, laced with just a hint of smut (like two sentences)

notes: aaaah happy birthday dabi!!! this has absolutely nothing to do with your birthday but eeee ily | title cred: sure thing by miguel

warnings: 18+, implied/mentioned death of a child, one instance of implied past physical abuse, self-destructive behaviour + coping mechanisms, co-dependent toxic relationship

words: 3.5k

It’s thundering the day it happens, ferocious growls that rumble through your apartment—a tiny, quaint space you share with Dabi, full of faulty appliances and cracked linoleum—rolling, fluffy grey clouds blanketing the entire sky, swollen with restrained rain droplets as a storm brews within them. Little fingers idly toy with the yellowed pages of your worn pulp fiction novel, flipping through them and bending corners as your eyes search the angry sky, chewing on your cheek.

Dabi should’ve been home by now. It’s not like him to be late without calling, without letting his babygirl know what’s going on—he knows the way you worry, the way you overthink yourself into a frenzy, the way you’re so clingy and needy, teases you about it incessantly and tells you he thinks it’s cute—and a deep sense of dread takes root in the pit of your stomach, dark and bitter and unfurling, quickly spreading throughout the cavity of your chest.

His phone must be off—no, it’s never off, he doesn’t do that anymore, not since you stumbled into his life—his phone must be dead, your repeated calls growing increasingly frequent and urgent every time you’re greeted with the drone of his automatic voicemail.

Something’s wrong, horribly so.

It’s evident the moment he arrives home, scratched brass doorknob slamming against the wall, deepening the crater its left from past incidents of a similar manner.

It infects the air around him, hanging heavy and thick, its dense presence nearly suffocating. His shoulders slump under the pressure, the weight of whatever he’s carrying practically crushing, as he drags his crimson splattered boots through the front door, soles scraping against the cheap hardwood, bringing the putrid scent of charred flesh with him—his or someone else’s, you don’t know.

You swear you can almost see it, this—this thing, this aura, enveloping him in its haughty embrace as his chest heaves under a deep, controlled breath, pausing in the foyer as the door shuts behind him.

Bare feet pad against the floor, your legs moving without your explicit permission, drawn towards him in an almost instinctual manner, the desire to care for, to comfort, burning as it bubbles up in your chest, mixing with that intense sense of trepidation and invading your veins.

He permits you to wrap your arms around his torso as you nuzzle against him, body going rigid for a moment, still and stiff as marble, before he exhales again, melting into your embrace.

Several questions race through your mind at such a speed that they crash and clash together, becoming nothing more than incoherent jumbled lettering, tiny fingers curling in the fabric of his clothing as you try to pull him closer, nonsensical babbling spilling from your lips. A vacant ghost of a chuckle leaves his lips, nothing more than a simple huff of breath, and he squeezes you closer.

“Bad day?” the words are mumbled against his dirty t-shirt, what was once a pristine white now tarnished with ash and blood. You don’t get a response—you don’t expect one.

He doesn’t talk much, not on days like this.

He doesn’t need to.

Bad days—really bad, terrible, awful days such as this one—are surprisingly rare with Dabi. Sure, he’s had the typical ‘bad’ day before, where someone pisses him off, or he gets into a fight with his superior, but those bad days usually require railing you into your creaky, springy king-sized mattress until you’ve forgotten everything but his name and he’s fucked all of the anger and hatred out of his body.

They are not like this one. No, on days such as this, on days where he’s killed someone he deems to be innocent, someone who—like him—is a victim of heroism, he’s quiet, distant, unpredictable, bordering on unhinged, and you’ve learned to tread with extreme discretion.

But you don’t push, either, resolving to communicate through gentle touches, soft fingertips that run along his tense, broad shoulders and press into the hard coiled muscles, tender fingers that thread through inky tufts of hair, sapphire eyes closing as he hums and leans into the motion like a cat.

It’s only for a second, though, just a moment of weakness before he’s breaking out of your embrace, pushing past you and clearing his throat, glass door to the balcony sliding shut a moment later. 

You don’t follow. You know better than that now, a phantom sting in your cheek serving as a reminder, the resounding sharp sound of glass shattering as it’s hurled at the floor slicing through your mind with such viciousness it makes you wince. 

Instead, you sit. And you wait. Like you’re supposed to, like a good little girl, a book clutched between your quivering hands, unblinking eyes staring at the words on the page, nothing but incomprehensible symbols—lines and lines of black ink in meaningless shapes—as scorching sapphire loops through your mind.

Be a good girl, give him space, let him come to you. Be a good girl, give him space, let him come to you. Be a good girl. Give him space. Let him come to you.

It’s standard procedure, really.

And eventually, he does, comes back inside with an empty bottle of whiskey clutched in a hand, along with a crumpled package of cigarettes. You don’t know how long it’s been, muscles sore and joints aching from sitting in the same position for so long, eyes dry from staring at the same page, barely moving, barely breathing. His hand is bleeding, knuckles bruised and gleaming with sticky scarlet that’s still fresh and flowing, but it could be worse. It has been worse.

The harsh clink of the bottle against the kitchen counter makes you flinch, and he sighs, heavy and full of derision, eyes flicking up to glare at your side profile.

“I can hear you thinking,”

“You’re filthy, baby,” the words tumble past your lips, uncontrollable, involuntary, almost reflexive in your response, eyes snapping to his face and voice whiny, voice pleading. “Take a bath with me,”

And you can see it—can see it in the dark cobalt of his irises, what he needs, the very thing he’s fighting himself on, the very thing he’s fighting so hard against. Always so stubborn, so reluctant, so cautious.

Because, fuck, he used to be able to resist it, this pathetic ache for comfort—something that’s only managed to grow in your presence, that’s shifted and morphed from a dull smoldering to a raging fire, an insatiable longing for your fingers in his hair and your breath on his skin and your voice against his ear—a skill he’d been constructing, developing, perfecting, since he was thirteen years old. A skill you succeeded in shattering in the matter of a few measly months.

Because you—you’re different. And he hates it sometimes, he swears to the good Lord he does, but hating it doesn’t make it any less true. You break him down, you make him weak, you make him want, and the longer he spends around you, the more he finds that he doesn’t fucking care. And that’s irritating, that’s exciting, that’s terrifying, that’s new. 

Fury blisters his chest, his lungs, his throat as he holds your stare, jaw clenching twice. But you don’t falter, not like the rest of them, not like anyone else—everyone else. You never falter, always so eager to see the good in him, a snort leaving his nose at the thought. The good in him. Is there any good left in him? Was there ever any good in him in the first place? Are you the good in him, now? Does he care?

And he’s not sure he’ll ever understand it, but he’s beginning to realize that, maybe, he doesn’t have to. 

Maybe, it doesn’t matter. Maybe, it’s okay, if you love him, if he loves you.

Maybe.

It’s too much, and he can feel frustration stinging his eyes, long delicate eyelashes fluttering as he quickly blinks it away. Spears, sharp and cold, splinter your chest at the sight, but you know if you begin crying too, you’ll lose him. You know that if you begin showing what he considers weakness, he’ll pull away, even though this is what he so clearly needs most. 

So you steel yourself, swallowing hard against the pain collecting in your throat, will the tears away and force your body to stay calm, approaching him slowly as if he’s some sort of feral animal prone to lashing out. 

Apprehension is clear in his azure eyes, head tilting a little as they narrow, regarding you with skepticism, with suspicion. 

It’s bold, and dangerous, and—as far as Dabi’s concerned—fucking stupid, but you don’t care, determined to prove to him that you aren’t going anywhere regardless of how many tantrums he throws, no matter how many times he hurts you in his anguish. It’s almost desperate, really, this sheer need to prove to him that you aren’t scared of him, that irrespective of how soft he seems to think you are, you are strong, even if it’s in ways he could never understand, that you can be strong for him, when he needs it, that he can borrow some of your strength, if he needs to.

And that—that’s why he loves you. It hits him hard, as this realization always does, kicks him in the chest and knocks the breath out of him every time, and he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to it.

A tiny hand hangs in the air between the two of you, Dabi regarding the offer with a wary hesitance. Wiggling fingers attempt to entice him, earning a tiny smirk—a massive victory—as sapphire flits up to gaze at you through thick lashes, an eyebrow raised.

You match his expression, quirking an eyebrow of your own and nodding at your hand, speaking a moment later.

“Let me in, baby,” the words are barely above a whisper, but they’re so raw, filled with so much unadulterated love it hurts, pure and real and everything he’s never had before. “Let me help,”

And, God, it’s fucking overwhelming, how badly he wishes to give in to this unfamiliar compassion, how desperately he desires your affection, despite the malicious voice echoing off the walls of his skull, berating him for being so pathetic, so weak, so vulnerable.

But the urge to accept, to seek out consolation in you, wins, just as it always does, that nasty voice reverberating in his mind silenced the very instant his skin touches yours.

You let him make the last move, allow him to make that final decision entirely on his own accord, to grasp your hand in his, warm and rough, and pull you towards him, crushing you against his chest as he buries his face in your hair, eyes squeezed shut against that annoying burn of tears, chest stuttered with a hitched breath, air that gets caught in his throat as he chokes on the words he wants to say.

But he doesn’t need to say them. You already know.

“Come,” you murmur to him, fingers threading through the tufts of hair at the nape of his neck. “Let’s take a bath,”

     ✰          ✰          ✰

The bathwater stings your skin, just a hint too hot to be comfortable, but you say nothing as you settle onto his lap in the cramped little tub, encompassed by frothy bubbles, dainty scent of orange citrus tickling your nose.

Heated fingertips press into your hips as he finds comfort the only way he knows how to, in your precious little whimpers and broken moans of his name as he bounces you on his cock, so vigorously you’re positive you can feel him in your tummy, the pads of his fingers searing his prints into your skin.

It’s heady, it’s intoxicating, it’s addicting, heightened emotions both pleasant and unpleasant swirling together with the symphony of your cries and his grunts as the water you’re submerged in begins to bubble and boil, to crack and pop, sudsy liquid sloshing over the side of the tiny tub as he forces you to ride him, faster and faster and faster until you’re whining and convulsing around him, and he’s filling you with thick cum, cock throbbing aggressively as he spurts load after load into you.

After, as he leans back against the cold tile, residual droplets sizzling into steam as his heated skin touches them. Gentle fingers card between his hair, water cascading through onyx strands as it pours over his head from a worn plastic cup—a faded Darth Vader staring back at you as you rhythmically repeat your actions until the tresses stick to his forehead and cheeks, drenched and shining in the low light of the washroom.

Heavy lids obscure the most brilliant sapphire from you as shampoo is massaged into his scalp, slow and unhurried and thorough, every stroke, every comb through inky clumps easing the turmoil in his mind bit by bit, calming the storm that’s been raging inside of him for hours now. Deep hums rumble in his chest as your fingers continue their ministrations, your eyes trained on your motions. And you can feel it, the tension dissipating from his body with each circle of foam rubbed into his soft hair, shoulders finally beginning to relax as he subconsciously nuzzles into your touch, following it, longing for it, aching for more.

He shifts then, after you’ve rinsed the soap from his hair, manhandling you into a position between his thighs, bare chest pressed tightly against your back. You work hard to keep your body from tensing, forcing your breathing to stay even, to stay calm as you brace yourself for what’s coming next.

“He was eleven,” he says after several long moments of silence, voice low and trembling, hoarse and heavy with remorse. “This time.”

This time. That’s the third innocent civilian—innocent by his standards, at least—this month.

That’s the first time it’s ever been a child.

You don’t turn around to look at him, not yet—he isn’t finished—simply opting to lace your fingers through his and bring your joined hands to your lips, kissing each wounded knuckle, crude staples catching in the dim warm light of the tiny bathroom. 

You want to tell him it wasn’t his fault, even though it was. You want to tell him anything that’ll make him feel better, that’ll absolve the guilt so evidently gnawing away at his insides, even though you know there’s nothing you can say.

“What are—I don’t even—” his voice breaks and you feel his chest stutter against your back, feel him exhale harshly, breath cool on your damp shoulder, feel him swallow thickly as he tries again. Because as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, as much as he would never admit it, you know he needs release this from the confines of his mind—you know you’re the only person who can offer him such an outlet. “Why the fuck were there kids there in the first place? Huh? They shouldn’t—They shouldn’t have been there,”

Orphans are everywhere in this city, you murmur, lips moving against his rough skin. He knows. Orphans of heroes. He knows.

“I’m gonna kill Shigaraki, I swear to Christ. Sending us to a—a fucking place infested with fucking ch-children,” his fingers curl around yours, hand beginning to shake as it clutches you like a lifeline, like that guilt will devour him from the inside out, like he’ll disintegrate into nothingness, if he doesn’t. “I bet you he fucking knew—nah, I-I’m positive he did. Asshole only cares about himself, though. Doesn’t matter that—that the cause we’re supposed to be fighting for affects these stupid kids,”

You’re right, love.

The words leave your lips in a gentle breath, leaning your head back against his collarbone and staring up at him. Cobalt eyes stay trained on the cracked tile wall, jaw methodically clenching as his molars grind together, an attempt to quell the trembling of his chin, exhaling hard harsh breaths through flared nostrils.

“Whatever,” he huffs, voice still wavering and not nearly as self-assured as he wishes. “Th-That brat shouldn’t have been there in the first place,”

He shouldn’t have, you agree, finally squirming in his grasp, turning to face him, to straddle his hips again in the tight space of the tub. And he welcomes your affections readily this time, arms encircling your waist as he holds you tightly to him, blunt nails digging purple-tinged crescents into your flesh as he shoves his face against your neck, finally allowing those emotions he’s been fighting to leak from his eyes and absorb into your skin.

Little palms rub soothing circles into his back as he shudders against you, allowing him to empty his soul onto you as soft lips press chaste kisses to his damp hair, waiting until there’s nothing left, until his eyes are drained, azure glassy and bloodshot, nose twitching and red.

And after he’s done, when he finally pulls back, scrubbing aggressively at his nose as tiny sniffles hitch in his chest, gentle fingers begin to lather soap into his skin, washing away the dirt and grime and blood from the day. Fingertips carefully trace along the metal sutures decorating his body with immeasurable adoration, you whispering all of the things he so desperately needs to hear that he’d never dare to ask for, complimented by the tender touches that cleanse his soul with their unconditional love.

He’s bigger than you are, but that doesn’t stop you from trying to wrap him in a fluffy white towel, using another in an attempt to dry his hair as your hands move in shaggy motions, heart soaring in your chest when you pull a soft laugh from his lips, wet and wobbly and croaky, but a laugh nonetheless.

A mutual silence, gentle and comforting and stuffed full of an immense love, a special kind of love, a love words do not exist to explain, swathes your bodies as he allows you to dress him, pulling a ratty old band tee over his head and a pair of plaid PJ pants up his legs.

“You always look so cute in my clothes,” he rasps from his spot perched on the edge of the bed, glowing crystal eyes watching as you pull one of his t-shirts over your naked body.

A genuine bubble of laughter erupts from your throat as you climb into bed with him, immediately allowing him to latch onto you, to pull you towards him, to hold you close like his own personal plushie.

“Sleep,” you murmur as the two of you settle into a comfortable position, limbs tangled together, his head resting on your chest, fingers threading through his hair and then tracing down his neck, his back. “And then I’ll make you ramen,”

“The spicy kind?”

“Of course,”

I love you.

“Extra spicy?”

Laughing again, you feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin, grip around your torso tightening. “Extra spicy. Now, rest,”

More than anything else.

“With the little fish cakes?”

“Your favourite little fish cakes,”

More than words could ever tell you.

“And the pork belly?”

“And the pork belly,” you feel his chest rise with an inhale, hastily adding, “And those little cream puffs you love so much, from that dingy convenience store downstairs, for dessert. Now sleep, baby,”

He laughs, even though his vision is blurring, even though it comes out more strangled than anything else, because he doesn’t want to cry again, because his chest stings and aches and swells and warms, full of inexplicable emotions, feels like it’s going to fucking burst as it chokes and reinvigorates him all at once, and—God, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

Because even though he’s terrified beyond belief, he’s willing to try—just for you, only for you—as he continually realizes with each passing day that he isn’t sure what the fuck he’d do without you, now. Because you’re too entangled up in his life, too deeply embedded in his very soul, for him to ever remove you, now. Because as petrifying and unfamiliar as it is, he doesn’t want to, now.

Because even though he’s broken, irrevocably so, and you can’t fix him, won’t fix him, you’ll still stay, to hold those pieces so gently, so tenderly in your hands, you’ll still protect those fragments and keep them from shattering further, you’ll still give them the affection and devotion they need, the affection and devotion they deserve. Because you love every part of him, even the bad ones, even the shards with jagged edges that cut into the soft flesh of your palms every time you caress them.

Because you accept him wholeheartedly, flaws and all, and that’s—he’s never experienced anything like that before, this unlimited, unreserved, unquestioning love. And although he doesn’t know how to say this, isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to find the right words to communicate it, he’s beginning to learn that unfamiliar doesn’t always mean bad; that sometimes, it’s okay—it’s good—to be vulnerable. He’s beginning to learn that with you, in the warmth of your shitty little apartment, with the stove that only has two functioning burners and the fridge that’s perpetually too cold, he can be, without judgement, without fear, without trepidation.

Because you are his only salvation, and he wouldn’t trade this for the goddamn world.

#dabi x reader #dabi x you #dabi #todoroki touya #dabi fluff #dabi angst #aaaah this HURT #anyway big big big thank yous to mister for helping me come up with what we think dabi's favourite food would be #HAPPY BIRTHDAY DABIIIIIII

[thewayofthetrashcompactor]

For @kuresoto for day 4 of @reylo-au week!

[Day 1 - Modern | Day 2 - Historical | Day 3 - Canon Divergent | Day 4 - Fantasy | Day 5 - Cyberpunk | Day 6 - Crossover | Day 7 - Free Day]

also on ao3

Rating: T Words: 1382

Ben ran through the corridors of Snoke’s fortress, Rey's weak and pale form limp in his arms. In daylight, most of the inhabitants still slept, which was the only advantage they'd gotten so far. He hadn't figured how he would get her out in the sun and to help yet, but he was determined a solution would present itself, even if he had to burn to ash to do it. He knew the secret corridors of his former master’s stronghold, but the time for subtlety had long passed. He wasn't sure he could fight off any more of Snoke's minions, who would have no idea what had happened to their leader, and still protect Rey. His choice in the throne room had been difficult enough.

Snoke had thought he'd known exactly what he was doing, half draining Rey and presenting her to his apprentice, but Ben's choice had never been what you'd master expected. He couldn't deny the entrancing scent of her blood, but the even the thought of drinking from her, stealing any of her life away, made him ill. Logically, he knew that he could never have saved Rey and gotten them out of the throne room alone without first killing Snoke, but he couldn't help but regret the time it had taken. Even while slowly bleeding out, Rey had still managed to hold her own against the guards, long enough for him to take his opening.

He looked down at her again and his breath caught in his throat at how pale she'd become. For as long as he'd known her, she'd always radiated light, her skin kissed by the sun. Everything he wasn't. Now, it couldn't be clearer that she was slipping further away from him by the second. He quickened his pace, wincing as his steps jolted her.

“Ben,” she groaned, and his arms tightened around her.

“It's alright,” he assured her uselessly. “I'll get you to the Resistance; they'll help you. You'll be fine.” He choked over the words.

(continued under cut)

She shook her head. “Stop. Put me down.”

He paused but still held on to her. “Rey,” he pleaded.

“I can't --” She broke off to catch her breath. “The running makes it worse. Please.”

Reluctantly, he knelt on the floor with her in his arms. There was nowhere to put her but the stone floors and walls, so he cradled her in his lap. “Just for a minute,” he bargained, running his hand through her hair. “We can still make it.”

She leaned her head into his touch, but shook it again. “No. You know how this has to go.”

Tears swelled over his cheeks and down his face. He bit his lip, tasting the stale blood there. He must have cut it during the fight. Blood from the guards and from Snoke already coated both of them, along with fresh blood from her own wounds. He felt the press of his fangs. It would be so easy to --

He shook the idea away, rejecting it. “I can't. You know that, Rey, I can't do that to you, can't curse you like…”

She reached up and grabbed the front of his shirt, her grip stronger than it should have been. He grunted as she pulled him down to her. “I swear to you, Ben Solo, if you let me die out of some misguided chivalry because you think you’re saving me, I will haunt you to your grave. Do you hear me?”

He gave a huff of laughter through his tears. “I do,” he murmured. He couldn’t help his reluctance though, the feeling that he’d be stripping something from her if he went through with what she wanted. “If I do this, I can’t… There’s no going back.”

“Death has a way of sticking around as well,” she said dryly. “I know what I’m asking, Ben.”

He breathed out slowly, shakily, and nodded. “Okay. We should --” He looked around, but the hallway was just as empty of any kind of comfort as it had been before.

“Ben,” Rey said softly, and his gaze was inevitably pulled back to hers. “I don’t have time. Now.”

“Right.” He curled his arms around her, glancing down her body. He could bite open a vein, maybe at his wrist, feed her the poison that way. His tongue swiped nervously along his lip, tracing over his fangs. The sharp taste of blood still lingering there made everything fall into place.

He braced himself, taking a deep breath, then wrapped his arm around her waist, spreading one hand over her back, and cradled her head and neck in the other. She held her breath as he leaned over her, the air still between them just before his lips met her skin. He ducked away from his goal, leaving a lingering kiss on the corner of her mouth. Her skin was cool under his lips, reminding him of what had to be done.

“Ben,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said, lips brushing her cheek. He bit down on his lower lip, fangs digging in until the blood dripped down onto her. She turned her head slightly until her mouth was under his and, finally, he lowered his lips to hers.

He had a moment to enjoy the kiss before his blood took hold in her. Despite their chill, her lips were soft and eager against his, pressing up as much as she could. He caressed her, thumb brushing over her cheek, and her hand smoothed over his chest where it was still wrapped in his shirt. Her tongue traced the shape of his mouth, then pulled his bloodied lip between hers and sucked. It wasn’t the most efficient way to turn someone, but it did its job quickly. She swallowed, his blood sliding down her throat, and then her body stiffened in his arms. Within seconds, she began shuddering. The infection had started to take hold.

He lowered his forehead to hers, still feeling the blood being pulled out of him as she continued to suck at his lip. His eyes closed and tears dripped from his lashes onto her cheeks.

Slowly, her hold on him grew weaker and weaker until it fell away completely. She lay senseless in his arms, still shaking. His arms tightened, drawing her close to his chest.

“Rey,” he sighed, the one word saying everything he didn’t know how to.

Somewhere deep in the castle, metal rang out on stone. His head jerked up, looking around. Nothing nearby, but they couldn’t stay here long. He took stock of the hallway they’d ended up in, and calculated how best to get to the nearest rooms. Keeping Rey close to him, he stood, and took off down the hall.

It didn’t take long for him to arrive at the door he needed. He knocked, and when an answer wasn’t immediate, he slammed his weight into the door until it broke open. The inhabitant of the room, some minor underling whose name he couldn’t be bothered to remember, woke up from his bed with a small cry. Ben slammed the door closed again, shoved the nearest piece of furniture against it, then set Rey gently down to deal with the other man. He snapped his neck before he could get out a proper cry, then frowned at the body. With a grunt, he took it and shoved it under the bed. They shouldn’t be staying long enough for it to start to smell, and Rey might be hungry when she woke.

He lifted Rey again and brought her over to the bed. At least the man had been a neat one. He lay Rey down, pulling the blankets over her, then lay next to her and curled himself around her. In the time it had taken to find a place to rest, she’d gone from cold to burning hot, and he hissed as he passed a hand over her forehead. He rested one arm under their heads and wrapped the other over her chest, keeping her steady even as her body fought the changes taking her over.

He buried his face in her hair and closed his eyes. All there was left to do now was wait.

#reylo #benrey #rffa writers #reylo au week #reylo writing den #reylo fic #fantasy #vampire au #vampire kylo #my fic #blood #tw blood #kuresoto

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @scientificallyfrostedtrenchcoat!

Hello! I started out with something sweeter, but I reread your requests and decided to go another route. It’s a little dark and bloody, but hopefully sweet? I hope you enjoy it!

Read on AO3

—

A Revenge Story

Derek awakens to the slow knitting of bone and muscle. His brain feels raw and exposed as the world begins to swim back into focus. The cold concrete under him, for once, feels comforting, but the harsh blue light from the fluorescents, sting the back of his eyeballs and fires a sharp wave of pain into his skull.

His body feels sluggish and heavy, his mouth is sour and dry. Distantly, he can pick out a faint whispering, something low and foreign that Derek isn’t sure he would understand even if wasn’t concussed. Eventually, enough of the haze lifts that he can flex his left hand.

“Hey, welcome back, big guy.” A familiar voice quips.

Derek groans and tries to roll himself forward towards the bars. A flare of heat explodes into his veins, making him hiss and clench his entire body.

“Take it easy. They gave you quite a beating. You also got two doses of wolfsbane running through your system, so it’s going to be awhile.”

He waits for the burning to subside into a tolerable throb before he stretches one of his hands towards the water bowl near the front door of the cell. Gradually, he pulls it closer to his face and leans over to take a long drink. His vision is clearing but his head is still pounding.

“How long was I gone?” He rasps.

“Six hours.”

“Shit.” Derek glances towards the new empty cell in their row. “Where’s Faye?”

The witchling offers a wan smile. “She’s gone.”

“It’s too soon for them to take another.” Derek forces himself onto his elbow and tries to think against the stream of pain. “We’re supposed to have at least two more days.”

“It wasn’t like Jacob.” His voice tightens with emotion, but he clears his throat to smooth it into something calm and even.  “Our kind don’t last long under these conditions. Faye was old and a caretaker, she wasn’t trained to endure this sort of damage, it’s amazing she lasted this long.”

It’s odd to hear those words coming from the boy’s mouth. Stiles hardly looks like an adult, especially with the patchy hint of stubble along his jawline. Out of the sixteen that once shared this block, Derek had not expected Stiles to survive this long. He was lean when they first arrived and a month later the boy was starting to get skeletal. Under the drugs Derek feels his wolf reaching out towards the boy, trying to offer comfort through non-existent pack bonds.

“Stiles…”

The witchling shakes his head so Derek foregoes asking a question he knows the answer to. Instead, he redirects their attention to the plan.

“How long do you need?” He asks, settling himself back onto the ground.

“Need is not the question.” Stiles dries his wet face with the back of his hand. “Rest. I’ll tell you when it’s dinner time.”

–

Derek is startled awake by gurgling noises and thrashing outside his cell. Stiles is kneeling on a guard’s chest, the man’s face mask is pulled up to his hairline, and Derek can see the violent red blush begin to bloom into a rich purple, as Stiles’ long fingers weave tighter around the man’s throat. A few months ago, watching something like this would have soured his stomach, now he can hardly look away. After everything that has happened, Derek feels like he needs to watch, if not for his own sanity for the others who are no longer with them, like Faye.

It doesn’t take very long. There’s one final squeaking attempt to breathe and then the man’s bloodshot eyes roll back, staring blankly into the inside of his skull.

“Nice of you to join the party, big guy.” Stiles says, a little winded. “You wanna grab that keycard so we can get out of here?”

He spies the fallen employee ID near his water bowl and makes quick work of the door lock. The wolfsbane is mostly out of his system but the sudden blood rush combined with adrenaline makes him dizzy. Stiles picks through the guard’s pockets, taking various items.

“Cameras are down but we have ten minutes until the shift change.” Stiles hands him a stun baton and a wallet, before offering up his wrists. “I’ve only got a little juice left but removing the iron could buy us some time.”

Derek frowns at the shackles. There’s a bolt of iron pierced through each of the witchling’s forearms. The skin surrounding the metal looks gray and black in some areas, like the skin and muscle are already dying. While Stiles is clearly more than a human practitioner of magic, Derek’s pretty sure he still bleeds like a human. Removing these might be okay in the short term but wasn’t it better to leave them in?

“C’mon you giant furball, any day now!” Stiles shakes his arms impatiently.

He rolls his eyes and focuses on snapping the bindings off and pulling out the bolts. The metal hisses and the smell of rot steams out of the dark fleshy holes. Derek can see a white slit of bone, nestled amongst decaying muscle. Stiles clenches his jaw, muffling his own screams as, his left arm is worked on. There’s no blood, only a milky green puss that only seems to become more potent the longer it’s exposed to fresh air.

“Thank you.” He sighs, shuddering with relief.

Derek grunts a response, gritting back the need to gag, and quickly shoves the witchling towards the entryway.

They encounter and dispatch two more guards. Derek struggles to pull their shoes off while Stiles rifles through their pockets. He collects another wallet, a gun, and a set of keys. They climb a few flights of stairs and push out into an empty parking lot and find themselves nestled deep in an abandoned warehouse district. It’s late…or possibly early, either way the only source of light is a street lamp a few buildings up near, what has to be a main road. Derek pushes all the buttons on the keyfobs until a pair of headlights flash. He turns to grin at Stiles only to realize the boy is staring up at a faint light in the third floor window.

“Stiles, we have to go.” Derek urges, gently pulling his upper arm.

“I don’t think I can.” He says quietly.

“What. What are you talking about? Of course you can, the next shift is going to be here soon!”

“I need to know.” The adrenaline from their escape pulls back and is exposes something calm and cold. “Someone did this to us, Derek. What if they’re doing it to other people? I can’t leave without knowing.”

They watch one another for a moment. Stiles wounds are still oozing. He’s certain the only reason the kid hasn’t passed out yet, under the dual weight of exhaustion and malnourishment, is pure stubbornness. Derek isn’t in much better condition, as the last dose of wolfsbane is still working its way through his system. Every instinct within him is screaming to get them to safety yet he can’t move.

Stiles’ face softens and he places a clammy palm over Derek’s hand.

“C'mon, Derek. Let’s finish this.”

–

They watch the warehouse fire from the ‘comfort’ of a Motel 6. They’re in some shittown in New Mexico. Stiles powers through fifteen tacos and half a pizza before crashing. Derek only manages half that before throwing up, he settles for half a liter of soda and Stiles’ leftover pizza crusts. After his stomach feels more settled, he bundles their trash, grabs a discarded blanket, and settles into a chair to keep watch.

–

He rouses late into the evening to the sound of Wheel of Fortune and the smell of greasy Chinese food.

The witchling doesn’t look as emaciated, his face is a little fuller and the holes in his arms have healed over into angry, purple glossy circles. The scent of infection is gone and replaced by a bitter anxiety and medication. He has freshly washed clothes that look a size too big and smell heavily of cheap detergent. Considering their situation, Stiles is practically a beacon of health.

Derek shifts off the scratchy comforter and stretches his limbs. His spine pops and cracks, sending a blissful relief through stiff bone. For the first time in weeks, he feels normal.

“I guess wolves really are nocturnal.” Stiles smirks over a square takeout box of noodles.

He tosses a bottle of water, Derek catches and drains it greedily while glancing around the room. There’s a variety of snack food and take out spread over the twin bed, and the floor is littered with empty containers and candy wrappers. There’s also a new pair of backpacks and a old worn duffle that smells like the car they stole.

“You’ve been busy.”

“I require more calories than sleep.” Stiles preens at the haul.

“I can see that.” Derek nods towards the devastation of food items and grabs a carton of kung-pow shrimp from the nightstand. “Besides the shopping spree were you able to figure anything out?”

“The last thirteen hours have been enlightening.” Stiles nods slurping another mouthful of noodles. He expects the kid to elaborate, but Stiles idly digs at his food instead. “I want to let you know I appreciate you helping me last night. You had a chance to make a break for it but you stayed anyways.”

“You expected me to leave you after all that?” Derek offers him a small smile, but Stiles is focused on digging for stray peanuts. An odd weight settles between them as the witchling mulls over his next words. “No, you were right, no one else should have to suffer like that.”

The kid gives him a small smile, soft and personal before glancing towards the pile of backpacks. “Look, it’s not much but the black backpack is yours. It has everything you need to get you as far as Sonoma. There’s a bus stop about a mile up. I suggest keeping a low profile until you reach civilization.”

“I don’t understand.” Derek furrows his brows. “What about you? What about the information you stole?”

“I sent it off to an associate to decrypt. I was able to do a little researching on my own. I have a pretty good idea where one of their safehouses is.” Stiles tosses the carton into a trash bag on the floor. “I think I have a thirty-two hour window before they move another shipment.”

“Okay, but what does that have to do with Sonoma?”

“Nothing, but I said I would be your ticket to freedom, thus Sonoma.” He waggles his fingers in a jazzy fashion. “This is where we part ways, wolfman.”

“You’re cutting me out so you can take on these bastards by yourself?” Derek says incredulously. “You’re still healing!”

“Hey, you weren’t looking so hot with poison in your veins either, pal.” Stiles glares. “I’m not as fragile I as seem.”

“You’re still not up to fighting capacity either.” Derek stabs his chopsticks into the half eaten container. “I’m coming with you.”

Stiles laughs. It’s an oddly boyish sound but lacks real mirth. “Look, spilling a little blood because you’re trying to escape, that’s understandable, it’s excusable. This…this isn’t. This is going to be a revenge story, black cowboy hat, John Wick shit. Not everyone has the stomach for that kind of business.”

Derek narrows his eyes.

“Yeah, well not all of us like to sit on the sidelines, witchboy.” Derek growls. “After a month of torture and seeing all those people be taken to who knows where, I think a little revenge is in order.”

Stiles examines him for a moment, contemplating the lines in his face.

“Are you really sure you want to kick in with me, wolf? It’s a long way down this rabbit hole and it won’t be clean on the other side. Can you live with that?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds like this is the start of a terrifying relationship.” Stiles grins, eyes bright with mischief.

—-

The first safe house is only a three hour drive away from the motel, hidden away amongst an odd patch of suburbia surrounded by miles of nothing. It’s a little past midnight and the silence coating the cookie cutter houses is oppressive. They park beside a black Ford pick-up and quietly cycle through the stolen keys until one finally works. The interior is sparse, save for a fold-up table and a few matching chairs. The living room has a selection of restraints, tools, and cages. Clearly, this safe house is some sort of makeshift processing area.

Derek hears two slow heartbeats coming from the second floor, and another pair under the floorboards. Splitting up would be efficient but potentially messy. Starting in the basement could be problematic because of the lack of exits, upstairs seems to be their best option.

Stiles takes the room on the left and Derek heads down the hall on the right. Much like the bottom floor, the room is unfurnished. A man is curled up on a barren mattress against the far corner of the room, far from the window. Derek softens his steps, carefully inching closer. The man reeks of cheap gin and copper; medical tape and gauze haphazardly decorate the right side of the man’s neck, all the way down to his bicep. The bandages are stained with varying shades of blood and there’s a sharp sour undertone, buried beneath the stench of alcohol. His wounds are beginning to turn.

Derek nudges the man’s shoulder, uncurling him along the mattress, and exposes a series of scabbed circular bites along his torso. The pattern is unfamiliar but reminds him of leeches.

Down the hall, a muffled scream is quickly stifled by two silenced shots. Stiles appears in the doorway shortly after, gun raised, and gives him a questioning look.

“You wanted to leave one alive, right?” Derek asks quietly, clearing away the weapons under the pillow.

Stiles clicks the safety on his weapon and moves to examine the man for himself.

“You’re more spiteful than I thought.” Stiles’ eyes glitter mischievously. “The venom is already working its way through his body, it’s too late for an antidote. His kidneys will go first, then his liver.” Stiles pulls out some zip ties from his pocket, and begins binding the man’s feet. “Loop his wrists to his belt, leave his cellphone.”

–

They hit a snag, clearing out the basement. The collector’s slowed heartbeat is misleading, she’s not asleep just at rest, thumbing through her text messages and playing solitaire with a deck of cards. Once their feet reach the last step, she opens fire on them. Stiles quickly dodges to the left but Derek is too slow and hot metal pierces into his left shoulder, lodging itself into his muscle but not breaking through to the other side. The next few shots narrowly miss and tear divots into the concrete behind him. Inhuman growling and clanging metal, adds to the chaos of gunshots. Stiles launches himself across the room and pins the woman against the wall before she’s able to reload. Her gun and cartridge clatters to the ground as she struggles against Stiles’ hold.

Derek presses a hand over his wound and finds most of the damage is already healing. He debates trying to fish the bullet out so he won’t have to dig it out later, but they probably won’t have much time after all that noise. He let’s Stiles handle the woman and turns his attention to the person in the cage.

The growling stops as soon as he crouches down, both taking a moment to size the other up. The wild mop of hair and dirt make it difficult to tell what the person underneath looks like. The shifter’s clothes are torn, non-descript, and entirely too big for their frame.

“Hey. It’s okay. We’re going to get you out of here. Alright?”

Milky eyes glare up at him through the waffled grate. A series of circular, sucker-like mouths with rings of teeth begin to surface under the creature’s flesh; clicking open and closed before diving back under and surfacing in a new location.

“What the–” A wild snarl interrupts him as the shifter begins slamming its face against the side of the cage. Frothy spit and black blood splatter onto the floor as it continues to throw itself towards Derek.

“He’s feral. They’ve probably been feeding him mercury laced-meat, it kills the mind and makes the venom more potent.” Stiles says quietly, settling the now pilant semi-conscious guard back into her chair.

“They’ve been feeding him mercury laced-meat.”

“What, why?”

“It kills the mind and makes the venom more potent. He’ll fight like mad until his body gives out. Perfect for underground fighting rings.” Stiles explains. “I’m pretty amazed you bunch actually caught someone like him. You should be grateful that we’re the ones taking care of you instead of his sire.”

“Go to hell, monster.”

“You first, sweetie.” Stiles chides before turning back to Derek. “You should put him to rest. Whoever he was has already been burned out. He’s just a nerve cluster now.”

Derek frowns but picks up the discarded gun and fires two shots into the shifter’s face.

–

The interrogation isn’t very helpful and as far as revenge goes, it’s utterly unsatisfying. The woman is too low ranked to know anything useful, her phone is far more viable because of the code sypher. ‘Exotic’ supernaturals are brought to this location and sorted through for private buyers to bid on. Derek can only imagine what other sort of creatures have been drugged and damaged for market, it only makes him feel slightly better about putting this one out of its misery.

“Don’t worry, Wolfman.” Stiles says as he hot wires their new car. “The next one will be better.”

—-

The next one is better.

With the sypher from the phone, Stiles’ contact is able to get a lead on the next big transport. It takes a few days of driving, but they finally catch up with the semi-truck 20 miles south of Odessa, Texas. Derek takes two bullets to the chest, but it’s the first time since they’ve escaped that he feels alive.

Derek keeps the car steady as Stiles shoots out the back tires. The truck struggles to rebalance itself and eventually skids off the road into the desert scrub brush. The doors of the trailer fly open and a pair of disoriented and irritated guards stumble out. Stiles picks them both off before they can go for their weapons. The third manages to pull his gun from his holster but doesn’t get a shot off in time. He hits the bed of the trailer with a heavy thud and slides off the back on top of the other bodies.

Stiles gives a short whoop as he pulls himself back through the window. “Did you see that shit? Triple head shot, baby!”

The show of skill is pretty impressive, but Derek gives him a sobering look, pointedly gesturing to their current situation.

“Don’t even front, Wolfman, you know that was badass.”

They follow the truck off the road and immediately bail out just as the driver and his passenger start firing. A bright flash hits the side of their van, leaving a smoldering basketball sized dent. Derek feels the breath cool in his lungs as the temperature suddenly plummets.

“Magic, they have…magic.” His voice is steady but disbelieving.

He’s gone a second later and there’s a crackling explosion in the distance, chorused by gunfire. Derek uses the distraction to take out the humans. He plunges his claws into one of the guard’s neck, but misjudges his own strength. It’s disturbingly easy to sink his fingers through flesh and muscle. The spray of blood and the immediate overflowing gush is unlike anything he’s felt before. The wolf howls joyously at the successful kill, but the human part of his brain stumbles over the action. By the time he slides his claws out, the man’s head is barely holding on to its body. Only a small chunk of muscle and spine keep it from snapping off.

Derek staggers back, transfixed by the dark glistening of his hands. A sudden swell of pride warms his chest, Derek isn’t sure how he feels about it. He’s killed before, both with his hands and with a weapon, but never anything close to this.

A sharp thud, collides against his chest and shakes him from his reverence. Two more bullets thump against the solid lining of the kevlar vest, blooming more ripples of stinging pressure over his sternum. He races forward, as the guard unloads the last two bullets, missing once and landing final through Derek’s bicep. He guard chucks the empty gun at him, backing up to pull out his side pistol, but Derek upsets the shot and yanks the weapon from the man’s hands.

He feels the wolf rise to the surface of his mind, melding perfectly with his own deadly intentions. They play. Slowly, picking apart the man’s defenses while drawing him closer. They let him get a few hits and watch as he desperately pulls out new weapons, becoming more frantic as each opportunity is stripped and tossed away. This time when they go for the neck, the strength is measured. The crunch of bone echos into their hands and up the forearms.

The kill is clean, contained.

They howl.

It takes a long moment to pull back, to settle back into one flesh. Derek leans against the side of the trailer and slows his breathing. The fighting on the opposite side of the truck has died down. He sorts through the litter of thudding heartbeats until he finds a familiar rabbit-quick pulse. He focuses on that until the ridges on his face smooth and his claws retract. His gums still itch with the phantom pressure of his fangs, but he feels stable. He wipes his hands on his pants, smearing sweat and blood along the already stained material, and gets to work rifling through the main cabin of the truck.

It’s a better haul than their first attempt.

Within a few minutes of searching, he’s already found a laptop, a handful of marked maps, and a ledger. He idly flips through the notebook, looking over more code, lists of dates and other numbers he can’t make sense of. Outside, he can hear soft whimpers under the steady thrum of Stiles’ voice.

“..twisted fuck. Your magic was a gift and this is how you use it? You willingly turn against your own kind, help those fucks sell us for parts, dress us up for slaughter for what?  Money!?”

“Don’t…please…” A voice gurgles.

“They put iron in us, do you know what it’s like to be cut like that?” Stiles voice takes on a deeper echo, something ancient…primal. There’s a soft squishing and the druid cries out again. “It aches, like hunger. It festers in the bone, makes you feel heavy and brittle at the same time. Do you know how long we last like that?”

“I had nothing to do with that! I only help with transport.”

“I don’t need supernatural healing to know that’s a lie. The moment I let you have a taste of what I could do your eyes lit up. We’ve found one of your ‘processing centers’, how much would those private buyers bid for me, hm?” Another squish, followed by a crunch. “Where were you taking your shipment?”

“Please…I don’t…”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, buddy. There is no spin to this. No one is coming for you and I’m certainly not letting you leave here. Your only options are slow or fast, and trust me…I can be downright meticulous when I want to be.” He vows quietly. “Now, where were you taking them?”

Wet breaths lift through the tension of Stiles’ silence until the druid finally resigns and accepts his fate.

“…there’s a processing warehouse in Barstow. From there they’re either shipped out to LA for international sellers or to the one of the main hubs up in NorCal, bu-but I don’t know which one!”

“Then you can give me all of them.”

It only takes a little more pressing before the man rattles off a list cities. Derek finds a pen in the glove compartment and begins jotting them down on the back cover.

The druid breathing becomes erratic and a low groan of agony pitches into a terrified scream. Copper and burnt cedar color the air as the light from inside the truck’s cabin becomes brighter and brighter. The sweat slick hair on the back of Derek’s neck prickles and struggles to stand. A strange pressure crystallizes, thinning the air in his lungs and making him dizzy. He feels stretched thin and then suddenly the moment shatters, snapping everything back as if nothing happened.

The druid’s heartbeat is sluggish but steady, while Stiles’ is now racing at the speed of a hummingbird’s.

Derek stumbles out of the cab, leaving everything behind and lumbers towards the sound of the frantic beating.  The knitted balaclava covering Stiles face is gone, tucked into his back pocket, and his exposed face has taken on an opal-esque glow. His whiskey-eyes are now two pieces of molten gold, constantly churning. The lights fade, taking with it the bruises and hard-set exhaustion, leaving an inhuman luster.

“What did you do?” The man rasps. “Why can’t I…what did you do?”

“I’m repaying you for a friend.” Stiles says, stepping back. “She was old but managed twenty-eight days, let’s see how long you last.”

–

The trailer has three shifters, two mages, and one kitsune. All of the shifters are out cold, but the humans are still awake and bound in iron. The kitsune is struggling to keep conscious. She’s young, probably around college-aged, and not in full control of her abilities– as Derek can see the faint outline of her fox hovering around her. She’s got a deep gouge across her forehead and her right leg has a jagged piece of shin bone exposed.

“Are they dead?” she asks as Derek kneels beside her cage. He nods and for the second time that night, Derek comes face-to-face with something ancient. “Good.”

–

The locks take minutes but shuffling three sleeping shifters and one injured kitsune takes longer than either he or Stiles are comfortable with. They keep the restraints on because, Derek would rather not deal with three shifters waking up and thrashing around as they’re trying to cross into New Mexico. The drive is mostly quiet, save for some soothing attempts at small talk. The older woman’s name is Paula, she’s only been with the group for a few days. Bobby and Kira have been there the longest, three weeks. Paula doesn’t like talking much about what happened, Bobby can’t remember how he was taken, and Kira was mind-whammied at a cafe while she was studying for finals.

Stiles tries to play off this information casually, choosing to fiddle with the radio like he’s looking for something to fit the ‘after rampage’ mood. He can’t hide the slip of Other that slowly gathers in his eyes. Being hunted by humans is one thing. It’s commonplace and expected ever since the old families have fallen. Having your own kind hunt you for profit from humans, is another level of fucked up.

The group says their goodbyes in Roswell. Both Stiles and Bobby think it’s hilarious but Paula looks entirely done with the whole situation. Two of the shifters are from big packs in California and Washington, the Navarros and the Tams. They assure Derek they’ll inform their Alphas and urge them to take this to the Council. Stiles doesn’t seem entirely convinced the Council will do anything, but perhaps having two packs vouch for them might at least save them from any backlash.

Kira is the only one to linger.

“I…remembered something else.” She says quietly, glancing over her shoulder at the retreating group.

Bobby is nearby waiting, not wanting to let her out of his sight until she’s safely on a bus back home. Kira gives him a half smile before turning back to them grimly.

“A few weeks back we were moved from a warehouse to some house in the suburbs. An old man showed up in one of those…newsie caps with some men. They talked to our kidnappers, I couldn’t hear what they were talking about but the man handed him a book with this symbol on it.” She motions for Derek to hand her the pen from the ledger and draws it on Stiles’ palm.

Before she can finish the outline, Derek feels his eyes fill with red and the world contract around a flash of blonde hair and honeyed words. White hot rage clashes with bitter shame as the beast within him howls and snaps its jaws. He can distantly feel the heat from the flames and taste the ash on his tongue. The dread of almost losing everything, everyone sinks in his stomach and he can’t stop the growl that slips through his fangs.

“Derek, you wanna ease up a little there, buddy?” Stiles says lightly.

Derek glances up for a moment, surfacing from the smoke of his memories. His hand is clenched around Stiles’. Kira’s brow is twinged with concern and Stiles is watching him so intently, Derek wonders if the kid can actually read minds.

Derek loosens his grip but doesn’t let go. “You’re sure this was the symbol?”

She nods. “I just thought he really liked the Saints, but after that I started seeing it everywhere. Some of the other people in suits had it tattooed on the inside of their wrists.”

Derek let’s Stiles’ hand slip from his grip and settles back, numbly against the seat.

“So this means something, it’s not just a crazy football cult?”

“It’s an old hunter monicure for the Argents.” Stiles informs, still watching Derek. “Only those associated with the original line use this symbol. The family fractured awhile back. Not many people come across the original line these days, some say they returned overseas to their mother country.”

“I don’t…I’m still really new to all this. My mom–” She frowns, clears her throat and redirects. “My mom’s been around longer, she might know something about all this. She’s got a penchant for gathering information, she’s just not good about sharing it..”

The lights in parking lot flicker and Bobby looks around as if preparing for danger. Stiles chuckles and turns his attention back to a sheepish Kira.

“I’m going to give you the number to a friend of mine. Her name is Satomi, she’s not a kitsune but she’s might be able to help with that.” He says, taking the pen back and scribbling on her palm. “And if your mother breaks the lock on her information storehouse, you can contact me with this number.”

—-

They ditch the van a few hours later for a crappy Volvo from the 90s and find a cheesy nearby ‘inn’ that looks untouched from the 60s. The old woman at the front desk doesn’t even bother to lift her head up from her book, just snatches the money and hands over the key.

The room is surprisingly clean for the shoddy exterior. There’s still a lingering smell of semen, drug sweat, and floral cleaner, but it’s more tolerable than everywhere else they’ve stayed. Stiles immediately collapses on the bed and it takes every ounce of remaining strength not to follow after. He’s tired, both physically and emotionally. His wolf wants to nestle against the boy’s throat and sleep for days. After the last sixteen hours, Derek might let the wolf win.

He just wants to shut his brain off and not think for awhile. He doesn’t want to think about his time in captivity, or tearing a man’s throat out. He doesn’t want to think about what exactly the fuck Stiles’ is because whatever happened in that desert wasn’t like any magic Derek had ever seen before. He certainly doesn’t want to remember the fire or anything to do with that woman or her insane family.

Stiles rolls onto his back and stretches languidly, moaning loudly from the relief of a few cracks and pops. The wolf whines at the invitation of firm belly flesh. Derek busies himself with setting their bags down and barricading the door.

“Will you stop for a minute and come lie down?” Stiles rebukes, loudly thumping the mattress with an open hand. “I feel like I’m being held together by rubber bands and you can’t be doing much better.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because you haven’t noticed your eyes have been flickering since we left that UFO diner.”

Derek catches a glimpse of his reflection in a picture frame and sighs. Behind him, Stiles is grinning and smoothing a hand over the empty side of the bed.

“C’mon big bad, time for a well deserved nap before we hit the books.”

“Someone should take watc–”

“Oh c’mon. You’re as dead on your feet. The last time you tried to take watch while you were exhausted you fell asleep ten minutes later.” Stiles scoffs. “I’ll put a ward up as soon as you lay down. We’ll be shocked awake long before anyone tries to break in. Now, would you please get in the damn bed?”

Derek begrudgingly toes his shoes off and settles onto the mattress. The springs groan under his weight and Stiles chuckles victoriously.

“We did good today.” Stiles tells him. “Kicked some ass, got information, saved some people. Networked, that’s always key after a kidnapping.”

“Yeah. We did.”

After all the action from the night before, sharing such a close space without fear or vigilance, somehow feels overwhelming. It’s a strange thing to think about. They’ve been lumped together for over a month. First, separated by metal, then struggling to heal and feel unencumbered in their own bodies again. Laying side-by-side with the potential to touch is almost daunting.

Derek can practically feel time slow and extend. His hand itches to move closer, to brush their arms if only to just see if he–at least the human side, could be near someone again after everything.

In the end, Stiles makes the first move and rolls over, slipping against Derek’s side.

“Stiles…” He grits out, trying to steady the uptick in his pulse.

“Hm?”

“What are you doing?”

“I thought you wolves are tactile creatures.” He says innocently. “I figured now that we’ve upgraded from torture bros to vengence bros, that’s gotta be closer to pack, right? At least a temporary one.”

The wolf preens in agreement. Derek clears his throat, trying not to let himself get too comfortable when he feels so uneven.

Stiles inches back, glancing up at him. “Maybe…It’s something I might need too.”

The teasing grin has sobered into uncharacteristic nervousness. Stiles is rarely anything short of cocky, especially when he’s being terrifying. Seeing him suddenly so open puts Derek at ease. Heat climbs into the tips of his ears, but Derek ignores it and pulls Stiles down against his side with a grumble.

“Alright, just…don’t ever call us vengence bros again. You sound like an idiot.”

Stiles laughs. “What about The Revengenators?”

“Hard pass.”

“How about…” He falters. “Okay, I can’t brain anymore. But when I get four hours of sleep and at least two pizzas in me, be ready for a brainstorming session.”

“I could always smother you in your sleep.”

“Nah. You’d miss me too much. Who else you gonna revengenate with?” Stiles says assuredly, wriggling into a more comfortable position.

The wolf chuffs contentedly, as if this isn’t entirely new territory.

“Shh, you’re brain is too loud.”

“You’re too loud.” Derek grumbles back, only to be shushed again.

Stiles’ hand finally comes to a rest atop his chest. Long fingers idly trace letters and symbols along his ribs, erasing and starting again. It only takes a few minutes to completely relax into the other man’s touch. At one point, Stiles plays out a few games of tic-tac-toe before building out a more complicated design. Derek reciprocates by swooping his thumb gently over the curve of Stiles’ spine and gets a tighter snuggle for his effort.

He slips into a light dose.

“You’ve met them before, haven’t you?” Stiles asks quietly. The haze of sleep quickly evaporates at the question. “You’re a Hale, you’re that Hale.”

Derek stills, his hand sliding away.

Stiles shift onto his elbow and watches the conflict pass over Derek’s face.

Suddenly, his mouth is bone dry and his skin feels too tight. He feels naked under Stiles’ thoughtful gaze.

It’s been years, since the fire and hearing. The case was settled and sealed, the Council ordered the Argents to fracture their line and Kate was to be executed or sent to the Wylds. Derek never knew which they chose, didn’t care at the time so long as he never has to see her again. Despite all this, it didn’t stop people from talking or embellishing. There so many insane rumors about how it had been a lover’s plot to gain the Pack’s land and holdings, and not the machinations of a bloodthirsty predator.

Derek had been lucky enough to have grown out of his familiar baby face. Most people couldn’t remember what happened to that one Hale, who almost burned their entire family.

Now, after all these years, someone knew…remembered.

He waits for the inevitable turn, the scoffing, the judgement. How could you be so stupid? How could you let her into your home? Why didn’t you kill them?

But it never comes.

After what feels like an eternity, Stiles finally smiles and threads his fingers through Derek’s beard. He nearly buckles at the tenderness of Stiles’ touch. A wave of warmth floods into his chest, swallowing up anxiety and doubt. He can feel the pull between them, faint but stronger, the beginning of something precious.

“You’re kind of amazing, you know?” He says fondly. “And to think when they first threw you in that cage, I thought: ‘There’s no way this guy is going to make it. He’s too pretty to be useful.’”He teases.  

Derek chuckles softly. “Me? You were the sucker’s bet. Twiggy, loud-mouth. No way you were going to last two weeks.“

“I guess we’re both suckers, since we turned out to be secret badass survivors.” He grins. “So, it looks like this revenge tour just got a little more interesting. How’s about it, Wolfman, you wanna destroy and empire with me?”

“Sure.” He says, curling Stiles closer. “Why not?”

#scientificallyfrostedtrenchcoat #stereksanta17 #*fic17 #*gifts17

[lightforcetherapylasers14-blog]

Why It's Easier To Succeed With Therapy Lasers Than You Might Think

Laser, an acronym for "Light Amplification by Stimulated Emission of Radiation," was based upon Einstein's quantum theory of radiation. The period of 1960s was sculpted in stone as more than 10 different lasers were created utilizing gaseous, solid, semi-conductor together with liquid lasing media. The ruthless refinement of innovation in addition to invention of new lasers is being experienced since first laser was produced on July 7, 1960 with the aid of ruby as a lasing medium which was promoted under the aegis of energy flashes of extreme light.

Laser surgical treatment with regard to skin conditions possessing cosmetic implications has actually understood significant psychological advantages which are normally unrivaled by other modality of treatment. A growingly innovative understanding of the biophysics of laser-tissue interaction has actually caused a appropriate utilization of the present innovation on the scientific side and is helping the physicists to increase sophisticated laser systems in the aesthetic laser surgeons' armamentarium.

Laser Characteristics

A significant assimilation of lasers is necessary for their apt usage. Laser light is unidirectional, monochromatic, intense and meaningful .

Unidirectional: When it comes to photons, it travels in Uni direction. Laser's directionality refers an extremely narrow beam light emission which spreads out gradually. The unidirectional character leverages laser beams to be focused on a exactly small area size.

Monochromatic: A narrow band of wavelengths or a single wavelength discharged permits precise targeting within tissue, and at the same time sparing nearby structures. Besides, luminous waves produced brought out the exact same energy and wavelength.

Brilliancy: The beam effused is angularly well focused and immensely extreme. As such, brightness or intensity is an necessary function which can be improved with techniques such as Q-switching and pulsing where shipment of high peak power can be done in nanoseconds.

Coherency: It is a measure of accuracy of The original source the waveform as meaningful laser beam can be precisely focused.

There are underlying issues with respect to laser treatment, as such, steps can be taken to suppress the negative effects and threat of laser treatment. Infected areas ought to be excluded when applying laser therapy indication. Secondly, history of dietary supplements and existing medications which have the opportunities of hindering injury healing or increasing photosensitivity needs to be taken into consideration.

Post-laser therapy, sun protection becomes critical with respect to Fitzpatrick skin type 3or higher. Sun protection includes avoiding direct exposure to the scorching midday sun, use of topical sun blockers and appropriate clothes and avoidance of tanning bed.

Deep Dive into Vascular Laser Therapy

Vascular therapy is divided into two significant categories-endovascular and exovascular. The previous usages bare fiber inserted into the vessel by small cut or leak. In order to prevent skin burning, the therapy requires to be performed with tumescent anaesthesia. The latter is looked for obtained telangiectasias, most vascular birthmarks and spider leg veins.

Endothelium, which is dented by intravascular blood heating, is the target point of both types of vascular laser therapy. Pretreatment cooling by cryogen spray or air or contact cooling is utilized to prevent the collateral damage of the adjacent tissue in the course of treatment.

Laser Hair Removal

Throughout past decade, permanent decrease of undesirable hair by lasers has actually been perceived as a safe, quick and a sure method of choice vis-a-vis prior methods of hair removal which were short-lived. The hair root should be decimated for irreversible hair removal.

During pre-treatment, the hair is shaved 2 to 3 days prior to treatment, which will prevent burning of the hair on the skin surface. With the view of suppressing the danger of pigmentary modifications, cooling of the skin instantly before or throughout laser shots can be performed. Appropriately, cosmetic lasers market is expected to enjoy take advantage of growing trend for hair removal amongst consumers.

Ablative Laser Therapy

Ablative laser therapy is popular for its usage for a range of benign skin lesions, consisting of human-papillomavirus-induced warts, seborrhoeic keratosis, actinic keratosis and benign skin tumors. The ablative laser therapy treatment has been rewarding for hypotrophic/hypertrophic scars and for laser rejuvenation/peeling of aged skin.

A clients with greater risk of skin infections is frequently treated with a pre-laser antibiotic shot. Prophylactic antiviral therapy is used if there is reoccurring herpes infection.

The ablative laser resurfacing has caused tremendous improvement in the total quality of skin. There have actually been reports appearing with regard to levelling of deep scars, reduction of wrinkles and vaporization of shallow skin lesions. The downtime of ablative laser resurfacing paved method for non-ablative resurfacing technique.

The devices that are presently readily available in non-ablative resurfacing are either with the one that targets water in the dermis or with a vascular target. The gadgets used in this field are extreme pulsed light (IPL) and pulsed dye lasers (PDL), particularly. The merit of this technique is that there is absence of downtime for the clients. The devices targeting dermal vasculature will succor in reducing diffuse erythema, telangiectasias or rosacea.

Pigmented Lesions

The color of the treatment and the tattoo associated with it has direct relationship-more colors tattoo has; more challenging the treatment is. A careful assessment of medical history is essential as tattoo colors can hinder allergic or non-allergic impacts. Using sun block becomes important after the treatment of pigmentary lesions as the skin becomes briefly more delicate to UV irradiation which leads to either hypopigmentation or regression.

The era of 1960s was sculpted in stone as more than 10 various lasers were created using gaseous, solid, semi-conductor along with liquid lasing media. The ruthless refinement of innovation as well as development of new lasers is being seen ever since first laser was produced on July 7, 1960 with the aid of ruby as a lasing medium which was stimulated under the aegis of energy flashes of intense light.

There are underlying problems with respect to laser treatment, as such, procedures can be taken to curb the side results and risk of laser treatment. The ablative laser resurfacing has actually led to remarkable enhancement in the overall quality of skin. The gadgets used in this field are extreme pulsed light (IPL) and pulsed dye lasers (PDL), specifically.

[adam-radford-blog]

Holocene: Selfpara

Adam never meant to let things go this far; he never meant to let himself take it as far as he had. He knew that deep down, underneath all the heavy steel plates of angry vengeance he had so recklessly conceived. Somewhere down the line, it seemed he got carried away, lost control of the limited hold he had had on the irrational rampage that was the controller to his life. One check too many, both feet crossed over the line for the last time.

Approximately 3.4 seconds after the ball left his hand Adam Radford had number 12 by the waist, his shoulder pads deeply embedded in the gut of the guy so that when Adam stood, his opponent got a full 180 view from floor to ceiling. His head had bounced hard against the ground but Adam didn't even turn to watch. Teeth bared he continued on, walking away without a second look, a loud growl escaping his pulled back lips with the shake of his head, his violence being showcased for his father to watch from the comfort of his living room. 1.4 seconds too late. A little more than a second sooner and it would have been considered a great play. If it were anyone else they might have even overlooked it but with Adam, they checked the tapes. They were always watching him down to the last millisecond.Between his temper and inability to follow rules, opposing teams were always looking for an excuse to get him out of the way and Adams coach was tired of trying to argue them.

He had already been demoted, put on the field as little as possible while Texas tried to sort out what to do with him but the more they tried to shove him into a hiding place the more he swung his fists, demanding to be seen.

He was walking off the court before the ref even spoke, a line of gear being left behind him like a candy trail. Racket, Helmet, gloves. By the time he got to his pads and jersey he was already through the now unlocked court door, walking past his sidelined teammates varying stares.

“Radford, you’re out of here.” It wasn’t the first time he had heard it. In fact, he wasn’t even surprised anymore. After 5 games in a row, no one was. His coach had threatened him a dozen times over. ’ You're finished’, ’ You’ve done it this time’, We're not doing this anymore’. They were always followed by an ‘if’ usually ending in a 'you can’t get it together.’ This time though, it seemed Adam really pushed his luck too far.

His weight shifted uncomfortably in one of the two leather arm chairs. The brown skin of it was dry and cracking in places. It was probably over worn from all the dirty athletes covered in mud and dripping with sweat that had been forced to sit in it over the past years. Only God knew exactly how many.

Adam couldn't help but tap his foot, the speed of it entirely too fast to be taken as casual but they were staring at him, making his skin crawl. Trying to distract himself, he let his eyes wander around the room, a false look of impatience plastered across his face. The expression was probably already faulting. It was a rectangular room made up of white walls and a high ceiling. A window sat behind the large mahogany desk, old newspaper articles were neatly hung in the corner, team photos were framed and lined along the wall closest to him. Still, there was only so much to look at before his eyes full circled back to his coaches who were practically leaning over the desk to watch him. He couldn't take it anymore. He stared back at their careful eyes, the slight press of their lips as they contemplated how to take the first step. He couldn't take it anymore.

"What?!" He leaned forward slightly as he half shouted the question at them, his expression a mockery of their gawking. He stared back at their unimpressed faces, the stress that set into both of them almost answering Adam's question. He sat back and shook his head, his eyes snapping away from them again as he tried to control the anxiety that spread across his chest in a flaring heat.

"I warned you." What an interesting way to start a conversation with a time bomb. Adam's eyes fixated on a blank point in the wall as they grew hard at the words spoken to him. He tried to stop the heat from spreading, to press it into stone before it infected his blood stream but he couldn't stop it. Like molten led it moved through his veins, making his limbs heavy. He had to ball his fists to keep his hands from shaking. "We can't keep you, Adam. You've become a liability, we've almost lost three games now because of your inability to control yourself."

His head snapped back at them now, his arms uncrossing so that his fingers could claw around the arms of the chair in an iron grip, his nails pressing into the dry leather so that it groaned on impact. He stared as if to say something but words didn't come, the heat of his chest burning his lungs so that the words turned to ash before they made it up his throat. His coaches stared in anticipation before deciding to continue, their own bodies becoming rigid with Adam's new position.

"You're cut."

He should have been grateful that they didn't want to drag it out any longer, that they had decided just to get to the point but instead he felt sick. No one said anything for a long moment, allowing Adam to process what was just said. His stomach turned, his teeth grinding hard into each other as he tried to keep himself from throwing up, his fingers pressing harder into the chair so that the marks would always her there as a reminder. He stared back between the two of them, his eye's certainly no longer hard but something else, shocked, wild. They didn't seem to enjoy it as much as Adam himself would.On others, he loved this look, the wide eyes and tense jaw showing him the fear he placed in them He didn't like it so much on himself.

Abruptly he stood, forcing on himself the strength to throw the chair over, sending it across to the far wall so that it landed with a loud slam. After all he had done, the way he had lost that which he thought could never betray him he had no choice but to go out with the same aggressive bang.

"Fuck you." He spit on the desk, his eyes only looking at the mark for a split second, making eye contact with his coach as the wet marks stained the papers in front of him. "Fuck your contract, fuck your team." His voice shook under the aggression, hints of something else revealing that which his face already did. Adam threw the door open, his throat threatening to catch fire. “Have fun getting butt fucked next season.” He needed to find a bathroom or at the very least a trash can.

#self

[dsmroleplay]

#PutremCarnem #DSM #TVD #TO #RP

Writers: @JereGilbertDSM , @ForlornSolace , @LittleSassyWolf , @MysticChicWitch Reply Order: Jere, Elena, Hayley, Bonnie ]

Jeremy: [ Plotline: The Carnaval comes to Mystic Falls and people begin to go missing. The mysterious Mr. Grey whom no one seems to know is actually a cursed vampire. He is frail and barely surviving, his grandson Victor is responsible for capturing victims to feed to his grandfather. But once they are bitten his curse affecting humans by turning them to the undead is spread. Normally Victor kills them by decapitation but something goes array this time and a couple of escape biting several people in town and the virus spreads. Vampires can be affected as well, while bitten they become frail as Grey. Elena turns out to be bitten somewhere along the way and they have to find a way to kill the undead roaming and find a way to break the spell for Elena and Grey.

-Things had seemed to settle down in Mystic Falls come the hotter month of July, the school was out and most were just enjoying their vacation. This year the powers that be in city hall had come up with a carnival idea to supplement the fireworks show for July 4th. Grey's Carnaval would be arriving shortly and Jeremy was among that had volunteered to help set up things. Elena had been elusive lately and he wondered what was going on with her. But after Jenna's death and the constant drama from the Salvatore brothers he was trying to give her some space. Guiding several trucks into the fairgrounds he watched as the guys started unloading and sat up the equipment for the rides.- :::::::::: Elena: Elena had gone out hunting for her meal. She had never felt like a fragile girl since she had become a vampire. She was stalking a Auburn-haired male, six-foot tall, muscular, fairly attractive.

She had kept this side of her away from her brother. She wasn't focusing on what old man. His voice soft as velvet, his emerald orbs gentle.

" Are you okay? That looks like a nasty bite. I could call 911 for you "

She smiled sweetly, her doe eyes capturing his gaze.

" No, it's okay. "

Her pupils shrinking as she compels the human.

" Don't move. Dont - fetus position, drifting off to sleep. She knew her brother was off to the carnival in the morning .

She slept until 2pm, she felt weak, drained. She felt a tad dizzy as she sat up, pushing the sheets off of her.

Her brother was long gone, and she couldn't find the strength in the park "

As the male blinked, she had sped off towards home. She flopped on her bed shortly after climbing in through her window. She looked at the bite that would not heal, she didn't feel right. Something was making her feel Ill, almost human again. She curled into the make a sound. "

Black veins appeared under her eyes, she latched onto the males neck with her fangs. She savors the sweet taste of crimson liquid . After long, pulls from his vein, she releases him, her pupils shrinking once again.

" Anyone asks you been attacked by animal was around her. She went in for the attack when she was tackled by another vampire. She was caught off guard, before she could toss him off of her, he had bit into her wrist. She let out an agonizing scream, being able to throw the vampire away. She had instantly thought it was Mikael, returned from whatever hell he was in. She stepped closer wanting to demand answers, she noticed the vampire looked sickly, fragile . He looked at her with remorse, before fleeing the scene.

The Auburn hair male had noticed the attack. He thought he was just a to get out of her bed.

She was hungry, she needed to hunt once again. She usually could wait until nightfall to feed on a person.

" What is going on?"

She wasn't aware she had passed the virus on the male from last night. ::::::::::: Hayley: There was a big hype around the little gown of mystic fall with the carnival coming to down. Tonight is the opening night. I would have loved to be there and be with the few friends that I met here now. Sadly I can't as I must be locked up or someone might end up hurt with the full moon approaching tonight. Harley said goodbye to her friend after making an excuse for getting out of going with her friends to carnival as nightfall approaches. She had packed you're clothes in her backpack. When She ran back to the cave she had found with chains and and bolts to with a steel gate hoping to keep help her in. This was the first time she was going to lock herself up. When the moon is at higher when her body would changes.?. She settled herself in for the night locking the gate. Putting the key in her backpack.

Firstly she the chains and bolts that we're chains to the walls. She just hopes this would hold her as she has no control over when she turns into a wolf. When she knew lots of people will be out tonight. Hayley bounded her wrists and ankles with the handcuffs and chains. While she waits waits for her body to change. When it started when her body was in knots as she began to turn to break all her bones in her body she screamed in the pain. She was more powerful when she became the wolf in her pulling the chains off the wall wanting to break free.

She broke the Chains and pounding on the gate over and over wanted to be free. She eventually broke enough space to break free to able to run. To where is the question. She was hungry. Running through the woods of this town this was her freedom and desire to be free. When she came across a homeless man camped out in the wood when she could smell him from miles away. She surrounds his manmade den. When she jumped on him digging her crawl into his waist. She glazes him with a bite when she speared his skin When she heard a gunshot nearby. Making her to run away. Deep into the forest to find another to bite on. Before she turned back into being a girl. - ::::::::: Bonnie: Things in Mystic Falls had changed drastically since the last Grey's Carnaval. Elena was a vampire. Werewolves were real. And I am a witch. A powerful witch. There was so much more to the supernatural world that I had yet to touch on. This place would always be my home. So I wanted to enjoy even the small pieces of normal that we had here. Whatever normal was anymore. I paint a smile on my face, determined to have fun, as I dress for the carnival. Jeans and my favorite summer top. Then climb behind the wheel of my car and head to the Grill. ::::::::: Jere: [Narrative: Spending two lifetimes this way Grey was losing his will to keep going. Victor his grandson, dressed in a clown costume drug in an unconscious human female and laid her on the battered trunk in front of his grandfather. This one was pretty to Victor, he'd chosen her feeling that her sacrifice was noble and he'd add her to his scrapbook of others before her. A young man had escaped last night but Victor was fairly sure he wouldn't survive long. Mystic Falls was known for it's "creatures" so he had not bothered tracking him. They'd be on their ways in a few days so he felt it would do no harm.

As Grey sank his fangs into his victim drinking her blood he received a momentary reminder of what "life" could feel like. The boost of power had him biting hard-drinking greedily. But the feeling was fleeting, soon after Victor took her body away he sat in his wheelchair once incredibly handsome, fast and strong he was now hideous.

His hand curled into fists with loss of muscle tone, eyelids drooped and his skin smelt of rot. His mind, however, remained intact which served to add to his psychotic thoughts. Drifting off into his dream of Amelia Bennett before this curse was placed on him. Their love had felt like something that would last forever but betrayal has a way of changing things.]

Jeremy sat in one of the tents watching with keen interest a young Indian woman playing a violin creating Carnatic Instrumental music. Jeremy loved music and he'd never been exposed to this type before. It had him smiling as he watched her hands move picking the strings getting into it. She switched to the Veena as the man sitting cross-legged on the pillows tapped a beat from the Mridangom.

Across town a doorknob rattled as it was tried to open it. Locked the infected teen walked around his blood lust taken completely over, his eyes nothing more than glazed over husks with no soul. He had one need, to feed. Breaking the window to his parent's home he crawled through clumsily, falling on the workbench and sending tools clamoring to the floor. His father emerged with a baseball bat hearing the commotion in the garage. Heavy sigh as he see's his son and lays the bat down. "Really Brad? You scared the hell of me. I should tan your hide. Your mother is asleep and you're going to wake her."

Brad didn't respond just crawled towards the warm flesh of the man before him. "Are you drunk son? What's wrong with you?" Brad's father went to him worried, in the shadows of the garage he couldn't see that a large portion of his throat was gone. And as soon as he got close enough the rabid teen went straight for his jugular vein. Vice like grip the teen took down his father tearing away at his flesh and drinking his blood. :::::::::: Elena: Elena did not feel alright. She felt a hunger than wouldn't fade, even if she drained multiple blood bags. She could barely be around her friends without the temptation of ripping their throats apart. Her mocha orbs fixate on the pulsing vein of Matt Donavan. She could barely found her way to the town square. As small as the town was, they've always found a place to hang out. Even if it wasn't in her intentions today after waking feeling out of place. Yet, she left her house to keep Jeremy safe. Elena knew she could sneak away at the carnival to hooded started burned into the icy blues of her the blonde girls.

" I'm starving."

She pulled the girl head to the side, she buried her fangs into the nap of the blondes neck. She drank the crimson liquid with haste, draining the blonde of her life force. She dropped the girl behind the dumpster. She still wasn't full, she wanted more. She stared at the lifeless body, unsure how to spin the blood stains on her clothing.

She shrugged her shoulders, walking into the darkest parts of the alley. She knew her friends would just blame Damon. She was ' her as a monster.

She didn't want Jeremy to see her any differently. She narrowed her yes on a blonde turning down a dark alleyway, her gaze narrowed on her prey. Little black veins snaking under her mocha eyes.

She vamp sped behind her slamming the girls head into the wall - going to let him take the fall for her actions. After all he was in love with her, and willing to do anything to be with her. she was streets away from her friends now. She no longer needed to hide her true self, dainty fingers slipping into blonde curls. Elena tugged harshly striking fear into the dazed girl, as the blonde whimpered out.

" Who are you."

A sly smirk crossing over rosy lips, dark to feed on multiple people. The brunette smiled sweetly, before excusing herself from her peers. She couldn't take the bloodlust any longer. She wanted to hunt, she needed to feed. She was a monster now, and she has accepted who she is. She just didn't want her friends to see keep herself together. The brunette licked her lips, as she listened to the blood pumping through little veins all over his muscular frame.

She cleared her throat as Caroline had distracts her from her blood lust.

" The Carnival? You mean this weekend?"

She stated Stalely they were planning a night out, a victory statement against the originals. She knew hundreds of people would be attending the newly opened carnival. Elena met the gazes of her closest friends.

" I'm all in. "

She declared. She was curious to why her best friend hasn't :::::::::::: Hayley has been struggling with her curse with her turning into our creature of four paws. she-hated the turn as she would break all her bones as turned into the hairy wolf. she had no control over what would happen when she turns. Never mind with The actual carnival being in the town where more people who be around more. It didn't matter who much she tired to secured herself in the lock-up den, she found with the chains and bolts she used. The wolf in her always got free. As the moon reaches its climate making her change in wolf m.

She felt onto her knees screaming and growls in the pains of her bones stacking and breaking with second going by. She howls as she loses control of her human body and turning into the creature she becomes every full moon. Her strength builds to pulls against the chains and bolts that are attached to the walls. The wolf won't stop until the wolf is free from this cage that Hayley had locked herself in. The wolf breakfast down the steal bars and burst out to run free.

There was nothing Hayley couldn't do about the wolf or help anyone that was out tonight. She just hopes the wolf wouldn't find anyone tonight. She nodded into acknowledgment and followed her grueling pace without complaint. The warm humidity of the forest made her free sticky and suffocated in her wolf skin. She was swatted her paw against the pesky insects. The sweat rolled down her fur. She could feel her heart throbbing inside her chest. Her skins felt it was roasting. She began to bounce between the logs in the forest. When she reached the stream. She tried to catch her breath.

Her lungs felt they were about to burst into her human body against the wolf body. Her throat was so dry. She went close to the stream to take a drink licking up the cool water lather in up. She howled into the dark sky sudden spurts of speed, freedom the wolf pounding the dirt track. The first smells of bark, loan, pine needles with the recent rain filled the senses of her nose. She could hear the noise coming from the carnival as she ran harder and faster to that directions.

#DSM TVD TO RP