eepie ⋆.˚𖦹⋆

Taking a slender pede in your hand, you maneuver the limb over your leg. Gently tugging, wordlessly directing the mech. Starscream goes willingly, not because you were actually able to drag his weight, but because he wanted to listen, didn’t want to disappoint you. A notion that shoots heat straight to your bare core, eager to see just how deep his drive to appease you really went.

With an amused huff, you sling his thigh over your plush hip. Reverently trailing along the cool metal as your touch travels up towards the mech’s narrow waist. You skim over the weeping spike that stands proud, fully pressurized, just as lanky as the rest of him. The sensitive appendage jolts at your almost-touch, trans-fluid pearling at the tip.

Your mouth waters at the sight, reflexively swallowing.

Starscream smugly grins, savagely baring his denta at you. Knows what you’re thinking— ‘cause he’s thinking it too. Too bad that’s not what you have your sights set on tonight.

Scooting forward, you angle your hips just so, aiming for the curious, puffy little slit below his spike.

Clearly not expecting the redirection, Starscream hisses at the unexpected contact with his sensitive valve.

“What are you—?”

“S’okay,” you soothe, gently slotting your slick cunt over his own. “you trust me, right Star?“

The mech ex-vents shakily, red crest between his brows flattening unsurely. Your eyes zero in on the subtle movement, assessing the way his talons curl and crimson eyes dart between your connected sex. Interested, but clearly needing an explanation.

Planting your feet against the berth, the muscles in your core burn as you bow forward. With a clammy hand, you reach outward, his servo meeting you halfway and interlacing with your digits.

The simple contact of his chilled metal against your heated palms is overwhelming. Somehow, initiating this type of affection feels even more intimate than actual intercourse. It takes all of your willpower to not bashfully cow your head how you want, but you manage.

“We don’t have to, I just thought it’d be fun to mix it up… Uhm— humans who’re same sex do it this way. Wanted to try it with you… to have you every way I could. Ah, if you wanted to, I mean.” You’ve said a little more than you meant, but all of it rang true.

Starscream gapes at you wordlessly, optics constricting like a zooming camera lense. The silence is a little unnerving, you have to admit. You’re not used to the typically chatty seeker keeping his intake closed for any longer than necessary, so the fact that he wasn’t saying anything was mildly alarming.

Shame skitters up your spine, making you feel gross and all too exposed. Did you cross a boundary? Were you pressuring him into something he wasn’t into? God, you feel like such an inconsiderate asshole. Should’ve talked this out like the pair of adults you are.

“It’s okay if this isn’t your sort of thing, m’sorryYY—“ you yelp as you’re roughly shoved backwards. The air is punched out of your lungs from the force of the abrupt movement, and for a moment, you think you’ve monumentally fucked up. That he’s disgusted and pushing you off of him, but that concern’s quickly thrown out the window as Starscream’s lithe form rolls with you instead of away.

You squeak as your thighs are splayed, being readjusted to make way for the seeker to remain perched above your pelvis like a sexually charged gargoyle. It’s a little uncomfortable, and your hamstrings are already burning, but the look Starscream gives you redirects your attention to where it rightfully belongs.

“Selfish little human, you really mean that? Want me every conceivable way, all to yourself?” The words are growled with a near feral ferocity, but there’s an inflection of desperation— and even if you’d missed it, there’s no mistaking the wickedly sharp talons digging into the fragile flesh of your waist. Servos trembling, spring-loaded and ready to pounce.

“Again.” He demands, and who are you to deny your captor?

“Hhn— Need you, Star. Want all of you, only you, in—in every way that I can have you,” you swallow thickly, cunt throbbing as his valve hovers just above you. Tantalizingly close. If you could just move your hips a little closer— “please, Star!”

A raspy ‘frag’ Is all the warning you receive before his hips buck downwards, from anterior node to caliper he firmly drags his valve over your engorged sex. Your lower lips slot together perfectly, locked in an obscene kiss that audibly squelches.

“Hhah, is that all from you, or just me?” You quip dumbly, face pinched as you twist your hips upwards. Trying to steal more of that delightful friction.

Starscream snarls, servos dislodging from your hips to instead clasp just above your knee. The mech tests his grip, ensuring you won’t go sliding off the berth, before adjusting his hips. It’s only then that he looks back down at your face, helm haloed by the habsuites ceiling lights. The picturesque portrait of all your sinful desires bound by metal and stardust.

He smirks at you, smug. Knows how stunning he is, thrives over your adoration— needs it like a forgotten god craves worship. Lips curling over his pointed denta victoriously— and oh shit he’s up to no good— before he begins ruthlessly rutting against you like a rabid animal in heat.

You raggedly keen, unable to tear your eyes from every harsh snap of the seeker’s slim pelvis. His pretty, segmented spike slaps against his abdomen with every cant. Leaking and neglected, smearing transfluid against his otherwise pristine, ivory plating.

A shaky sigh falls from your parted mouth, an arm raising to shield your rolling eyes. Head knocking with every thrust.

With your vision obscured, you can hear each gliding ‘schlick-schlick-schlick’ of Starscream’s fat, glowing node grinding against your vulva all the more clearly. The sound alone is downright obscene coupled with your labored breathing, and just as you think you’ve got a handle on your hitching whines, Starscream knowingly swirls his hips. Making little micro-thrusts against your clit that have your hands flapping about in search of something to anchor you.

“Look at me.” He growls, claws pricking the meat of your thigh.

Your head thrashes in denial, overwhelmed.

“Fah—Fuck! Fuck, Star! S’too much!” You wail, blunt nails scrabbling over his forearms, catching on welded seams.

“You wanted this so badly—“ he gravelly ex-vents, the sound liquid sin to your ears. “so now you’re going to take it. Every way.” He throws your earlier words back into your face with an emphasizing thrust, merciless.

Gasping, you’re powerless to do anything but do as he says and take it.

Every muscle below your belly button seizes, spasming. Sparks explode in fiery bursts behind tightly sealed eyelids, white-hot stars searing themselves into your vision as your legs lock across the dipping arch of Starscream’s waistline.

The mech in question wantonly moans as your legs tighten around his frame, still moving like a bot posessed. Hot air blasts against your sweat-slicked skin, the seeker’s panels flaring with the ongoing exertion of determinedly fragging his tiny human with just his valve alone. A feat he hadn’t thought possible until you.

Your body slumps in the aftermath of your orgasm, utterly boneless— but Starscream doesn’t show any sign of stopping. If anything, he seems even more excited.

Whining, your hands slap against the mech’s arms, tears of overstimulation accumulating in your eyes with every torturous grind of his node against your twitching clit.

“Star— I Can’t— S’too much! Toomuchtoomuch!!”

“Haah, hmmf can’t stop—“ more of Starscream’s weight leans onto you, effectively pinning your writhing hips. “Frag! You’re— Feels so good, how can it feel this good?”

You wetly squeal, hips fruitlessly attempting to squirm away from the onslaught of painful pleasure.

A hissing objection chokes out of the seeker’s intake, a stiletto’ pede crashing adjacent to your face as his frame contorts over you. In this new position you’re bent nearly in half, a pseudo mating-press. Despite your overstimulation, your empty cunt reflexively flexes, aching to be filled.

“Star!”

“— No, almost—!”

“Inside, Star— baby please! Need you inside, need to feel you finish inside— Please!”

Again, Starscream slides his hips from node to caliper against your drenched lips, passing against your clit once, twice, before sliding home on the third pass in one swift motion.

Your mouth gapes in a soundless cry at the abrupt intrusion. Thankfully no prep was needed with the amount of combined slick, but it was still jarring to go from desperately empty to stuffed to the brim in under a few seconds.

Spike now sheathed, Starscream doesn’t waste any time, lost chasing his own release across the finish line. The mech jackhammers into your tight heat, rocking and grinding as if it physically pained him to withdraw for even a moment.

“Take it, take it take it take it—“ the seeker gutterly snarls into the hollow of your throat, open-mouthed and raggedly ex-venting onto the sensitive flesh. The wings on his back shudder, flaring wide with his torrential release.

Sobbing, your eyes tightly clench shut, fat tears trailing down your cheeks as a seemingly never-ending stream of transfluid is deposited directly into your cunt. The searing fluid warms you from the inside out, excess spurting from where you’re connected with your partner.

Starscream softly rocks his hips, milking the last dregs of his release. A far cry from the way he was selfishly using you a moment prior. Wincing at the minute movement, apart of you wants to be mad. To swat him off of you and kick him out of his own habsuite.

However, it’s hard to stay angry with the post-orgasmic bliss still hazing your brain. Endorphins and all that jazz.

Starscream, oblivious, plants is servos besides your head. Helm butting your head tenderly in a rare show of open affection. However, you feel after that vigorous coupling you deserve this and more.

Begrudgingly, you sigh. Sinking into the berth beneath yourself, before raising your heavy arms, slinging them across the cabling of the mech’s neck. You bask in the afterglow with him, a rare moment of serenity with the hedonistic seeker you’re eager to enjoy.

It lasts all of a minute before the mech above you buckles at the joints, gracelessly collapsing into disorganized heap of overheated, metal limbs. The bot pivots at the last moment, narrowly avoiding grinding you to human-paste.

•

Ayeee horny on main here we goooo. Anyways if you liked and want to request another Transformer one-shot/drabble my asks are open! I can’t commit to long form fics for shit but I love writing for these guys when inspiration strikes lol

Wild cackles spill from your throat, disjointed and borderline hysterical. A giant chainsaw roars to life in your hands, the bloodied business-end a warning. The constant vibrations from the motor making your very bones feel tingly and near numb with pins and needles.

The blood coursing through your veins feels electric, super-charged in a way that you only ever feel when you’re giving chase.

For all intents and purposes, you were dressed to kill.

Ahead, a group of teenagers shriek for their lives, pushing and shoving at each other in a desperate mad scrawl to escape.

Giggling dementedly, you cheekily taunt the pair. Some cheesy one-liner that you’ve already used maybe thirty times tonight.

In response, the blond, shaggy haired boy unkindly shoves at his friend, looking honestly a little pale. God, you hoped he wouldn’t vomit. The last thing you needed was for this kid to puke in your section.

“Damn it— move Craig, move! They’re coming right this way!”

Craig, you’re assuming, laughs mischievously. Arms and legs spread out wide and hooked onto the exit’s doorframe like a human barricade. Effectively blocking his friend from passing through, reveling in the panicked shouts and desperate pleas to move.

“Chill! They’re not even that scary!” Craig manages between full-bellied chuckles.

You cluck your tongue, bouncing from foot to foot impatiently. You had a strict schedule, and didn’t really have the time to play a game of chicken with these two before the next group passed through.

Panting, you try to subtly rub your face against your shoulder, sweat-slicked baby-hair clung uncomfortably to your clammy skin. Slowly, as to not alert the oblivious pair as they squabbled, you crept forward. Quietly making your way over, inch by inch, until you were only a meager three steps away.

“Fuck you Craig! I swear to god, if you don’t move in the next five seconds, I’m gonna—“

Reaching down, you cut the power to your chainsaw. The pair, still oblivious and too caught up in their back and forth, fail to notice the abrupt silence.

Before anymore grating arguing can spill, your reach out, gently reaching over the blonde’s shoulder and gently poking the troublemaker with your index.

The pair, having momentarily forgotten all about you, whip their heads around. The action is done so quickly, you’re half surprised they hadn’t snapped their necks. Their eyes were wide and terrified as they watched with bated breath. You offer nothing but a playful little finger wag; deceptively casual, before lunging forward and delivering a scream so fried, most metal-heads would’ve applauded.

You barely have enough time to clear your throat before the teens are tripping over one another, a messy pile of limbs as they half-crawl on all fours. Before then remembering that, yes, they did indeed have legs. And that yes, they should probably use those.

Man, you loved Halloween.

Hours later, and the haunted house’s endless waves of shrieking crotch-goblins and thrill-seeking teens had finally slowed to a light trickle. Granted, it wasn’t all that surprising. With it being the busiest night of the year, after all. The attraction had been at near full capacity all night, guests squashed together like canned sardines with seemingly no end in sight.

It wasn’t until just a little after midnight when the non-stop traffic of people had finally slowed to a trickle, that you realized just how loud it had been. The abrupt quiet left only the looping audio of groaning ghouls playing from outdated speakers hidden in dark corners. You’d honestly forgotten there was any background ambience to begin with, when all you could hear for eight long and grueling hours was the screams of the horrified.

God, you were so glad you had the foresight to bring a bottle of Tylenol with you.

With little more fanfare, the annual haunt had officially closed for the year. The end of the final shift was marked with exhausted high-fives, sighs of relief, and more than a few of your coworkers tearing off sticky prosthetics like their skin had been itching something fierce for hours.

Quickly, actors were dispersing and heading home for a well-earned night’s rest. But not you.

No, you’d gone and volunteered for one last task: the final sweep.

It was your favorite part of the job. Wandering through the darkened maze of the building, making sure no drunk idiots had keeled over and passed out in a coffin or gotten stuck between the walls of the mirror maze. Occasionally, you’d even find a late-night straggler who thought it’d be the bee’s knees to hide and loiter around until everyone left. Those ones were the best. Scaring the hell out of someone who thought they were smarter than the rest? Totally oblivious that they weren’t alone, and wouldn’t have the last laugh?

Better than any therapy session. Free, too.

Tonight felt different, though. The air seemed heavier in the aftermath of the long season, as if the building itself was holding its breath. But maybe that was just your imagination. It was all too easy for these dark corridors to play on your anxiety.

Shaking it off, you adjusted your grip on the prop chainsaw you carried, the dull heft of it a grounding weight. Despite the fact that it wasn’t real, it still gave you an illusion of safety.

As you tiredly shambled your way through the maze of halls, fantasizing about your plush mattress waiting for you back at home, you trod into a room chalk-full of fog. The familiar, smokey scent a pleasant balm over your pulsing migraine. Someone must’ve forgot to turn off the fog-machines, you figure. You couldn’t really find it in yourself to blame them for wanting to go home as soon as possible after tonight.

Turning a corner, you stop dead in your tracks as your eyes hone in on a distant shape.

Ahead, barely visible in the foggy gloom, was the hulking silhouette of a person.

Your heart gave a little leap of excitement. A straggler, ripe for the spooking!

Grinning, you bend your knees into a half-crouch, keeping close to the wall as you quietly crept forward. The flickering lights overhead did little to illuminate the figure, but you didn’t need to see much. You knew this maze like the back of your hand and could strut these halls blindfolded. No dumb teens stood a chance against you.

Close enough now to start feeling the ramping rush of adrenaline, you gave the chainsaw in your hands a few hard tugs. It sputters. Once, twice, before roaring to life on the third pull. The sound of the faux engine roaring to life bounces against the walls of the narrow hall, creating a cacophony throughout the desolate space.

The figure, hunched over something on the ground— please don’t be vomit, please don’t be vomit— straightened slowly. And kept straightening up, reaching a towering height all the while remaining completely unbothered by your approach.

Well. That wasn’t the reaction you’d been expecting. Usually, this was the point in time where people screamed, turned tail, and ran. Or at the very least flinched in surprise.

Real or not, people had a tendency to allow fear to overtake their rationality. It was hard not to, when somebody was chasing you, swinging around a chainsaw in an enclosed space. There was little time to think, just scream and run. Which was great for you.

Annoyed, you take several menacing steps closer, brandishing your chainsaw and revving the engine promisingly. It typically made even the most jaded customer uneasy. But the figure didn’t even react. Was this guy deaf?

“Alright, tough guy,” you muttered under your breath, squinting to get a better look at them.

Through the flickering lighting, you could just make out a worn, burgundy turtleneck and a matching devil mask to boot. Pointed horns perched atop their crown, casting jagged shadows across the walls. In one hand, they held a cleaver—large, wickedly sharp, and dripping with what looked unmistakably like blood. Thick, dark rivulets of it that clung to the blade and fell in slow, pattering drops onto the floor.

Oh. So maybe not a guest.

Sighing with slight disappointment, the muscles in your legs that’d been tensed in preparation to give chase slackened.

“Nice getup,” you called out over the rev of the chainsaw, lowering it slightly before cutting the power off altogether in order to be heard more clearly.

“Sorry— thought you were a guest. Y’know, we closed like… Half an hour ago, right? You can go home.”

The figure tilted their head, confused maybe, before turning towards you fully. Behind them, something was sprawled across the floor—a crumpled, unrecognizable heap in a pool of blackened liquid.

You squinted, trying to make sense of the shape. Some kind of prop, probably. From your vantage you could just make out bone-white, jutting ribs blooming from the gorey mass. Indescribable lumps spill from the open cavity, glistening in the low-light. Most likely meant to look like exposed guts.

Your stomach roils unpleasantly at the sight. That was some pretty convincing stuff. Not typically what you saw in here, considering this haunt advertised itself as nothing too intense— for the younger audience.

Your attention is redirected, when the stranger shuffles closer.

“Didja know,” they spoke— tone baritone and unmistakably male, with a honeyed southern drawl, “human meat tastes most similarly like pork?”

You shuffle in place awkwardly as the man completely ignores your previous words. Your brain buffers, struggling to formulate the right words. Quickly, you decide to go with the tried and true method when dealing with odd social encounters. Polite enthusiasm.

A nervous laugh bubbles up in your throat, forced and strained.

“That’s… uh, great trivia,” you stammered, looking around, confused. Why was he insisting on dragging out the bit? It was just the two of you. Right? “Um. You really don’t have to keep acting though. Like I said before, we’re done for the night, so…”

You trail off as the man took another lumbering step closer, his boots squelching in the messy viscera underfoot.

You stepped back instinctively at his unhurried advance, your gaze darting between the cleaver in his fist and the mangled body behind him. It wasn’t real, right? It certainly didn’t feel real.

Yet all the while something kept nagging persistently in the back of your skull, your gut telling you something was deeply wrong here.

Why don’t you remember this guy? Surely you would’ve seen him at least once in passing if he worked here? Yet try as you may to recollect your scrambled thoughts, you can’t for the life of you recall.

Faintly, you heard the ‘whoosh’ing of the overhead fan as it was powered to life. One of you had tripped the motion trigger, a practical effect meant to disorient you. Bombard your senses and overwhelm the intended target for a better scare— or something along those lines. The finer details escaped you in this moment.

It was only as a fresh burst of circulated air wafted in your direction, that the smell hit you. You were expecting something mildly sweet. Like liquid corn-starch and colored food-dye.

The scent that assaults you instead, is anything but. Coppery and acrid, like licking a battery.

This was real. Like, really real.

It hits abruptly, and it hits you hard. The chainsaw in your hands suddenly felt too light, too useless. You took a half-step backwards, swallowing hard as a cold dread crept up your spine.

The pounding war-drum of your pulse roared in your ears as panic began to set in. “Okay,” you said, your voice thin and wispy.

You swallow again, clearing the cotton-dry feeling in your mouth and try injecting some authority back into your tone. You don’t think you quite hit the mark. “Okay. Uh, You’re— You’re not supposed to be here, man.”

The stranger says nothing. Just smiles and stalks forward, cleaver raised and poised to slash.

Alarm bells blare in your head as you backpedal, frantically twisting to turn back the way you came.

He lunged.

You barely had any time to throw the chainsaw up between you as the cleaver arced through the air. A resounding ‘crack’ rippled through the air as steel met cheap plastic, the force of the swing knocking the prop straight out of your hands. As it clattered to the floor, useless, you only had one thought.

You were so screwed.

You scramble to keep your balance and maintain a sliver of distance as the man advanced, his movements slow but deliberate. Like a cat batting around a mouse.

In one sudden move, he swung again, forcing you to dodge with a wild stumble to the side. The motion sent you skidding on the slick floor, your shoes struggling to find traction on the grimy surface smeared with blood.

Turning your head to the side, you just now notice the man’s sweater-clad arm brushing against your cheek— caging you in.

He’d missed— No, that’s not right. You’d dodged.

The giant cleaver was stubbornly embedded into the wall beside you, right where your head had been not even a second previously. And it was stuck.

With a panicked noise, you duck under his right arm. Narrowly escaping him as his left hand had just barely brushed against the back of your costume.

“Shit!” you hissed, your heartbeat thundering in your chest. The acidic stench of gore clawed at the back your nostrils— it’s real, it’s real!—, threatening to gag you as you struggled to wrangle your limbs into cooperation and go.

Behind you, you catch the sound of the man grunting as he ripped his weapon of choice out of the wall. Quickly followed by his deliberate steps behind you, steady and unhurried. Completely sure of himself.

It only served to spur you into a clumsy, mad sprint.

The maze of hallways felt suffocatingly narrow, the walls pressing in on you with every corner you turned. Your mind scrambled for an escape route, or-or a familiar face, for anything at all that could give you an edge. But the layout, once so familiar, now felt like a disorienting trap.

Behind you, the man’s steps falter, the sound echoing faintly in the cavernous space.

You turned your head, just a cursory glance over your shoulder to gage his distance, but that split-second look had cost you.

Your foot hit something—a stray, thick cable for some electronic or another. Your balance vanished, and you went down— hard. Your palms shot out before yourself, slapping the cold and sticky floor. Pain shot up your wrists as they took the brunt of the impact, but it barely registered in your panic-addled brain.

The heavy thud of boots snapped your attention back to your aggressor, and you looked up to see him closing the distance. The cleaver raised high, winking promisingly in the stage-light.

Feral and desperate, you crawled back on your elbows. No other thought in your brain except to get away.

Another step forward, and his foot caught on the same cord that had betrayed you. His confident stride faltered, his boot sliding out from under him.

It would’ve been a comical sight in literally any other circumstance.

As he stumbled forward with a startled grunt, his massive frame pitched off-balance as he wildly swung his arms outwards in a desperate search for purchase.

It wasn’t much of an opening, but a split second decision needed to be made.

Adrenaline pumping through your veins, you surprise yourself.

Instead of taking the opportunity to keep running, like literally any other sane person would do in your situation, you’d leapt. Right on-top of your attacker.

Your arm whips out and catch’s his neck, capturing him in a headlock. Or it would’ve, if the damn guy wasn’t built like a fucking rottweiler.

The man lets out a noise between a half-aborted chuckle and cough at the unexpected restriction. Large hands scrabbling for purchase against your forearm, nails raking angry red lines across your skin. You curse at the slight sting, yet remain firmly saddled to his broad back, legs firmly locked at his sides. Even as he wildly thrashes, you hold on with all your might— like you would on a bucking bull at the carnival. Knowing you’d be facing pain far worse than a few scratches if you failed, you swing your other arm around, firmly clasping your hand against your opposing wrist and pulling it taut as hard as you could. The muscles in your arms burn at the prolonged stretch, but no matter how much it aches and feels like your arm could pop out of its socket at any moment, you hold firm.

“Feisty lil’ treat, ain’t’cha?” The mysterious man manages through a gasping grunt, meaty digits wriggling between the space of your arm and his reddening neck.

White-hot anger sears at the forefront of your mind. Just who the hell did he think he was? You did the scares and crappy one-liners around here, bitch.

With a snarl against the nape of his neck, his onyx hair tickling your nose, you act on impulse.

Before anymore teases or taunts can be made in that southern drawl you’re quickly coming to despise, you bare your teeth and bite down at the exposed clammy flesh just peeking above the burgundy sweater smattered with someone else’s blood.

Your attacker gasps, stumbling backwards as he vainly attempts to reach behind himself and dislodge you. All the while you clamp down harder, teeth aching with the force not meant for your blunt pearly-whites.

The acrid, metal tang of iron bleeds onto your tongue— a bitter taste that you’re thankfully not subjected to for long as the mountain of a man loses his footing once again. The wires looping around his ankle in the struggle. Sending him stumbling backward one, two, three paces before his back harshly met the wall.

Ergo, you as well.

The abrupt force of the entirety of the man’s weight hitting you like a freight train, pinning you against the wall, is already bad enough. What makes the shitty situation even worse, is that your aggressor wastes no time in taking your momentary shock and striking.

Lighting quick, you don’t even have time to shout or attempt rolling away as an elbow jabs into your diaphragm with startling accuracy.

The response is instantaneous, as the muscle in your chest seizes— momentarily paralyzed.

You crumple inwards, leaning against the grimy wall for support as you gasp and heave for air. All the while uselessly clutching at the collar of your shirt, struggling and fighting for oxygen that your lungs are seemingly incapable of drawing in at this moment.

Faintly, out of the corner of your eye, you recognize the stranger as he stalks forward. Knife clutched in an angry, white-knuckled fist.

As you’re kneeling hunched on the floor, breathing in harsh pants— but breathing, nonetheless— your eyes dip downwards. Catching the slim portion of skin peeking just above the collar of his stained turtleneck, nearly as red as the devil mask he dons as a result of the damage you’ve wrought.

‘Bites and strangulation’s a good look on him.’ You think to yourself deliriously, as a toothy, blood-soaked grin tears proudly across your face.

The man, taking notice of your face smeared with his own blood, cocks his head to the side. Considering.

Defiantly, you jut your chin upwards. Wordless in your challenge but a challenge nonetheless.

Devil-guy chuckles at your show of bravado, his own smile hitching impossibly higher, the pinks of his gums winking at you.

With a thudding step, and another, he shambles towards you. Stalking. Slow and steady, completely unbothered. He’s got you backed into a corner now and he knows it. Wants you to know it, too.

Feeling hopeless, you can do little more than press yourself flush against the wall. With nowhere else to go, and sufficiently crowded by this guy, you brace for impact.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you feel the heavy, damp breath fanning over your sweat-slicked face as he leans over you. Even without your eyes open, you can feel the lofty weight of his unabashed staring. Despite this, you resist the urge to kick or swing. You already knew it was futile, and anymore resistance would surely be met with a swift rebuttal.

The moment stretches on, a long silence filled with nothing but your intermingling pants occupying the cramped space. Faintly, you hear the looping audio of the haunted-house’s ambient audio. Previously, you’d already had a strong dislike for the downright cheesy moans and groans of the supposed supernatural, interspersed with distant howling. However, in this moment, you despise nothing more. As for the umpteenth time, a distant shriek pierces the quiet. It feels mocking, somehow.

Something warm and wet drips onto your cheek, rolling down your flushed face. Goose flesh erupts along your shoulders as you nearly jump out of your skin at the unexpected sensation. Thankfully however, you do nothing more than flinch, before cautiously peering through squinted eyelids.

Above you, your attacker openly drools. Spittle forming and accumulating along his bottom lip, before trailing down his chin. All while his wobbly pupils minutely shift, raptured and ravenously watching every micro expression flitting across your face.

Nervously, you gulp. Before reflexively wetting your own lips in a practiced, anxious habit. It’s not until you taste copper that you remember you still have flakey, dried blood staining your maw. Gross.

The man above, however, has clearly different opinions as he erupts into a full-bodied shiver. The tips of his ears flushing a bright pink.

Okay. Noted.

He lingers, eyes eagerly raving over the dried streak of blood on your lips with unnerving intensity. You squirm, uncomfortable and feeling like a pinned frog, ripe for dissection. Something feral flits across his expression as you wriggle, a startling hunger, before he raises a hand to wipe the drool from his chin with the back of his sleeve.

“Look at’cha,” he mutters, his voice low, husky. There’s a disconcerting undercurrent of amusement beneath the words, like he’s speaking more to himself than to you. “Wild as a bearcat. ‘Love it when they got a bit of fight in ‘em.”

He squats down to your level, his massive frame moving with surprising grace. You’re keenly aware of just how little space exists between you, his knees nearly brushing yours as his free hand, fingers wide and blunt, presses firmly to the wall beside your head. A cage. One he doesn’t intend to let you squirrel through this time.

Seeming content to just stare at you for the moment, cleaver still clutched in his other hand and catching slivers of light. Angling it lazily, almost conversationally, near your face.

At your clear terror, he withdraws. You relax— at least, as much as you’re able to in this guy’s presence—, a shaky exhale leaving you as he does so.

It doesn’t last long though, of course. As you’re once again tensing up all over again, breath hitching as he raises it to his own mouth instead, the flat of the blade skimming his lips. He slurps at the excess there, his tongue then darting out to lave over the steel, before finally pulling it away. His smile widens, and he makes a soft sound, thoughtful. Like he was out taste-testing cheese and not savoring the blood of the innocent.

“You—” your voice cracks, chest aching, lungs still struggling to catch up. You cough and try again, forcing as much venom as you can muster into your words. “You’re sick.”

“And yer stupid,” he counters quickly, his grin unwavering, a flash of teeth that gleam wetly in the pale light. “But I don’t reckon that’s news to either of us.”

A tense moment of silence passes.

“Ya bite hard,” he muses, disrupting the momentary quiet. As though that’s a normal thing to compliment. Is it a compliment? “Bet’cha I bite harder, though.”

The words sink in slowly, and your stomach twists, blood flushing up your neck. Something in your expression—your attempt to recoil while still pressed helplessly to the wall—delights him further. Like you’re tethered together by a string, he follows your pitiful attempt for personal-space. Never letting you forget for even a moment how helpless you really were.

“Ya weren’t s’pposed to be here, treat.” His free hand lifts from the wall, fingers brushing against the sweat-slicked edge of your jaw. The touch is light, deceptively gentle. However, it’s ruined by how his hands feel like a loaded gun against your skin. Knowing that at any moment, he could snuff you out.

He drags his thumb down your jaw, just barely grazing the space between your lip and chin. The blade stays in his other hand, ominously idle but never forgotten.

You jerk your head to the side with a sharp inhale, dislodging his touch, and finally manage to spit out a weak, “Don’t.” You didn’t even really know what you were refusing. The nickname? Touch? Your inevitable demise? Maybe all of the above.

He chuckles fondly—a deep, guttural sound that reverberates in your chest, too close, too intimate. “Sure thing. Treat.”

Your fists clench at your sides, nails digging into your palms hard enough to leave stinging crescents in their wake. “What do you want?” you snap, the edge of your voice sharper now despite the wobble. You’re desperate to gain back some sense of control, some foothold in this surreal nightmare.

His grin softens, just slightly, into something more contemplative. “Want?” he repeats, as though tasting the word on his tongue. “Don’t’cha see, darlin’? I already got what I want.” He leans in even closer, his forehead almost brushing yours.

The words hang in the air like a death sentence. Your stomach flip-flops, dread curling tight in your abdomen as his hands wander again, finally transferring off and away from you.

His proximity feels suffocating, but despite every rational instinct screaming at you to do something—anything—you find yourself frozen. Not just in fear, but in something else. Something other than self-preservation.

He’s terrifying, sure. But there’s something about the way he looks at you, a wild fascination that unsettles you to your very core, yet holds you immovably still. That kind of obsessive attention fixated solely on you, like you’re the only thing that exists in this moment. You’ve never had someone look at you that way before. It was frighteningly addictive.

“Ya feel that, don’t’cha?” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a near whisper, almost conspiratorial. “Yer lil’ heart, pounding away? That’s a once ‘n a lifetime feelin’, treat.”

Yeah, because he fucking kills them right after.

“I could kill ya right now, y’know,” he says it so casually, as though he read your mind. His grip on the knife shifts, and he raises it just enough for you to catch a glimpse of that glinting steel once again. “Wouldn’t even be hard. Like squishin’ a baby bird.”

Your nose scrunches, but you refuse to buckle and give him the reaction he’s clearly fishing for. “Then why don’t you? Hurry up and get it over with, prick.”

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t get the chance to, actually. As a scream echoes down the hall, back the way you came. Sounds like somebody found the body. Er- what was left of it, anyhow.

However, your would-be killer doesn’t even deign to spare a glance in that direction. Instead, he grunts, irritated at being interrupted. Eyes drinking you in , as if committing you to memory.

For a split second, you fear that he isn’t going to move. Quickly, knowing time was running out, you open your mouth. Wether it was to shout or maybe offer some snarky quip, you’ll never know.

Because with the strength of a kicking mule, he shoves you, cutting you off before you could make a sound.

A winded ‘oof’ is punched out of your abused lungs, balefully watching as he rises from his haunches and finally tearing those near-black irises away from you.

And just like that, he’s gone. The weight of his presence lifts as he stands to his full height, towering over you for just a moment longer before turning on his heel. His boots thud against the slick floor as he saunters off, leaving you trembling in the silence. Nothing but the sound of voices down the hall, panicked and steadily growing closer. Something about calling the cops.

Your breath comes in short, ragged bursts as you stare after his retreating silhouette, equal parts relief and confusion flooding your senses.

You get the distinct feeling this isn’t over.

Going home is a complicated ordeal. After your manager found you, you’d been a little shell-shocked, to say the least.

And utterly exhausted.

You didn’t really know the haunt-manager that well. It seemed like a different organizer every year, and to be honest, you weren’t all too keen on getting to know them anyway. They seemed nice enough, though.

“—And-! Where’s your car? Don’t tell me you walked here!” She frets, hands coming up to grasp you by the shoulders, before thinking better of it last minute.

“I’m fine.” You grouse, idly thumbing your sternum that still aches. That’s going to be one nasty bruise, you’re sure.

In the distance, you can just make out the red and blue lights strobing down the streets. You really didn’t want to deal with that headache right now. You were never a fan of cops, having your own complicated history with them that you weren’t really interested in reminiscing on.

“Look, Ms-“ you pause, just realizing you’ve forgotten her name already. With an awkward cough, hoping she didn’t catch on, you continue “it’s been a real long and shitty night and I really just want to go home. I’m leaving.” Stiffly, you turn on your heel. Robotically marching down the steps and towards the sidewalk. You weren’t typically a very tactful person on a good day. So if you were a little more terse than you intended, you don’t think you could be held entirely at fault. Tonight had been overwhelming.

“Wait- No, you can’t just walk away! Someone died tonight, there’ll be questions-and-and-“

You pause in your tracks, aggravatingly, she was right. No matter how much you just wanted to go home and forget about tonight, you could potentially get into a heap of trouble for just walking out. Afterall, it’d probably look awfully suspicious of you to try slinking off after a murder.

A murder. It didn’t feel real, hearing that someone really did die tonight, and that it wasn’t some hysteria-induced hallucination.

You should’ve been dead too.

You clear your throat, uncomfortable. Deciding to save yourself the future migraine, you fish out your trusty bottle of Tylenol. Swallowing two pills dry.

The haunt-organizer looks a little on edge, despite her insistence that you came back. Dragging your feet back up the steps, you notice her slightly backpedal from your immediate vicinity. You suppose you can’t really blame her. What with you still dressed in uniform, ratty hair, and features smeared with patchy face-paint. You must look pretty ratchet right now.

With a long, suffering sigh, you fall back onto your rump. Leg bouncing anxiously.

Well, it’s not like tonight could get any worse.

Hope ya’ll enjoyed. I got bit by the Bob-Velseb-Bug after playing Tender Lovin’ Cannibal. So this was born :,)

Also-Also, I will not be posting future chapters to this Tumblr, so if you’d like to read more please consider checking out my Ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/60694933

Cautiously, you turn to survey the room surrounding yourself. The constant, oppressive darkness outside the thick windows doesn’t help your ramping unease. The idea that anything can be lurking in the inky depths, laying in wait for you to lower your guard. Watching, surveying. Hunting. Your palms sweat as your finger nails dig crescent imprints into your flesh. Every shuddering groan of the structure feels like another nail in your coffin. Darkly, you wonder just how many rooms- no, entire floors, have completely succumbed to the will of the sea by now. You can’t help but feel helpless, every avenue of your mind overtaken by the countless ways your life can be so quickly and effortlessly snuffed out.

What’s there not to be terrified of?

You scoff quietly. When you’d signed up for this gig, there was nowhere in the contracts explaining where exactly you’d be going. If you’d known the horrors residing in these waters, of being helplessly trapped thousands of feet where not even the sun can reach… you may’ve been a touch more hesitant to apply. Or who knows, maybe being confined to the same four-walled cell would’ve drove you here regardless. There was no point on dwelling on the millions of ‘what-ifs’. Your life was already considered forfeit, UrbanShade knew it, Sebastian knew it- hell, even the monsters knew so! It was only a matter of time before you were either swallowed whole, imploded, or drowned. The only one who seemed unable to get the memo was you.

You sigh, massaging your temples in a circular motion in an attempt to mitigate the encroaching migraine. There was no point in marinating in your own existential dread, you wouldn’t give UrbanShade nor its residents the satisfaction of breaking you. You’ve spent near your entire life bottling feelings up, old habits were hard to kick and you certainly weren’t going to try stopping them now.

A little more put together than a moment prior, you continue your journey. You were going to die soon. Maybe not right this second, but your chances of survival were incredibly slim, and you’d never considered yourself lucky or partial to gambling. The truth was plain and simple, inevitable. You were expendable and that was okay. It had to be. It must be. It will be.

Yawning, you passed through yet another sad-beige room. You must’ve opened twenty- no, maybe more like thirty doors?? Possibly??? Anyhow, point was, it was quiet. Disconcertingly so. The ambient hum of the overhead lights droning on had been slowly chipping away at your resolve. It was worrying how long you’ve gone without encountering any threats. Suspicious, even. Not once had you needed to make a detour, or find a key-card to progress. Rifling through the numerous desks in this zone hadn’t provided anything particularly useful either. Aside from the occasional ‘loose asset’ or two that you know The Merchant would be glad to take off of your hands. Oh, and a flash beacon! Though it was all-in-all a pretty lukewarm score. Regardless, you clipped the light-source onto your utility belt. You doubt you’d ever actually need it- not when you have your trusty flashlight and more batteries on hand than you could possibly ever need( Sebastian had given you an exponentially cheap price for those. Claiming it was more profitable to ‘sell them in bulk’ ). The monotonous repetition of pilfering office cubicles was mind-numbing, and you were sick of it.

Feeling frustrated, your pace quickens to that of a jog. Logically, you know you should be conserving your energy. It was reckless to be blindly racing through these halls, but you just couldn’t stand it anymore. If you had to die soon, so be it. But you weren’t going to just sit there like an appetizing bucket of chum and wait for death to come to you. You’d go down kicking and screaming.

Without you noticing it in your rising panic, your modest jog had turned into a run, and before you knew it, you were flying through rooms. Each one a never ending blur of the same layout. Cubicle, desk, door. Cubicle, desk, door. Cubicle, desk- chair? Chair!

Abruptly, you’re sent careening off-balance by an errant swivel-seat. When had that got there?Thankfully, you land on your side, the brunt force of your tumble distributing throughout your body evenly instead of in one specific location. Your expiration date could’ve been that much sooner if you’d somehow managed to break a bone. Stunned(kind of like how toddlers freeze before realizing if the situation calls for a meltdown or not), you remain curled in a fetal position on the floor, chest heaving with exertion. Remember when you said you weren’t an athletic individual? Yeah, that wasn’t an exaggeration.

A strangled wheeze erupts as you inch your hands up to your face, muffling your sounds of misery as pain ricochet’s throughout your body. It’d be one thing to land on carpet- but fuckity fuck, concrete?? Yeowch. God, you were so pathetic. This isn’t even the worst pain you’ve endured during your stay at the black-site. Maybe it was just your exhaustion, but all that big inner-monologuing over accepting your fate on your own terms and all that other melodramatic bogus- only to epically face-plant so soon afterwards? Ugh. Embarrassing. You lay motionless in a limp pile of limbs on the floor, gasping for air like a fish on land.

Slowly, you drag a palm down over your sweat-slicked face, before you rolling onto your front. Your ribcage digs into your organs, but you endure for the moment. Now that you’re not actively moving, you have a moment to catch your breath and scatter the panicked, adrenaline-filled haze that had clouded your mind.

As you lay there on the steadily, increasingly uncomfortable, hard floor; chin perched on your crossed arms, and epiphany strikes through you. This whole time, you’d been brainlessly pressing forward. Assuming there to be only the one way through. But when had this place ever been so simple? Perhaps all you needed was a new matter of perspective.

Just as the thought crossed your mind, your gaze snags on a vent-grille a little ways ahead of you. Similar in design to that of the ones you usually traverse through to visit Sebastian. Oh. Sebastian.

Thinking of the fish-man now, you’re filled with melancholy. Would he be upset if you just… didn’t return? The idea of Sebastian waiting for you to visit again but you never returning leaves a heavy feeling in your stomach. No, you couldn’t imagine him being so easily rattled by your disappearance, no matter how much you’d selfishly hope him to be. The more likely scenario, on the other hand? He probably wouldn’t even notice. The constant ebb and flow of UrbanShade volunteers was sure to prevent people like you from occupying his mind for any longer than necessary. And yet, even still knowing that the shopkeep realistically didn’t hold you in the same regard… you crave to be curled by his side. Goofing off and trading quips, stealing a few precious moments to yourself to pretend that everything was okay. Your brows up-turn, features scrunching not only in physical pain, but internal pain too. You had it bad. Whether it was a case of simply pack-bonding to the nearest individual, or (hopefully) something more akin to genuine connection remained yet to be seen.

Heartbeat no longer thudding in your chest, you rise up on scuffed knees, mildly cringing at the bloodied and torn fabric of your wetsuit. Without anymore fanfare, you crawl into the vent. Through a few winding turns you’re quickly spat out into, finally, a new room. Bouncing onto your feet, the heavy blast-door slides open, and you’re greeted by your typical scene rather than the looping office-space. You don’t waste anytime jumping through the frame, only twisting around in surprise when the door hurriedly slams closed. Well that’s odd, the doors normally stay open, no?

Confused, you watch as the screen, typically presenting the previous room’s number, is instead displaying a pixelated “>:(“

You incredulously snort, unsure how to proceed.

Deciding to err on the side of caution, you timidly shuffle before the entry-way.

“Hello?” You greet, yet it sounds more like a question. Honestly, you felt pretty ridiculous calling out to a door of all things.

The screen goes blank, nothing but a red, blinking cursor remaining stationary. What the fuck? Was someone actively hacking the screens? But why? How?? Were they friend or foe? Unsure, you wave a hand before the display. The cursor doesn’t move, nor do any new messages appear. A little perturbed, you rub your weary eyes. Was it a trick of the light? Or maybe a malfunction? Whatever the case may be, your intuition doesn’t like it. So far, it hasn’t led you astray. Wearily, you turn away from the peculiar door.

Walking down the corridor, you’re surrounded once again by thick plexiglass-glass. This time, however, it doesn’t just stop at little viewing windows. No, everything but the floor beneath your feet and the ceiling above was made of the same reinforced glass. You sway on your feet, suddenly nauseous and feeling entirely too exposed. You can feel your vision tunneling, everything except for the door ahead of you blurring out of focus like a low-resolution camera.

You feel as if you’re walking on a tight-rope, one step away from falling into the oppressive darkness on either side of you. Shakily, you try to focus your breathing. In and out. Concentrate on pulling oxygen. In and out .

So focused on what’s in front of you, you fail to notice as a sickly green light begins filter through the darkness.

Behind yourself, the odd little screen flickers back to life.

“Goodbye :)” It reads.

Sebastian, ever on the move, didn’t stay in one place for too long. Sure, there were a few, self-made outposts he frequented where he felt confident no friends would interrupt his business dealings. But he couldn’t rely entirely on the bumbling ex-convicts UrbanShade ‘hired’ to retrieve the information he sought. No, it was best that if he wanted things to get done right , he shouldn’t shuck the entirety of the workload onto the fools who didn’t even care for their cause. Which was exactly what he was doing.

His frequent routes through the complex weren’t typically above-ground. Neither did he rely too heavily on traversing through water. He was sore to admit it, but despite his genetic ‘enhancements’, there were much bigger fish than him lurking about the complex. Ones that didn’t bargain, nor were they nearly as susceptible to the ways of persuasion as humans were. No, just like him, his fellow test-subjects were nearly all carnivorous in nature. They all hungered so deeply, so ravenously that they rarely deigned to even take a moment to consider before lunging. No amount of shared trauma or sympathies were greater than the hollow of their stomachs. Sebastian’s expression sours.

His current path took him through the utility tunnels, a labyrinth of narrow, concrete halls that he had mapped out over countless excursions. Here, he was less likely to encounter any unwelcome reunions that roamed the more typical halls. His movements were swift and silent, honed by years of surviving in this underwater hellscape.

Body on auto-pilot, Sebastian’s thoughts drifted to you, as they so often did these days. Especially so since your last visit. Sebastian’s chest warms as he recalls the way you’d looked(admired, really) at him. As if he were anything but a monster. Of how you had called him pretty. How stupidly sincere you were, refusing to backtrack as any other sane person in your shoes would do- even as he gave you ample time to do so. He curses his tender heart, maybe the only part of him left that was well and truly human. Most days he wishes that the scientists who swapped his organs and irreparably altered his body would’ve taken his heart too. It certainly would’ve made things a lot easier.

As his mind circles back to you, a small flicker of concern breaches through the current of his thoughts. You were stubborn, he’d give you that, but how long could you really last down here? He knew UrbanShade’s plans, their blatant disregard for human life- er, life in general. Everyone down here was expendable, a pawn in their grand plan. He didn’t want to admit it, but he had grown… accustomed, of your visits. Of your banter and your resilience. It’s been so long since someone’s looked at him and seen anything else other than a ghastly experiment. You spoke with him, really spoke with him, not just at him. Plus, you didn’t even mind his crass attitude- hell! You even matched it more often than not. Most others in your place wouldn’t dare to rebuke his snark. In a cruel place devoid of connection, you were a rare exception.

He shook his head, clearing away any residual gooey ‘sentiments’. Sentimentality was a weakness he couldn’t afford. He had a mission, and attachments would only complicate things. Still, as he navigated the dark passageways, he couldn’t shake the tentative hope of being able to see you again. Wouldn’t that be nice?

There’s a great bellow somewhere above, undoubtedly from that of the ‘eyefestation’. It was one of the more ‘tame’ byproducts of the black-site’s experiments. Well, as tame as anything down here could be. It was sentient, for a start. Sebastian wasn’t sure by how much exactly, and didn’t particularly care- nor had the time to find out. What was important was that it was free of its enclosure now, all thanks to him.

Crawling out of the shaft like an NYC subway rat, you’re finally free to hack up your lungs in peace without fear of death by angler. At least, no death from this one in particular. Blindly you lean back to sit on your haunches, eyes straining to pick up any movement in the darkness.

“Oh. It’s you.” Your shoulder’s jump as a voice drawls from the far-side of the room. Soon after, a gentle glow begins to illuminate the occupied space.

Now with your gracious host offering you visibility, you blink your adjusting vision over to watch as Sebastian seemingly just wraps up whatever file he’d been perusing in the dark. Before you can even attempt to try and sneak a peek at whatever he’d been reading, said folder closes shut with a swift snap. The merchant then carefully tucks the item away into his inner-coat’s pocket. A shame, your snooping has been so swiftly shut down before it ever had a chance to begin- you pout at the missed opportunity. Sebastian catches your longing gaze fixated on his coat, and gives a condescending little pat to the area where you know the concealed document is to be hiding. Wordlessly daring you to even try. Cheeky fish.

“Not even a ‘Hello’ or ‘How are you’? I could’ve been dying in there!” You bemoan in a familiar way of greeting, gesticulating between yourselves wildly as you saunter forward. Sebastian, unphased by your usual eccentricities, drags an unimpressed eye over your much smaller form. Analyzing. Probably looking at your absolutely filthy diving suit- sweat-drenched and caked in dust, grime, and maybe even a little bit of blood as it was. At least you assumed so, if the distaste visibly evident in his features was anything to go by.

“I was hoping whoever it was would die a little more quickly.” Was his dry response, before turning his head in indifference; seeming to have found whatever it was he was looking for on your person.

You scoff, “I see chivalry really is dead.” You gripe without any real bite in your voice. Already beginning to survey the merchant’s wares. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch him as he begins to preen over his nails, pretending to be checking for dirt. Or blood, you didn’t know the guy well enough to say for certain what he did in his free-time. Your attention travels upwards, from his large hands up to his round face. The light emanating from his angler’s bulb casts an almost ethereal glow to his features. Especially with the way his eyes gleam that cerulean blue that’s quickly becoming a favorite color of yours. In addition to these qualities, there’s a very light sprinkling of bioluminescent freckles smattered across his cheeks. Sort of reminiscent to that of stars. Idly your fingers twitch, the sudden urge to reach up and map them like constellations startlingly strong. All these qualities make Sebastian feel so surreal, so out of this world. In juxtaposition to all of that, you’re confident to say that if he had the means, he’d be snobbishly turning his nose up at you right about now. The mental image brings a small, secretive smile to your face.

Sebastian rolls his eyes- or at least, you get the impression that he does. His lack of distinctive pupils makes it hard to tell.

“Are you going to actually buy something today?” He snips, cocking out a hip. “Or are you just going to keep gawking at me?” The merchant sneers through grit teeth(or maybe that was just his face?).

Snapping out of your reverie, caught with your hand in the proverbial cookie-jar, blood rushes to your head as you grin sheepishly up at his accusatory glare.

“Sorry, you’re just…” you wave a hand up beside yourself, willing the right words to come to you. Sebastian, amused by your silent floundering, quirks a knowing eyebrow at you. As if saying ‘Go on?’ The soundless goading sends you into a mental spiral- what did that mean? What did he think you were going to say? God- you don’t want to accidentally offend him, but you also don’t want to sound like a complete idiot. You gulp, mouth opening and closing a few times as you attempt to formulate words that will appease him.

Seemingly tired of you embarrassing yourself, Sebastian moved to speak, assumedly in an act of mercy from this sad display. Quickly, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, before he could beat you to the punch.

“You’re just really pretty.” Mortified, you clap your hands over your mouth. Yup. Those are. Definitely words that you just said. To his face.

Muscles tensing, you brace for his reaction. You’re not sure what you’re expecting, disgust, maybe? Mocking laughter, most probably. Any and all situations your brain can conjure up are absolutely humiliating in equal measure. However, as one moment drags into two, and the silence has still yet to be breached, you cautiously look Sebastian’s way. The sight that greets you is a rare one. The infamous Z-13, Sebastian Solace, is left speechless.

The Merchant’s smug expression falters, a look of genuine astonishment crossing his face. The dim light cast by his lure does little to mask the way his stature curls inwards slightly. A slight too much, in your opinion. You can see the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching- as though internally wrestling with a response. Just as you had been a moment prior. The knowledge that he was just as at a loss for words as you were eases the tension in your shoulders, if only by a hair. Miser so does love its company, after-all. There’s a brief pause, heavy and awkward, until he finally speaks, his voice softer than usual.

“Pretty?” he echoes, almost disbelievingly. He then swallows, visibly thrown off-kilter.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been called… At-At least- that is to say, not in a good long while.” The second half of his sentence is murmured, as if mostly said to himself. But you had overheard, and he looks as if to have noticed the way your brows pinch in a confusing whirlpool of emotions. Mostly sympathy, pity, among other emotions neither of you were too entirely ready to put out on the table. God forbid you two express emotional maturity and speak plainly like adults. Sebastian flexes his long tail, the serpentine appendage looking as if it were going to either pull or push you away. However, before it can make any progress in either endeavor, Sebastian, -noticeably uncomfortable- clears his throat.

“Silly little thing.” He croons, swooping down from his towering height to give you a patronizing pinch to the cheek with his clawed index and thumb. “You should be mindful of your tongue, hmmm?” As he speaks, his usual edge returns to his voice. Your head helplessly tilts side-to-side with the motion of his ‘affection’. Affronted, and a little whip-lashed with his quick recovery, you swat the offending hand away from your face.

“Jerk! I was trying to be nice!” Despite the biting words, you can’t help but feel relieved to be set back on familiar ground. Whatever emotional vulnerability present in the moment prior was slowly ebbing away, returning to your regularly scheduled squabbling. Sebastian chuckles, bodily retreating to his previous stature and re-clasping his hands before himself with an echoing ‘clap’. You rub at your reddened cheeks, whether their heat was due to Sebastian’s rough treatment or from an entirely other emotion, was only for you to know.

Sebastian continues on distractedly, seeming to have already recollected his composure. “Flattery will get you nowhere here, you know. But… thanks.” You think you see his eyes dart away for a brief moment, before locking onto yours again. A curl of his typical smirk splaying across his lips.

You gasp dramatically, a goofy smile erupting on your face. “The mighty Sebastian? Saying thanks?” You tease.

Sebastian waves a hand about in the air dismissively. “Yeah yeah, just don’t let it get to your head.” He says, crossing his arms defensively. He steamrolls on before you get anymore wise ideas to- eugh, compliment him. “Now hurry up and buy something already!” He snaps, motioning to the various goodies strapped to his person. Not having to be told thrice now, you hurry and make your selections. Eager to move on from everything and anything to do with word ‘cute’. Nothing major, just a few batteries for the road and a mobile hacker or two. Sebastian seems to approve of your choices, and if the price he demands of you seems a little cheaper than the usual- well. You certainly weren’t going to complain.

Getting everything tucked neatly away and ready to go, you begin to trek back towards the vent before being stopped once more by Sebastian.

“Oh! And Traveller?” He calls. With an answering hum, you look back to maybe your only friend down here. The merchant in question seems to look like he’s turning something over in his head, before continuing with a withering sigh.

“Try not to get yourself killed out there, alright? I’d hate to lose such a profitable costumer.” He sing-songs grimly. Despite the harsh words, you can’t help but notice a slight undertone of warm endearment. Feeling like a certified Sebastian-whisperer, you pride swells in your chest at being able to read between the lines. With a barely concealed snicker at his thinly-veiled concern, you toss a final farewell his way before retreating. All throughout the next dozen or so rooms, you journey forward with a skip in your step. Feeling invigorated with newfound determination knowing that a certain merchant was counting on your safe return.

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