Recluse.moth

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“Does it hurt?” Samira asked, dabbing gently at the wound.

Pope drew in a ragged breath, his eyes shutting for half a second, body tensing from the pain.

“You still with me?”

His gaze found her face in the dim light—brows pinched, lips caught between teeth—a kind of concentration she reserved for the Emergency Room or Sunday morning crosswords. He wondered how many words she could carve into his skin before she realized she could never truly hurt him.

Oh popemira you’ve stolen my heart!

I’m not an Alien, I’m Discontent.

I was gonna write a one shot for this before I posted it but currently sick with a cold but here’s the small intro I had written for it (warning it isn’t much but just to set the scene)

The bar smelled of malt beer, stale pretzels, and bad decisions. It was probably the first night in two weeks that Jack had off, normally he would’ve spent it on his couch, with his dog Saint nestled between his legs as he watched old reruns of three’s company.

However tonight was different.