Vicky

You shove the phone back in your purse, leaning forward to peer up to the sky. It's a bad storm, the kind that just sits and drenches everything for hours. Your spine prickles with unease. You glance up and down the street. Where is everyone? It's the middle of the day, and this is one of the busier streets, having several stores.

Even if it is pouring, people in this city always have an umbrella or two. It's normal for this time of year, and the city doesn't stop moving because of some water from the sky. The air feels heavy, charged with something, though you tell yourself that it's just the lightning flashing in the sky.

A splash to your right startles you, but it's just another person joining you under the overhang. The man swears as he tries to relight his cigarette, running his hand through his black hair and shaking water out of it. He gives up, tossing the cigarette on the ground.

"Nasty weather we're having today, huh?"

You tense. His voice is low and raspy, almost…amused.

"I guess."

"You guess?"

He looks at you then, with eyes a grey so pale they look nearly colorless. Something about his gaze sets you on edge, like he's testing you to see if you're worthy. He's young, younger than you probably, dressed like he thinks he's in a 90s biker gang. His hair is unkempt, plastered to his forehead and curling at the base of his neck.

"It's nothing out of the ordinary."

He tilts his head slightly. A cross hangs from one ear, swinging from the movement.

"If it was ordinary, there'd be more people out and about."

You look away from him. Great, you're stuck with a weirdo.

"Sure," you reply.

The silence stretches after that, and you hear the chk of a lighter. The rain continues, increasing in intensity. You sigh.

"Something on your forehead."

"What?"

You reach up, but the man's hand is already there, brushing something away. When did he get so close?

"Uh, thanks," you say.

He stares down at you, cigarette hanging from his lip. His face is completely expressionless, features so blank he almost looks fake. A chill skitters down your spine. You're alone with a man on an empty street. A weird man.

"Do you…need something?" you ask, shifting away from him.

"Should be asking yourself that."

Your brows furrow in confusion.

"What do I need?"

"Saving."

"From what?"

He points to your forehead. You give him a flat stare.

"Look, dude, I don't want what you're selling."

"Not selling anything."

"Okay, well, I don't need spiritual guidance or a reading or anything either."

"I didn't say you did."

"You said I needed saving."

He leans down toward you, looking right into your eyes, bridge piercing glinting. His pupils dilate in a weird way, making you shiver. It's just dark under here. That's why.

"I did."

"I don't want it."

"You need it."

"I really don't."

"You do."

Annoyance rises in you.

"I don't need to meet jesus, or god, or the holy spirit or whatever."

You put a hand on your hip, glaring up at him.

"So you can just fuck off already," you growl.

He reaches out, brushing his ice cold index finger down the length of your nose.

"The attitude is cute. But it won't keep you alive."

Your stomach drops. You back away from him, reaching into your purse for your pepper spray. His eyes flick to the movement.

"That won't either."

"Stay away from me. I'll scream."

He takes a drag from his cigarette, flicking the ashes onto the sidewalk. His bottom lip is split, like he was recently punched.

"You can if you want. That won't help—"

"Go away!"

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm fucking sure."

He scans the street, tilting his head like he's listening for something.

"It's not safe right now."

"I swear to god if you come near me at all…"

"Thought you didn't believe in god."

"It's a turn of phrase, you asshole."

He ignores your insult.

"You should swear to something else. Swearing to something you don't believe in is just asking for trouble."

"What the hell is wrong with you? Was today just the day you decided to fuck with some random lady on the street? Is that what you do instead of going to school?"

"I graduated three years ago."

Jesus, he's eight years younger than you. You're getting bullied by some little twerp. You're letting yourself get bullied, you realize. That's really fucking pathetic, a new low even for you. You should just leave. You turn away from him, sprinting down the sidewalk. The rain instantly soaks through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.

You glance behind you, but the kid doesn't follow you, just watches you with those pale eyes and that blank expression. You shiver and turn back around. What a weirdo.

Rain splashes onto your clothes from your steps, and you groan at the thought that your shoes are going to be wet for days. You turn down an alleyway, navigating a veritable maze until you reach the back entrance to your apartment. You unlock the door and hurry up the stairs to your door.

"Oh, Ms. L/N!"

You wince at the high, nasally voice of Mrs. Summers, your landlady.

"Hi, Mrs. Summers," you say with a fake smile.

"Oh dear, you're soaked to the bone! Do you still not have a car?"

"No, Mrs. Summers."

"You poor thing. Say, the lady at the laundromat has a handsome son. He works in real estate, gets paid well," she winks, rubbing her thumb and first two fingers together.

You stand there shivering as she keeps yammering, wishing she would just shut up. You are so not in the mood today. It's not that you hate her; the woman just doesn't know when to shut her mouth. Eventually, she waddles back to her apartment, having forgotten that she had something in the oven.

You stumble into your apartment, peeling off your socks and shoes at the door, the rest of your clothes ending up in a pile on the laundry room floor. You walk to your bathroom, dripping water all the way. You pause to look at yourself in the mirror, wiping yourself off with a towel.

You look as exhausted as you feel, seconds away from collapsing. Your fingers trace a sticky spot in the corner of the mirror where a sticker once was. It had been a trans flag, subtle enough to escape notice until you had ripped it off because Mrs. Summers had gone on a twenty minute rant about "that damn trans flag".

Couldn't people just leave you alone? You think you've used up your allotment of patience for people for the month already and it was only the first week. Thunder rumbles directly overhead, rattling the ancient windows in the living room.

You laugh without humor thinking about that weirdo kid. Sure, someone was going to kill you, you who lived in an apartment that should have been condemned a decade ago and had nothing to her name. They'd probably take pity on you and drop a couple hundred dollars on your curled up body after they realized how much of a loser you were. What a joke.

You leave the bathroom and walk into your bedroom, flopping onto your bed, not even bothering to close the curtains to the window that leads to the fire escape. Who cares if someone sees your naked body? You're too tired to care. Besides, maybe you'd finally get some action. You laugh bitterly, closing your eyes and falling asleep almost immediately. Your last thought is that you don't remember if you locked the door before you drift off to dreamland.

You politely smile at the customer who seems to think that you specifically are the cause of them not getting their order in a timely manner even though you are working the register and, in fact, have nothing to do with actually making the food. You offer platitudes, trying to reason with the man but it only makes him angry.

Eventually, he just leaves, threatening to leave a bad review online. Jokes on him, the owner of this joint doesn’t even know how to not crash her computer, let alone make and maintain a website. You’re the resident IT person, even though you’re the next oldest person after her.

You sigh, staring out of the cafe’s window in boredom. It’s raining again, has been for a week straight. You’re starting to forget that the sun is a thing. You grab a cloth and wipe down the counter, just to look like you’re doing something. It’s perpetually sticky; you don’t think you’ve ever seen it actually clean.

The rain increases in intensity, drumming against the metal awning outside. You silently groan. At least you brought a umbrella today. The bell over the door rings again, so you plaster what you hope is a welcoming smile on your face. It falters when you see that it's the guy from the other day. He's soaked again, and you wonder for a second if he's just always sopping wet.

"Good afternoon. What can I get for you?" you say automatically.

His pale eyes flick down from the menu above your head, landing on your forehead. He reaches out and swipes something away before you can react, rubbing his fingers together and frowning. Well, sort of frowning? You can't really tell.

"Dude, do you have a forehead kink or something?" you glower.

He looks back at you.

"No."

You stare at each other for a few minutes.

"You should avoid the alleyways today, Y/N."

With that said, he turns around and leaves, dripping water all over the floor. You're left speechless, unable to process what just happened. Did he really come in here just to touch your forehead and give you a cryptic warning? And how did he know your name? Oh, right, your name tag. Stupid. Fuck, he knows your name now.

It's just your first name, though, and you don't think he knows anything else about you. What a fucking weirdo. Does he get off on bothering people like you? People who obviously have no prospects in life or any hope left in their tired bodies? Asshole.

The rest of the day passes in a blur, and soon, you're on your way home, umbrella resting against your shoulder. You avoid the puddles as best you can, but you still end up soaking your shoes. At this point, you're starting to think they'll never be dry again. You're worried they're going to start growing mold or something. Wouldn't that be something? Moldy, ruined shoes right when you have no fucking money.

A clatter from behind you startles you, and you whip around to look, catching the skinny, hairless tail of a rat scurrying under a dumpster. Jesus. You're usually not jumpy. You guess that guy's words got to you. Speaking of which, you've wandered right into the mess of alleyways that serves as your path home. Your skin erupts with goosebumps. You rub your arm, telling yourself to calm down. You've walked this path a million times, and no one has ever bothered you.

You turn around, sighing and walk straight into someone, dropping your umbrella and almost falling on your ass. You swear viscerally, glaring up at whoever you ran into.

"What the fuck!? Do you just stand behind people so you can laugh when they fall?"

The person says nothing, and it's then that you take in their all black clothing, the mask over the bottom half of their face, and the cap pulled so low only their eyes peer out. You scramble to your feet, grabbing your umbrella and wielding it like a sword. You know trouble when you see it, and this is trouble with a capital T.

You edge around them slowly, but they don't move, don't even look at you, standing so still they could pass for a statue. Your blood turns to ice in your veins as you catch a glimpse of a tattoo right behind their ear. Something about it screams evil, the black lines of an unblinking eye staring at you. The longer you stare, the more you swear it's alive, the lines seeming to shift.

You scream when the person suddenly reaches out to grab the edge of your umbrella, hurling it away from you. They lunge at you then, and you barely dodge, your shoulder slamming into a brick wall. You break into a mad dash, shoes slapping against wet concrete. Your heart leaps into your throat as they pursue you, quickly gaining on you. Oh fuck, oh fuck, you're going to die and no one's going to care because you're just some poor trans woman and your body is probably going to rot in some dank corner of this alleyway.

You make a sharp turn down a smaller alleyway, hoping to throw them off a little, but they keep pace easily, as if they expected that. Tears sting at the corner of your eyes, and you hurriedly blink them away. Now is not the time for that. You trip over a trash bag, arms flailing as you nearly slam your face into the ground. The person catches the corner of your jacket, but you simply pull your arms out and let them have it, cold rain assaulting your now bare arms.

You turn another corner and despair slams into you, dousing your fighting spirit immediately. It's a dead end. The person behind you stops, knowing that you have nowhere to go. You skid to a stop, your chest heaving. Your throat closes up with a sob. Is this really how it's going to end? You dying in an alleyway? Twenty nine years of life fighting to keep yourself afloat, and this is how it ends?

Fury bubbles up in you, and you spin on your heel and launch yourself at the person, fingers clawed and teeth bared like some wild animal. The person reacts a second too late, not expecting your attack, and you collide into them, clawing at their face and screeching like a banshee. Blood flows under your nails, and they tip backwards, unbalanced by your weight.

You go straight for their eyes, jamming your thumbs into the vulnerable flesh. They grab your wrists before you make contact, throwing their weight forward and flipping you around. You thrash and kick, determined to take them down with you. They punch you in the diaphragm and you wheeze, distracted for a second. That second is all it takes for them to wrap their strong hands around your throat, choking you. You bring your knee up and hit in the back hard, scratching at their eyes again. They lean back, dark eyes utterly devoid of emotion.

They tighten their grip, and your panic increases, unable to draw any air into your lungs. You grab one of their wrists and dig your nails into the underside of their wrist, but it doesn't seem to phase them, their fingers only pressing harder. Suddenly, their weight is gone, and you can breathe. You roll over, gasping, drinking in sweet, sweet air.

You hear a terrific crash behind you, the clang of metal trashcans and what sounds like bone hitting brick. You look behind you, coughing as you rub your throat. That kid stands in the middle of the alleyway, his back to you. The person groans, holding their head as they stagger up from the ground. The brick wall behind them crumbles a bit, a visible crack in it. Jesus h. christ. What in the actual fuck?

The guy moves, so fast you barely see a blur, and a horrible, wet crunch follows. The person coughs violently, and you see blood pour to the ground between the guy's legs. He shoves the person away, and they fall with a thud, still and unmoving. The guy turns around, blood dripping from his left arm all the way up to his upper arm. Bits of flesh cling to his leather jacket, one falling to the ground as he turns. Bile rises in your throat.

"I told you, didn't I?"

You don't answer, eyes stuck on the red that drips from claws that grow from the tips of his fingers. The rain slowly washes most of it away, a trail of it leading to the massive pool of blood behind him. He just killed someone. With his bare fucking hands. Thrusted his hand through them like they were butter and he was in one of those stupid action animes.

His eyes follow what you're looking at, and he shakes his hand out, flinging droplets of blood everywhere. He appears unaffected, as though he was just taking out the trash or getting the mail. Like this is normal to him.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Do—Do I fucking look okay?"

He starts toward you, way too fast, and you scurry backwards, scared that you're next. He only hauls you to your feet, though—with his other arm, thankfully—peering down at you in something akin to curiosity. His fingers trace your throat delicately, over the bruises you're sure you're going to have.

"You put up a good fight."

Your brows furrow.

"You were—cough—watching?"

He tears his pale eyes away from your neck, leaning down to stare directly into your own.

"I thought it might help you realize how serious this is."

You slap his hand away.

"What the hell is wrong with you!?" you shout.

His eyes dilate at your outburst, pupils expanding in an unnatural way. He crowds you against the wall, getting right in your face.

"Don't—not right now," he says lowly.

"Are you insane!? Get the fuck away from me!"

You struggle, trying to shove him away from you, but it only makes him get closer, pupils blown wide. This close, you notice that his brows cast a shadow over his deep set eyes and his roman nose is ever so slightly crooked. His nostrils flare as he breathes in deeply, breathing you in. Some long buried instinct tells you to stop fucking moving, that you're enticing a predator. But that's ridiculous. This is just a really weird guy.

"Get away! You fucking dick!"

You bring your knee up, hitting him hard between the legs, but he doesn't react like you thought he would. In fact, he moans, like it felt good, burying his face in your neck and licking a hot stripe over your skin. You shiver involuntarily, your body freezing. What the hell? Is he a masochist? His hands land on your hips, pulling you into him. He's hard as a rock, pressing insistently into you. Your mind blanks. What. Is. Happening. He nips at your skin, teeth too sharp to be normal.

"Wh—What the hell? Stop!"

He grinds against you, some low keen escaping him. You gasp, trying to twist your hips away. He grabs one of your thighs, lifting it up and pressing himself back into you. You can't help but moan as he rolls his hips, his cock rubbing your mound. His fingers dig into the fat of your thigh and hip, teeth scraping over your skin.

"Hah, I'm not—I'm not supposed to do this," he mutters, more to himself than you. "Can't fuck my charge."

You have no idea what he's talking about, only that he's shifted himself and happens to be grinding right into your clit. Pleasure sparks through you, warming your chilled body. The motions get stronger, rougher, like he's imagining thrusting into you. And god help you, but it's kind of hot that he wants to fuck your pussy so badly. He pulls his head away, jaw snapping shut so hard you hear the clack of his teeth. You think he just almost bit you.

He yanks himself away from you, panting, his cock straining through his black jeans. His irises are completely gone, just pools of desire and hunger. He licks his too sharp teeth, the entirety of his attention directed at you. The intensity sends a shiver through you, one that he sees. It makes him hiss and snarl.

"Go home. Now," he growls.

"H—Huh?"

"Go home!"

You flinch at his bark, reality coming back to you. There's a dead person a few feet away and the crazy, horny guy who killed him in front of you. What are you doing? You swallow hard, the chill of the rain making you shiver. The guy snaps his teeth again, impatient.

"Go. Unless you want me to eat you alive."

That finally gets you going, something about the tone of his voice telling you that he means it literally and not sexually. You stumble out of the alleyway, breaking into a run once you leave his line of sight, the insanity of the night causing you to laugh manically. What a fucking shitshow. Did you eat something expired? Maybe you drank too much coffee at work today? Maybe you've just finally gone crazy. Anything sounds more plausible than what actually happened.

Because there's no way—no fucking way— that the guy who has been bothering you just killed someone by punching through their body and then got horny and tried to feel you up. There's no fucking way. You must be high or something. You're going to go home and have a shower and wrap yourself up in your blankets and sleep for twelve hours and when you wake up, it will all just have been a bad dream.

You slingshot your bra across your apartment, sighing in relief once your tits flop out. The rain stopped a week ago, but now it's hotter than satan's asshole. Various bras and other clothing items litter your apartment, having been stripped off as soon as you got home. You walk to your bedroom, climbing onto your bed and lifting your breasts in front of the air conditioner. Ah, such wonderful cold air.

Your gaze snags on the pair of jeans from that day, still draped over your desk. A bloody hand print is stamped on one thigh, taunting you with the knowledge that something absolutely insane happened to you. You look away. You should wash it. You should have washed it as soon as you got home that day, but of course, like all the other things you should have done, you haven't.

It's like you're torturing yourself by having the jeans in plain sight, forced to look at the bloody hand print every time your eyes sweep past. Maybe it's because your mind doesn't want to believe, so you have to have some sort of proof that you're not crazy. You haven't seen Sicko—that's what you decided to call him—since that day, nor any more people trying to kill you.

Your hand moves to your throat. You had bruises for a bit, but they healed quickly. Abnormally so. Something else you don't want to think about. Things like—him weren't real. It had to be body modifications, lots of training at the gym, something like that. You screw your eyes shut, letting cold air wash over you. There is a perfectly normal explanation for what happened.

You open your eyes and jump down off your bed, nearly jumping out of your skin when you see someone outside your window. The window you never lock and that leads to the rusting fire escape. You almost relax when you see that it's Sicko, but no, that's not great either! You rush over and grab the top of the window as it starts to slide up, your half terrified and half irritated gaze meeting his.

The window slowly inches upward, your strength no match for his. You grit your teeth and put all of your weight into it, failing miserably. He opens the window and ducks through, straddling the windowsill. He's much too close now, his face nearly in your breasts. He's momentarily distracted, some expression flitting across his face, irritation? Or exasperation?

"You don't keep your window locked."

It's a statement, not a question, edged with the same exasperation you saw on his face.

"People don't usually crawl through it," you huff.

"I did."

"Well, you're a weirdo."

"It could have been someone else."

Someone dangerous. He doesn't say it, but he doesn't need to.

"Why are you here?"

"Don't go to work tomorrow."

You frown.

"I have to go to work. The bills won't pay themselves."

He tilts his head, then reaches for his wallet, pulling a hundred dollar bill out. He slides his fingers, and it impossibly becomes six. No way. They were stacked on top of each other. Right?

"Are you actually handing me money?"

"You need it."

Your mouth opens, then shuts. Yeah, you do need it, but it feels really fucking patronizing.

"Get out."

He holds out the money.

"I'm not taking your fucking pity money."

He blinks slowly, like a cat.

"It's not pity money."

"It sure fucking feels like it."

"Would you rather I stick it in your panties or something? For showing me your tits?"

You gape at him.

"What the fuck is your problem?"

He reaches out, pulling the waistband of your panties and stuffing the money in. He nods, as if satisfied and then makes to leave. You grab his elbow.

"You motherfucker! I'm not done talking to you!"

His head whips around, pale eyes fixed on your hand. His fingers twitch on the window frame. You let go of him, but don't step away, taking the opportunity to let all your questions slip out of your mouth.

"Who are you? Why are you giving me money? Who is trying to kill me? Do you work out a lot? How long is this going to go on for? Are you a masochist? What's your nam—"

He presses his index finger to your lips, stopping the barrage of questions. He looks hopelessly confused, head cocked at you.

"I don't—what?"

"I said—"

"No. Don't—Don't do that again."

He stares at you for a moment, and you swear you can see the wheels turning in his head, trying to figure what you just said.

"I'm...a protector. The money is for your bills. It's better if you don't know. I—I guess. Until they're dead or you're dead. Um, no? And I can't tell you my name."

"That does not answer any of my questions. And if you don't tell me your name, I'll just keep calling you Sicko."

His brows furrow infinitesimally.

"Sicko," he repeats.

"You never told me your name," you say, raising your brows.

You think he frowns, but you can't really tell.

"You can just call me V."

"Like...the letter?"

"The letter."

"Alright. V. V for Vendetta."

"V."

"Yeah, V for Vendetta."

He opens his mouth, then seems to think better of it, letting you have your way.

"Also, if you're not a masochist, then why did you moan when I kneed you?"

He goes entirely still, rigid as a flag pole.

"I have a high pain tolerance," he says, devoid of any emotion.

"...Okay."

He moves to leave again.

"Hey, wait! Are you just going to keep coming around?"

"As long as you're in danger."

"What if I just move?"

"It won't—"

"Help? Figures."

You gaze down at him, some whim causing you to grab one of your dirty panties and drop them in his lap. His pupils dilate, fixated on what you just gave him, and you take the opportunity to shove him out of your window. His ass lands hard on the metal landing, rattling the fire escape all the way down. You slam your window shut, locking it and yanking the curtains closed.

Why did you do that? Are you insane? Is he rubbing off on you somehow even though you've only met him four times? Are you really that desperate? Are you really that pathetic that you would give your dirty panties to a guy you barely know just because you thought he deserved something for the money he just gave you? You rub your forehead, feeling a headache beginning to form.

Whatever. You have money to pay your bills, and you don't fancy getting almost murdered again, so you'll stay home and play video games or something. You pull the money from your panties, thumbing through it. You thought it was six hundred, but it now seems to be eight hundred. How the—nevermind. You don't want to know.

Somebody's been watching you. Other than V. Lingering just at the edges of your vision, gone when you turn to look. You'd pass it off as V, but he doesn't have bubble gum pink hair. You told him about it, and he just looked at you with that inscrutable expression, telling you he'd handle it. Whatever that means.

You've seen a lot more of him lately, giving you more cryptic warnings and even saving you from another potential murderer. You hadn't liked that very much, the image of a person torn literally in half burned on your retinas. But you were alive, and you guess you were glad for that. Better them than you.

He's also been staring a lot, like he's memorizing the shape of your face and the color of your eyes, like he thinks he'll never see it again. He hasn't touched you at all, just stares and stares. Sometimes at your body, because you have a penchant for being half naked or completely naked. Look, you don't have it in you to care. Besides, you worked hard for this body, grew it yourself, as you like to say. To yourself. You don't talk to people.

V is...interesting, to say the least. There's something about that feels distinctly inhuman, but that you are treating as autism. Because paranormal beings aren't real. Even though he can make money out of thin air and rip people apart and his pupils do weird things. You couldn't possibly say what he would be, if he really was inhuman. Some sort of cat thing? You don't know.

You can't say that you like him, more that he's the only person you really talk to. And well, maybe you kind of want him to do something about all the staring. He wants it, doesn't he? You're this close to just being as direct as possible and spreading your legs for him. Maybe it's messed up that you're thinking about that, but you've always been weird. Different. Other.

You can't really bring yourself to care that he is the single most weirdest person you've ever met. He's still unsettling, of course, what with all the staring and blank expressions. You sigh and roll over on your bed, pulling your tank up to expose your belly to the air conditioner. It's hot again, over a hundred outside. They say it's a record breaking heatwave.

You are so bored. V told you to stay inside again, and you obeyed, like the good girl you are(n't). Yeah, fuck that. You want ice cream. Since there isn't any in your apartment, you are going to venture out into the sweltering heat and brave the dangers to get yourself a pint of your favorite ice cream. He can always just come rescue you again.

You get up, opening your closet to see what's clean. You don't really have a lot of clothes, consequences of being poor. It's mostly just whatever was cheapest at the thrift store, jeans, shirts that are too big, a couple jackets. In the very back, though, is a sundress that you save for special occasions, i.e. to stare at longingly.

You pull it out, pressing it to your front and looking down. It's your favorite color and perfect for boiling hot summer days. You decide to wear it, even going the extra mile and wearing a pair of low wedges. You stare at yourself in the mirror that hangs on the back of your closet door. You look...good. Like every other normal woman.

For a moment, you wonder if V would like it on you. No. You reach for the hem of the dress, intending to peel it off of you, then pause. It's hot outside. Do you really want to wear jeans out? You go back and forth for a full ten minutes, finally just grabbing your purse and darting out the door so you can't change your mind.

You instantly regret it, the heat pressing down onto you. It's humid today, threatening a coming storm. Ugh. You sigh and walk down the stairs to the front entrance for once. You'll make V's job a little easier by walking down the actual streets. You stroll along the sidewalk, enjoying your brief freedom. The city is bustling today, cars honking in traffic and people crowding the sidewalks. It's nearly noon, lunchtime for most people.

You pass by a wide alley, a group of men sitting just inside wolf whistling at you. Your nose wrinkles, torn between being mad that they're catcalling you and elated that they think you're pretty enough to catcall. You ignore them, focused on your destination. The almighty convenience store. Where they house the exalted ice cream. Okay, now you're just being ridiculous.

The store comes into view, a sign in the window declaring that they have the best hot dogs around. Yeah, sure they do. There's no rats around here, suspiciously enough. You're not saying they make the rats into hot dogs, but you're not saying they don't. The ruddy faced man at the counter barely looks up at you, reading what you believe to be a porno mag. In broad daylight. In a store for the public. You roll your eyes.

You walk to the back of the store, fishing out a tub of ice cream and grabbing one of those cheap puzzle books. You might as well entertain yourself somehow if you're going to be on house arrest after this stunt, which something tells you you are. V is not going to be happy about this. He'll probably get that tiny little crease between his brows, pale grey eyes staring unamusedly at you. He can't seem to decide whether he likes your recklessness or hates it. You head to the counter, clearing your throat to get the man's attention.

It takes him a minute to acknowledge you, tossing down the magazine in disgust and snorting in that way that only people who smoke do. You hand him the items to scan, curiously looking at the magazine. It's open to a spread of a man vaguely similar to V fucking the life out of a big titted redhead. Hm.

"4.65," the man says gruffly.

You hand him the money and he sighs, annoyed that he has to count out change. He gives it to you, coughing into his collar.

"Can I have that?" you ask, pointing to the porno mag.

He gives you an incredulous look.

"...It's not good."

You shrug.

"Beggars can't be choosers."

He wordlessly slides it over to you, staring at you like you're an alien. You tuck into your bag and leave, entertaining fantasies of jacking off to V from craig's list. Would he fuck you like that, all rough and animalistic? Or would he be slower, teasing maybe? Maybe he'd fuck your thighs first, insisting on not touching your pussy, but then not being able to help himself, impaling you against the wall and rearranging your insides. You're so lost in your fantasies that you don't notice that the real V has appeared in front of you, yanking you into a small alleyway and against his chest.

You freeze in shock, too stunned to do anything but let him drag you deeper into another even smaller alley, into the shadows. It's noticeably cooler back here, not that it matters because V radiates heat. You look up at him, opening your mouth to say something, but he shushes you, eyes fixed on the alleyway entrance. He's stock still, chest barely moving.

Someone rushes past, then another person, and a third. Their footsteps echo off the walls, quieting as they head away from you. V relaxes after a minute, turning his head to you. He blinks in surprise at your dress, lifting a hand to glide his fingertips over your collarbone. His gaze travels down, over where the sundress highlights your chest. He licks his teeth, something you've noticed he does when he's trying to contain himself.

"Why are you outside?"

"I wanted ice cream," you reply.

He glances down at your bag. You slyly smirk, the next words out of your mouth ones that you shouldn't say, but are, because there's no hope for you.

"And a porno mag. One of the guys kind of looks like you."

His eyes snap to yours, pupils dilating.

"Me."

"You. Except I don't think he has your eyes. Not that anyone does."

His throat bobs.

"You need to go home."

"Yeah," you agree.

Neither of you moves, just standing there pressed against each other, his hard on poking the little divot between your belly and mound. You lean forward slowly, and his pupils blow wide.

"Go home," he says, voice strangled.

"Hmmm, nah."

"Y/N."

"What?'

"You—" he stops, starts again. "I can't."

"You keep saying that, but you're really hard right now."

He hisses through his teeth. You really don't know what's come over you. Surely this is a very bad idea, taunting the man who you think wants to eat you figuratively and literally. You lean back a little, lifting the skirt of your dress. And that does it, makes his irises disappear and his whole body dive down between your legs. You gasp as he rips your panties off with his teeth, roughly licking your clit. His tongue is hot, slightly raspy, lingering on you. He groans at your taste, lapping at you like a starved dog.

Your hands go to the wall in front of you to support yourself, your hips rolling into his mouth, soft moans leaving you. This is so much better than a fantasy. His tongue finds your vaginoplasty scars, rolling the skin between his teeth for a moment. He moves on to your pussy itself, thrusting his whole tongue into you.

"Ahn!"

Your moan spurs him on, his tongue digging into you as far as it can possibly go, like he's trying to suck your pussy into his mouth. He's ravenous, tongue curling in and out of you with a vengeance. His fingers find your clit, twisting it until your body is singing with pleasure, hips bucking. You're practically bouncing on his tongue, chasing your high just as desperately as he's eating you out.

Good god, how is a twenty one year old so good at oral? You've met thirty year olds who didn't even know what a clit was and this little boy is wringing your orgasm out of you like it was an olympic sport and he was a gold medalist. His fingers pinch and roll your clit viciously, even pulling on it meanly. You let out an embarrassing whine as you come hard, your muscles seizing with the force. You barely manage to hold yourself up as V licks up your release, finally pulling away with a sharp intake of breath. His face is flushed, and he pants, eyes unnervingly unmoving.

"Did you breathe at all down there?" you ask teasingly.

He doesn't answer, standing up slowly, his leather jacket scraping against the wall. He licks his lips, your cum shining on his lips. The air around him is cold, so cold you shiver, and there's a vicious glint in his eyes. He lifts one of your thighs, high enough that your other leg dangles a bit, his other hand going to his jeans. You hear the zipper and the rustle of fabric, and then he's thrusting into you.

"Oh god! V!"

He lets go of you, bracing his hands on the wall behind you. Your legs wrap around his waist as he fucks you hard and fast, hissing and growling. He's decently big, enough that you're going to feel this tomorrow. And the next day. Your hands scrabble at his back, your bag of groceries having long been forgotten on the ground. The crunch of plaster and brick sounds by your ears, and you look over to find that he's clawed his fingers into the wall. You suddenly find yourself glad that his hands aren't on you.

He leans down to swipe his tongue across your neck, almost burning because the air is so cold now. You swear you can see your breath. His saliva drips down your collarbone, because he's drooling like a wild animal, sucking hickeys and bite marks into your skin. You turn your head to give him better access, moaning as he bullies your pussy.

"Touch yourself," he snarls.

"Ah, ah, huh? Ahn!"

He growls in your ear, the growl of those big cats you see on national geographic. You clumsily fit your hand between your thighs, stroking your sensitive clit. Your head falls back against the wall, whining at the familiar coil of your orgasm. He seems to sense it, pulling almost all the way out and slamming back in, the head of his cock pounding into the fleshy back of your pussy.

Your walls clamp down around him as your pleasure peaks, screaming his name. He hisses, hips stuttering. Hot cum splashes inside your pussy, so much that it pours out of you and you hear it splatter on the ground. He buries himself to the hilt, more of the wall crumbling away. His cock twitches, once, twice, each twitch bringing a new spurt of cum. He breathes hard as he finally stills.

"Holy...fuck," you moan.

He snarls.

"What, big boy? You mad that I successfully tempted you?" you croon.

A horrid sound leaves his mouth then, a multi-pitched hiss from hell, like a discordant wail of violins. You flinch away from him. His eyes latch onto you, drool spilling from between his pointed teeth. There's nothing human about the way he's looking at you, all animal need and predatory stillness.

"Um, hey, we're done here, right?" you laugh nervously.

He tenses.

"Done?"

"Yeah, I mean, I came, you came, that's—that's done, right?"

His body relaxes bit by bit, and you don't think you want to know what he thought you meant. He frees his hands from the walls, fingers covered in dust, unwrapping your legs from your waist. He reluctantly slides out of you, brows furrowing ever so slightly as his cum drips out of you. He looks to your panties, but they're ripped into scraps.

"You're paying for those," you say.

You squeal as he bends and lifts you into his arms in a princess carry, leaving the alleyway. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, about to ask if he grabbed your bag, only to see that he already did. He walks soundlessly, almost gliding over the concrete. You wonder how long he had to train to be able to do that.

"It's not cold anymore," you muse.

He doesn't answer, as usual, just keeps walking. It's uncanny how he manages to not jostle you whatsoever. And he lifted you so easily, like you weighed nothing. You stare at his profile, the curve of his nose, where his piercings poke out, the flat line where his lips meet. Huh. Bad boys aren't really your type, but he's handsome in that fifties biker way, minus the slicked back hair.

You reach for a curl of his messy hair, twirling it around your finger. It's longer in the back than it is in the front, almost a mullet but not quite. It hangs in his eyes a lot, a weird part sort of in the center where he keeps brushing it back. You comb your finger through the hair at his neck, finding a knot. You work your fingers through it, blanching when your fingers come away red.

Right. That's enough of that. Your apartment soon comes into view, V climbing the fire escape. Unfortunately, no matter how quiet he is, it still creaks and groans under your combined weight, protesting at being used when it probably should have fallen off before you were born. He opens your window with one hand—how? It was locked, you swear—and gently maneuvers you inside, climbing in after you.

He sets you down on the bed and fishes a pair of panties out your dresser, slipping them onto your legs and up, pulling them snug against your pussy. Aw, he wants his cum to stay inside. Too bad you have work.

"I have to shower for work tomorrow."

"You don't."

"V. I'm sweaty, and my thighs are covered in cum. I have to shower."

He looks up at you from where he kneels on the floor, something of a pout on his face.

"No."

"Are you seriously arguing with me?"

"...No."

You raise a brow at him. He stands up, escaping to the window. You call out to him as he ducks his head through.

"Hey, V?"

He tilts his head at you. You bite your tongue, changing your mind.

"I want a new pair of panties. To replace the ones you ripped."

His fingers tap on the bottom of the window. He nods and leaves, smoothly shutting your window. The locks snap shut somehow, and he's gone. You lay back on your bed, enjoying the lingering warmth inside you. You might be falling for him. Might. He's sweet, in a way, and you like talking with him even though he doesn't say much. You have to admit that it's nice to be wanted for once, desired. You just hope that you won't be too hurt when he inevitably leaves.

You pull a gorgeous strapless dress out of a bag that was left on your bed, giddiness rising in your chest. Oh, you are being spoiled, but it is so worth it. Ever since you asked V to replace your panties, he's been bringing you things, pretty dresses and skirts, blouses, heels, lace lingerie, all exactly your size. Some of it isn't to your taste, but a lot of it you love.

You've always wanted to dress more femininely, not having the chance because you couldn't afford things like that and the nicer clothes at the thrift store always got bought up quickly. You giggle at the thought that V is like a sugar daddy, although he's younger than you. You clutch the dress to you, twirling around. Is this what girls feel like when they get clothes from their boyfriends?

Is V a boyfriend? Sure, he buys you things and kisses you and fucks you, but does that make him a boyfriend? What would he say if you brought that up? He says he's protecting you, and he is, very well, in fact. You're very not dead. It's just that you can't tell if he does want you in that way, or if he's just momentarily interested in you. What if he just thinks that you're something to play around with? A toy for his amusement? Well, if you are, you're not giving back the clothes.

A knock on the window startles you out of your thoughts, and you turn to find V outside. A small smile upturns your lips, and you skip over to open the window. He ducks through, tilting his head at the clothes you have spread over your bed. His eyes narrow minutely, pleased that you like his gifts. He leans down to give you a kiss, tasting of cigarette smoke and cinnamon.

"Any warnings today?" you ask.

He leans back, his head swinging to the window. The temperature around him decreases, a sign that whatever emotion he's feeling is intense.

"They keep sending people. And Nat...I haven't caught him yet," his voice deepens on the last few words.

"Is Nat the bubble gum head?"

He turns back to you, blinking.

"Don't worry about it."

"Alright."

He walks over to sit on your bed, moving a few things over. The silence stretches for a bit, V examining the clothes you've put in your pile of things to keep. He seems to really like that you've kept all the lingerie. You do like it, but he also keeps ripping your panties when he's riled up, so it's more of a necessity. Your mind turns to Bubble Gum Head—er—Nat, as you now know. He must be a cut above the rest if V hasn't managed to kill him.

He still hasn't told what exactly is going on, why those people want you dead and why he wants you alive. You can't think of anyone you've pissed off enough to want to kill you, nor why they're so determined. As far as you know, you're just a normal, boring woman living in a shitty apartment. No one had ever threatened you before you met V or even looked at you twice.

You step over to V, reaching your hand out to cup his jaw. His eyes close, leaning his head into your hand. You think he would purr if he could. Who is this man? What is he? You don't know, and he won't tell you. Inexplicably, he seems to trust you, closing his eyes around you like some big cat, sure that you won't take the opportunity to hurt him. What does that mean, though? That he likes you that much?

"V."

His eyes half open to look up at you.

"Who are you?"

"V."

You give him a flat stare.

"It's better if you don't know," he says.

"I don't like not knowing anything about the person I'm dating."

"Dating?"

His pupils dilate.

"Well, what else is this?"

"Mates. But I like dating."

"Mates?"

He tries to turn his face away, but you catch the other side of his jaw, the dress you were holding sliding to the floor with a soft flump.

"V. Explain."

"Explain what?"

"Don't play dumb."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Your grip tightens on his face, smushing his cheeks until he looks like a goldfish. You glare at him, but his expression doesn't change. Not that it was something. He grabs your wrists, pulling your hands away from his face.

"I'll explain one—"

He stops suddenly, eyes latching onto the window. He launches himself up, crushing you against his chest and throwing both of you behind your bed. The air wheezes out of you as he presses you to the floor. You hear a splintering crash, as sound you recognize as glass shattering. V whispers sharply into your ear, telling you to stay put. He leaps off of you, and a scuffle ensues, one sided by the sounds of it. The sharp coppery scent of blood fills the air. Your heart pounds in your chest, hand pressed to your mouth to keep yourself quiet.

You hear a clang and a shout, then the sounds grow quieter. Did they jump off the fire escape? You scoot forward, peeking around the corner of your bed. Your window has been completely destroyed, shards of glass all over the floor. There's a huge spray of blood on the wall and some shining on the jagged glass left in the window. You don't think that person is long for the world.

"Wow, that worked better than I expected."

You jump. A man stands in your bedroom doorway, dressed in black slacks and a ruffled dress shirt. His hair is bubble gum pink, tied back in a tiny ponytail. Glittering blue eyes watch you, filled with malice.

"Hey there. It's been a real pain in the ass getting anywhere near you, you know, thanks to that abomination."

You open your mouth to scream, but he's in front of you before you can so much as blink, yanking you up and slapping his hand over your mouth.

"None of that now."

He tosses you over his shoulder, walking to your ruined window. Huge, feathered wings appear from nowhere, folding out of his back. They shimmer like oily milk, lifting up, up, up, then a swift downstroke that launches you into the air. You scream, high pitched and terrified. A sharp smack lands on your ass.

"Shut the fuck up," the man—he must be Nat—growls. "Screaming right in my damn ear."

The ground rushes away from you, your hands gripping his shirt so hard you're sure to leave wrinkles. You jerk your head back to avoid his wings hitting your face. The wingspan is incredible, at least twice as long as he is tall, shaped like eagle wings. The wind whips by your ears, lifting the hem of your skirt.

"Nice undies," Nat comments.

"You piece of shit! I'll kill you!"

"As if you could," he snorts.

You grab the feathers on his wings, ripping them out with every bit of strength in your body. He howls in pain, tipping the two of you into a barrel roll that makes your stomach lurch. When he rights himself, he shifts you to tuck you under his arm, your limbs dangling hundreds of feet in the air. The city zips by below, the man swerving between buildings.

"You fucking asshole! Put me down! Fight me like a man!"

"Put you down, you say?"

You realize your mistake too late, Nat dropping you like a hot potato. You scream, the street becoming much closer much faster than you would like. Just before you slam into the asphalt, arms wrap around your middle, wings beating to lift you back up.

"You sure you want me to put you down?"

You grit your teeth at his patronizing tone, resigning yourself to being carried through the air like a sack of rice. You'll kick his ass once he puts you on solid ground. You watch the ground fly past, noting that he doesn't have a shadow. Neither do you, for that matter. You swallow hard. You can't explain this away. Simply put, you are being carried through the air by a man with wings.

Nat flies for a while, weaving through the city to the industrial side. He angles himself toward a half finished skyscraper, the rebar rusted and concrete crumbling. His wings beat the air as he slows, landing with a jolt and trotting a few steps before he stops. He unceremoniously dumps you on the ground, waving his hand. The sounds of the city instantly cut off, the wind stopping dead. It's like you're inside a soundproof room, not the unfinished floor of an abandoned skyscraper.

You rub your shoulder, sitting up and glaring at the pink haired man. He sprawls onto a moth eaten couch, crossing his legs on a low coffee table. He looks entirely unbothered by your vicious glower, raising a white brow. His wings are gone, presumably folded back up. The only sign that he's anything but human is white talons that grow from his where his nails would be if he had them.

"What the fuck are you?"

"That's the first thing you ask? Not 'Why did you kidnap me?', or 'Oh no, Mr. Sexy Angel, please let me go! I'll do anything! What do you want?'"

Your glare deepens.

"You're really full of yourself, Bubble Gum Head."

"...Bubble Gum—what? Seriously? That's what you've been calling me?"

"Answer the question," you snarl.

"Alright, alright, chill out," he raises his hands in surrender. "I'm an angel blooded, to answer your question."

Your brows furrow, and his eyes roll.

"It means somewhere along the line one of my ancestors fucked a human and voila! Here I am. Terrible decision, really. You humans suck. And because of that oh so slutty ancestor, it's made trying to get to you a real pain because that thing isn't human at all."

"V?"

His face scrunches in a disgusted expression.

"V is such a stupid name. I mean, come on. Does he really have to be all dark and mysterious?"

He crosses his arms, white talons tapping on his upper arms.

"Why did you kidnap me?"

"To kill you," he smiles.

"You're sure talking a lot."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Would you like me to just get on with it?"

You scoot backward.

"No."

"That's what I thought. You want to hear why all this is happening, don't you?"

"You're going to tell me?" you ask suspiciously.

"Sure. You're going to die anyways."

He uncrosses his limbs, planting his feet on the ground and leaning forward.

"I'm sure it's very confusing for a poor little human like you, being caught up in all this."

"Caught up in what?"

"You have a very interesting bloodline, human."

The way he says it sends a chill down your spine, as though it was some great crime.

"Bloodline? What?"

He wags a finger at you.

"You can't have known, being estranged from your grandparents, but you come from a very, very long line of mages."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"You," he points to you. "Have the potential to become a powerful mage. And my client would rather you didn't. So, I sent people after to kill you. Unfortunately, that abomination got in the way, so I had to come myself. Doubly unfortunately, is that he's a right mongrel, a hybrid of so many species that it's straight suicide to go anywhere near him."

"Do you mean like, I'm supposed to do magic or something?"

"If you were trained properly. But your mother left that family and decided to marry a normal guy, so she was excommunicated. Then they learned that she had a son and suddenly, they wanted to be family again. Really, it's lucky that you decided to get the hell out of dodge."

"They kicked me out," you say sourly.

"Did they?" he hums uninterestedly.

"They told me I was an affront to god and that I should die on the streets."

"Well. Good on you for staying alive? Do you want a gold star or something? I don't care about your sob story."

You grip the hem of your blouse.

"Who's your client?"

"That's confidential."

Of course it is.

"What about V? What's his deal?"

"The mongrel works for the council, their little alley cat that drags in information and people."

"So this...council wants me alive?"

He snorts.

"The council doesn't give a damn about you. They just hate my client, so of course, they're going to take any chance to oppose them."

You sit with this information, a headache forming from the absurdity of it all. What the fuck was your life turning into?

"Now then, if that's all your questions, I believe it's time for you to start begging."

He stands up, crossing over to you. He grabs your elbow, spinning you so your back is to his chest. His talons press on your collarbone, sharp points threatening soft skin.

"I'm not begging you for anything!"

"Oh, it's not me you'll be begging to," he chuckles darkly.

You yelp as he slashes your chest, hot blood welling and dripping down. Just then, something crashes onto the floor you're on, misshapen wings with too many joints and a mash of feathers and leathery skin flapping furiously. The figure they're attached to is familiar and alien all at once, messy, black hair drooping in his eyes. V.

"You'll be begging that thing," Nat says.

He shoves you forward, carving lines into your upper arm as he lets you go. You smack into V's chest, hands grabbing at his shirt. He freezes, muscles coiled. The air around him is freezing cold, instantly chilling you to the bone. You slowly look up find him staring at you, irises completely gone. His eyes track the blood trickling from your wounds, tongue licking his teeth. You suddenly remember that he practically threatened to eat you the first time he met you.

"Have fun with that!" Nat calls in a sing song voice.

You don't even register what Nat said, too busy feeling ice sluice through your veins. V dips his head down, tongue catching the very end of one the slashes. He shudders, moaning. His tongue presses harder, more insistently, lapping up your blood. His arms wrap around your waist, lifting you up to his mouth. You struggle, but he's too strong, too far gone.

"V! V! Stop!"

He doesn't hear you, busy trying to suck more blood from your wounds. He lowers you to the floor, wings caging you in. He rips your blouse off, tearing it like paper, then your bra. He stares down at you, drool dripping from his mouth, tinged with red. His hands find your breasts, pulling and twisting at them until your back arches. He nips at your ribs, sucking and biting down your torso. His teeth find your lower belly, drawing your flesh into his mouth. Panic spears through you.

"Wait, wait, wait, V!"

The scream that tears out of you when he bites down is unlike any you've ever screamed before, full of raw terror and pain. You sob, pulling at his hair, your legs flailing, anything to get him off of you. He jerks his head back, strands of—of flesh pulling like melted cheese and tearing as his teeth chomp down. The moan he lets out is sinful, like you're the best thing he's ever tasted. You watch in horror as he chews and swallows, spilling drool across your belly.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, blood soaking the waistband of your skirt and panties, trickling to the floor. He reverently runs his tongue over the wound, hands holding your hips as you try to buck him off. You punch him in the face, and he hisses, horrible, too long arms erupting from his back to pin your wrists to the ground.

"Stay still," he growls, voice both young and old, feminine and masculine, a layered, discordant sound.

"Let me go! Let go of me!"

You struggle violently, kneeing him in the side. His wings come down and pin your ankles, forcing his body between your thighs. He goes for your belly again, opening his mouth wide, sharp teeth glinting with saliva and blood.

"NO! No, please! Please!" you sob.

Crunch!

V stops, hand grasping at his chest, where the head of a spear has suddenly appeared. Blood splatters onto you, muddy and dark. He coughs, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. And then, slowly, slow as molasses, he lets go of you, his whole body turning to face whoever is behind him. The air bites at your skin, your breath visible, your teeth beginning to chatter.

You run. You don't look back, you don't hesitate, you don't even stop to wonder if V is alright. You run like a bat out of hell, throwing yourself down concrete stairs. Each step sends throbs of pain through you, leaving behind a trail of blood. You careen around turns, even take a tumble on one set of stairs, but you run, all the way down, all the way back to your apartment. You crawl through your shattered window, your skirt catching and tearing on jagged glass.

You hobble to the bathroom, a wail leaving your mouth at the sight in the mirror. You tear through your cabinet, pulling out gauze and bandages, a bottle of antiseptic. You scream through your teeth when the antiseptic touches your torn flesh, do it anyway because you have to. You wrap yourself in layers of gauze and bandages, then hurl yourself to your closet.

You rip out a travel bag, throwing clothes and toiletries in it, your important papers, your E, all the money V has given you. You're getting the fuck out of here. You're getting on a greyhound bus and picking a random city and never, ever coming back. Fuck this place and fuck V. You're done. You're fucking done.

You splash water on your face, trying to wake yourself up. Last night's hotel bed was awful, like sleeping on concrete. In fact, concrete would have been more comfortable. You dry your face off, bemoaning your reflection. You have bags under your eyes, and there's a flighty air about you, one that screams 'woman running from abusive husband'. You toss the hand towel onto the counter, leaving the bathroom.

Your stuff is already packed, ready to go. You've been traveling for a month, hopping from bus to bus, making your way across the country. As far as you can fucking get from him. You brush your hand across your belly, grimacing. Like the bruises around your throat, the bite mark healed fast and left no scar, not even a divot. There are two faint scars on your upper arms, still healing.

You do one last check to make sure you have everything, then smooth down your wrinkled blouse, trying to look as though you aren't a woman on the run. You need breakfast before you leave, and you intend to take full advantage of the continental breakfast the hotel claims to serve. You leave your hotel room, locking the door with the key. You shove it into your jeans' pocket, and walk to the elevator, dodging a mom and her gaggle of kids.

The elevator smells like rotten eggs for some reason, and you're really glad to get off of it at the first floor. You're taking the stairs when you go back up. The breakfast area only has a few people milling about, it being six o' clock in the morning. You load up a plate with your favorite food, then sit down to shovel it into your mouth. Your bus leaves at six thirty so you need to leave soon.

You haven't seen any sign of V or Nat or anyone trying to kill you in the last month. You were so cautious at first, looking twice at every shadow and sleeping fully dressed in case you needed to run, but now that you're several states away, you don't think it really matters. You've gotten on and off so many buses, trekking such a long and complicated line across the country that you're sure that anyone looking for you is going to have a hell of a time tracking you down.

The thought of V makes your chest tighten, and your belly throb with phantom pain. God, how could you be so stupid as to get involved with him? You should have just left it as protector and protectee, let him do his damn job, but noooo, you just had to let your pussy make decisions. You had been alone for years, and you threw yourself at the first man to look your way? Absolutely fucking pathetic.

You don't miss him, not after he fucking took a bite of you, but you keep looking for him, expecting him to just appear out of thin air like he always does, blinking his eyes slow at you and leaning down to give you a sweet kiss. You open the curtains, looking through the glass and seeing nothing but buildings or parking lots or dead summer grass. You pull out a piece of clothing he bought and turn around to show off how it looks on you and there's no one behind you.

You've never felt this way about someone before, never gotten close enough that you know how to read every minute expression on their face. You'd never gotten the chance, always too busy working your ass off. You hated that you knew things about him. Things that probably only you knew. Ignorance was bliss, and you really wanted that bliss. Some part of you misses that shitty apartment, the dull mundanity of going to work every day, coming home and fending off Mrs. Summers questions. At least you had a life. At least it was your life, not the one your parents had planned out for you.

Now, you had nothing but the things in your bag and the clothes on your back. Nothing to your name but a few hundred dollars. This would probably be your last bus ride before you had to stop and get a job to get more money. You guess that whatever town you landed in would be your new home for the foreseeable future. Fantastic.

You finish off your food and head back upstairs, taking the stairs this time. They smell like cigarette smoke and only a little of rotten egg. You unlock your hotel room and walk in, heading straight for your bag. You lean down to pick it up, your hands freezing on the straps. There, in the corner of your eye, is someone sitting on the bed. Someone wearing motorcycle boots and black jeans.

You rear back, throat constricting. He looks the same as always, cigarette hanging from his lip. Smoke lazily curls in the air, filling your lungs with the scent. He takes one last drag from it and stands, crushing it out on the desk. He doesn't say anything, just watches you with those pale grey eyes.

"You—" you swallow, wet your lips, try again. "You followed me."

"I did."

"Why?"

"You ran away."

"Why!?"

He tilts his head.

"You're still in danger."

"That's not—why are you here!?"

He considers for a moment, tapping his fingers on the desk.

"You ran away. I followed. After I killed Nat and all the others."

"I don't want to see your fucking face! GO AWAY!" you scream, hurling a coffee pod at him.

It bounces off his brow, landing on the desk. He doesn't react at all.

"We're dating," he says, as if that means anything at all.

"What—What the fuck!? What the fuck does that have to do with anything!? You fucking bit me! You ate a piece of me!"

His eyes flick down to your belly.

"I couldn't help it. It's just my nature."

"Yeah? Well, your nature fucking sucks, and I don't want it anywhere near me!"

His nails scrape against the desk, his fingers clawing.

"I won't leave."

You throw a paper cup at him, another coffee pod, the whole pot. It smashes against his face, leaving cuts that weep muddy colored blood. He plucks a piece of glass free from his cheek, flicking it away.

"What is wrong with you!? Leave me alone! LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!!!"

"No."

You lunge for him, clawing at his face, punching him, kicking him, yanking his hair out. He lets you, just stands there and takes it, expression completely blank. His blank face enrages you more, so you punch him right in the nose, hearing a deep crunch. Blood trickles from his nostrils, and he just wipes it away. He lets you throw him to the floor, lets you straddle him, lets you punch him and punch him and punch him until your knuckles are bloody and your chest heaves.

"Leave me alone," you whisper.

He brushes his knuckles over your cheek.

"No."

"You—You fucking suck."

He slips his hand behind your head and pulls you down to kiss you. You slap his chest, biting down hard on his lip. His other hand traces down your side, slips underneath your shirt. He slides his tongue into your mouth at your gasp and licks your tongue, tasting you. You push at his chest, finally just turning your head away. He chases you, catching the corner of your lip, gently tugging on it.

"Y/N."

He pulls you back and kisses you again, unbuttoning your jeans and lifting your hips to yank them down. You grab for them, but he shoves his hand into your panties and curls his fingers into you, thumb rubbing rough circles into your clit. You moan, hips bucking into his hand. He works you until you come on his fingers, kissing you like he's starving. He lets you pull away from the kiss once your shudders subside.

"Y/N, Y/N," he says, repeating your name like a prayer. "I missed you."

He unzips his jeans, lets his cock spring free and then he's plunging into your warmth, his hips arching into you. He moans lowly and yanks you back down to kiss you desperately, rolling his hips in a slow, soft rhythm. His hand moves to the small of your back, pressing you down onto him as he thrusts up into you. Despite your earlier protests, you're now lifting your hips in time to his thrusts, moaning as he fills you over and over. The temperature dips a little, chilling your warmed skin, but not enough to actually make you cold.

V is keeping himself contained for the most part, more focused on kissing you senseless than fucking you. There's something soft about this display, something vulnerable. Like he really did miss you and is rememorizing your warmth and the feel of your skin against his. Like he spent every day thinking of tangling his limbs with you again. You pull away with a gasp, a string of saliva connecting you and him. His pale eyes are half lidded, tongue darting out to lick his lips and then his teeth.

"Y/N."

"St—Stop saying my name."

"Y/N."

"V."

"Y/N, Y/N, Y/N," he chants, punctuating every repetition with a thrust of his hips.

You slap your hand over his mouth, but his eyes seem to say it too, full of his obsession for you. His hand leaves the small of your back to find your clit, rubbing and twisting. The pleasure coils in your belly, tighter and tighter. You whine at a particularly rough tug, your hips bucking. His other hand cups your cheek, bringing you back down to stare directly into your eyes. The close proximity makes your cheeks flush. You let go of his mouth, pushing at his chest.

"Don't," he says, almost begging.

"Quit staring at me so intently."

"No."

You jerk as he thrusts a little harder, faster, his cock twitching inside you. He's close, and so are you.

"I waited," he murmurs.

Your brows furrow in confusion.

"I waited for as long as I could before I came after you."

"Do you think that makes it better? You're still a sicko."

"Your sicko."

"Shut up."

You shudder, clamping down as him as you orgasm. He moans, muscles spasming as he comes as well, filling you full with hot cum. His thrusts slow, then stop, hilting his cock inside you. You breathe deeply, your body tingling with aftershocks. Shame hits you after, then anger. How dare he appear in front of you and make you feel so weak and spineless?

"I hate you," you snarl.

"You don't."

"I wish that pink haired bastard had killed you."

"You don't," he stresses.

You grip the collar of his leather jacket.

"What is it about me?"

He blinks.

"Mine."

You flinch, like he slapped you.

"What do you mean yours? You can't just claim someone like property."

"Mine. Forever."

You stare into his eyes, a sense of helplessness creeping over you. A feeling deep in your bones tells you that you won't ever get away from him, that he'll chase you down to the ends of the earth and kill anyone who gets in his way. That he means exactly what he says.

"You're insane."

His eyes narrow the slightest amount, an acknowledgment to your words. What can of worms have you opened? Is this going to be your life now? Tied to a freak of nature who was so sure that you were his and that was just the way it was going to be? Where was your choice in the matter? Where was your say? You lean back, hands releasing his jacket. Your gaze moves to the wall behind the bed. This is a nightmare, right? It has to be. A really long, vivid nightmare.

Because the truth is much more hellish than that.

He's tall with a build of muscle and a generous layer of fat, and probably strong enough to bench-press several men. His neck and arms are covered in tattoos, and his black hair is long and usually braided, though you saw him with loose hair once and were delighted to discover it was slightly wavy.

Shady people often come to his house carrying black duffle bags–filled with illegal items, no doubt. You overhear some of their conversation and find out your neighbor's name is Olric. He also brings a lot of women over, which is not surprising, considering he's such a catch.

At first, you think he's just good at playing the field, until one evening you spot a woman leaving his house with a handful of cash that she stuffs into her bra. You observe for a few more nights and realize he's been bringing home prostitutes, and every single one leaves looking worn out with a limp of obvious discomfort.

What on earth is he doing to them?

You grow nosier and nosier until one evening, you're debating what movie to watch when you spot movement in his living room window. You're at the blinds in an instant. With the moon mostly hidden by clouds, you have a great view into his living room, especially since the curtains are open. It's only later that you consider that leaving them open might have been intentional on his part. Maybe he's taken notice of his nosy human neighbor.

There's a human woman pressed against his living room window, naked save for her red heels. Her breasts are soft and round, squished against the glass. Olric appears behind her, using his foot to nudge her ankles apart. Your windows are close enough that you can just about make out the soft patch of hair between her legs.

Your mouth goes dry as you watch him lick his fingers and put them between her legs, stroking for a few moments before he presses his cock against her. You can't see it, but you can tell from her expression that it's big. You stand there, more invested than you have any right to be, subconsciously biting your lip.

After a few more seconds, he says something in her ear. She shakes her head rather frantically, and he steps back. She cups between her legs, and you hum in sympathy, but you can't help but feel disappointed. The free show would've been so much better than a movie. Olric reaches for his wallet and pulls out several bills. The woman takes them and grabs her clothes.

"He can't be that big," you mumble.

There's no way he could've heard you, but just then he turns and looks directly at your window. Maybe he's noticed that the blinds are parted. You have just about enough time to see that yes, his cock is that big, before you back away from the window and nearly fall over your coffee table.

"Shit, he didn't see me, right?" You ask your empty house.

Only silence answers you.

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