FIC: Twice Shy
Title: Twice Shy
Author: Cassie Morgan (badfalcon
Fandom: RPS - Kane
Categories: brief mention of Steve Carlson/OFC, angst, AU, horror
Rating: PG-13
Thanks to: You, for reading this. celtprincess13, as ever, for the beta.
Disclaimer: Christian Kane and Steve Carlson are real people, and the events in this story are just that - fictional, figments of my sick and twisted imagination. Hell, call it a fantasy if it makes you feel better. Whatever. No rumours should be started in regards to any events in these works of fiction. This story is written purely for entertainment purposes and no money is being made out of it.
Notes: Written for the angst_bingo square Supernatural: Fresh bite/first transformation
Summary: When he wakes up with what feels like the worst hangover of his life, Steve finds himself wishing he could remember the night before. But when a strange hunger takes over him and he finds himself unable to concentrate on anything other than the sound of Christian’s heartbeat, he realises being hung-over is the least of his worries
Steve rolled over and groaned, screwing his eyes closed. He pulled the sheets over his head and curled in on himself, but that just made him feel even worse, like the world was tilting sideways away from him. He cracked first one eye open and then, when he was sure it wasn't going to explode, the other; wincing as the faint light made his head throb more. From the feel of it, he'd had one hell of a night last night, every muscle in his body was aching ... if only he could remember what he'd done. Or who he’d done, although there as a faint memory of a redhead with freckles everywhere. Or, fuck, even where he was!
Ignoring the throbbing in his head and the rolling of his stomach, he stretched out on the bed, a low sigh of relief escaping him as he recognised the bed. He was at home, which explained why it was still blissfully dark. He sent a quick prayer of thanks for his blackout blinds. He was about to risk moving to grab the clock when his stomach firmly informed him it was staging a revolt. Throwing the covers off, Steve scrambled out of the bed and to his feet; a wave of dizziness sending him to his knees. His stomach rebelled again and he heaved, one hand covering his mouth as he pushed himself up and fled to the bathroom, somehow managing to not crash into anything.
He dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, hands clutched at the rim so tight his knuckles turned white. He emptied his stomach, retching until all that was left was bile and a bad taste in his mouth; his head pounded in time with his heartbeat and he loosened his grip on the toilet. Carefully rising to his feet, he brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth out. Peering at his reflection in the mirror, he groaned at the sight of his pale skin and bloodshot eyes. His fingers found the reddish purple bruise on his throat - he’d definitely had fun with the red head and found himself regretting that he couldn’t remember. He laughed at himself, moaning when his head spun and his stomach cramped once more.
Easing himself down to the floor again, Steve lay down with his head against the bathtub, the cool tile floor underneath him and the porcelain against his face feeling like heaven against his fevered skin.
He didn’t know how long he lay there, dozing, floating in that place between sleep and awake but when he opened his eyes again the one thing he knew for sure was that he was hungry. There was a craving in his veins he couldn’t place and his mouth felt dry. “Kitchen,” he muttered. He moved to his knees, standing a few heartbeats later when he was sure he wasn’t about to pitch down the floor again.
He shuffled to the kitchen, fingers rubbing his temples when the thumping in his ears and behind his eyes only increased. It grew even more intense when Christian pulled him in for a hug, handing him a glass of water and Tylenol, telling him coffee was brewing. Shooting Christian what he hoped was a grateful smile as he hopped up onto one of the stools, groaning and pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as the feeling of hunger crashing through his veins grew stronger and his stomach growled. The pounding in his ears became louder as Christian took a seat next to him, placing a mug of coffee in front of him.
“Thanks.” Steve turned to face Christian and froze; his eyes locked on his throat and he swore he could see his pulse, could hear the rushing of the blood racing through him. He was vaguely aware of Christian talking to him but all he could hear was the pounding - the pounding he somehow knew was Christian’s heartbeat. Panting with need, Steve could feel his teeth itching, elongating and then he was reaching out to grab a handful of Christian’s hair, slamming his head down onto the breakfast bar and sinking his fangs into his neck.
~El Fin~
Author: Cassie Morgan (badfalcon
Fandom: RPS - Kane
Categories: brief mention of Steve Carlson/OFC, angst, AU, horror
Rating: PG-13
Thanks to: You, for reading this. celtprincess13, as ever, for the beta.
Disclaimer: Christian Kane and Steve Carlson are real people, and the events in this story are just that - fictional, figments of my sick and twisted imagination. Hell, call it a fantasy if it makes you feel better. Whatever. No rumours should be started in regards to any events in these works of fiction. This story is written purely for entertainment purposes and no money is being made out of it.
Notes: Written for the angst_bingo square Supernatural: Fresh bite/first transformation
Summary: When he wakes up with what feels like the worst hangover of his life, Steve finds himself wishing he could remember the night before. But when a strange hunger takes over him and he finds himself unable to concentrate on anything other than the sound of Christian’s heartbeat, he realises being hung-over is the least of his worries
Steve rolled over and groaned, screwing his eyes closed. He pulled the sheets over his head and curled in on himself, but that just made him feel even worse, like the world was tilting sideways away from him. He cracked first one eye open and then, when he was sure it wasn't going to explode, the other; wincing as the faint light made his head throb more. From the feel of it, he'd had one hell of a night last night, every muscle in his body was aching ... if only he could remember what he'd done. Or who he’d done, although there as a faint memory of a redhead with freckles everywhere. Or, fuck, even where he was!
Ignoring the throbbing in his head and the rolling of his stomach, he stretched out on the bed, a low sigh of relief escaping him as he recognised the bed. He was at home, which explained why it was still blissfully dark. He sent a quick prayer of thanks for his blackout blinds. He was about to risk moving to grab the clock when his stomach firmly informed him it was staging a revolt. Throwing the covers off, Steve scrambled out of the bed and to his feet; a wave of dizziness sending him to his knees. His stomach rebelled again and he heaved, one hand covering his mouth as he pushed himself up and fled to the bathroom, somehow managing to not crash into anything.
He dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, hands clutched at the rim so tight his knuckles turned white. He emptied his stomach, retching until all that was left was bile and a bad taste in his mouth; his head pounded in time with his heartbeat and he loosened his grip on the toilet. Carefully rising to his feet, he brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth out. Peering at his reflection in the mirror, he groaned at the sight of his pale skin and bloodshot eyes. His fingers found the reddish purple bruise on his throat - he’d definitely had fun with the red head and found himself regretting that he couldn’t remember. He laughed at himself, moaning when his head spun and his stomach cramped once more.
Easing himself down to the floor again, Steve lay down with his head against the bathtub, the cool tile floor underneath him and the porcelain against his face feeling like heaven against his fevered skin.
He didn’t know how long he lay there, dozing, floating in that place between sleep and awake but when he opened his eyes again the one thing he knew for sure was that he was hungry. There was a craving in his veins he couldn’t place and his mouth felt dry. “Kitchen,” he muttered. He moved to his knees, standing a few heartbeats later when he was sure he wasn’t about to pitch down the floor again.
He shuffled to the kitchen, fingers rubbing his temples when the thumping in his ears and behind his eyes only increased. It grew even more intense when Christian pulled him in for a hug, handing him a glass of water and Tylenol, telling him coffee was brewing. Shooting Christian what he hoped was a grateful smile as he hopped up onto one of the stools, groaning and pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as the feeling of hunger crashing through his veins grew stronger and his stomach growled. The pounding in his ears became louder as Christian took a seat next to him, placing a mug of coffee in front of him.
“Thanks.” Steve turned to face Christian and froze; his eyes locked on his throat and he swore he could see his pulse, could hear the rushing of the blood racing through him. He was vaguely aware of Christian talking to him but all he could hear was the pounding - the pounding he somehow knew was Christian’s heartbeat. Panting with need, Steve could feel his teeth itching, elongating and then he was reaching out to grab a handful of Christian’s hair, slamming his head down onto the breakfast bar and sinking his fangs into his neck.
~El Fin~