#because i distinctly remember doing that about two years ago

[fiona-fififi]

My nook app signed me out and come to find out I somehow have an account under two different email addresses. The empty one is associated with the email I actually want to use for the account, while the one with the content is associated with an email I still technically have access to, but that keeps blocking B&N emails for some reason, and it won't let me change it because the email I actually use is already associated with the empty account. And no one is getting back to me to fix it. 😭

[mywritersmind]

NOT SO HAPPY HOLIDAYS - LN4

↳pt.5

christmas special

part one - part two - part three - part four

summary : As the days start getting closer to Christmas, you find yourself even more comfortable with your previous enemy. In a drunken spirit and ego boosted from karaoke, Lando can’t control his words. Even when Max finds you two in bed together.

og summary : Spending Christmas with my brothers best friend isn’t my ideal way to celebrate. With my parents in the maldives and my ex calling me non stop, I was hoping for a small town cozy christmas! I was going to get that with Max and his girlfriend until Lando Norris worked his way into the mix.

listen up : dual pov! alcohol! swearing! drunk lando!

words : 3334

⋆｡‧˚⋆

“Lando. Listen to me.” Oscar says over the phone, his voice registering in my brain but being distinctly distracted by two women taking instagram photos next to me.

“I am listening.” I mumble, watching Y/n turn and smile at the camera. My phone vibrates in my hand and I see that Oscar has requested facetime instead.

“What?” I look at the man who’s sitting in the sun and probably at the beach, “Can you pay attention for two seconds? I don’t want to be talking about work either.”

I sigh, turning away from the girls, “Can I ask you something?” I walk farther away just in case they can hear me.

Oscar groans at me still being off topic, “Shoot.”

“How did you know Lily fancied you?”

His brow jolts up, “I mean, We were pretty young, I just remember that she spoke to me a lot and she-” Lily pops her head in the call now.

“Don't listen to him, Lando! He was absolutely oblivious even though I was literally a giggling school girl around him.”

Oscar looks at her lovingly, “You were quite smiley.”

“Okay wrap it up lovebirds.” I roll my eyes.

Lily leaves and Oscar looks at me quizzically again, “So, who do you like so much that would possess you to ask that question?” I stay quiet for a moment, glancing back at Y/n who’s backlit by the sun, “Aren’t you with your family? Or Max and his girlfriend right?”

“No one. I’m just curious.” Deny deny deny.

He hums, “Wait… Doesn't Max have that sister you stalked all year-”

“Okay bye Oscar!”

He scrambles to get words in, “Wait we still need to talk about-”

I hang up on him.

⋆༺

Max and I have been kicked out by our the women. More like I was kicked out and Max was just craving a coffee. It’s not my fault I can’t cook!

After almost catching Y/n’s hair on fire, I was banished to the little coffee shop that’s been getting us through this week.

The barista hands us our coffees and one hot chocolate for Y/n. Max and I walk slowly to our car, looking at the scenery on the way. “I’m excited for Christmas.”

I smile as Max hums, “You’re awfully chipper.” He gives me a side eye and a smirk, to which I promptly shove him, “Ugh! I do not want to know!”

He laughs, “I know that P teases you about it, But I really do think a girlfriend would be good for you.”

I don’t just want a girlfriend. I want Y/n. I kick a rock at my feet, mumbling, “Yeah I doubt that.” I meant that he wouldn’t want me to have a girlfriend if it was his sister, just he scoffs.

“Think about it! This year was completely fucked and yeah a lot of good shit happened but imagine how much easier the bad shit would be if you were in love.”

“You’re disgusting. Us ten years ago would be gagging at this conversation.”

He’s smiling still, “Yeah and that’s because I am in love.” I roll my eyes at his cheesy ass, “How do you have no roster, mate? It’s honestly embarrassing.”

“Maybe I do.” I sip my coffee, “I don’t have to tell you everything.”

“Maybe i’m just hanging out with Y/n and P too much, their best friend girly vibes are fun.” He points to me, “Still, it’s break! Get your groove on!”

I walk faster, shaking my head. “Groove? I’m going to leave you in the snow.”

⋆༺

you

I’m in a mini dress in the snow. What could go wrong?

I slip five minutes out the door which makes Lando’s arm become my new best friend even though my faux fur coat keeps tickling him.

We may or may not have pregamed for the tiny local bar which has me slipping on ice. “Four jolly jolly shots please…” Lando reads off the bar's menu, laughing a bit.

He looks good. Like really really good. His curls are perfect as usual and when he leans over to talk to the bartender, his dark green shirt tugs against his arms.

My brothers arm goes around my neck, tugging me and laughing, “Merry Christmas, sis!”

“Let go of me you vermin!”

“Shots!” P sings, handing me mine.

“Cheers to us!” Max grins, holding his tiny glass up.

“Cheers to Christmas.” P smiles happily.

Lando taps his glass on the table along with us, winking at me, “Cheers.” We all down the weird peppermint alcohol and swiftly make our way to the dance floor.

We sing along to shitty music and dance together in a crowd of college kids home for break, and their parents.

Lando’s hand finds my waist and is quickly slapped away. He gives me a pouty look which I find annoyingly attractive and quickly turns it into a smirk.

I down my drink, spinning back to my friends and dodging a guy and his friends. “Hey!” The guy smirks and I accidentally laugh in his face, he looks about five years younger than me and is staring at my chest.

I find my friends laughing and drinking with a random man who sort of looks like santa.

“Y/n!” Lando puts his arm around me which I promptly pull off.

“Aren’t you busy trying to hook up with a tourist?” I blink at him while my brother and P are distracted.

He leans in a bit, “You’re a tourist, aren’t you?”

“You trying to get in my pants, Norris?” This makes him smile.

“I’m familiar with the area.”

I find myself at the bar again, but this time I order water. P and I giggle at the sight of Max and Lando just standing there looking lost without us.

“I’m really proud of you.” P says out of the blue.

I frown, “Thanks? I’m proud of you too.”

“I just mean… you’ve been through a lot.” I know what she means. My ex. “And you’re the best person I know.”

I smile, “I adore you, P.”

The truth is, my ex cheating really did break me. But I already knew something was wrong. I wasn’t being treated correctly and honestly breaking up with him was not on the top of my to-do list.

P was always there for me, my brother is a lot to handle and sometimes I just need a girl to talk to. That girl for me is P.

She pops back to her boyfriend while my water gets refilled. I swear this altitude is fucking with me, i’m so thirsty all the time.

“Hi.” I'm about to yell at the college guy who approaches me, until I realize there is no way this man is under twenty five.

“Oh! Hi.” I smile politely and tap the bar.

I clock his douchy attitude as soon as his ringed hand (which definitely came from shein) and patchwork tattoos land on the bar, clearly flexing.

“You’re gorgeous… Sorry, I just had to tell you!” He acts shy, like it’s horribly embarrassing to hit on. woman.

“Thank you…” Is all I can say before he continues.

“I’m Seth!” He’s australian… I think? He’s got short hair with dark skin that makes his eyes pop. “Are you visiting? I am.”

I nod and sip my water, “Yeah…”

“My girlfriend used to live here! My friends let me choose the place and…” He’s going on a long rant that I definitely did not consent to hear.

He’s loud in the way that i’m embarrassed to be heard with because he’s talking nonsense and trying to scoot closer to me with every word he speaks.

I bring my glass to my lips again, looking around then back to Seth who is still talking about his ex. Did I do something to offend the universe?

The hand on my hip scares me, but I don’t jump. I know the feeling too well by now. Lando’s smiling at the bartender, a protective arm around me, “Three green tea shots, thanks.”

He leans his hip against the bar, holding me close as my cheeks go red and I start chugging my water. Seth looks absolutely astonished, “Who’s your new friend, Sunshine?”

“Seth.” I say, swirling my straw around the cold glass.

“Hey man…” Seth looks scared. “I- I didn’t know she was taken.”

“She’s not.” He’s quick with it and I have to bite back my smile to contain myself from embarrassing Seth even more.

“Oh…” Seth hums, clearly wanting to go but I know Lando’s doing that thing where he states blankly at someone while smiling. “Well uh…”

“Choose your words carefully, Seth.” Lando slides him the shot then hands one to me. I decline and he downs it easily.

“Thanks.” He downs the drink with Lando, “And sorry.” Seth looks at me before scurrying off.

I turn to Lando, his hand never moving from my body, “Who knew you were so intimidating?

He shrugs, “I don’t mess around with the people I care about. Plus he just seemed like he was bugging you.”

“Quite talkative.” I smile softly as he laughs, “You’re good at the whole protective act.”

“Who said I was acting?” His face is serious when he says it, but immediately changes when he hears Max’s voice.

“Yo!” His hand drops to his side and he smiles at my approaching brother, “They have karaoke!”

P and Max end up on stage exactly two drinks later. I stick to water, my head already hurts from the others singing.

They're singing Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, and sort of slaying it. Max spins P as they both laugh and pretend they’re at some sort of concert.

“Please get up there!” I giggle with Lando, my hand on his arm as he smiles at me in that dreamy way he does so often.

“No way, Sunshine.” His eyes lined on my lips, his words a bit slurred.

“Please, Lan?”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, “What’ll you give me if I do?” My breathing quickens as he looks at me, drunk and so out of it that he looks like he’s about to kiss me.

I reach my arm out to fix the messy bit of his hair. His eyes follow my hand and drift down my arm back to me. There’s something so personal about the way he looks at me but it’s hard to explain.

He’s got many different expressions and maybe I'm just a bit self centered, but I swear he has some just for me.

He’s drunk now so all secrecy goes out the window. He’s lucky Max and P are singing so horribly on the tiny sticky stage.

“Whatever you want.” I pull my hand away, “When you’re sober, though.”

“I’m not even that many drinks in!” He scoffs in a whiny tone.

He’s five drinks in I think.

“But i’ll do whatever you say apparently.” His chair makes noise against the floors, practically pushing P and Max off the stage as his chosen music starts.

Linger, by the cranberries.

My smile grows as he starts, absolutely butchering the song immediately. He looks fucking free and absolutely ridiculous.

The microphone against his lips as he spins around and points to me, “You’ve got me wrapped around your fingerrrrrr!”

It was my favorite song in highschool.

He’s a terrible singer and incredibly drunk but knows all the lyrics by heart.

Max starts videoing and Lando flips him off, P is actually in tears and I feel a sense of calm and quiet happiness. It’s weird to think about, especially surrounded by sound and drunken people.

Still, I really do appreciate my friends in moments like these. I watch Lando on the stage again, his eyes are closed and he’s singing along quietly.

Most of the bar claps when he’s done, providing him false confidence even as he almost falls from the stage.

Lando slumps himself in the chair next to mine, Max and I speaking about old Christmas’ and how weird it is that so many things have changed.

P talks about her family traditions and how she’s happy we’re all together even if it is a bit unconventional.

Lando stays quiet, just hums along to the music and keeps his eyes closed. Max laughs at his friend, “Ready for bed, Bob?”

“I can drive back.” I sit up.

Max and P aren’t quite ready to go and assure me that they can take a cab. Lando, however is piss drunk and giggling at everything I say.

He holds onto my hand as we leave, the cold air hitting him like a wreck, “Ay!” He practically runs to the car, tries to get in the driver's seat, and finally gives in to me driving.

“I don't want to go back!” He complains as I drive off.

“We can… look at lights?” He nods eagerly and rests his head against my arm, his fingers drift up and down my arm, doodling invisible drawings.

I drive through the small neighborhoods, all quiet for the time of night. The lights are bright and nothing like where I actually live.

Lando slips his hand in mine, holding it tight and looking out the front window. I let him rub his thumb against my skin, acknowledging the goosebumps it sends up arm.

Maybe I let myself pretend like it means something more than Lando’s drunk touchy self.

His curls brush my bare arm because he requested I take off my coat and turn the heat up instead because it was ‘itching him’.

And I did it because something about Lando makes me just want to say yes.

“I wanna house like that.” He says, pointing to a medium sized white home. It’s got colorful lights all over and a tiny display of Rudolph in the yard.

“I like this one.” I take my free hand off the wheel for a second and point. It’s across the street and covered in white lights.

I keep driving as Lando turns the radio on which is playing Christmas music.

He hums along with the song that he most definitely doesn’t know.

His hand goes to my hair, twirling it around his finger as he looks up at me, doe eyed, “Can I have my reward now.”

“You’re nowhere close to being sober, love.”

He stops when I speak, whispering as if there’s a million people around, “You called me love.”

“You’re not even gonna remember this tomorrow.”

He gasps, “Tomorrow's Christmas eve! What a good present. You love me.” He hums and rests his head back against my shoulder.

“Keep dreaming, Norris.” I say while smiling.

We look at all the different lights, rating them and laughing. I mostly laugh at drunk Lando who can’t stop laughing.

Lando rolls down the window and even though it’s freezing, I let him. It’s silent out, except for our music on low.

“Do you like me?” Lando asks as I start back to our place.

I raise a brow, “Sure.”

“But do you?” He looks up at me but I don’t dare look down.

“I don’t hate you.”

It’s easier to get him into the house than it was to get him in the car. Besides a tiny slip, he laughs it off and instantly pulls his shirt off when we step inside the hot house.

We both stumble upstairs, I'm so tired that I could fall asleep on the floor. Yet I drag myself into the bathroom and remove my makeup and change into sweats and a hoodie.

Lando is in sweats now, leaning against the bathroom door as I brush my hair. “I can’t sleep.”

I laugh, “You haven’t even tried.”

“Come with me?” I shake my head, going to my own bed. He follows me still, catching my wrist and begging, “Please. I’m cold.”

“You have no shirt on.”

“I want you to.” He admits and for a second I wish he wasn’t so fond of Vodka.

I’m dragged into his bed, his arms wrapping around me quickly and humming against my hoodie, “You’re warm.” His hand goes to mine again, holding it.

“You’re gonna get us in trouble.” I say as I see the smirk on his face.

“The doors locked.”

His hand is still intertwined with mine when he looks up at me. I probably look terrible, but he just smiles.

“You’re really beautiful, Sunny.” His voice is clear and the softest it’s been in a while, especially while drunk.

He yawns and rests his head back on me. Lando whispers while his eyes are closed, i’m not even sure if he meant to say it out loud, but he does. “I hate you for it.”

It’s the first time his words really hit me.

“Why?” I whisper, staring up at the ceiling.

“You know.” And then he’s asleep and i’m stuck with a man cuddling me who I think I just might like more than I ever thought I could.

⋆༺

There’s few times in my life where I completely regret my life’s decisions. This might just be one of them.

Max is staring at us with his mouth open.

Max is staring at Lando’s shirtless self and his bare arm that’s around me!

I elbow Lando so hard that he wakes up with a groan. “Five more minutes.” He tries to pull me closer but I slap him again.

He opens his eyes this time, at first they’re narrowed at me as if I had the audacity to wake him up. Then he turns his head to what i’m staring at and promptly sits up straight.

“Goodmorning, Max!” He grins.

“Shut the fuck up.” My brother responds, Lando’s face goes slack and lays back down, covering his face with a pillow, “Is this why you two wanted to leave early yesterday?”

“No!” I say right as Lando says, “Yes!”

“I think I'm going to throw up.” Max starts pacing while I see P peek her head in from my room, surveying the situation as I mouth ‘help me’ and he leaves me.

“Chill out! Nothing happened.” I say while Lando moans and reaches for the water on his bedside table. “Right, Lando!?” I hit him again.

He sends me an annoyed look, “Right.” He takes a drink, wiping his mouth and looking at Max, “Trust me mate if something did happen she wouldn’t be wearing anything.”

I think he might still be drunk.

Max and I scream in unison. I climb out of the bed, my leg getting stuck in the bedsheet.

“I came to check if you two were still alive because it’s eleven in the morning, but Lando’s door was locked. Yours wasn’t and your room connector was wide open!” I roll my eyes and stomp into my room.

“His drunk ass practically dragged me in there and I wanted to sleep!” I shrug, putting on my slippers and pulling my bed head hair into a messy bun.

“My head is pounding, can you two be quiet!?” Lando says from the other room.

Max follows me down the stairs, “Nothing happened?”

“Nothing happened!” I echo, finding P in the kitchen and sending her a wide eyed look, “He was drunk, Max.”

I pour myself some coffee, crossing my arms as Max gives me a look. Lando comes thumping down the stairs, hoodie on now with his hair an absolute mess. “Guys…”

Max stops him, “If you make another sex joke Lan, I might kill you.”

“Hey!” He groans, taking my coffee from out of my hands and drinking it! I roll my eyes and pour myself another. “I was just going to say-”

“Choose your words very carefully, Norris.” I mumble.

“Happy Christmas Eve.” He raises his mug, smiling at all of us.

“Oh.” Max blinks as P lets out a little snort.

“Well then…” P smiles at me, “I think it’s time to cook!”

[abbessofflesh]

Ascensionism P1

A/N: Huge thank you to @mothmansbanker and @fuckoffbard for putting up with my ramblings, and thank you to @fuckoffbard again for beta-ing and helping flesh out my story. I would not have gotten this far without you<3

WC: 13k

Summary: For as long as you can remember, you endured blood stained visions of past lives disguised as dreams. You think they’re just that—dreams, until a strange man comes into town.

or

Remmick’s first love reincarnates as different people each time. After centuries of living without her, his humanity and morality chip away until he will do anything to keep her with him.

Taglist!: @boogiemansbitch , @faephoria , @doflamingadonquixote @2muchtosee2littletime @pom3granates Thank you for all the love on the excerpt!! (which takes place in part 2, whoops)

CW: MDNI 18+, Smut, Dub Con regarding Dream Sex, Unintentional Voyeurism, F!Modern!Reader, Mostly Soft!Pathetic!Remmick for part 1 but Dark!Remmick will make an appearance, Soulmates/Reincarnation, Obsessive Behavior, Stalking, Recreational Drug Use, Feral/Down Bad Behavior, Murder because this is Remmick we’re talking about, Author tries to be funny, crackfic taken seriously, gets better and darker at the end and in part 2 I promise, if i’m forgetting anything pls let me know

When the dreams began, they did so with merciful tenderness.

A younger, fresh-eyed you believed they were prophetic visions of a prince, the foresight of a romantic love story that filled you with a dangerous amount of hope. A hope accompanied by longing for that breathtaking moment where you would finally meet. In the beginning, they were benign, and the croon of a lullaby and wistful wonder would follow you into the waking world.

That naive innocence gradually degraded with each dream. As you matured, the grotesque intensity of them did too. 

There was still the gentle warbling of a lilting accent, the promise of eternal devotion, and the freefall into young love. But it was accompanied with the overwhelming smell of rot, the vivid image of bodies swelling in the sun, and the anguish of being faced with a choice of allowing yourself to be stolen away or having loved ones ripped from you.

Tonight, it’s a mashup of the two. There’s a heavy and hot weight to the air, twisting gnarled roots, an ankle-long tight-fitted kirtle that was outgrown years ago and a novel concern of status. You’re wearing a skin you distinctly recognize as not yours, speaking a foreign language, yet somehow you understand the words falling from your lips.

You met him under the sturdy bough of a sycamore during the wind-down of a festival. Skin dry from the salty breeze wafting from the shore, fingers cracked and peeling. He was a bard. You cannot make out his face.

Never his face.

But the blue of his threadbare linen tunic is dazzling. So is the lilt of his voice as he serenaded you. You feel the stretch of a smile across your cheeks. The syrupy stick of elderberries as you pressed them between his lips. Heard your laugh ringing out at the crass swipe of his tongue over your fingers. Felt the warmth rushing to your cheeks when that laugh alone looked to be his ruin.

You didn’t see him again until you’re married off. Until the scenery shifts with no rhyme or reason, and you’re left standing in the woods in a dress stained with blood and ash. A vague memory of being dragged from the altar by something that can only be described as monstrous. A persistent ghastly image of him that strikes terror through you, though all you ever remember upon waking are red eyes and dripping fangs.

But you’re not awake yet.

The village was burning. Smoke fills your nose, throat, expanding into your lungs. Immediate, violent panic seizes you. Your breath comes in agonizing, painful pulls. A numbness starts to spread up from your fingertips, threatening to bring you under-

A whisper of your name slices through the fog of panic. Not the name of the person you’re inhabiting, no. Your name.

“Where are you?”

You jolt awake in a fit of heaving breaths, shooting up in bed, left with the lingering taste of ash and blood clogging your throat. Chills wracked your body as the sodden sheets twist around your damp limbs. Your pulse pounds heavy in your temples with illusions of suffocation.

A quick, frantic glance at the clock tells you that yes, you only have 20 minutes to arrive at your shift on time. Two were spared trying to calm the jittery nerves that left you trembling, only marginally successful in convincing your autonomic nervous system to calm the fuck down. From your experience, the worst of the panic would abate in the next five spent in a light-speed shower.

This is how it’s been for years. Every night.

Different lives. Different experiences. Different selves. But they all had one dread-inducing thing in common. The same fuckass nightmare demon that plagued your piteous attempts at rest.

When tentative diagnoses and logical explanations failed, you took to researching what bleary remnants you could recall from your dreams. The creature’s face could never distinctly be made out, but you caught a few terror-filled utterings of attributed names.

Nightwalker

Vampyr

Even a Nosferatu at some point, but you chalked that up to an active imagination bleeding into your slumber after a horror movie binge.

Because of this seemingly unprecedented haunting, you’ve never been one for the romanticization of vampires. You needed reliable sources, not sparkly, religious-coded bullshit that muddies your research. Not to mention the many discrepancies in the lore that make the truth as elusive as the face of your demon. In a Hail Mary attempt to feel safe, you ensured a steady stock of garlic, crosses you got a sweet deal on at the antique store, and a mix of silver and iron items strewn around your house.

Settling in a small town has the benefit of putting your mind at ease by providing a consistent sea of faces. A cozy cabin bordering the outskirts made for a perfect spot to anchor down. You had wrapped up the welcome mat that came with like it had cursed your mother, roughly disposing of it in a manner befitting personal betrayal. If you wanted the presence of a blood-sucking leech, you’d have gone skinny dipping in the creek behind your house. The same effect without the trepidation of blood-soaked dreams and piss-poor sleep.

You’re not necessarily a true believer in the supernatural, but the protective measures you have accumulated over the years alleviate your troubled mind for reasons you can’t explain.

Your roommate was as decent as they come. Charming until he opened his mouth, and then that charm was ruined forever. But you both stayed out of each other's way, said all of five words to each other annually, and split the responsibilities and the rent. It just so happened that your roommate had also been your kind of crazy, if in a different flavor. He was into survivalist, apocalyptic-style bullshit, and had no problem crafting you your own nail-infused bat after an inebriated, vulnerable confession about your troubles.

For that, you considered him a damn near best friend until a week ago, when he skedaddled right off to greener pastures. Left behind a note barely a sentence long and a glaringly obvious lack of payment for the month’s rent. It smarted just a little, though your bank account smarted more, and occasionally the thought of seeing his car wrapped around a tree on the way to work makes you feel better.

The lack of warning stung for several reasons; the most pertinent was that he knew you were out of a phone after the landline to the house was found cut, though he assured you an animal chewed it. Your own cell was awaiting repair from a fatal crack when you were shoved in a drunken altercation at your job.

And so paranoia became a familiar friend along with faulty memory and constant fatigue.

That means it’s not worth losing sleep over (ha) when your belongings fail to turn up in the place you vaguely remember laying them. But when you begin to notice an uptick in the phenomenon, a certain possession appearing where you definitely don’t remember putting it, or going missing altogether, your mind has enough ammunition to fabricate a manner of explanations, each one more upsetting than the last.

A picture of you and your childhood pet vanished off of the out-of-commission mantle. The only evidence it was there to begin with was the pristine clearing among the dust. And then, more alarmingly, clothing started to disappear. You’re prone to misplacing an item or two here or there, but there’s only so much time that passes before they turn up.

And you don’t have that many pairs of underwear to begin with.

You curse your roommate again, it becoming a daily mantra at this point as you prepare your worn-out body for another tiring shift.

It’s fitting that you meet him on a day as dreary as your dreams. Rain fell in thick sheets, mist curling around the bases of aged architecture, rising against the asphalt like steam. It painted a lovely, tranquil view, one of the redeeming qualities of this dead, small town.

You approach the bar you tend with little enthusiasm. The building hails as the town’s crown jewel, standing proud and apart from the crowded nestling of the adjacent buildings.

You breeze in, make your apologies to your coworker who waves you off with a flick of her hand. There hasn’t been a full house lately and no one sticks around town long besides the old timers. If you haven’t been so out of whack, you would have noticed the man at the bar watching you, and had been for some time.

Time sluggishly passes as you serve drinks.

The consolation that usually comes from the pacifying, dimly lit area is nowhere to be found tonight after your nightmare. Each sensation seems to wear down your already high-strung nerves, pulling you back into that moment of panic-stricken terror. 

The hum of a ceiling fan and noticeable absence of a working air conditioner makes your skin slick with sweat. The permanent aroma of cigarettes and alcohol congest your throat, reminiscent of the phantom ash and blood you were hacking up this morning. The tumultuous sounds of revelry ramp up as the night goes on. More than once your trembling hands overfill a few drinks.

At least the rowdier bar-goers haven’t been seen for some time. You make an effort to be friendly enough to the customers, but the occasional, normalized harassment you’ve undergone would’ve sent you over the edge on a night like this. A murder charge definitely would’ve been in your future.

The monotonous swipe of the rag over glassware goes without conscious supervision. That dream still lingers in the back of your mind, digs its claws into your shoulders and amplifies the weighted pull of your limbs to the earth. It’s a constant effort not to shuffle your feet, but it’s a battle mostly lost as they’re leaden with the weight of fatigue.

“I think that one’s as spotless as it’s gonna get.”

A melodic drawl from the far end of the bar top pulls you from your trance with an irksome abruptness. You blink, eyes cut to a man you vaguely noted in your periphery since the beginning of your shift.

The ambient lighting curls around the angles of his face, handsome features toggling between accented and concealed whenever he adjusts his position. He meets your gaze with a seemingly sympathetic one, steady until he nods at the cup you’re holding.

His eyes glisten in the warmth of the light but they’re dark, discomforting in a way that has your grip tightening around the glass.

They’re leagues better than the beady, blood-slick ones that haunt your nightmares, but you’re still not a fan of these. There’s an emptiness to them, cold and prying and knowing, like they’re picking you apart without you having to say a goddamn word.

You blink again.

“That it is.” You offer to top off his drink as you get to working on the counters, but he politely refuses.

From your margin of view, you note his eyes seem to track your movements unabashedly. You pretend not to notice, it’s not your first time dealing with a scenario like this, and observe him as subtly as you can.

Although he was well-dressed, his dapper clothes carried a worn, lived-in appearance. The discernible smell you clocked earlier was revealed to be emanating from him. He had an earthy, musky scent that carried a faint metallic trace — not exactly pleasant, but you’ve smelt worse. A gold chain sat at the base of his neck, vanishing beneath his button-up as if weighted by a pendant or something with similar heft.

At some point during your sly examination, you notice his nostrils flaring slightly when you walk close enough. That has you pausing, second-guessing if the shower you took before work was another fevered, hyper-realistic hallucination. And yikes, wouldn’t that be karmic if you were judging this poor man and his coppery aroma when you yourself reeked of sweat and insomnia. Said sleep deprivation clouds your decision-making, and you not-so discreetly take a whiff of yourself.

Not one for subtly either, apparently – he clocks it immediately and begins damage-control, stuttering out appeasements.

“Oh– no, miss. You smell real nice. Woodsy. Sweet.”

You can’t say the same to him, but you’d been using the scent of coins and desperation as a grounding sense whenever thoughts of your nightmare reared up. So you guessed you owed him an only slightly apprehensive pleasantry, “Thanks.”

He perks like a flower receiving a plethora of water after a nasty dry spell, apparently taking your response as a go for conversation, and excitedly prattles on.

“Oh, it’s a gift of mine. Could’a been a sommelier, if my heart weren’t set on music.”

He gets a hum in response, but he’s still staring at you, and you feel more than a bit pressured to offer a stilted effort to converse with him.

“Maybe one of those airport sniffer dogs.” You muse. He does give off a feral energy. Kind of reminds you of the stray cat that comes around your house once in a while. Sweetly imploring for scratches until he decides halfway through that your hand is the enemy.

“Woof, woof!” The man chuckles good-naturedly. “I’ll have to consider that if my passion doesn’t work out.”

You take some pity on him, eyes roving over the gradually emptying bar and the rustic clock above the pool table. It’s a while before your shift ends and admittedly, your curiosity has been tickled. “What kind of music do you play?”

He brightens like you just handed over the keys to the bar and open-access to the register. This man must not have an extensive social circle, evident for several reasons beyond questionable hygiene and his ardent interest in remaining here.

“Folk, mostly. But I dabble in just about anythin’. Say, you have live music here?” His eyes flit to the radio behind the counter, an almost distasteful glint in them that vanishes when they return to you. “I would love to offer my talents.”

“Sometimes. You staying in town long?”

“For the foreseeable future, yes ma’am. There’s just-” His face twists slightly, and you come to the weary conclusion that this man has a thing for dramatics, “just one little hiccup. I’m lookin’ for an affordable place to stay. Money bein’ tight and all.”

Something in the way he says it makes you pause. This whole conversation felt off to you, though you can’t accuse him of any ill-intent without sounding paranoid. This chat between the two of you feels as though he’s fishing for something; a pervasive theatricality wound through his every word.

“There’s an inn.” You politely ramble off directions, pointing out the obvious solution.

There’s an almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes, if you blinked you would’ve missed it. Not the answer he wanted to hear. It’s unnerving as much as it is vexing, but you tolerate your job and well-being, so you go for mitigation.

“Let-uh, let me hear something! Can’t promise you anything until I talk to my boss, though.” The rag gets abandoned behind the counter in favor of you leaning against it on your elbows.

Just like that, whatever tension was in the air dissipates. He amps up the prior enthusiasm, along with what some could refer to as charm, and pulls a hard case you never noticed from seemingly thin air, but really just under the counter top.

“Oh, you - wow. You really came prepared.”

“Sure did!”

It’s a banjo. Not what you were expecting but it oddly suits him.

He gets up with flair, brandishing the instrument like a fifth limb. And then he’s singing, a voice so dulcet and infatuated that it calls to your beleaguered soul. He had knelt for you, kissed your hand in a respect designated for royalty, unfitting of you. The echoes of it hum on your skin as you listen, enamored. You want nothing more than to find salvation in those fluctuating notes, those honeyed words offering no reprieve, voice going hoarse upon mentioning your beauty-

You flinch slightly. The striking familiarity of this scenario to the one in your dream makes you queasy, and bile with the incriminating viscosity of blood fills your mouth.

The man goes to pause, more than a little troubled by your reaction, and something like disappointment dawns on his face. You wave a hand, expression hopefully conveying the ‘it’s nothing’ you can’t ground out. Hopefully you passed it off as a bad case of acid reflux.

You shake your head slightly to rid yourself of the nausea and the residual blur cast over your vision. Now’s not the time to detach from your surroundings, and the poor dude only wants a gig. He’s just a flamboyant little guy, with no blood stained claws or grisly teeth. Get it together.

At least he’s playing a song you know, previous theatrics bleeding into his performance in a way you should’ve anticipated. His persistent efforts chip away at any lingering solemnity of yours, breaking you down until your laugh rings out in response to a few of his eccentric animations. He basks in the attention, is encouraged by it, if his increased vigor is anything to go by. The little blip in his performance seemingly slips both of your minds.

When he finishes, you applaud in a manner befitting a standing ovation. His excessive personality is contagious in his performance and successful in pulling you from your anxious, sleep-deprived funk.

“Thank you, thank you!” He accepts the praise humbly, executing a graceful bow that drags another giggle from you.

“That’s one of my favorites, actually.”

Once again, alarm bells ring in your head as that look creeps across his face again, a deceptive quality to otherwise earnest words. “Really? Ain’t that somethin’.”

The red flags he’s raising are put on the back burner as you two get to talking about music, the man - Remmick, he introduced himself as - displays a formidable intelligence of all facets of the topic, including ones broken off as subsequent tangents. At some moments it’s difficult to remember this man is a stranger, but damn is he disarming. Enough so that you allow minute aspects of your life to bleed into your answers until closing time creeps up on you.

The silent, ever-present skepticism rears its head when he stays after your last call announcement, after you begin cleaning up for the night, and after you give him a not-so-subtle hint that he’s welcome to go try his luck at the hotel you mentioned.

For a moment, you think he’s going to push the inquiry until he bids you a kind, if a bit crestfallen farewell.

Odd fellow.

—

The next day passes without the odd encounter at your work. You think you’re in the clear, until a knock at your door alerts you that your relaxing night is about to be rudely interrupted.

And of course it’s this fucking guy. All the land on God's green earth and he lodges himself nicely up your ass in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. 

You sigh, resting your forehead against the door with exasperated disbelief. Just your luck, truly. With a glance at your roommate’s innovative weapon in the corner, you reckon your chances of taking him are pretty high. He’s not exactly imposing, and the threat of him is mostly limited to talking you into a coma, so you open the door with no small amount of irritation.

“Look who it is!” His eyes widen in astonished recognition. Too quick. Too counterfeit. 

“What are you doing here?” Wariness has your response low and curt, displeasure ringing out clearly in your tone.

“I heard tale that a vacancy has opened up. Straight from the horse’s mouth.” His hands slide into his pockets, feet shuffling with beguiling innocence. He’s not fazed by your tone. In fact, you’d say he looks thrilled at your visible disturbance.

“…Wouldn’t that be me?” You’ve only informed a few people about your roommate jumping ship, but intel around here circulates like blood in the goddamn body. For all your chatting the other night, you took care not to broadcast that you were living on your lonesome now to an unusual newcomer. Damn loudmouths.

He laughs long enough for it to be awkward (yeah, even more awkward), shaking a finger at you like you had told him the first joke he’s heard all year. You don’t join in.

“I guess so! But no. Just word of mouth, y’know. Small town. Nice people.”

That last bit feels pointed. You get a feeling it’s a subtle dig at you. He looks right into your eyes as he says it, smiling, but forgoing his animated expressions to drive the point home. Silence stretches between the two of you and he clears his throat.

“Well, today is your lucky day, darlin’!”

Something tells you that you two have wildly different concepts of luck, seeing as Remmick is cheesing like a strange man at your doorstep is something you should be particularly enthused about. One that still smells like coins.

“Why.” Distrust pours off of you in waves.

“Rentin’ a place on your lonesome in this economy.” He shakes his head at the ground, face pinched as if the idea offends him. “And findin’ good housemates is as scarce as hen’s teeth. But! Here I am. Ready to offer you my company and my money.”

He says that last part conspiratorially, like your panties are supposed to drop at the mention of cash. Maybe pop out a tit or two. The confidence in his pitch has your mind bending over backwards trying to figure out when you were dropping hints that you’d love sharing a house with a man that checked off all the boxes of serial killer.

“What makes you think I’d be a good housemate?” 

“Why, from our chat at the bar! I can tell we’re similar. You like music-” He recites with raised eyebrows in a see how close we are expression, “And I, well, I happen to be a musician. We’ll get along real well.”

His convincing points seem to start and end there, but Remmick fucking beams at you. It’s as if he’s conversing with an old friend instead of someone he met days ago. You want to chalk it up to him being a friendly fella, but a nagging feeling tells you to be on your guard.

At your silence and more than likely suspicious expression, his brow creases. Doe eyes widen in a way that threatens to break into a pout, appearance ranging from a pathetic please be my friend to a more intense why don’t you love me. A true performance so dramatic it was painful. You nearly wince.

“Can you stop with that look?” You barrel on as his mouth opens in slight offense. “You’re acting like I kicked your puppy, man. Look, these things usually take interviews. Deliberation. Not drop-ins in the middle of the night.”

“I don’t recall being offered an interview when we met the other day-” His tone and countenance suggest that you’re the one being unreasonable, here.

“Are you kidding! You think I’m going to take roommate applications at my work? At a bar? With someone I just met?”

“I reckon we’ll be thick as thieves come the end of the week. I swear on my Mama, God rest her soul.” Remmick clasps his hands in prayer to emphasize his plea.

You have half a mind to tell him to go fuck himself, and maybe his Mama too. 

“How about I give you my- shit.” You ignore his eyebrows shooting up at your vulgarity. There’s no working phone for him to have the number to, not that you’re particularly eager to share it with him, but you’d like to wrap up this conversation in the foreseeable five minutes. “How about you come back in a week?”

His hands slowly lower, dejected. He grimaces, hissing through clenched teeth as he prepares an answer you know will piss you off.

“How about somethin’ on a more immediate timescale?” 

“How about no.” You give him the best mean-mug you’re capable of, and he relents. 

“Then I’ll be on my way. But I’ll be around town, just in case you change your mind.” The show he’s putting on is truly impressive. He throws on a polite smile that conveys his disappointment, nodding to himself as he strolls away at an unhurried pace you know is fabricated, because this man is nothing but a ball of energy.

Your heart squeezes a fraction, but one quick gander at the situation in its entirety curbs any scraps of guilt you have. 

—

Remmick’s melancholic departure would be a lot more impactful if he wasn’t back the next night, claiming his shaded barstool in the corner, and you tell him as such.

“Y’know, your dramatic exit doesn’t hold as much weight if you just come back the next day.” You attempt a mirthful jibe, if only to kill any hard feelings that may be festering. He does know where you live, after all.

Thankfully, Remmick doesn’t seem to harbor any, because his demeanor enlivens at you making conversation with him, and he plays into the repartee with wit of his own.

“I held off long as I could. Gave you time to cool down...” He says that last part gingerly, like you being unaccommodating was the result of an unpleasant mood. 

“It’s not even been a full 24 hours!” You blurt, more than a bit incredulous.

“What can I say? Just can’t keep away from you.” His eyes flick over you, flirty, yet fleeting enough to be respectful for an action that’s more lecherous than not when performed by other customers. The dazzling smile he gifts you after helps more than a small amount. “Y’know, there was a time when women would find it flatterin’ to have a suitor.”

“Yeah? I can find ten of you at the gas station, so.” 

“Alright.” Remmick smiles a little too wide for a joke that was more than a half-truth, hand raising to clutch his pearls with a slight scoff. “Why’re you single then? That sunny personality?”

Ouch. He had a few half-truths, too. Though his good-natured ability to take a joke is contagious, so you figure you can play into the one at your expense as well. 

“Burns too bright, man. They can’t handle this.” You raise your eyebrows, shrugging in a ‘what can you do’ fashion. You hope the unsaid you can’t either rings out just as clear.

“I bet.” He stares at you, a crooked grin and that thoughtful intensity back on his face.

You hum, shaking your head as you go to serve someone else and ignore the way your skin burns with his eyes on you.

—

You should have expected the misinterpretation of your attempted friendliness.

That tick you had to pull out of your arm one afternoon should’ve been taken as the foreshadowing it was, because it accurately summed up the next few weeks. They pass like a fever dream, with varying, conflicting emotions to match.

You’re wary, sure. But Remmick doesn’t strike you as the typical tail-chaser, and nothing untoward has happened in your conversations besides the pleading to let him come live with you.

The look in his eyes does set you on edge, often triggering goosebumps erupting on your flesh when you just feel them on you. It’s not outwardly lecherous, though you have caught a hint of that, too. Several times when he thought you weren’t looking.

While the general populace was mostly cordial, there’s a few times where you’ve been on the tail-end of some seedy-as-hell looks that have you clutching your keys between your fingers on the way to your car. Once or twice things have gotten physical, but the miscreants responsible haven’t come by the bar for some time. A little before Remmick breezed into town, actually, with his banjo and comely smiles.

All that said, you could do worse in terms of admirers. It is a reasonable classification to make, because Remmick comes around your job and home like clockwork, as if he had all the time in the fucking world to pester you. He is frustratingly patient with your dismissal, unlike you.

You feel like a broken record as you rehash the same talking points with thinly veiled irritation.

No, Remmick, this is not your porch. No, Remmick, it isn’t acceptable to play banjo in a stranger’s yard at 2 a.m.. No, Remmick, you can’t live with me.

The bizarre image pops into your head of you parenting him with the No, David! storybook, a round-eyed Remmick sitting criss-cross on your porch, chin resting on closed fists, ooh-ing and aw-ing at the appropriate moments. Soaking in absolutely none of the pertinent lessons you’re trying to get across.

It’s fair to question whether he’s playing with a full deck here, given the amount of times you have to hold his hand through the explanation that he is a strange, strange man, and that just because you share a similar taste in music and films, it doesn’t indicate a compatible roommate arrangement. Though you’re fairly certain he was lying about sharing your taste in movies, anyway, because he couldn’t name a single plot point of one when you pressed him further.

Unfortunately, you begin to acclimate to his Remmick-ness the longer you’re around him.

It helps that Remmick has shown up on a few occasions with gifts that are…actually welcome. Scarily accurate to your current, unmentioned interests and needs. And because you’ve made the mistake of accepting one of his offerings, the walmart-brand sugar daddy he fancies himself as (yes, the one that begs to live with you) persists until you threaten not to open the door to him anymore.

Despite your best efforts to corral your foolish emotions, his affection and attention are more than welcome. Affection and attention, period. Full stop.

He’s not alone in his gift giving, because one day you find yourself offering him something in return: a few fragrance oils you have a fondness for. You tell yourself the thrill that comes with that has a psychological attribute that lies in loneliness and a lack of romantic experience, and has nothing to do with the primal satisfaction you get when he begins to smell like you.

Anyway, it’s more for your benefit than his. You can tolerate his natural, pine-scented musk, enjoy it on a good day, but those metallic whiffs you got occasionally had to go. Of course, Remmick’s ecstatic, like he usually is when you give him the time of day and you had no qualms finding a way to stifle his happiness. The one you land on is to inform him that he reeks of pennies, and you come to the heartbreaking discovery that he thinks he smells great, mouthwatering even (his words, mind you). You accept that the two of you will have a dissenting opinion on the matter.

That becomes a recurring theme in your relationship.

—

“It’s going to be hard to fight off rumors of my suitor when I have a man that’s constantly at my work.” You greet him with one night, taking a slow gander at the styrofoam cup he snuck in. “And don’t say it’s for the beer.”

“Nothin’s stoppin’ you from confirmin’ those.” Remmick’s lips close innocently around the straw. Outside beverages are against policy, but his rebuttal was that he needed all his money for a room after you denied him yours, and you waved him off before he could beat that dead horse. The alternative was a shift without Remmick, which would be peaceful if a little boring. He also quickened the closing process by helping you clean, so you let him keep his contraband. 

“I’m not sure how to interpret that.” Your heart skips a beat, and in a rush of bashful delusion, you’d say his eyes glanced towards the malfunctioning organ.

“Interpret it any which way that pleases you, darlin’.” His smile is complacent with a deliberate amount of irreproachability.

And if a grin of your own splits your face as you turn to grab a glass, that’s your business.

—

Remmick is a bit of an old soul. You clocked that from your first conversation, one you used to attribute as overwhelming, but now seems performative and stifled upon comparison with your current nocturnal chats. In the late hours of the night, his mask slips and he doesn’t take care to organize his words with his usual methodical precision. 

There’s times where you sit together in easy, cordial silence more revealing than some of your discussions. You, lounging on your swing with mellow contemplation as you study him, furtive. And Remmick, perched on a step with an elbow propped up on the porch, pen between plush lips as he ponders his scripture. The creak of the wood as he shifts to document a sudden thought, the scratch of his pen against the parchment.

There’s something familiar about him, yet he’s entirely unique to you. You’ve certainly never had a man dancing a jig on your porch late into the night. You’d wish he’d take that shit somewhere else, but, okay, he’s not bad. Pretty damn good, actually. And maybe you’re a bit sore because you feel the equivalent of a female bird, mesmerized by his impressive stamina and bones that are seemingly made of rubber. It’s all well and good until he tries to rope you into his antics.

“Dance with me.” He says, tone soliciting after he caught your intrigued stare over the pages of an abandoned novel. He extends a hand and wiggles his fingers alluringly.

“Tempting as that is, no.” You savour his petulant response. He must feel a bit more dramatic than usual tonight, because his arm falls heavily to his side, clearly peeved.

“That's your favorite goddamn word, isn’t it?” 

“One of them. Want to hear some others?” You huff, book thumping as it hits your lap. His responding sigh is all suffering, like this isn’t a hell of his own making.

“As long as they’re for me, darlin’.”  

—

A month passes and giddy expectation stains the hours leading up to each shift. You waited as long as you could to inform him that he did, in fact, get the gig. Just to see how long he’d stick around on his own. Remmick reacted with the fervor you expected, hands clasped to his chest in gratitude despite it being out of your hands. Sarcastically, you asked if he was pleased.

“I sure am, honey. Now I get to bother you on a frequent basis.”

“Already being done, I promise.”

—

On another night, you’re riding a nice high after finding your roommates stash of weed. You guessed a few clothing items was a more than welcome trade if this was the pay off. Hell, you’d ship him more pairs of panties if he let you keep it. But he would no doubt be back once he realized the gold he left behind, and for a moment, you seriously consider fighting him for it. You could, the kid was a noodle and at one point you had a steady streak of arm wrestle victories over the last pack of ramen. Those are fond memories between the two of you. Part of your annual five-minute interactions.

And now you’ve made yourself sad, wading down memory lane while you’re inundated with raw, unprocessed emotions. 

No one had ever stayed long. Romantic or transactional, last roommate not included. Not after nights of waking up screaming, with sheets soaked in sweat and terror. It’s not like you’ve been sitting on your ass about it. You’ve tried therapists — hell, even a few charlatan dream analysts on a reddit thread — but the gas money for travel got progressively less worth it when the night terrors didn’t diminish, only persisted vehemently.

It’s stifling. Maddening. Lonely.

But the cannabis helps, because for now, you’re hazy and hyper aware of every sensation that draws your attention, with less than half of them managing to keep it. It’s fine. It’s great, in fact.  Not to mention the potential of the blissful absence of dreams, or at least the memory of them come morning. 

Normally, a knock at the door while stoned will send you into rubber-room paranoia, but you know who it is. You know that knock, have heard it nearly every night. It’s your friend. Remmick, who was keen on wasting his own time for the simple purpose of wasting yours too. 

Tonight, you throw open the door with too much enthusiasm and pretend to nurture his demented idea of living together. He presents a hard-fought case, with potent impenetrable reasoning you find yourself nodding along to. Fortunately, you know better from your dreams, and promised yourself not to make any hasty inebriated-adjacent decisions after…the last few times.

And he’s talking about family now. You think it’s a bit of an odd topic to transition to when-

“... a damn shame how individualistic society’s become-”

The desolate realization hits you that you have never seen Remmick basked in full sunlight. Now that is a damn shame. A true tragedy. How those lustrous eyes would glitter, the LED glow of porch lights a poor match for the golden radiance that would wind around those dark curls of his. Those short, damp curls, brilliant shades of chestnut and auburn set aflame. How soft would they feel beneath your fingers-

“You listenin’ to me?”

You hum noncommittally. You need to get him into the sun.

“We need to get you in the sun.” You propose, butting into his draining spiel to pay him a very generous compliment.

Oddly enough, Remmick responds as though you’ve threatened to neuter him right then and there. Honest-to-God flinching back from you.

“...Why?” The slow stretch of the word in his pretty accent rings out into the night.

“No reason.” You shrug, finding a new aspect of his face to appreciate. The pull of his brow towards his hairline put those large eyes of his on display, providing an ample view of those perilous, dark beauties. You can see a prominent fang amongst cute, packed teeth, not at all like those dreadful ones in your dreams. Wait, why is he gaping at you-

“...you know somethin’?”

He looks incredibly suspicious of you, like you’re the oddball here.

“Not really.” You shrug, relaxed if slightly confused. Not exactly an unfamiliar phenomenon when you get high. Nothing to be alarmed about. Remmick doesn’t seem to share the sentiment. “What were you saying?”

He cautiously pursues the train of thought you gracefully interrupted, tentative at first and still staring at you like you’ve grown two more heads. Soon enough it picks up full speed as he drones on, if a bit hesitant to outright allude to the selfishness of your actions like before.

He has you questioning if you were toeing the edge of too high, but the room isn’t spinning and there’s no perceptible sensitivity that accompanies a green out. Maybe your roommate’s shit was laced-

“…fellowship…family.”

The pronunciation of the last word gives you pause, the southern cadence falling away to something your head goes foggy trying to place. You fumble with your train of thought before offering up a solution that, in your humble opinion, is a damn good one.

“Look… there’s a community center in the next town that hosts some cultural nights you can go to, a Renaissance Fair or Comic-Con, maybe is what you’re looking for… I can give you the email-”

“No, no, no, that’s not-.” He sighs, hand making to pinch the bridge of his nose before he abandons the action, opting to settle his hands on his hips like a disappointed father. “Thought small town folk were supposed to be friendly.”

Maybe it’s the ridiculous situation you’ve found yourself in, maybe it’s the weed but you can’t help it, you laugh. 

It’s abruptly loud, and harsh, and you’re gawking at him with a toothy grin and eyes that are probably bloodshot. All highly attractive. But one look at Remmick wouldn’t confirm the revolting wince you’d expect to find.

At first, he looks shaken, and your head spins when you take in the wistful, tender look he doesn’t attempt to keep off his face. And then, because he’s keen to see how far he can milk it further with an exaggerated, southern drawl, he carries on.

“But you,” He shakes a finger at you disapprovingly. “You’re meaner than a goddamn rattlesnake.”

You’re still giggling as he critiques your absent hospitality, pulling a plethora of recent examples you’ve armed him with out of thin air. Ticks each one of them off on his fingers and then holds his palms up in mock surprise to show you he’s run out. You wave a hand at him to stop, cheek pressed against the wooden panels of the door and split with an uncontrollable smile.

He beams back at you, faux indignation gone, and you’re dazed momentarily.

He looks so, so handsome when he smiles. So enraptured and pleased and drawn inexplicably to you. The authenticity of this look more or less confirms the weary suspicions you had about the genuineness of his previous ones. Those primitive survival intuitions claw through the dumb-struck haze clouding your senses, and you go to bid him farewell in your usual rattlesnake fashion.

“That lets me know I’m doing something right. Away with you,” You halt the closing of the door to throw in a saccharine, “please,” complete with fluttering eyelids.

Remmick seems desperate (when is he not, really) to keep up the hard-fought, genial momentum. In his haste, and with your absent cognitive faculties, the delivery of his next words is poor and easily misconstrued.

“Wait, wait, you gonna give me some?” He cocks his head, brows raised in mock sternness. 

“...Pardon?” You force your eyes to narrow at the assumed proposition. Now that was forward, and more than a bit slimy considering your altered state. You’re still flattered and slightly interested, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“You reek like a muhfuckin’ skunk. You holdin’ out on me?” 

“Oh.” Ah. Right. 

You pluck the joint from where you stashed it on the ashtray, fiddling with a lighter and taking another hit yourself to irritate him. He wiggles his fingers out threateningly when you blow smoke in his face, muttering he’s gonna run out of toes to count on, too. You gingerly hold the joint out to him, careful to avoid his touch more than the burning tip, and he takes it between pinched fingers.

It's an instant regret for the rest of the night, because now your slutty mind has a fresh image to mull over. Remmick, with a J dangling from his lips, glowing tip battling a gust of wind as he strums a tune. Remmick, smoking and performing with a molten fluidity you’re jealous of just as much as you want to jump his bones for.

No. Hasty. Decisions. While. High.

You reprimand yourself with your full, government-issued name. It’s still a mighty effort to bite back the “come on in, partner!” you want to chirp at him, accompanied with an arm thrown wide to welcome him into your home. Take the tour straight to the bedroom. 

Strangely, extraordinarily, he doesn’t press the issue tonight. Bids you farewell with a good-natured ‘get on to bed’, complete with an authoritative eyebrow quirk and a raised pointer finger. You raise a finger of your own in return, laughing as he mentions something about ‘ladylike’ and a ‘mind your manners.’

__

You braved the journey to work the next day with only mild brain fog and an intimate amount of fatigue.

“There she is. You alright there, party animal?” Remmick greets you from his normal spot, fond amusement coloring his tone at your slightly disheveled appearance. 

“Please, I’m gonna live forever.” You joke, and something strange happens to Remmick’s face then. What was meant to make him crack one of those charming grins seems to drain him of energy. In a second, he looks haunted, or something of the like, eyes going unfocused for a brief moment. 

“Lord willing.” He smiles, but it’s contrived.

Even stranger, you feel something akin to…misery, is an apt description for it. It’s low-grade but tenacious. It makes you contemplative, makes you abandon your usual taciturn behavior. You glance at his hardshell case propped against the counter.

“Encore of ‘The Killing Moon’?” You give him your best smile.

His answering one is blinding.

—

When you retire that night, you dream a scenario so wildly different and obscure from your usual that your head spins trying to understand it.

You still retain some lewd memories before the indecent moment you jumped into. There’s a spike of elation at the thought of him coming back for you, at the praises and cherishing confessions lyrical on his tongue. He loved you, he told you so and he promised to do so for eternity-

Him, him, him.

Him, who? You want to ask, but the blissful thrall of love lulls you into pliant submission. Turns out you don’t need to, because the next thing you feel are strong, steady hands lifting your skirts to expose you.

“You look real good like that, baby.”

The one kernel of reason you retain latches onto that familiar cadence, but it’s quickly drowned by the voice shushing you and a bombardment of sensual gratification. The next few scenes flash by in rapturous succession.

You’re on your knees, face smushed against the mattress, pillows and sheets displaced from his devastating thrusts. That intoxicating, earthy smell of his engulfs you in willing delirium. Large, cool hands massage your thighs, roaming up and up until they’re settled nicely on the arch of your back, tilting your hips up to further present you to him.

Something tepid and sopping drips onto you, sliding through your folds. It feels so good, but you want to see him. You love him, and you need to see him.

Words fall from your lips — yours, dream-you, you don’t know — but you’re begging.

And he was never one to deny you anything.

The image shifts in the disjointed way dreams do. You’re enveloped by the fluff of a mattress, legs spread wantonly and in between them, is Remmick.

He’s pretty, or at least this conjured image of him your debauched mind created is. His length is thick, uncut and leaking against you, hips inching to-and-fro to glide against where you need him.

And oh, do you need him. You’ve never needed anything more.

“Then let me in.”

—

You return to the waking world, winded and warm and drenched in sweat and — oh God. A fucking wet dream? About a guy you met barely a month ago?

Admittedly, the relief from the traumatic nightmares feels so sweet you could sob.

And you do. You set aside a short period of time to weep like a babe before your shift. Then you dry your eyes, collect most of yourself with only your dignity and sense missing, and the realization hits that you have to face him.

It’s not like you did anything wrong. For all your hoping and pleading with whatever is listening to have one peaceful night, you never could have guessed this was in store for you. And it’s not like he would know, so there’s absolutely no reason to feel any guilt.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you prepare for work like you’re heading to the hangman’s noose. You tell that to yourself again as you contemplate the accuracy of those dreams. 

Would he be sweet with you? Take his time? Your subconscious sure seems to think so, since it’s already assigned him the role of service top in your wildest fantasies. But what if it was rough, feral as he fucked those so-called manners of his into you-

All too soon you’re behind that counter, that intense reverie consuming your coherent thought, looking every which way but his. Remmick’s chatting your ear off about something or other, and you mutter revealing little half-replies. The similarities of his voice and the one your depraved self delightfully calls on makes you lightheaded. You have a hard time looking him in the eye, but when you do, the glass in your hand damn near dive-bombs to the floor.

He’s staring at you. A proud glint in his eye and too damn smiley for your liking. Smug, pleased, and reeking of satisfaction.

He knows. Your traitorous mind squeals. No. There’s no way-

“Huh?” You blurt, elegantly.

“You goin’ for employee of the month?” He lifts his head from where it was propped on a hand to nod towards the glass you’re polishing, a repeat of your first conversation. That close-fitting shirt of his revealing every flex of his well-built back that’s curved over the counter. The more time you spend with him, the more apt the comparison of him to the street cat becomes.

“Sorry. Didn’t sleep well.” You mumble, and while he’s been sympathetic about your confessions of sleepless nights up until this point, it seems to be the worst thing you could’ve said.

If anything, his smile widens. Head flops back on his hand, eyes impish as he just stares. He halts fingering the rim of his drink to drum a tune against the counter top.

“What?” You press.

“Nothin’.” He chirps, which tells you that, yes, there’s something, “Have a drink with me.”

“No,” You reply, immediately. “What’s gotten into you?”

“What's gotten into you? You’re wound tighter than a spring.”

He gets to his feet, and for a stupid moment your heart lurches, afraid he’ll leave. But then he reaches behind the bar top to pluck up a shot glass that you just finished cleaning.

“Hey.” Your eyes dart around, but no one pays much mind to the two of you. It’s the tail-end of another slow night.

“Hey yourself. Drink with me.” He fixes you with those puppy-dog wonders of his. Seriously, he must’ve been mastering that look for years. An A+ student in Manipulations 101. Because you seem to have a hard-on for bad decisions, you grab a bottle of vodka and pour the both of you a double.

You down it in one go, the drink burning a path from your throat to your belly. Remmick hoots and hollers and you swat at his arm, missing entirely when he leans back.

“Look at you. Hair down, all carefree. You look real good like that.”

The vodka nearly claws its way back up your throat as you choke.

You look real good like that, baby.

“Y’alright?” His tone sounds genuine, concerned with a hint of amusement. You focus your eyes anywhere but his, and unfortunately those lustful bastards land on the open collar of his shirt.

“What’s that?” You nod to the chain there, amongst a smattering of chest hair.

He looks a little peeved at his words of concern going ignored, which delights you, but those expressive eyebrows go up and he playfully jerks as if there’s a bug on him. Plays stupid. “What’s what?”

“Your chain, babe. Your chain.” You snort at his antics, but the reveal of the ring as he pulls it up and over his shirt sobers you. “Oh.”

You had noticed a ring on his right hand before. A simple gold band wrapped around his ring finger; the spitting image of the one he just revealed to you. The one he wears around his neck dangles until his palm closes around it, easily dwarfing it in a way that reveals it’s meant for much smaller fingers. Your mouth goes dry. Remmick’s eyes dart towards your chest where it feels like your heart’s halted with your breath. Just as you remember oxygen is a necessity, he fills the stunted silence with a bemusing chuckle.

“Ah, this? I’m holdin’ onto it for someone.” His fingers grasp it with a tenderness that nearly has you grinding your teeth down to nubs. The delicate web of veins in his hand flex as he caresses an inscription on the inside that’s concealed to you.

“Is that…for a friend?” You joke, weakly.

“You can say that, yeah. A dear friend. Just waitin’ to give it to her is all.” Remmick ducks his head with a smile that is both sentimental and entertained.

Spikes of unwanted jealousy eat away at you. They revamp every time you see that stupid chain, each glint in the light a lacerating taunt. You feel nothing short of wounded for reasons that are baffling and arbitrary.

The mood shifts for the rest of the night. Or at least, yours does. You’re unintentionally short with him. He doesn’t seem to notice. If anything, he brightens in response to the change in your behavior, and you wonder what it conveys to him. You’re internally lamenting over a bruised ego, and Remmick’s keen to prattle on about the state of modern music and the lack of allure it brings to the table. All while you’re trying not to have a meltdown that would put a three-year-old’s to shame.

“-and now it’s just ear-candy, no substance worth mentionin’-”

“Can you get to the point?” It always fills you with a bit of sadistic satisfaction when you manage to irk him the way he does you, but it’s extra rewarding now.

“I’m fixin’ to!” He gives you an accusing look that says and this is why you’re the problem. “If you’d just- oh!”

He throws his hands up in sudden remembrance. Then goes to dig around in his pocket. Curiosity piqued, you abandon some of your sulk and lean slightly over the counter to catch a glimpse.

“Forgot. My down payment for the room.”

“What room-” Your incredulity cuts off when he produces an odd-looking gold coin.

“For when you say yes. Uh-uh, doesn’t have to be now! Don’t get started on me,” he says, sternly.

Sure enough, your mouth had opened to retaliate. You slap away the wagging finger in your face and sigh, examining the engravings on the coin. You’ve seen it somewhere before, but now you’re drawing blanks.

“And this is some kind of currency? I thought you said money was tight...” You look up to see a contemplative Remmick, gazing at you like the sun shone out of your ass. “What?”

“It’s the solid gold kind, darlin’.” He nods to the coin, unhelpfully ignoring your other inquiries altogether.

“I don’t believe you.” You shrug, extending the ‘gold’ piece back to him. “And even if I did, if it’s anything my landlord can’t immediately go off to buy booze with, he’d take me out back and shoot me.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, now that you have me to protect you.” Remmick doesn’t say it like a joke. It should piss you off, or make you uncomfortable, but you cherish what his odd segue reveals.

“Sure.” You laugh, foul mood lifting slightly. He still wants to stay with you. Still chooses to be here with you. “Start helping me clean up.”

“Yes ma’am, y’know I can’t deny you anythin’.” He says, smug and charming as he hops enthusiastically off his barstool.

You’re halfway through conjuring an unimpressed response when the words sink in.

He was never one to deny you anything.

You whip around to gape at him in a manner that would have him poking fun at you for the rest of the night. Instead of the gloating grin you expected, you stare at the expanse of his back, whistling as he begins to wipe down tables.

—

Remmick had a rudimentary understanding of personal bubbles. He wasn’t necessarily touchy – was more than respectful in that regard, actually – but he had a proclivity for standing and/or walking too close for comfort. More than once he’s bumped into you from a lack of maintaining appropriate stopping distance. You figured it was an effort to drive you crazy, because he always seemed to know when he did something that made your heart race, if his pleased little noises were anything to go by. As for your heart racing…

The delicious images you have been waking with throw you straight into a drunken stupor. Afflicted emotions from your dreamstate follow you, bleed into your interactions and infect your sense of reason until you’re never not smiling at him. 

He frustratingly remains a gentleman despite his boyish flirting. So the first time his fingers are the ones to initiate contact and he freezes, as if debating some intricate meaning of the gesture, you roll your eyes and leap on that opportunity like fucking spiderwoman.

“No, that’s–it’s okay. Seriously. Hold my fucking hand, Remmick.”

He glows, and you get the feeling you just settled a timeworn decision for him.

For all his expressiveness, he’s never touched you. You understand why now. It’s like a dam burst, indomitable and perpetual. Now, his hands seek you out almost habitually; winding around to rest on your back, offering a playful elbow in the illusion of being a gentleman (you know he’s not, much as he says so), and, most devastating in effect, the gentle hand laid on the nape of your neck, a final, grudging squeeze before he surrenders you to the impenetrable residence that is your cabin.

Suffice to say, there is undeniable mounting tension between you two.

It’s there when you share the trivial matters you agonize over (to lessen the severity of other, far less trivial matters) and he hits you with astute advice and a kind, “Stop worryin’, huh?” 

And you do, because his worn, calloused palms shuck off your shoes after a tiring shift, thumbs digging into the arch of your foot draped over his lap with doting attentiveness. 

It’s there as the two of you are slumped together on the porch swing, leaning closer and closer until your forearm rested languidly on his shoulder, legs tossed over his thighs. You’re antsy with the dizzying proximity of him, weary fingers going to toy with that chain you have a strange penchant for, occasionally slipping and grazing the length of his collarbones. He shivers, hums out a soft ‘don’t stop’ whenever you pause.

He pretends not to notice the top view of your plush, warm breasts, and you pretend not to notice the budding erection under your knees. It’s a long while before you can convince yourself to move, limbs cozy and listless. 

It’s shortly after that, and by shortly you mean that very night, you realize you may be in too deep. 

You threw on a film in an attempt to convince yourself you’ve attempted other activities besides brooding. Unfortunately, it has the opposite effect, because you find yourself wondering about Remmick’s thoughts throughout it. You guessed right that he wasn’t a big movie-watcher, though he seems perfectly content to listen to you prattle on about them. Therein lies the issue of wanting his thoughts on a score, wondering what jokes he would make during, and planning conversations and taunts based on those things.

For all his silliness he is wickedly intelligent, often spinning a cursory topic into a long-winded conversation lasting well into the night. Before, the days were long and the nights were endless. Now…

You blink and your shift passes. You catch yourself more and more frequently wondering what he would think about a movie, a book, a song. He’s burrowed himself into your head, clawed his way into your veins so that you don’t even dream of monsters anymore. Just him.

That night, you’re fighting restlessness with negligible results. Remmick, unbidden and evocative, infiltrates your mind and brittle peace without being physically present.

You sigh. Count the water stains on the ceiling. Count them again.

“Fuck it.” Your fingers slip past the hem of your underwear, past your puffy folds to where you’re ripe with need.

You get yourself off while envisioning a particularly vivid scenario of Remmick and his dexterous hands. Those large hands that always seem to be active, whether they’re rapping on the counter, fussing with that gold coin, or twiddling in the air as he talks like he’s playing a pretend instrument. Your enamored recall takes a debauched turn when that imaginary hand dives into his own trousers, this time, half-mad with lust as he watches you come undone.

As you lay there panting, left with the remnants of his name lingering on your tongue, your heart squeezes at a blinding truth.

You want him.

And as long as Remmick had a place in your life, you’d want him.

—

The spare key bites into the flesh of your palm, metal teeth of it grounding you as you mull over a scripted dialogue to go with your presentation. You had stared at it for all of ten seconds this morning, feigning deliberation of a decision you had already made. After scraping the tape containing your roommates name off the bow, you coated it in a layer of red nail polish, a favorite hue of Remmick’s.  

When you enter the bar, you don’t notice him in his usual spot, but he sometimes likes to be sneaky and startle you, so you’re not worried. You’re not ashamed about last night’s finger-bang, either. Maybe it’s the anticipatory thank you for making me your roomie sex you’re betting on, knowing his control would fray and snap with one sign that you’re interested. Let you tell him so at the bar, and he’d probably take you right there over the counter.

You serve drinks in a haze, attention split between the pouring and deciding if you should hide the key in his drink, proposal-style. You can see him laughing in your head, those cute, jagged teeth of his on display. And then the two of you would go home, fuck, watch Netflix, maybe fuck some more, all while you make fun of his less-than-impressive repertoire of films. It’s a concrete plan.

You’re a bit sad that the running gag of him permanently stuck on your porch is coming to an end. It made you feel like a teenager, sneaking around in an experience you never got to live. You find solace thinking of the future domestic moments you’ll share together, eagerly keeping an eye on the door.

Only he doesn’t show. The next hour goes by, and you feel like a dog waiting by the door for her owner.

—

Remmick doesn’t come by that night. Nor does he come visit you at your shift the next day.

Or the next one. And the next one.

His silence is more than a little alarming, a phenomenon as unnatural as the clouds pissing blood rain. He wasn’t meant to vanish. He was meant to sing and strum and park himself on your porch after an already tiring day. And you were meant to gripe and sneer and tell him to get lost, all while anticipating his next visit. You had begun to count on it.

And you miss him more than you’d care to admit.

The annoyance he provided served as a balm to the mundane droll of daily life. That’s all it was. Chatting with him, arguing with him. Admittedly, you were lonely, and he listened.

Remmick listened like every word of yours was sacred.

But he had no obligation to you. Nor you him. Perhaps whatever fleeting infatuation that caught his fancy finally ran its course, and he’s probably off chasing skirts in another town. You wished that thought wasn’t as devastating as it was.

You carry on, of course, like you always do with a shift in mood prominent for someone who knows you better. Your coworker notices and even the frequent patrons catch on, but they choose to remain silent while their pitying glances are anything but.

You’re nearly reconciled with the fact that you’ll end up alone when the soft, flowing twang of a banjo reaches you a few nights after his disappearance. Your heart lifts, stupid, foolish hope setting you alight. And then the rage hits. Your eyes roll so far into the back of your head they threaten to stick there, and then you’re yanking the door open to spew out,

“So this is what you’re doing? Taking up residence on my porch again?” Your tone is laced with condescension.

“Where else am I supposed to be?” No added flair. Just blatant truth. He barely looks up at you from his place on the rickety swinging chair, rusty creaks slicing through the melody that irritates you for all kinds of reasons. 

There he is. The object of your affliction and affection. He’s cloaked in dense shadows but you can still make out the trace of purple, bruise-colored circles under his eyes and skin that’s a bit paler than usual. The distance between the two of you seemed to affect him, too, with even his indelible mood notably drained by your absence. The charismatic demeanor and energy you know and love him for dampened. It tugs on your heartstrings, as it’s meant to, but you can’t find it in yourself to comfort him, not when you need that comfort yourself.

“It ain’t polite to st– y’know what, nevermind-” His eyes lift when no barb is thrown his way and you must have overestimated your ability to remain composed, because his face drops further with concern. “What’s the matter?” 

Damn him. Damn him and his wide, disney-princess eyes that see far too much. You shake your head, not trusting your voice to remain steady just yet.

“C’mon, honey. What’d I do, huh?”  He slings the banjo strap over his shoulder, setting it down haphazardly as he rises to approach you. His prized possession, thrown aside when faced with your distress, with the mere presence of you. 

“It’s just…you’re back.” You groused, and it didn’t come out as monotone and unaffected as you meant it to. The silliness of your reaction is made apparent by the sudden realization that it’s only been a few days, and here you were, acting like a grieving war widow. Surely it had to be longer than that, right? Were you that starved for companionship? 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

He seems to read a hell of a lot into your silence, or maybe spots the tears burning behind your eyes because he gingerly grasps your shoulders, rubs soothingly down to your arms.

“Darlin’, you thought I left you. Aw, no.” His eyes squeeze shut, as though the idea of that causes him physical pain. He tugs on your elbows to uncross the limbs folded protectively around yourself, pulling you closer until he can encompass you in his embrace. At first, you go rigid, and then the weight of the past few days catches up and you melt against him. 

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not your keeper.” The orneriness is zapped right out of you, his rocking hold a balm on the distress you’ve accumulated in his absence. Remmick hums – a forlorn, amused little noise – and nuzzles your head softly. Too softly. “You’re the first real friend I’ve had in years. I care about you. So when you left- I just-” 

“Shh. S’okay. I know, darlin’. I missed you too, baby.” His voice was low, murmuring platitudes into your hair that shouldn’t have been soothing but were.

Tucked into his embrace, you’re able to envelop yourself in his usual aroma; the aromatic scent of rosemary oil, fresh pine, and those cloying traces of copper. Subtle, faded, as he attempted to mask it in his normalized routine of freshening up for you. It’s instinct really, that has your eyes cracking open to narrow at nearly imperceivable, spackled stains around his collar. Dark.

Your heart pitches violently, plummeting to your feet as the blood drains from your body. You don’t react outwardly, and that’s what does it, because Remmick halts his swaying and tenses around you.

“Somethin’ wrong?” His words are terse, the warmth and solace they previously offered distinctively absent.

“No. Nothing.” The response that leaves you is pure impulse. You want nothing more than to tell him what’s wrong, so he can fix it like he always does. The idea of it, though… feels unsafe.

Remmick’s grip tightens, almost uncomfortably. Possessively, like you’ll be torn from him at any moment. He hums in reply to your answer, unsatisfied.

That roaring desire you had to see him is all but snuffed out. Your jovial, warmhearted Remmick is somewhere else. This man that’s holding you in his arms is a stranger. Even as he ceases your beginning movements to extract yourself, as he shifts to press a silky kiss to the side of your head. His lips linger a bit too long. Hands hold you a bit too tight.

His shift in demeanor gives you whiplash. He could have detected your hesitation but… you were calm, externally. Could he sense the pound of your heart from close proximity? There’s no other way-   

A heavy, sharp realization settles into your bones, one your mind hasn’t yet caught up with. Refuses to. Intuition and limerence battle for precedence. You don’t ask where he’s been, and he doesn’t offer. He doesn’t even ask to come in that night.

You think of that key the whole time, but you’re hurt. You’re hurt and angry and that suspicion of him that’s lain dormant is now making its rounds while that rage is still fresh.

—

Maybe it’s triggered by the off-kilter, fragility of your mindstate, but the peaceful nights cease just as abruptly as they began, the nightmares returning with a wicked vengeance.

It’s fitting that it begins with a feeling of betrayal so heavy it sits in your belly like a stone. Your other senses catch up, each one thrown at you in a dizzying, desperate effort. Bleary flashes of viscera on cobblestone, a chest tightened with ruinous grief and a throat burning, raw from screaming.

A man is in front of you. The one that had whispered such pretty lies in your ear, had promised you forever and everlasting pleasure as you rode him in the back of a carriage. Only this time, his face wasn’t barred at all from view or memory. He was there. In front of you. Red eyes, fangs and all.

Remmick.

This wasn’t- he wasn’t- no.

No.

You felt the world tip on its axis. Your heart rattles against your ribcage, shattering at the betrayal that spans across lifetimes. Your consciousness struggles to grasp the situation in its entirety, the reluctant friendship and trust you built with this man pulled beneath your feet. Someone’s screaming — dream-you, you realize. You’re too far gone into the wounding treachery that you struggle empathizing with getting fucked-over by the same man, and unsuccessfully wail back for her to shut the fuck up, she’s hurting your throat.

You’re such a goddamn fool.

Of course it’s fucking him. Hands in his pockets, casual, collected like he isn’t standing over what you can’t see is a corpse but somehow know is. A viscous pool of blood surrounds the body, displaced as broken hands move — it’s fucking moving, that’s not possible- but your incredulous suspicions are confirmed when he manages to get to his feet. It’s a man, jugular torn to shreds, skin hanging in ropes from what you can see is from a brutal mauling. His eyes find you, entirely unconcerned with the proximity of his killer, and what was once sweet hazel morphs into something purely animal. No, not just a man, your friend-

“No, no. Don’t look at that.” A disembodied voice cuts through the terror. Guiltily, almost but more so desperate.

There’s no flash of light, no dramatic indications before the environment alters. What was once solid ground becomes sturdy wood pressed hard against your back, underneath your thighs, contrary to a softer, calloused touch holding them open. What the hell-

“Look at me.”

Your eyes fly open, you were unaware that you even closed them. If the previous dreams pulled you in with shaken, inexperienced hands, this one was adept with a hardened intensity that left you bound to the memory. Anchored to your surroundings in a way you never were in the others. Every sensation more vivid. And then the reason for the changes became apparent.

The voice that haunts your dreams—Remmick (your adoring lover, your new self unhelpfully supplies) on the floor in front of you. He doesn’t look at you right away, busy taking in the new setting like you were. Then his eyes are on you. Those scarlet, piercing eyes-

“Ah, hell. It was supposed to be a different one.”

You’re in some sort of shack. Fuzzy so that you know it’s still a dream, but corporeal enough for you to retain the previous terror and newfound understanding. What-

“The hell?” The recognizable southern drawl finishes for you and clucks his tongue. “C’mon now. You’re a lot sharper in person.”

It’s him, your mind screams. It’s him it’s him it’s him.

It’s Remmick’s hands that are on you, holding you apart. Him knelt between your legs. And that’s-

Oh God.

That’s you around his mouth, covering the beard he adorns in this version of him. You can feel the slickness at your center, still feel the ache and used condition you’re in.

“Remember. It ain’t all bad.” A soft, soothing kiss presses into the corner of the knee thrown over his shoulder. “Remember, baby.”

You awake with his laugh ringing in your ears, but it’s all wrong.

Your movements are fuzzy, detached, though it’s not unusual for you to still feel disoriented upon waking.

Alarm bells should go off when you sit up, fingers sliding through the blankets like parting water. But your focus remains on the fact that it’s your blankets, in your room, your house. Instead it hits you as you walk through the doorway and straight into the kitchen, the hallway failing to manifest in your dream state. The jarring inconsistencies of dreams are all too familiar to you, but not your autonomous lucidity. Something is different this time.

And then, to solve that mystery, Remmick’s there, sitting at your table and strumming his banjo with infuriating nonchalance.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Figured you wasn’t gettin’ the right idea of me. Meant to show you somethin’ a bit more virtuous but I’m still gettin’ the hang of this myself.” Never-mind the fact that he doesn’t sound the slightest bit apologetic, but the smarmy smile kills any lingering authenticity. He ducks his head with feigned bashfulness, “And that particular scene is one of my favorites.”

Unbidden thoughts arise at his shameless admission. You can’t be sure what time period that was unless you ask — you won’t — but the few palpable senses available in your ‘dream’ offer some hints. The musk and sweat you felt clinging to your skin from the trek to the cabin being a memorable one. Toiletries and frequent baths must’ve been a luxury.

But one of his favorites?

Pure, unadulterated fury bubbles at him, for his pitiless deception, and you, for your mindless trusting and the consequences that came with it. He had gotten into your head. Literally. And you might as well have opened the door for him.

He was a dirty pervert. Slimy, smelly, little man. You tell him as such in a shrill shouting fit, trying and failing to pick up objects for throwable ammunition. He does nothing but stoke the flames of your anger when he laughs, positively delighted, holding the banjo out as a shield when you approach him.

“Didn’t mean to, on my Mama!”

“Stoptalkingaboutyourmother!”

In an attempt to rip the instrument from him and bludgeon him with it, your hands pass through like an apparition. His chortling rings out — he’s damn near giggling, this ancient creature — and it’s resonating through your head and the ethereal space around you.

“How are you– how long could you do this?” You accuse and cease your attempts at picking a fight. Whatever this is, whatever he is, he clearly has the experience here. You can’t pluck a goddamn string let alone play a tune like he did. If you were to wage war, there’s no doubt he would have the upper hand.

“Now this,” He breathes, breathless from laughter (do vampires need to breathe? That’s what he is, right?) and looks around the spectral surroundings with his usual theatrics, “-this is a fairly recent development, courtesy of our meetin’.’’

It’s pure indignation when you huff through your nose, unable to feel the breath or the act of it. You’re you, at least. It’s your own skin you inhabit in your slumber for the first time in years. For all intents and purposes, it’s as normal a dream can be if you ignore Remmick.

“Well I’d be much obliged if you just- fucked off out of my head.” You can’t hurt him physically, but mocking him makes you feel better.

“No can do. Now all’a that-” He clucks his tongue and gestures in a way that references the nastiness of the previous memories, looking put-out like he doesn’t hold a shred of responsibility for them, “I can’t control. But that invitin’ little reminiscence, that I can do.”

“How charitable.” You grit out through clenched teeth. He hums in agreement, either missing the sarcasm or choosing to ignore it entirely. “But I’d rather not think of you at all.”

“That just ain’t true. You liked ‘em well enough the past few weeks. You call for me.” He states, back straightening, arm slinging smugly over the neck of his banjo. Looking satisfied as a bird preening its feathers for his mate, like what he just said wasn’t offensively untrue.

You table the information with all of your newfound knowledge to digest later.

“I sure as hell don’t. Call for you to stay out of my fucking head, maybe.”

“Now I won’t lie, your… guarded behavior at first made me think you weren’t interested. But after I sent those sweet little remnants, I knew I still did it for you.” The words are dirty – though the look he’s giving you paired with that lazy smile, mouth parted slightly is affronting in and of itself. 

The truth out in the open appears to make him giddy, non-existent soul unburdened and whatnot, but he seems to come back down to Earth in that moment. His smile doesn’t fade, but the intensity does. He stares at you, seeming content to just take you in, only to drop the mother of all confessions.

“I’ve waited lifetimes for you. Endured loss, destruction, atrocity,” His accent wavers towards the end with something you’re familiar with. Devotion drips from his voice. “-just to find you. To be here for you when you come back.”

And just who’s responsible for that loss, that atrocity, you want to yell. Remmick senses your fury, of course he does, because he’s staring hard enough to cut through you. Your descent into wrath and despair radiates off of you in waves, permeating the ambience of the dreamstate. He sighs, adopting a pitying expression and trying his shitty hand at consolation.

“You’re bein’ misled-” 

“Yeah,” You scoff, tone acidic and filled with scorn. “Big time.”

He shakes his head, weighted and resigned like you’re a misguided soul. Switches tactics from beguiling long-winded confessions to something more vague and preachy.

“We were meant to be from the very beginning. Everythin’ else was just noise.”

That … sounds as ominous as you’re beginning to expect from him. Definitely not the romantic, panty-dropper line he meant it to be. You can tell, because there’s always an undercurrent of frustration when the tools in his arsenal fail to woo you. It’s no different now.

“Stop looking at me like that.” He looks at you like you’re going to disappear.

“You did. For a long time.” Remmick responds to the part you didn’t say aloud, his pleading expression carefully crafted to appeal to your sympathies. It fails.

You burn, feeling violated and betrayed and you’d like to slip into sweet, blissful darkness and not come back up.

“Leave.”

His eyebrows lift, but he makes for the door. Head down, but no true remorse on his face. That bastard is smiling.

“See you tomorrow.” He throws a nod and a grin over his shoulder.

“You absolutely won’t-”

The door slams behind him, his laughter still reverberating in your skull.

—

You email your boss and tell them you won’t make it to work the next day. Then the next.

Mercifully, Remmick doesn’t show. He seems to be taking his role of a good, upstanding vampire seriously, because a mob doesn’t show up to your house to arm you with a torch and pitchfork and recruit you for the hunt.

His time must be occupied by something else that distracts him from razing a town. It’s not hard to guess what that ‘something else’ is, because he perseveres with a vengeance now that the other shoe has dropped, and the dreams persist in their relentless entirety.

Their relentless, vulgar entirety.

You’re not in your body, pelted with emotions that aren’t yours but that’s nothing new. What is new is the chain around your neck, ring cool against a flatter chest, a strange appendage between your thighs—You are in your bed though, the same salacious warmth pooling in your belly, filled with such need, yearning, you just want the scent of her to last a little longer-

The scent of you.

Woodsy. Sweet.

He’s thrusted you into his dreamstate this time. It wasn’t enough that he pervaded your waking thoughts, your slumber, but now has somehow accessed your memories, knows the layout of your room, your belongings.

Like its predecessors, you cannot control what you see or what you feel. And boy, are you feeling a hell of a lot. It’s him that’s rutting against your sheets, hips jerking, cock wrapped in a panty-covered fist, but it’s you that’s now experiencing it firsthand.

Ah. So he’s further invaded your mind and is aware of the item taken by your thieving roommate. And has now incorporated it into this fantasy wet-dream.

The unholy squelch of your (his?) skin sliding against the drool-soaked fabric fills every crevice of the room’s acoustics. Fabric you’ve sunk your teeth into, know the taste of, fabric that no longer smells like her-

You try to make sense of his nonsensical ramblings — now your thoughts— echoing in your head. It’s difficult to focus on anything but the wet rasp of your–his panting against the pillow, the crying, the whining as the heady smell of you fades.

Sweet merciful-

Your teeth ache when you think of her, the spearlike canines elongating when you think about how she looked like a dream lounging half across your lap, half on the seat. The way she touched you so casually, with an ease that you would've been beggin’ for if you knew it’d feel so sweet. How her featherlight touch danced along your skin as if it wasn’t ruinous, as if her putin’ those claws away for once wasn’t the damnedest goddamn thing-

You just know that you can’t be around her yet, not when you’re half-feral with the taste of your favorite girl, can still smell the way she touches herself through the damn door-

“You see what you do to me?”

That was definitely not part of the scene, nor was it in the thoughts you were experiencing. You sever the connection with incriminating quickness and awake, in your bed, your body this time, left with a debilitating headache and blazing guilt.

—

True to his word, Remmick seems to have gotten a hold on this dream-bond thing, because your ensanguined night visions have been few and far in between. You begrudgingly admit, they have been more ‘inviting’, as he puts it, but you feel like the choice between gory tragedy and mind-bending sex is hardly a choice at all. Not when they conclude so softly, with the two of you lying together, sweaty and sated, side by side and melded together as one being.

He’s been sending you to a specific one, lately. A lifetime lived of adultery, tender defilement, and stolen freedom in its naked entirety. You’ve awoken sneaking through a garden in pursuit of him, only to have him startle you from behind, the novel sight and feeling of his scruff tickling your neck. As the insidious pull of lust creeps down your abdomen, it’ll shift and suddenly he’s on his knees for you, again. It does seem to be a favorite of his; his fingers buried in you, mouth playing your body as adept as he is with an instrument, a leg hanging over his shoulder.

All while you keep an eye out for your husband.

Goddammit, Remmick.

—

The time spent apprehensively cramped up in your safehaven-slash-prison is filled with enough rumination to need at least ten therapy sessions to cover. It’s not as though it’s difficult to put the broken, bloodied pieces together, rather it’s unsettling in the grand scheme of things.

I’ve waited lifetimes for you.

He could’ve slipped you something at the bar. Maybe all that sleep-deprivation deteriorated what was left of your logic and sanity and you were muttering to yourself in a padded cell. You would heavily consider this to be an elaborate prank if those appalling dreams had not haunted you through life.

It makes you recall the recent ones with mortified contemplation. Raunchy visions haven’t been unfamiliar to you for some time, but the frequency of them is worrisome. And if it was him who was responsible for the latter, debauched dreams (and by proxy, the rest), then it was also him after the initial passion-filled sequence, sat at the bar the very next day oozing male pride and looking entirely too pleased to satisfy you.

Ah. So, he did know, then. And enjoyed fucking with you about it. At least you weren’t making that up.

And that one with him in your room, a depraved fantasy of his? Memories stolen from the very source, the enticement of the forbidden fruit that is access to your residence, your bed. This intrusive assessment has you teetering on the edge of insanity more than your self-inflicted seclusion does.

Any blissful reprieve the dreams offer only lasts until you wake, wanting and primed and wet for him. It’s like something has awakened within you, a primordial ache laid dormant until Remmick got his specter-adjacent hands on you. The languid ache of pleasure brought to you years ago, the cathartic satisfaction still burning bright in your bones. And that’s not all that they’ve stirred in you.

Unwelcome emotions have accosted what little peace waits for you in the daylight. You’ve always had a propensity for intense emotion in several aspects of life, but jealousy was an emergent one. You’re not sure whether it’s truly you that’s feeling it. The consequences of your dreams stretch far beyond sleeplessness now, and you often wake up with the residue of intimate endearment and a sharp, pining ache for Remmick. It’s to be expected, surely. He worked tirelessly to dig his way into your head.

But what does that make you? A cheap imitation of his dearly departed? Was he even seeing you, when you laughed and flirted and-

Are you seriously feeling territorial of him towards other women that were…you? 

Alone in your room, you seethed, and cried, and then seethed some more. To date, this was the most contradictory and unique position you’ve found yourself trapped in. Exactly why you’re still thinking of Remmick as a man and not the monster he’s repeatedly revealed himself to be, is beyond your understanding. Perhaps it’s the friendship you’ve built with him over the past few weeks that stains your view of him as a silly, reliable confidant that’s capable of brightening your day without the presence of the sun. 

The sun. 

You recall musing about him in the sun with the consistency of faded dreams. You were high then, busy waxing poetic so the realization and what should have been alarmed suspicions entirely slipped your mind. You had never seen him in the sun. The most crucial, reliable fucking weakness of vampires and he had lured your attention from it like a siren’s call as he sang and danced and bickered with you.

In your defense, the prophetic dreams could’ve been a little more fucking clear. His face should have been plastered on wanted posters in your dreams. 

Unwanted: Fuckass nightmare demon Remmick. Crimes: not worth the waste of paper it would take to list all of them on. DO NOT APPROACH. DO NOT FEED.

More justification on your behalf is that he has an impressive resume with experience of manipulating young women, and has quite literally made it his full-time purpose in his unlife. The careful crafting of the confusing wet dreams and the pleasure they promised, more manipulation on his part. Probably had a heavy hand in concealing his face from your waking memory, too. Past yous have doubtlessly fallen victim to the cycle, ignoring prescient warnings with similar love-struck idiocy. 

Not-so in your defense, these seductions and betrayals went platinum in your head every night for years. Your past selves must’ve been rolling in their graves, shouting well-deserved insults as they watched you get close to him. Their tormentor. 

Yours.

—

Maybe the isolation and idleness gradually degrades your sense of reason, because when it’s past the point of acceptable call outs, you reluctantly prepare for your shift. Hide a tiny mason jar brimming with garlic juice inside an inner pocket of your jacket, nevermind the fact that it’s sweltering outside and you’re running plenty hot from the misfiring of synapses in your brain.   You rehash the plotted route to your car in your head and exit the house with a wince and a prayer. Every noise is the equivalent of mortar fire.

You’re actively scanning the treeline for a Remmick-sized mound loitering among it, waiting for the perfect opportunity to jump out with a ‘rah!’ The sylvan area provided considerable cover for him to be lurking and if you weren’t borderline hysterical, the idea of him squatting in some moldering branches would make for an amusing mental image. If he were to get the jump on you, you’d at least have the pleasure of making fun of him before you ate it.

You clutch the jar of garlic juice tightly, damn near tip-toeing along the graveled path to your vehicle, and you make it without the expected altercation. Problem was, you didn’t expect to find your tires slashed and sagging sadly into the grit in an accurate depiction of your mental state.

“Fuck!” 

For several reasons, you’re not too keen on the idea of involving police into what you aren’t sure isn’t a mental break. Disregarding the probable incompetence and unskilled assistance you’d receive for the threat of an actual vampire, you’d be the source of gossip for months. Even if this isn’t a figment of your imagination, you have no evidence he committed a crime. Though the psychological warfare he’s committed – in your opinion, was a goddamn crime. Considering the vandalism of your vehicle and several historical accounts of stalking, he was proficient in them.

Half-way during your heated debate with yourself, the skin on the back of your neck pricks. Your heart thuds to a halt. Primitive prey instincts kick in, and you freeze, attempting to detect what you feel is amiss. You take a deep breath to steel yourself, listening.

There. A hovering, sinister presence, two pin-points burrowing into your back. You’re being watched. Hunted. He’s behind you, isn’t he? Or wait, no-

You look up. A buried remnant of vampire knowledge hits you like a freight train. Knocks the breath from you just as much as the sight above you does.

That fucker can fly.

[iandarling]

Ian wakes up in the hospital with memory loss after getting a head injury;

- - - - - - -

“Mr. Gallagher, your husband is here!” said a cheery nurse, waking him up from his groggy sleep. His head was pounding and the light burned his eyes.

Ian had no idea what she was talking about.

The last thing he can remember is smoking weed with Lip as they did each others homework. Lip was always better at maths than him, but Ian excelled at English. So.

“Huh?” He mumbled as his eyes closed and opened again. The light was bright and his leg hurt like a motherfucker. Actually, his leg felt…longer than usual. It was heavier to move, and not just because of the cast.

“Jesus Christ, Ian.” He heard a rough but concerned voice, as a man entered through the open door.

Ian knows he knows that voice. He focused he eyes and stared ridiculously at Mickey fucking Milkovich.

“— and you’re always the one complaining ‘bout me not checking both ways before crossing the road, and now look at ya! A broken leg and a concussion, you scared the fucking shit outta me Ian.” Said Mickey Milkovich as he leaned down and kissed Ian on the mouth.

Mickey kissed him. They had never kissed before. Ian distinctly remembers the other guy saying that kissing was gay, and that he would never do it. Until now.

Wait, husband?

“I don’t know what’s going on.” Ian said dumbly, not sure how to begin forming his thought. Mickey had grown smile-lines, and Ian could see the shadow left from his shaven beard. And he was much taller and broader than he’d ever been before.

Mickey looked older. Much older. Ian was suddenly aware of how long his legs felt, how his toes touched the bed railings, how his arms felt heavier and bigger. His distress must’ve been obvious, because Mickey immediately looked upset.

“Your head hurtin’? Nurse said she gave you the good stuff so you shouldn’t be in pain…” Mickey bit his bottom lip and sucked in some air. He was concerned. Mickey Milkovich was concerned about him.

“Why did the nurse call you my husband?” Ian asked. Before he could get an answer he asked another, “and why do you look so old?”

“That’s a shitty joke, Gallagher,” Mickey began but soon realised Ian was not joking. He must’ve seen the truth on his face, because he took a step back.

“What do you mean, old?” His tone was flippant but Ian could hear the concern underneath it.

“You’re definitely not sixteen anymore,” Ian responded and began touching at his own face. He could feel stubble and his jaw was wider.

“Try twenty-six,” Mickey whispered as Ian gaped in horror. That would make him twenty-four, maybe even twenty-five, if his birthday had passed. What time of year was it?

For some reason Ian found himself instantly believing Mickey words, despite it all sounding insane. Somehow Ian had ended up in the future, a future which contained a calm and gentle Mickey Milkovich. A Mickey who kissed him because they were —

Ian forgot how to breathe. He had a husband.

“We got married!” Ian gushed as he admired Mickey Milkovich standing before him. Ian could feel his cheeks heat up as he smiled at him. Mickeys eyes softened impossibly, a sight Ian had never seen before but knew instantly he wanted to see again.

“Yeah, man. Two years ago. Hold on, I’ll call the nurses or sumthin’ because this ain’t right.” Mickey pressed a button beside Ian’s bed, and moved to open the door.

Ian stopped him by grabbing at his hand. He could feel the cool metal ring against his skin. It was a nice silver colour, perhaps a little basic, but definitely masculine in that way jewellery for men looked. Ian decided he liked it.

“What’s going on, Ian?” His husband asked. Ian had no idea how to answer that.

“I was doing homework with Lip, and then I woke up in this bed, and I’m older and married and my leg fucking hurts.” He blurted out and Mickey looked even more panicked than before.

He gripped a chair with one hand, and pulled it closer to Ian’s bed, sitting down beside him. Ian was still holding his left hand, fingers touching the ring and the rough tattooed skin under it.

“You got hit by a bike on your way home, hit your head pretty bad, and fell on your leg.” Mickey began explaining. A concussion he said, it might explain the headache and confusion.

Ian was twenty-four, an adult, married to Mickey Milkovich.

“I can’t believe we got married,” Ian blushed as he studied the ring some more. As it lifted slightly from the skin, he could peek some letters etched into the inside. Ian.

“I had the biggest crush on you, I was obsessed! And fuck if you don’t look even better as a grown man. God, look at those biceps.” He pretended to ignore his own red face as he soaked in the sight of Mickey in a tight black t-shirt.

“Not too bad looking yourself, stud.” Mickey tried to joke, but Ian could tell he was anxious. His foot was tapping fast on the linoleum floor, and his breathing was getting quicker by the second. Ian felt a need to squeeze his hand in comfort.

A nurse came in, and Mickey began talking. She paged a doctor, and Mickey explained everything again. Ian’s head was still hurting, and his confusion was only getting worse. It didn’t help that his leg was in a cast and he couldn’t move properly.

“Just tell me it’ll be alright,” Mickey pleaded with the nurse who was asking Ian a series of questions. Who’s the president (wrong answer,) what day is it (again, wrong,) what did he have for breakfast (wtf is a chia seed pudding??)

“It is not uncommon with head injuries that a person may experience memory loss, and most of the time their memories will come back within a day or two.” The doctor said as she wrote something down on her clipboard.

Ian felt Mickey squeeze his hand. It was grounding. Safe. Familiar, somehow, even though they never held hands before. But Ian supposed his body might remember things his mind had forgotten.

“The important thing is to keep to your regular schedule, your routines and habits, without overstimulating or overwhelming yourself. I assume you’re going home with your husband? Still, we’d like to keep you for observation for another couple a’ hours.” The doctor said and Ian nodded. He didn’t mind.

“I texted Lip earlier, said he’s on his way. They all are.” Mickey smiled at him and Ian eased up a little. His big brother was coming. They all were, the whole Gallagher clan. Just like they always did — they showed up for one another, come rain or shine, they would always be there.

Ian wondered how they would look all grown up.

“Is there anything else you remember? Try and imagine smells or tastes — our senses are tied closely to our memories.” The nurse spoke gently, and Ian closed his eyes and tried as hard as he could.

Snippets and visions appeared and disappeared just as quickly as he saw them. It was all a mess, like his mind scrambled ten years of memories into soup, but he tried to filter some of it out.

The colour yellow, an ugly suit, mayo?

“We were in prison?!” Ian shouted at Mickey who finally coughed out a laugh. He could remember the cold cell and the itchy suits. Panic consumed him once more.

“Yup. We’re two gay ex-cons, but we have our own legal business now. Renting an apartment on the fucking west side and everything.” Mickey was proud as he spoke, but Ian couldn’t wrap his mind around the prison of it all.

He could smell fire and smoke, but the room he was in was still safe.

“Arson?” He tried a guess and Mickey nodded sheepishly. Fuck.

“Technically you tried to stage a political protest but it sorta ended up violent. Don’t worry, it’s all good now.” He squeezed Ian’s hand again, and he found it comforting.

While he wanted to ask more questions, his train of thoughts were interrupted by a gaggle of Gallaghers entering the room. Lip walked first as expected, but what Ian had not expected was to see him carry a little boy in his arms.

“Eeeeen!” The boy screamed and clapped his hands in his direction. Two years old perhaps, maybe less, Ian wasnt the best at gauging ages.

Everyone looked older. Carl was taller, Debbie had become a young woman, Liam was a whole teenager, and an unknown blonde woman walked with Lip. And who was the little redhead girl who ran up to Mickey with a big grin in her too big boots?

“Uncle Mickey!” She shouted happily and jumped into his lap. Mickey, barely blinking at the onslaught, wrapped an arm around her tiny frame, one hand still holding onto Ian.

“Hey lil red,” He mumbled. The little girl looked just like Debbie did as a child. The same quizzical expression and big grin. Debbie had a daughter, Ian remembered in horror.

Mickey turned his head back to Lip and spoke again. “Ian’s struggling with some memory loss from his concussion. Go easy on ‘im, aight.” It was a threat, but not a dangerous one. Ian knew what those sounded like.

“Hey Ian,” Lip began and moved towards him. The baby in his arms was cooing and clapping his fat hands at Ian. “You remember this one?” He joked, as he held out the little boy.

No, Ian thought to himself. He had no idea who this was. But he knew in his heart that he cared deeply about him. “He’s yours?” He guessed, and Lip nodded in that peculiar way of his. He always seemed to be eight steps ahead of the game.

“You wanna sit with uncle Ian, Freddie?” He asked his son, and without hesitation plunked the little boy down in Ian’s lap. Lip had a son, Ian was an uncle. And he was married to Mickey Milkovich. Turns out the future isn’t all that bad.

Ian held onto the little boy with one arm, and kissed his head. He had always loved babies. As he looked around the room, his eyes landed on his youngest brother. Liam had tears in his eyes as he waved a little. He was no longer a baby.

“Last I saw you, you were still in diapers.” Ian tried to joke, and he heard a few scattered laughs.

“I outgrew them.” Liam joked back. Hearing him speak full sentences threw Ian a little, but he smiled at his siblings and pretended everything was okay. Mickey squeezed his hand again, as if he could magically feel Ian’s distress. Ian squeezed back.

“Heard you broke your leg again, that fucking sucks man.” Carl told him and lifted up the plain blanket to take a look at his cast. So Carl hadn’t changed a bit, that’s good to know.

“I’m Tami, Lips fiancé” The tall blonde girl said, and nodded towards him. Ian smiled back.

“Lucky Lip, poor you.” She laughed, Lip flipped him off. Everything was normal. Ian breathed deeply and tried to remember more. Fiona was not here, because she had left…she had left for Florida of all places. He remembered a picture of her sunburned face under some palm leaves.

When he told the group this they all exhaled in relief and began talking like normal. It seemed his memories would return eventually, he just needed to unscramble the eggs his brain had become.

Thankfully, the nurse had given him some more painkillers, so his head wasn’t hurting him anymore. Ian talked and smiled as he played with Freddie, his nephew, all while holding Mickeys hand. It was pleasant, if not strange, to see his family all grown up.

After a while it was decided the guests would leave, and Mickey could take Ian home.

Home. He had a home he shared with his husband. For a strange reason, Ian could remember the touch of the blue coloured carpet in their living room. Huh.

Mickey handed him some crutches and Ian balanced on them as he got out of bed. His legs were fucking long, and he towered over Mickey. He liked that. Very much.

“Let’s get you home.” Mickey kissed his jaw nervously. Ian smiled and leaned down for a proper kiss. He could do that now — kiss Mickey Milkovich — they were husbands.

Ian couldn’t wait to remember every memory they’ve made together.

“Yeah, I wanna go home.”

[wtfaniii]

Best Friend's Brother

Summary: Fleeting and secret romances are the best, you liked to feel that adrenaline but a moral conflict arises when you realize that your new lover is your best friend's brother.

Warning: Flirting, innuendo, reader is three years older than Jun-ho, drama and alcohol, I haven't corrected this yet and english is not my first language, sorry if there are any mistakes!

Hwang Jun-ho x fem reader

The sound of the music was muffled by the walls and far from your ears, the smell of cigarettes mixed with masculine perfume was a completely intoxicating weakness to your nose.

Your mind was in a whirl and barely had your ideas clear, but what you were sure of was that you didn't want to separate yourself from the owner of that delicious aroma, a boy taller than you had you against the wall kissing you with need while his hands explored your body.

Your mind pieced together the puzzle of your memories as you let yourself be kissed by this handsome man, your best friend In-ho had graduated from the academy so you invited him out for some drinks to celebrate, he and you got along very well, almost like brothers for five years.

However, you distinctly remember that he said something about someone not showing up to this little celebration at the bar so he left to meet up with his fiancée, you decided to stay, the night was still young and you needed some fun, from then on the memories are vague but your consciousness landed when you felt this man's hand slip under your skirt and caress your intimacy through the fabric of your underwear.

A gasp escaped your lips and him soft voice made your legs shake.

—¿How about we go to my car? —He whispered in your ear

You would have said yes right away, you didn't know who this stranger was but he was damn handsome and judging by the way he teased you with his touch he knew what was doing.

But you were too drunk now, you placed your hands on him chest and gently pushed away.

—Sounds good but I think have to go home... you know, I have to feed my cat —The words came out slurred and were barely understandable but you thanked heaven that the stranger understood you and moved away.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and walked awkwardly towards the exit. It would be a nightmare to take a taxi home, but you didn't want to call In-ho, you knew he wouldn't have a problem going for you, but you didn't want to ruin him special day by not knowing how to control your drinking.

When the cold air hit your bare legs you cursed under your breath, you didn't even have a jacket to cover yourself, with no other choice you started walking towards the subway because at least there you would have company during your trip home.

You had barely taken a couple of steps when a warm jacket fell over your shoulders.

—¿Don't you have someone to take you? —You recognized the voice immediately, it was the same stranger you were kissing a few minutes ago.

—I'll take the train at the station —You said without stopping walking and with him following you.

—It's late and I don't think it's safe to go alone.

Jun-ho noticed your stumbling as you walked and from the way you spoke he was sure that it was not a good idea to let you go alone, he knew the risks and if he could help you he was going to do it.

After he insisted a couple of times you agreed, you didn't know if he was doing it in good faith or if he just wanted to sleep with you, either way, you just wanted to go home and go to sleep.

You gave him your address and Jun-ho drove in silence, luckily he hadn't had much to drink so he had no problem taking the wheel, it was almost two in the morning and the streets were deserted except for a few people who were also going out for alcohol or to have fun, the two of you were driving in complete silence until the black-haired man's cell phone rang.

He answered the cell phone and heard his stepbrother's voice.

—¿Where are you? Mom just called me to see if I was with you, I lied to her to keep her calm.

—I went to the bar you told me about but you had left —He replied calmly, stopping at a red light.

—I thought you weren't going anymore, I wanted to introduce you to a friend.

—¿Was she pretty? —He gave a low chuckle.

In-ho sighed on the other end of the phone, Jun-ho was quite the nova hunter and that's why he wanted to introduce you to him, you were also too flirtatious and rarely looked for something stable, he was sure that both of would get along.

—¿Are you still at the bar? It’s already late —In-ho commented.

—No, I'm going to drop a girl off at her house and then I'll go back to the apartment.

—¿New lover?

—Something like that.

He wasn't going to lie, he liked you from the moment he saw you and he was certainly hoping to fuck you but he wasn't going to do it while you were in this state, he offered to drive you home in hopes of getting your number so could talk to you tomorrow morning.

—Fine, when you get home call mom —In-ho said for the last time before hanging up.

After a few minutes he finally arrived at your house, helped you out of the car and guided you to the door where you clumsily put the key in the lock.

—¿What now? ¿You expect to come into my house and stay overnight? —You asked sarcastically, you didn't expect such a nice attitude without the other person expecting something in return.

But to your surprise he shook his head silently and took a step back.

—I just hope you give me your number.

Curious, you thought, looking at him intrigued, he took out his phone and you added your contact.

You thought he was cute, attractive and chivalrous, it had to be fake, but you went with the flow anyway, making sure you didn't get your hopes up.

To your surprise the next morning you received a call from this guy, you honestly thought he wouldn't but there he was, asking you how you were and what you remembered from the night before.

There was a first date and then a next one, from that day on both went out to the movies, to dinner, to lunch or looked for something entertaining to do, there were stolen kisses, occasional caresses and flirtatious words in your ear but he never got into your bed, that excited you too much because you realized that his intentions went deeper than skin deep.

—He’s so cute —you sighed as you and In-ho shared an afternoon of movies and friendly conversations —He's attentive, he opens the car door for me and every time we see each other he tells me I look pretty.

In-ho laughed out loud.

—¿Who could be that unfortunate man who ran into you? —He joked, throwing popcorn in your face.

—¡Shut up! I'm going to be different with him.

Once again, In-ho laughed loudly, eliciting a groan of irritation from you.

Yeah, maybe you were a total slut sometimes, you'd flirt with guys and then dump them when you got bored but this time it would be different, Jun-ho touched your heart like no one else ever had.

Jun-ho was in the same situation as you, he also knew what kind of jerk he had been for the last two years but he wanted to change and was going to do it with you but In-ho didn't believe him at all.

None of the three of them knew how small the world was and that when In-ho found out there would be serious problems, with him because you were his best friend and with you because him were his younger brother.

[dreamsteddie]

The Other Bank

-------

This is a repost of something I worked on earlier in the year. It's one of my favorite concepts but it didn't get much traction so I thought I'd give her one more try!

------

There is something so beautiful and melancholy about the idea of failed rockstar Eddie who was on the verge of being a major hit but ended up giving up his dreams because he didn't like who he was turning into.

Eddie who leaves Hawkins behind as quickly as he can and dedicates his entire life, every waking moment, to building up his music career. He sleeps on couches for years, staying with whoever will take him in for a night or two in exchange for a bump of coke or joint from the remains of his sizeable Reefer Kick stash. He carries everything he owns in the back of his trunk. Amp, wires, guitars, clothes, etc and basically converts it into a portable practice studio.

He plays every gig he can get his hands on. Playing as a last-minute substitute guitar or base for any band that calls, playing for pop bands and punk bands alike until he convinces enough people to join up with him and start a new metal band.

With the band comes more stability, for a while. They share a cramped two-bedroom among the five of them. Writing and jamming every day, going home to smoke up and decompress.

Just over four years after Eddie lands in the city, they play their first real show. A show at a respectable, if small, bar venue with people in the audience there to see them. People sing their songs and dance to their music. It's not sold out, not even close really, but it's the start of something big, they can all feel it. That night they go out to the club around the block with a couple of people who came to the show and party harder than Eddie ever has before. He wakes up with that distinctly fuzzy feeling the next morning that tells him he dipped into the harder drugs the night before, something he hasn't done since he learned his dad passed three years ago.

It scares him. He can't remember anything past walking into the club last night. He doesn't remember anything he did or said and desperately hopes he didn't do anything weird with a fan, but he brushes it off. Tells himself it was a one-time thing, a celebration of their success. They deserved to let loose, right?

Except it wasn't a one-time thing. In fact, it turns into an almost every night kind of thing, and as their fan base grows what feels like overnight, the parties grow in intensity with them. They play their hearts out on stage, eventually selling out all of the smaller local venues and moving on to the larger, more serious ones. The occasional disagreement over music between the band members turns into larger, more personal arguments. Eventually, they reach Fleetwood Mac Rumors Era levels of drama. Everyone is sleeping around, the drugs are out of control, and they can't hardly stand to be in the same room together anymore, only pulling it together enough to go on stage at the end of the day.

Eddie lives that handful of years in a daze. It can mostly be attributed to the copious amounts of alcohol he's turned to to cope with the stress, but he uses his fair share of snow to keep himself in the creative spirit too. It feels inevitable when he reaches a kind of low he doesn't know if he can come back from.

Eddie wasn't a saint, but he has always sworn off meth. It was the thing that killed his mom. He remembers the way she'd wasted away, the days when she seemed crazed, and how sorry she was to him when she stabilized. The regret in her eyes when she looked at him. But when he's asked if he wants a needle all he can think about is the prospect of spending the rest of his life stuck with this band full of people he can't stand and people who can't stand him if the record deal they've been negotiating goes through, and it feels like it will.

Thinks of what all his hard work will mean if it doesn't.

He says yes.

Wakes up the next day starfished in the alley of an apartment he doesn't recognize staring up at the little sliver of blue sky he can see between the fire escapes and weeps. He's become exactly the kind of person he never wanted to be, some asshole almost rich guy laying in a damp alleyway all alone with no real friends.

Eddie lies there for an hour just thinking. Trying to remember when the last time he called Wayne was. Thinking of all the girls he slept with when he probably shouldn't have, when they were both too fucked up to make the right choice. Thinks of his mom and dad.

Tries to remember the last time he made the world a better place to live in instead of contributing to the filth.

He gets up and leaves. Leaves it all behind. Gets in a taxi to take him to where his van is parked by the venue from last night. Frantically takes everything out of the back and leaves it on the street. The only things that remain are the few keepsakes he brought with him to the city and his acoustic, the one his mom left him and Wayne helped him paint. The amps, his sweetheart, and the performance wear all get dumped on the side of the road and then he's jumping into the front seat.

Hours of driving leads him back home to Hawkins Indiana, the one place he promised never to return. Hawkins has seen a boom in the last few years, it seems. More shops, a bigger main street. He even spots a proper cafe. It all feels less haunted than he remembers. More people, fewer familiar faces. The trailer park, though, looks almost the same as it did the day he left, right down to the sight of his uncle lounging on the porch, waiting patiently for whatever comes next the way he always has.

Wayne doesn't ask any questions, not right away. He just scoops his nephew up in his arms and holds him in the cool morning air. He always knew his nephew better than anyone else, never needed words to know when he needed his uncle to help hold up the weight of the world.

And that's how Eddie finds his way back home. It takes a while for him to feel well enough to face the world again. A mixture of detoxing and coming to terms with the feeling of starting back at the beginning, like the last six years of his life didn't even happen leaves him licking his wounds in his partially empty childhood bed. It looks the same way it did when he walked out the front door.

When he does come back to the world, he starts small. Stepping out on the porch to share a cup of coffee with his uncle feels like one of the hardest things he's ever done. Maybe the most important.

He's proven right when he steps out to find he's not the only guest his uncle is entertaining this morning. Another resident of the park has already claimed the second chair as his own.

Steve Harrington.

Steve Harrington who never made it out of Hawkins but also never regretted it. Who's made a small, happy life for himself here in the trailer park after his parents kicked him out for good when he turned 20. Who works part-time under the table at Miller's Mechanic and collects disability checks for the lost leg and minor brain damage he got from a car accident at 21. Steve Harrington who keeps his uncle company and makes sure he has everything he needs, taking care of the other residents in the park to the best of his ability doing easy car maintenance, babysitting, or just offering company to the more lonely residents.

Steve is so different from the guy Eddie vaguely knew in high school that he might as well be a stranger. They all sit and talk together for the entire morning, laughing and sharing stories. Steve never asks about where he's been or why he's back and Eddie wishes he could tell Steve how much he appreciates it.

Before Steve heads back he asks if Eddie would like to come over after he gets back from his shift. Asks if he wants to drink a beer and watch a movie. Eddie is quick, maybe too quick judging by the sympathetic look Steve sends his way, to turn down the beer and scoop up the movie invitation like the precious thing it is. There's something about Steve that soothes his soul. An easy connection between them that Eddie hopes they both feel.

Steve kisses him that night, slow and easy like they've been doing it their whole lives. Like they didn't basically meet for the first time this morning. Like Eddie hasn't been in denial about his sexuality for his entire life. Eddie cries at the warmth it fills him with. Steve just cradles him by the cheeks and lets him. That night Eddie doesn't go back to Wayne's. He lets Steve drag him to bed and hold him close. Lets him tangle their legs together and breathe warm air into the crown of his head until morning.

Steve shows Eddie how to live a life without big dreams, a life without ambition but full of love and comfort. A life without plans but with the knowledge that every day, someone who loves you will kiss you when you wake up and hold you through the night.

[huramuna]

stoatfaced, dragonhearted - oneshot.

dark, mean prince regent aemond x wife reader

for my 200 followers poll, i've actually had this one cooking for a while so i'm happy this option won! this is absolutely filthy, i'm sorry in advance.

word count: 2.4k

i don't do taglists any more unfortunately, its mostly because i never remember and then feel bad about it so i've made a second blog just for reblogging my fics! @huramuna-fics -- follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings!

content: slight dub-con, smut (specifics below cut), angst, mean aemond, toxic relationship, like in no way is this healthy, good god, smut with little plot, reader is described being from riverlands w/ auburn hair and brown eyes, no use of y/n, not beta read, i literally went into a haze writing this there are probably mistakes

tonight you belong to me - patience & prudence • vampire - olivia rodrigo

warnings: p in v, choking, breath play, dom/sub, degradation, creampie, cockwarming, orgasm denial, breeding, aemond is so mean here thats its own damn warning

Aemond knew what he wanted and the sacrifices that needed to be made to get such things. He wanted a dragon, it took an eye to get it. He wanted the Conqueror’s crown, it took his brother being burnt to get it. He wanted a legacy that would surpass his lifetime, etched into the very being of Westeros itself. The sacrifice needed for this would be to chain himself to a woman he likely wouldn’t be interested in.

That is where you came in. 

You were sweet, he supposed. Sweet in a way that made his teeth ache. Sweet in a way akin to a mouse and how it looked up at the cat just before his jaws snapped around the mouse’s head. 

He didn’t need to like you. Many marriages were forged in dislike or just plain indifference, set to a mutual goal. He supposed your mutual goal was children. All he needed was to use you as a vessel, a womb for his seed to take hold. 

You poor thing, you didn’t really understand that he didn’t truly care for you. You were nice enough looking, of course– hair that reminded him of autumn leaves, always styled in some intricate style with half a hundred braids, dozens of pins and decorative pearls. You reminded Aemond of a stoat, dark eyes against muted auburn fur, lips always pursed, sniffing the air in search for hounds on your tail. You certainly were a skittish, jittery little thing.

The marriage was a quick affair, done at the Sept two days after Aemond wore the Conqueror’s crown for the first time. You weren't a part of some major house, all of the major houses were too close, too greedy, their breaths hot against his neck as they shoved their wedable daughters at him. The last thing he wished for was to be indebted to some trivial lord who thought his name elevated him to the same stratosphere as Aemond– a paltry lady of some low house bred in the Riverlands would do just fine, he expected his Valyrian seed to dominate any of their week genes anyhow.

He had met you once before, many years ago before he lost his eye. When he was forced to tag along on some meager diplomacy meeting with his grandsire– he remembers it as being forced, but in reality, he wished to attend. What else was a second son with no dragon to do? – and you had been there, hiding behind your father’s trousers. You had been wearing a blue dress, he remembered this distinctly, as it stood out against the ruby red of the apple you had offered him. 

Aemond had tried to speak with you, but you only communicated in nods and soft noises– something you only partially grew out of. He never understood why he remembered this girl, as you were insignificant in the seas of faces he’s met over his life. Mayhaps it was your quiet nature that he remembered, something that, now at his age and state of mind, struck him as malleable, easy to mold into what he needed you to be. 

And so it shall be. 

–

It was about two and a half moons after your marriage, he returned from a late council meeting. Rubbing his eye, feeling the familiar thrum of pain right behind the socket, he was already in a particularly sour mood. The council meeting had gone south, ending in most of the lords bickering over one another like children. 

It irritated Aemond to no end, the strain of an oncoming headache ever looming. He still struggled with intense pain from his eye, or rather, his socket and severed nerves. The pain was debilitating at times and if anyone dared to test his patience when it was particularly bad, he would snap at them like a cornered animal, no matter who it was. 

Raising his head, he noticed the hearth was still going strong, multiple candles still lit in the solar, despite it being late at night. The now familiar crop of auburn hair was peeking from behind the couch— his wife was usually never up this late. 

“Why are you still awake, wife?” he asked as he took off his gloves, clenching and unclenching his fists. 

“… reading. I was waiting for you.” you murmured in your usual hushed tone, the sound of your book closing was louder than your voice. 

“I told you not to do that. It’s unnecessary.” he grunted in response, undoing the latches of his leather doublet. 

“I-I don’t mind it… I just sleep a bit easier…” you continued, no doubt twiddling the end of your braid between your fingers— an anxious habit.

“You need proper rest. I won’t have my wife looking like a sleepless, sloven mess,” Aemond chastised, discarding his shirt. “Now, what are you reading?” he was becoming increasingly irritated with you, feeling as if he had to force you to take care of yourself and unlatch you like a leech from him. When you looked upon him with your wide eyes filled with uncertainty and fear, he felt the overwhelming urge to wrap his fingers around your throat and squeeze until you passed out or mayhaps went limp, like a doll.

“Oh,” you slid the book towards him on the side table, it was a book on the history of Old Valyria and its language, usually used for children to begin speaking it. “Nyke j-jaelagon… naejot ēdrugon… va ao.” I wish to sleep next to you. 

Aemond’s brow furrowed. “What use do you have to learn High Valyrian, wife? Issa dōna ābrazȳrys mijegon nykeā notion isse zȳhon bartos, wanting naejot gūrēñagon mirros ziry daor.” My sweet wife without a thought in her head, wanting to learn something she cannot. 

You reached for the book, your comprehension not skilled enough yet to pull what Aemond was saying to you. Before you could grab it, he slammed his hand down on the book, effectively snatching it from your grasp. You pouted her bottom lip. “I want to learn… mayhaps it might bring us closer together.” 

Aemond scoffed, the sound sending a sting of pain right into the core of your chest. “We are as close as we need to be, little one. We are married in the eyes of Gods and men and we fulfill our marital duty by trying to produce heirs, hm?” He placed the book back on the shelf. “This nonsense of wanting to be closer is moot. I won’t hear of it anymore.” 

A glaze of sorrow flashed through your eyes before you got up from the couch, tightening the housecoat around your shoulders. 

“Come to bed,” he said, moreso as a command than a suggestion. “I know you are cold, ābrazȳrys.” Wife. 

You made a small noise of discernment, crawling into bed after him. 

He looped his arms around you, pressing you to his bare chest. He radiated heat like a furnace and was quick to warm you up– you were always so cold, he noted. He surely hoped that your children together would inherit his fiery blood and not the weak-willed, uninsulated Andal blood you possessed.

Aemond bounced from being indifferent to you, paying you no more mind than a maid or a whore, to needing you, every part of you. He didn’t see you as a person, moreso an extension of himself, latched onto his body until he consumed you entirely, your bones fusing together as one. To him, you were a doll or plaything to entertain him, testing the mettle of your will, to see if you were of poor craftsmanship and would break. He had always broken his toys as a child.

You could tell by the rhythm of his breathing, he wasn’t going to sleep just yet– you’d become very attuned to his moods, his small intakes of air against your neck causing your skin to prickle into goosebumps. His lips ghosted over your throat, one of his arms coming up to wrap near the base of your windpipe, not yet applying pressure, but the threat was there. 

No, it wasn’t so much as a threat than it was a promise– he quite liked applying pressure to your airways when you coupled, his lone violet eye centered intently on yours as they went from wide to half-lidded, soft whimpers of pleading to stop, sometimes for more, more. He relished in holding your very life in his hands and you let him. 

“Mayhaps I should get you a collar, wife,” he hummed, his voice husky and deep, reverberating deep within your chest as your heart pounded. “But I think you like my hands much better, don’t you?” 

“Y-yes,” you breathed, the small swallowing bob of your throat felt against the palm of his hand, causing him to grin. “... I fancy them– on my tender neck… between my legs…” you responded, feeling slightly bold at the notion you put forth. The heat of his body permeated your skin, warming your core into an ever familiar feeling.

Aemond all but growled at your comment, positioning the both of you to where you were laying with your back upon him, as if you were lazing upon him like a chair. “Feeling courageous tonight, are we? No matter, my dear, you will break all the same,” his mouth pressed to the shell of your ear, teeth nipping at your lobe. “Like every night before, and every night to come– your life is in my hands,” he enunciated this with a squeeze to your neck, eliciting a small mewl from you. “Is it not? Say it.”

“M-my life– belongs to you, husband,” you managed to squeak out.

“Not husband, not now. You know the rules.”

“M-my king, your grace,” you rephrased quickly.

He clicked his tongue in slight admonishment. “A bit slow on the take tonight, little one,” Aemond muttered, slotting his leg between yours and kicking your thighs apart. “Keep them open.” his voice was dripping with something between venom and sticky sweet honey. He felt akin to a God every time he was in the sky, every time he sat the throne with the crown on his head, and every time he rested his hand on your pretty little throat as he sheathed himself to the hilt inside of you so easily, so free of resistance. “So slick for me, just from the smallest of chokes– fucking whore.” he hissed, starting a slow, deliberate pace as his hips met against your bottom. The pair of you were like two threads, intertwined with his legs pretzeling around yours, keeping you spread open. 

Your breath hitched in your throat as he continued to bully that sensitive, spongy spot within you– but you craved so much more, feeling waves of heat emanate from your sensitive bud as it screamed at your brain, begging to be touched. You made the critical error, thinking your husband was too focused on his own pleasure to notice you going for your own, as your hand slowly descended between your legs, rubbing small circles upon your pearl.

How wrong you were.

His arm came up further, his bicep pressing to the bottom of your chin, his free palm slapping your hand away from yourself. “Are you truly fucking stupid tonight, wife?” he spat, stilling his thrusts. “When did I say you could touch yourself? Have I fucked you stupid already?” Aemond huffed in frustration. “My poor, dumb wife– you cannot do anything right, can you?” he slid you off of him, then flipped over to loom atop you, taking both of your hands within one of his, his large hand encapsulating your wrists with ease, trapping them above your head. 

You sniffed, tears welling at your lash line, threatening to spill– not just from his downright mean admonishments, but from your stolen gluttony, your pleasure stolen so close to the precipice. “‘M sorry, your grace,” you cried, “Forgive me.”

“You’re lucky you have such a sweet cunt,” Aemond mused, his immodest and downright sinful language going straight to your core as he nestled inside of you once more, menacing atop you like a darkening cloud. “I forgive you– and will even pleasure you. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To come?”

You nodded fervently, your lamenting tears spilling over and running down your cheeks.

“I’m feeling quite generous, then– I’ll let you. If you beg me.”

“P-please–” you blubbered, “Please let me come, my king.”

A sickly smirk came over his face once more as he pushed forward again, not bothering with the slow and meticulous pace he had before. His hips slammed into yours as he surged into you, as if you were nothing more than a cocksleeve for his pleasure. And yet, and yet– his hand didn’t move to the apex of your legs, chasing his own high before he would give into yours.

“Aemond, please, please– please touch me, f-fuck, your grace– my k-king, please!” you were all but wailing now, half in ecstasy and half in pure beseechment, pleading for just some semblance of the lecherous, stimulating and lewd sensation that only he could give you.

He took mercy on you, the pad of his thumb zeroing in on your leaking folds, giving your clit a cheeky pinch. It was a delightful pain– that was what being with Aemond was, what it came down to. Every waking moment with him was thrilling, sublime, agonizing, unending torture– and you fucking loved it. 

Your mouth hung open, you were sobbing freely now, your lips quirked into a euphoric and maddened smile. “Thank you, tha-nk you, t-thank you, I love you, I love you,” you gasped, your lungs ballooning with air as you begged him further, “P-please, around my neck–” 

Something animalistic came out of Aemond at your request, his hand draping around your throat like a necklace. “My sweet, dumb wife– you don’t know what to do unless I tell you, unless I let you, unless I guide you to your release, hm?” he prostrated each word with a deep thrust. The combination of his ministrations on your bundle of nerves, the head of his cock callously beating into your sweet spot, and the squeeze of his hand around your neck– it was enough. 

With a garbled string of words, prayers, denotes of love, pronouncements of his prowess, his titles, his name– the coil inside of you snapped, lighting every nerve you had in your body on fire. You saw stars as your climax wracked through you like a tempest, the absolute vice grip of your core sending Aemond into his own completion, his seed painting your walls and then some.

In your fucked-out delirium, you thought you might’ve heard him say something– you didn’t decipher it until later when you were half asleep, his softened member still lodged inside of you somehow as he curled you into his chest.

“My love, my wife– I love you.”

[edenesth]

The Mapmaker's Assistant

Pairing: cartographer!Jongho x assistant!reader

Word Count: 1k

'Crazy Form' Comeback Special Series | Hongjoong | Seonghwa | Yunho | Yeosang | San | Mingi | Wooyoung | Jongho |

ATEEZ Masterlist

"Leave my establishment at once! Women are not allowed here, don't you see the sign? Oh, my apologies, you must be illiterate."

Anger surged through you as you endured the discriminatory treatment from the owner of the parchment shop. Taking a deep breath, you composed yourself, determined to complete your task without trouble, "In case you haven't heard me the first time, I'm Sir Jongho's assistant, and I'm here for the latest batch of parchment."

The elderly man seemed unfazed, responding with a smirk, "Do you truly think I'm foolish enough to believe a woman could be the great mapmaker's assistant? Show yourself out, or I won't be so kind, lass."

Frustration welled up in your eyes at his condescending words, but you stood your ground. The man scowled, seemingly ready to approach you and teach you a lesson.

Before he could take another step, a familiar and reassuring hand rested on the small of your back, "Is everything alright, my dear? What's taking so long?" Relief washed over you instantly.

The shop owner immediately bowed in respect, stammering, "Sir Jongho, y-you know this young lady?" Your boss nodded, "Indeed, didn't she inform you that she's my assistant?"

Despite Jongho's friendly smile, it was evident that beneath the surface, he was far from calm. There was no doubt he'd overheard the cruel words hurled at you just moments ago.

The elderly man's demeanour quickly shifted, clearly eager to avoid falling out of favour with the cartographer, "Oh, why didn't you say so, my lady? Let me prepare your order now." Your irritation flared at his audacity to act as if he hadn't just verbally abused you.

Unable to contain yourself, you spoke up, "Did I not make that clear? I distinctly remember stating it twice. All you did was insult me repeatedly simply because I'm a woman."

Jongho's smile disappeared, "Is that true?"

The shop owner stuttered, attempting to make up excuses for his behaviour, but your boss' expression only grew darker at the lack of accountability displayed, "No need to explain. If you cannot show respect to women, I'm afraid our business cannot continue. There are plenty of other parchment shops in town, after all."

With one final sarcastic curtsy, you exited the shop, holding your head high, content that justice had been served.

Before departing, Jongho cast one last cold glance at the pathetic shop owner, "Remember this: that woman is not only my assistant, but she is to be my future wife. Disrespect her again, and you might find your shop permanently blacklisted. Do you understand?"

The man nodded shakily, stammering, "Y-yes, sir! You have my word!"

Throughout the remainder of the day, your boss made continuous efforts to make amends for subjecting you to the unpleasant ordeal. You sighed for the hundredth time as he apologised again for sending you to the shop.

Typically, the mapmaker would handle parchment collection himself, but after the two of you had just returned from an expedition to the farthest corner of Wonderland to obtain precise measurements of newly acquired land, there were other pressing tasks at hand. He opted to delegate the errand to you for the first time, only to witness you facing humiliation instead.

Jongho knew better than anyone you were so much stronger than you seemed. After all, it was precisely your unwavering fighting spirit that had secured your role as his assistant. Your keen interest in mapmaking, coupled with your determination to pursue it as a future profession, was what caught his attention.

A few years ago, you crossed his path while picking herbs for your mother during one of his expeditions. He recalled being impressed by your knowledge of cartography. He will never forget how you boldly requested that he teach you more about the craft.

Initially waving you off, he couldn't anticipate the depth of your persistence. You followed him back to his workshop, pleading that he gave you a chance. Jongho eventually relented and allowed you to assist, assuming the demanding nature of the job would deter you. To his surprise, you not only persevered but excelled, proving him wrong with your daily commitment.

In time, he embraced you wholeheartedly, and little did you know, he may or may not have developed feelings for you. The mapmaker had never met anyone who shared the same passion for his work or understood him as profoundly as you did.

As he watched you deep in concentration, working beside him one day, he knew you were the one for him. And he had been waiting for the right moment to let his feelings be known.

Perhaps today would be the day for that.

After witnessing what you had endured, he could no longer remain passive. He felt an overwhelming urge to be the one to defend you, even though he recognised your capability to handle situations independently.

"Jongho, there's no need to apologise. I promise you, I'm fine." You reassured him as you set down the tools you had been arranging. Turning to face him, you found him frowning.

"Yeah, well, I'm not." He retorted.

You scoffed, "This isn't the first time it's happened, and it won't be the last. There's no use dwelling on it. Why are you more affected by this than I am?"

"Because you're precious to me!"

His candid declaration left you momentarily still, wondering if this was a confession. Knowing there was no turning back from here, Jongho reached for your hand, "Listen to me. I won't allow anyone to treat you like that again. You... you're the woman I love, and I want to be the one to protect you, if you'll let me."

With a cheeky smile, you nonchalantly shrugged and squeezed his hand, "Alright, if you insist," You playfully conceded. He chuckled, pulling you closer, "Is that all? Won't you say you love me too?"

His warm touch melted your heart, but you maintained a composed facade. Pretending to ponder, you teased, "Hm, only if you ask nicely," He grinned, obliging, "Will you tell me you love me, please?"

Satisfied, you nodded, "I love you too, Sir Jongho. Now kiss me." He didn't need to be told twice.

From that moment onward, the entire town would remember you not only as the mapmaker's assistant but as his cherished fiancée. Jongho continues to fall deeper in love with you with each passing day, witnessing your ability to inspire girls nationwide to pursue their dreams and defy anyone attempting to dictate their paths.

Asdfghjkl 300+ followers?! Thank you all so much, I have no words. Hoping this one's decent, y'all let me know your thoughts! <3

Tag list: @aurasblue @marievllr-abg @itsvxlentine @minghaoslatina @huachengsbestie01 @evidive

All Rights Reserved © edenesth // DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, PLAGIARISE OR REPURPOSE.

[del-stars]

on kissing your best friend(s) | wolfstarbucks | 1,032 words | for @ecstarry

It’s dark, and the common room is fogged up with smoke. Sirius is vaguely aware of Remus’ warmth against him, thrumming and constant. They’ve half-fallen onto the couch, with Sirius perched on Remus’ strong legs. Remus’ arms are spread wide, leaving his chest open for Sirius to fall into whenever Sirius wants. They’re both drunk, and still riding the high of having kissed for the first time two weeks ago. Sirius wants to be with Remus all the time, always touching him, always ready to kiss or hug or let himself get fucked into the mattress— whatever Remus wants.

Remus sits up a little, pressing his front into Sirius’ back and slinking an arm about his waist. The other hand comes up to brush a hair from the nape of Sirius’ neck. Remus presses a warm kiss to the space it leaves. “How’re you feeling?”

Sirius giggles, because he’s happy, and also because he’s a bit drunk. “Good,” he hums, drawing out the vowel. Remus responds with a kiss to his jaw. The common room has emptied out after the party, leaving mostly the smokers and too-drunk couples who haven’t gotten around the staircase slides yet. Regardless, nobody’s eyes are on them, and so Sirius turns his head and kisses Remus fully, feeling the arm around his waist tighten.

“Well, now you’re just mocking me.”

The cushion they’re sitting on shifts as someone drops onto it. Sirius pulls back too quickly, still not used to this whole public affection thing. It’s useless— it’s only James, with his head hanging off the back of the couch.

“Strikeout tonight?” Sirius asks, glancing back around the room. There must be someone James had been focusing his affections on tonight, but the room is almost empty now— meaning he was unsuccessful.

“Completely,” James groans, picking his head up, “and now I’ll have to sleep knowing you two gits are getting it on right next to me.”

Sirius feels Remus’ sharp inhale in his chest. “Sorry, mate.”

“Nah,” James waves a hand, then pats his leg. Sirius, getting the message, adjusts so he’s sitting sideways, his back against the arm of the couch and his legs tossed in James’ lap. Immediately, James starts toying with the hem of Sirius’ pants. “It’s alright. I just need to break this dry spell, and it doesn’t help that you two are now doing it all the time. Really left me in the lurch here, Pads.”

Sirius grimaces. “Well, I—”

“It’s probably amazing,” James continues. He moves his hand to inch underneath Sirius’ pant leg, spreading his palm out just above his ankle. He’s in his own little world, now, oblivious to Sirius’ attempted answer. “I mean, you’re both fit, and I know for a fact Moony’s an amazing kisser—”

Remus breaks James out of his reverie with a laugh. “I forgot about that, honestly.”

Sirius sits up, looking between them. “When did that happen?”

James’ cheeks go bright red, but Remus only smirks. It isn’t too far out of the question— Sirius has definitely kissed Peter in a round of truth or dare before, and he and Remus only got together because of a potentially rigged game of spin the bottle. Still, the concept of James and Remus kissing sends an odd shiver down Sirius’ spine. 

“Fifth year, remember?” Remus says, reaching out to run a finger along the side of Sirius’ scalp, then down his neck. “The party after the Quidditch final...”

The memory comes perfectly to his mind: Remus with a hand on James’ jaw, planting a too-long kiss on his lips. Sirius couldn’t sleep that night, tossing and turning about whether or not Remus really liked boys, because boys who didn’t like boys didn’t kiss like that. In the end, he’d jerked off about it, then finally fallen asleep.

Still, he pouts. “Well, you don’t know if I’m a good kisser, Prongs.”

James’ eyes light up. “You’re right, Pads, I don’t.”

Something has become distinctly tense between them, like a balloon filling with air, and Sirius decides to poke his finger into the rubber. “Maybe I’m shit at it.”

The hand on his calf inches up, then tightens. James presses back. “Maybe you are.”

Sirius risks a glance at Remus. He’s dropped his head onto the back of the couch, and his bottom lip is caught tight between his teeth. When he registers Sirius’ gaze, he glances at James, then shrugs.

Sirius pokes harder. “Only one way to find out.”

James leans a bit forward. Sirius does the same. They both keep going, inching closer and closer, pressing harder and harder, until Sirius can feel James’ breath hot on his lips. Briefly, the sober part of his brain starts to register exactly what he’s doing: perched in Remus’ lap, about to kiss his best friend. Before he can have time to regret it, Remus’ hand lands on the back of his neck and pushes them together.

It’s warm. James’ lips taste like beer mixed with a bit of sweat, and Sirius chases the flavor, letting his hands come to James’ shoulders. He pulls, as if James could get any closer, then lets his lips part. James’ tongue pushes into his mouth, and Sirius can’t help the little noise that comes out of his mouth.

As soon as he makes a sound, there’s a hand knotting in the hair at the base of his neck, pulling him back. Remus’ lips replace James’, twice as intense, and when he comes up for air, James dives back in. It goes on and on like that, Remus and James taking turns licking into his mouth, until he can’t tell whose lips are on his and whose spit is all over his mouth. He only regains the power to stop himself once he feels Remus poking him in the hip.

“Moony,” he says, gasping. “I think we should continue this upstairs.”

Remus half-pushes him out of his lap, not at all trying to hide the apparent tent in his pants when he stands. James remains deflated on the couch, his spread legs failing to hide his similar problem. Sirius waits a moment, then offers his hand. “Coming, Prongs?”

“Fuck, I hope so.”

[summerlinenss]

Sorry to be that person but do you have any sources of the “pro-Palestine content” Taika has interacted with? I keep seeing people talk about him liking posts and I want to believe it but I haven’t been able to find anything.

(disclaimer: as i’ve mentioned before, i don’t condone stalking through anybody’s social media to “get evidence,” so please don’t do that. the only reason i’m posting this is because it’s a question i keep seeing and i’m seriously just so tired of talking about it. and a final reminder that taika hasn’t been on twitter in almost a year now and he doesn’t seem to use instagram on a regular basis, since he’s openly said he really just doesn’t like social media anymore.)

i’m like 90% sure there are more i’ve seen mentioned (i distinctly remember that he liked a video from a comedian who’s been advocating for palestine but i can’t for the life of me remember their name), but these are two that i’ve personally seen online. i’ll link them both here and here (+ screenshots below).

update: forgot to edit this to add another post i came across here a few weeks ago

the previous anon from this ask (who will remain anonymous by request) also kindly got back to me with screenshots of the tweets they came across from his likes between 2018-2021. i don’t have direct links to any of these obviously, but i did quickly scroll back to 2021 just to verify and i can confirm they’re still there in his likes.

and before anyone starts, i’m not calling him an activist for liking social media posts. no one needs praise for recognizing what’s happening is genocide. but labelling him something as serious as a zionist and harassing/wishing harm on him for signing one poorly-worded letter about freeing hostages in october (and i won’t even get into all of the alleged bullshit that went down surrounding those letters) when there is literal proof he has and continues to support a liberated palestine is so senseless.

if people really care about creating change, they can prove it by encouraging others to speak up and save their outrage for the actual zionists openly mocking the people of gaza for their suffering and taking field trips to “israel.”

[paperstorm]

Thank you for the tags @heartstringsduet and @annoyingcloudearthquake! This is from Somewhere in a Song, chapter posting tomorrow :)

“Can I ask you something?” Carlos begins cautiously.

“Sure.”

“Where do you keep going? Like when we all go out for lunch or whatever, and you say there’s something else you have to do. Do you just – not wanna hang out with us?”

“Meetings.”

Carlos tilts his head in confusion.

“Like … AA meetings,” TK clarifies, and Carlos’s face crumples immediately into a frown.

“Oh. Shit, I’m sorry, you don’t have to tell me about that.”

“It’s okay. That’s where I was tonight, it’s not a secret, just …” TK shrugs. “I don’t wanna be a downer. Or have people look at me like …”

“Like what?”

“Like you are, right now. Like they feel sorry for me, and they don’t know what to say.” TK means nothing by it, he doesn’t fault Carlos for feeling those things, he would just rather avoid it.

Carlos presses his lips together. He looks away and for a moment TK regrets his honesty. But then Carlos’s eyes meet his again and he says, “I don’t know if feeling sorry is exactly how I would describe it.”

“No?”

Shaking his head, Carlos says, “No, it’s … I can’t imagine how hard it is, what you’re doing. I’m not happy you’re going through something hard, obviously, but I think you’re … impressive.”

A response gets caught in TK’s throat for a moment, and his voice is raspy as he softly says, “Thanks.”

Carlos nods at him. Their eyes linger as a few more seconds tick slowly by. “I’m gay.”

TK’s ears hear the words, but it takes his muddled brain a lot longer than it should to catch up and understand what they mean. His eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. He can’t say he was expecting that, and at first he doesn’t know how to respond other than a slightly dumbfounded, “Oh.”

“Sorry, I – shit, I shouldn’t’ve just blurted that out.” Carlos huffs and rubs his hands over his face. When he folds them back in his lap, there is a distinctly anxious look on his face and TK doesn’t like that at all.

“It’s fine,” he assures. “Since we’re having gooey-feelings sharing-time, anyway.”

“Is that what we’re doing?”

“I mean, kinda, yeah,” TK chuckles.

Carlos looks at him and laughs too – in palpable relief – when he realizes TK is teasing. He shifts in his seat, and TK belatedly realizes it’s probably uncomfortable because it’s so small and dainty. The sofa looks as if it were designed for a petite, upper class woman to delicately perch on a hundred years ago, not for a tall, broad-shouldered man to lounge on in the modern day.

“Do you wanna …?” he asks pointing at the bed next to him. It feels even bigger than a king-sized mattress and he’s all the way to one side of it, leaving enough room for multiple other bodies.

Carlos’s eyes dart back and forth two or three times between TK’s face and the empty bed next to him, and then without words he stands and steps out of his slip-on sandals. TK doesn’t watch him so it isn’t awkward – or, isn’t more awkward – as Carlos mirrors him; propping pillows against the headboard and leaning back against it with his long legs stretched out.

He tips his head back and he’s quiet for a moment, before he tells the ceiling, “Nobody knows except Grace, not even Judd or Mateo. Not my parents, not … anybody.”

TK remembers how lonely that felt, and he didn’t live in that reality for anywhere near as long as Carlos probably has. “I guess it’s not that common, where you’re from.”

“Man, don’t do Texas like that. I’m from Austin, there’s a huge queer scene,” Carlos argues, but he’s teasing, too. “In country music … kind of a different story.”

“Right.”

“I actually remember really clearly back when your first album came out, because you used the word ‘he’ in three different songs.”

TK frowns and smiles at the same time. “That’s very specific.”

“Yeah, I specifically remember it because it blew me away,” Carlos says, that earnest glint back in his eyes that TK’s grown used to. He’d thought at first it was part of an act, of an aww shucks, ma’am character Carlos was playing, but he’s come to realize Carlos is just truly that sincere. “There’s hardly anybody openly queer in country music even now, but definitely not almost 10 years ago. I didn’t know that was something you could do, I didn’t know you could write a song about a boy and put it on an album and a label would let you release it into the world.”

“I had to fight for it,” TK tells him. “It’s not all that different in rock music, to be honest. I’d kind of forgotten about that, actually, but there was definitely pressure to change the pronouns in those songs.”

“But you didn’t.” Carlos smiles at him. “I remember listening to them in my bedroom, with my headphones, wondering if I could ever write something like that. And maybe … I don’t know. Maybe feeling a little bit less alone.”

Tagging @theghostofashton @reyesstrand @strandnreyes @eclectic-sassycoweyes @carlos-in-glasses

@bonheur-cafe @actual-sleeping-beauty @herefortarlos @heartstringsduet @alrightbuckaroo

@goodways @lightningboltreader @emsprovisions @freneticfloetry @liminalmemories21

@reasonandfaithinharmony @ladytessa74 @never-blooms @sanjuwrites @orchidscript

@lemonlyman-dotcom @jesuisici33 @kiwichaeng @honeybee-taskforce @hereghostslive

@just-inside-her @firstprince-history-huh @captain-gillian @tellmegoodbye @ironheartwriter

@butchreyes @anactualcaseofthetruth @ditheringmind @thisbuildinghasfeelings @whatsintheboxmh

@irispurpurea @nisbanisba @corsage @chicgeekgirl89 @nancys-braids

@carlossreaders @denizoid @everlastingday

Want to be added or removed from the list? Lmk

[yinyuedijun]

since it is on the brain tonight. have one of my favourite (very very long) scenes of desire path backstory (happened in both versions of the fic, og and current)

(tw implied child abuse and incest)

background: you've just been adopted into the itoshi household and have had a really hard time opening up. sae hears you crying in your bedroom every night. here, he finally decides to try and help you. you're about 6 here, sae is 8.

___

Still, you had your bad nights. Progress has never been linear with you, not now and not back then. Sae recalls one midnight where you had a crying fit that disintegrated into a violent string of coughs, each one so powerful that it made him wince.

He wondered how the whole house wasn't awake, listening to your pain. Rin always slept like a rock—Sae could see him snoring away in the other bed, so it made sense that he wasn't bothered—but surely their parents were hearing this? But then he decided not to linger on it for too long.

It didn't matter since he was going to help you anyway.

He ended up knocking on your door with a glass of water. Almost immediately, all the shifting in your room stopped, almost like you were trying to silence yourself. But Sae could hear the coughs being torn violently from your throat, even though they now sounded strained and muffled.

"Hey," he called out softly. "It's me. Are you awake?"

Silence. Sae knew to give it a moment before he tried again.

"Can I come in?"

If it had been anyone other than you, you told Sae years later, your fingers running lazily through his hair, lifting the bangs out of his face, I wouldn't have said anything. I'd have pretended to be sleeping. But I let you in because it was you. You squeezed his hand, then, and your eyes were close—so close, heavy on his own and weighed down by the vulpine flick of your eyeliner, by the mascara sooty and thick on neatly curled lashes, by your childhood shadows. Your strawberry gloss shone next to his lips, and your heated and tender words kissed them: Do you understand what I'm saying, Nii-chan? If it had been anyone else, I wouldn't have been—

"...okay."

When Sae crept into your room, found an empty bed. You were hiding underneath it, curled up in the tiny space between the floor and the mattress, hugging the quilt he'd handed to you weeks ago. He crouched down, showed you the glass of water. Sae wasn't sure if the offering would be enough to draw you out from under the bed, but another coughing fit—this one strong enough to make you teary-eyed—had you crawling out. You mumbled a little thank you as you took the glass from him and drank.

"You haven't cried like that in a while," Sae commented, and you gave him a stricken look. After a long moment of unadultered panic in your eyes, he heard you string more than two words for the first time:

"...s-sorry. I'm really sorry." You were looking down at the floor, and it was like all the progress Sae had made over the past several weeks had gone up in smoke—you looked petrified, small, a cornered animal with nowhere to run. "I didn't know you could hear me."

"Don't apologize. I don't mind it."

"...you're not mad?"

Sae thought it was a funny question. "No. Who'd get mad at something like that?"

You didn't reply, just looking away, and Sae felt a little frustrated, then. He'd been working so hard to make you feel comfortable and thought he'd finally made some progress—but now he was seeing you regress in real time. Back into the fragile little thing that his parents had decided to adopt out of the blue, looking like you couldn't trust anything around you. Like you couldn't trust him. Sae couldn't help but think—

"You don't like it here, do you."

Even at that age, you had a distinctly doe-eyed look when you were confused, and he remembers staring at it.

"No," you said. "I do."

"Then how come you don't wanna talk to any of us?"

Maybe his voice was a little too harsh. Or a little too blunt. You flinched, your body retreating into the turquoise shell of your quilt.

"Sorry."

"That's—" Sae paused, chewing his lip. Tried to make his voice as gentle as possible, because he knew his usual tone would scare you. "...you don't need to be sorry. I'm not mad. I just wanna know what's been making you so upset. Like—how come you always cry at night?"

You got that nervous, uncertain look in your eye again, and Sae got the distinct feeling that you were wondering if this whole conversation was some kind of trick. He added, "I just wanna know how to cheer you up. I don't like seeing you so sad all the time."

You blinked, gave him a surprised look, but it was fleeting, quickly making way for another gloomy expression. "You don't need to worry about me… I don't think I'm going to stay here for very long."

Sae's brow furrowed. His mom had made it sound like you were going to be his little sister just like how Rin was his brother—that is, permanently. "Why not?"

The face you made was so miserable that it startled Sae. He hadn't had a lot of experience with sadness as a kid—most of what he'd witnessed revolved around soccer, when the opposing team lost, and Sae never felt very sorry for them. Sometimes Rin would throw tantrums or cry over silly things, but those were easy to handle. Sae supposed that the worst sadness he'd ever seen was in his mother, who tried her best to hide it—

—but not even her saddest expressions could compare to how shattered you looked in that moment.

"...your dad doesn't actually want me here, Sae-san."

Sae's brow creased. You have a new sister, he recalled. You need to take care of her, OK? It's your job as the eldest.

"That can't be right," Sae replied. "Dad said he wanted you to be part of this family. He even said I should look after you."

Instead of responding, you looked long and hard at Sae, and for the first time, he experienced the strange feeling of being dissected by you. He felt translucent and naked under your eyes—keen for such an innocent age, seeing everything in the dark.

"We have the same father, but different moms. You know that, right?" you asked quietly.

He hadn't.

"Your dad didn't like my mom very much, and that's why he didn't want me. He's only being forced to take me now 'cause my mom decided she didn't want me either." Your eyes started to shimmer, and you hid them in your blanket. "My stepdad and my brother also left 'cause they didn't want me. And I don't think your mom likes me very much, either. So"—you breathed in deep and whispered, and Sae felt like he was watching a vase tip over the edge, a sandcastle crumbling into dirt, his mother crying as she fumbled for her cigarettes when she thought no one was watching—"it's not gonna be very long 'til your parents throw me away too."

Sae went silent. If his heart ached for you when he first laid eyes on you, then it was being crushed right now. He didn't think very hard about it when he placed a hand over one of yours.

"They wouldn't do something like that," he said.

Your fingers twitched under his, like you wanted to pull away.

"They want to. I can tell."

You're just imagining things, Sae nearly replied, but then he remembered that he'd never once heard his parents come here at night to check on your crying, and then he went quiet.

"...it doesn't matter," he eventually decided. "I won't let them."

A little sniff. "No?"

"No. I'll make sure you stay with us."

You blinked the saltwater away from your lashes, then gave him a curious look. "Why?"

"Because I'm your brother, and it's my job to take care of you."

"Really?" you asked, voice watery.

His eyes softened, his usual impassivity crumbling for you.

"Really. I would never let anyone throw you away," he said, and the words felt so ugly in his mouth that he couldn't fathom how anyone had done that to you. How anyone could have done anything to you. You were so sweet, and so kind, and so vulnerable, and it left him feeling sick when he imagined you being hurt in any way. "I'll keep you safe. Promise."

Sae nearly jumped when he felt something move in his hand. He looked down, saw your little fingers prodding at his own, and he offered you his open palm. You took it readily, Sae found himself transfixed by the latticework of your entwined fingers.

"Thank you, Sae-san."

"It's nothing," he wrote off. His thumb rubbed the back of your hand, gentle in a way that his voice wasn't. "But I'm your brother now, remember? You should address me properly."

You smiled a little, studying your interlocked fingers, and Sae felt a peculiar warmth in his chest, an uptick in his pulse.

"Okay, Nii-chan."

Nii-chan. Sae's always loved hearing that title in your mouth. Not out of a demand for respect the way Rin obsesses over it, but because you've always seemed so happy to say it, the syllables sweetened by your adoring tongue. Okay, Nii-chan, you've always said. I'll listen to you, Nii-chan. I trust you, Nii-chan. I love you, Nii-chan. I love you, I love you, I love you.

So please don't leave us again.

Please don't throw me away.

[mossdoesartshit]

extermination day extermination always irritated vaggie. She had developed a major dislike of it upon being dropped into hell for showing mercy, which shouldve kept her in heaven than get her booted out, but she had found the love of her life here, so she couldnt complain. After the battle during the old hotels time, the exterminations had become far more erratic. sometimes theyd be only a month or so away, sometimes over a year. she had no doubts it was entirely because of lute, which she wasnt too fond of, but what could vaggie realistically do, her old sister in arms had always been a bit of a nutcase. besides, she had bigger fish to worry about right now. she and charlie were doing a headcount of people who had been in the hotel that day, (alastor, husk, nifty, the usual people, along with some hopefully quests to be) and there was one person distinctly missing "do i have to go get him?" vaggie asked, exasparated "come on please? he should be somewhere on the upper floors, i saw him walking up before the bell rang loud, besides you always have your weapon on you!" charlie begged, earning agreed mumblings of the others "If Safety Is Your Concern, Trust Me Vaggie, I Will Be Able To Handle Any Possible Nuisances While You're Getting Mister Bleeding Heart Back" alastor piped up, with that sickeningly sweet grin of his. She rolled her eyes, and groaned out a soft "fiine" as she moved to go up the hotel. Thank Fucking Lucifer that he had installed an elevator into the hotel, because boy howdy if vaggie had had to walk up the flight of stairs just to get Adam she would not have even considered it. Eventually, she found him on the roof, watching the carnage. "come on Adam, i know youre probably so fucking hard about all the destruction and shit, but you wont be safe from them killing you" Adam didnt turn to look at vaggie, instead closing his wings around himself as best he could, and "I can still recognize them you know" "huh?" with one wing, adam pointed down to two exterminators "that right there is lyre, ruthless as ever, but she has that methodical work flow, kind of like a dance. i think they partnered her with a newbie, which is good- well. bad, but. good from a combat standpoint- because she'll get good pointers at the end" vaggie looked down at the next group of exterminators that adam pointed to "over there is janatha, still fumbling with her stabs and pierces as ever. shes in a bigger squad, but they always worked well together, even if theyre a bit chaotic" an explosion blew up relatively near them, and adam looked over to it with sluggish movements "must be lute... say vags-" "vaggie." "-vaggie, do you remember flute?" "huh? you mean lutes sister?" "mmhm, lutes always been pretty ruthless, but that can leave her open at the back, flute would have covered her but. i think she was killed a few exterminations ago, the one that weapons dealer got. i think theyve tried to pair her with others but i always see her alone" vaggie stood there stunned "i. didnt think you were telling the truth when you said you recognized me. i thought you'd been bluffing or that lute had told you, given..." "well, thats the view souls have of me i suppose. liar down to a t. but i do recognize all of them. i just regret that my blind rage cost the lives of several of them and... lutes arm" another explosion closer to them alerted vaggie to grab adams shoulder "come on, charlies going to get worried if you keep me standing here, cant have you getting killed now that shes done so much work on you" "whatever you say vaggie" adam said, solemnly looking behind to where theyd spotted lute, before walking with vaggie to the elevator to get to the more bunkered area

[howlsofbloodhounds]

I once read a fanfic somewhere a few years ago where Nightmare—Corrupted and Passive—were two different people, and something happened that made Passive come back of course as his 6 year old self and Corrupted was still trapped in his head, talking to him.

And like passive knew something was wrong but didn’t know or remember anything, feeling like Dream and the rest of the Stars were hiding stuff from him.

Anyway the fanfic ended with the Murder Time Trio ganging up on passive and beating the poor kid until Corrupted came back in like a bout of desperate group hysteria.

I distinctly remember killer being so terrified going back into stage 1–as if being that way, feeling those emotions, was something he believed to be a genuine threat to his life—that he believed he needed corrupted to not be that way. Codependency 🤝 Killer!Sans, it’s just like that.

Shit was well written but crazy. Many times I found myself just having to pause and think because holy hell these guys are fucked up. And I think that author, whoever they were because I sure as shit can’t remember anymore, did a good job at showcasing that.

And if I remember correctly this was made in the era where everyone thought Killer’s tear goop was hate, so I’m pretty sure “determination” and “stages” weren’t used in reference to killer, but the writing was interesting and still something I can potentially see happening. (Some parts at least)

There also another fanfic, maybe it was a sequel this one I don’t know, where st1 killer basically went “fuck you, I’ll do my own thing” to both nightmare and color and attempted to run off on his own.

But his process was always hindered because nightmare always reverted him back into Stage 2–who didn’t care about escaping or about being “fixed” or being “sans again.”

It was interesting because nightmare was written as if he desperately wanted some emotional response from killer and also didn’t want him leaving him and would also never ever show or admit to wanting any of that at all, but stage 2 was never capable of giving him exactly what he wanted besides not expressing any desires to leave, besides being convinced that he needs Nightmare.

I remember there was beef between Cross and st1 Killer, where cross had a stick up his ass and used the shit Killer did in st2 against him, and st1 was like, “at least you had a choice and you still did the same shit I did. So what’s that say about you?”

I also distinctly remember Cross and st2 Killer being sent on a mission together by nightmare, and killer was already so unstable that when they encountered an au of Chara, he completely lost shit, I think was triggered into something like st3, and started brutally attacking them.

[heavyhitterheaux]

Bows and Barrettes

First Lady of Private Garden Fic

AN: we love domestic daddy Jackman

Synopsis: Jack feels confident enough to do his daughter's hair by himself without any guidance from you and it ends up turning out better than he expected

Pairing: Husband!Jack Harlow x Wife!Reader

First Lady of Private Garden Masterlist

Requested by: 1/3 of hot chips and bad decisions @nattinatalia 😜💕

Please Do Not Repost My Content Anywhere

You let out a frustrated sigh as you thought about all of the things that you had to do today and felt as if there wasn't any way possible to get them all finished.

But you literally had no choice for all of them to get done, otherwise you would be working even later tomorrow.

There were a few performances and appearances that you had coming up and it was pertinent that you started planning everything out as soon as possible.

Since the triplets were only two, you did these appearances and performances in waves at a time such as every few months so that once they were done and over with, your primary focus could still be on them.

Jack was starting to get back on his grind after him staying home the first year with you and the triplets. He was hesitant at first not wanting to leave you with all three at one time, but you saw how much he missed it so you encouraged him to do so after his self-titled album Jackman was released.

You were sliding on your pink and gray 550's when you heard Jack’s footsteps come into the room and leaned down to kiss the top of your head.

“Baby?” Jack said once he noticed the look on your face which immediately made him concerned. 

“Hmm?” You answered while staring off into space.

“What's going on? Something's wrong and I can tell so don't tell me nothing is.”

“I have so much to do today and don't see how I'm going to make it happen.” You quietly said while standing up and Jack immediately brought you into a hug while soothingly rubbing small circles on your back.

“Anything I can do to help to make it easier? I told you that you don’t have to be superwoman all of the time.”

“Actually there is now that I think about it and I’m trying to do that less and less.”

“Name it and it'll be done.”

“Can you do Ivy and Autumn's hair for me? I was supposed to do it last night but I was too tired. They look like we don’t take care of them.”

“That's all? Of course I can. And they’re kids and only two at that. We can’t expect for their hair to stay in it’s rightful place even if you did it only four days ago. I've practiced on you enough since I distinctly remember when we were 20, you said I need to learn how to do hair if we have girls.”

“Are you absolutely sure?” You asked while looking up at him and he simply nodded.

“Of course I'm sure, baby girl. I got this. Don't worry about anything.”

“As weird as it seems, start with Autumn because Ivy had a fit last time when she had to go first.”

Jack simply laughed to himself before responding to you.

“I remember. She went and ran to hide under our bed.”

“And only came out when you bribed her with a cookie. Typical Ivy.”

“Go ahead and leave so you won't be late.” You reached up to kiss him when you suddenly felt little arms wrap around your legs and looked down to see Ivy looking up at you while her pacifier was in her mouth and reached down to pick her up.

“And look who it is. Hi my sweet baby.”

She took out her pacifier so she could kiss your cheek and promptly put it back.

“Be good for daddy, okay. I'll be back later.”

She simply nodded before you handed her to Jack and went to hug Axel and Autumn.

“Ivy, daddy has to do your hair today and it's going to look really pretty when I finish.”

Her eyes went wide and she tried to get him to put her down as she began to squirm and he simply laughed.

“I’ll give you a cookie if you sit still for me, but you can't tell mommy.” He whispered to her and he immediately saw her nod her head and hold out her hand for it.

“Not yet, baby. Wait until mommy leaves and then I’ll get it.”

Doing Autumn's hair was never a big huge task so when he started to wash her hair, he handed her the iPad so she could be distracted and watch cartoons.

Ivy was a different story.

Axel was playing with Ivy on the floor next to Jack and Autumn so that he could keep an eye on all of them.

When he had finished washing it, Jack had wrapped Autumn's hair in a towel and helped her to sit up before taking all three of them to the living room.

He made her comfy before starting to blow dry and detangle it as she was still playing on her iPad.

He pulled up the gallery on his phone and asked her to choose which hairstyle she wanted since he had saved several pictures wanting to try them out on his girls.

“Princess, do you know which one you want?” He asked as he flipped through the pictures to show her and she lit up once she made her decision.

“This one, daddy.”

She decided on the third picture out of six which had two braids in the front, and two ponytails on the side that had purple butterfly clips decorating them. 

Just like her dad, her favorite color was purple.

The hairstyle wouldn't take him too long and then he would be able to start on Ivy's with giving her a cookie first of course. 

Autumn was able to stay still as Jack braided her hair and added little jewels to it similar to the picture that he showed her.

After adding more products to her hair to keep it moisturized, he put the rest of her hair into two ponytails and added the butterfly clips for the finishing touch. 

“All done, princess. Do you want to see it?”

She eagerly nodded as she had climbed into his lap as Jack pulled up his camera on his phone to show her.

Once she got a good look at her hair, she couldn’t stop smiling and dancing in the camera while making Jack laugh at the different poses that she was doing.

“I look pretty, daddy.” 

“You sure do.” Jack responded while kissing her cheek and setting her down on the floor to play with Axel as he scooped up Ivy into his arms knowing that she was going to put up a fight. 

She immediately started whimpering and squirming, but all Jack did was slide a cookie in her hand and she instantly went silent as she began to eat it.

By the time you got back home, it was around 4 in the afternoon and as soon as you stepped foot in the door, you were greeted once again by Ivy.

You took in the appearance of her hair and was impressed how Jack had done it all by himself without your help and the fact that she had any hair left was a good sign.

“Ooohh Ivy, look at your hair! Maybe daddy should open a salon huh?” You asked her as you picked her up. 

“Catch me at New York fashion week next year. I’m doing wigs and weaves next.” You heard Jack say as he was holding Autumn who was excited to show you her hair.

“And look at Autumn! Aww, my babies look so pretty. Good job, daddy!” You said as you reached up to kiss Jack. 

“At this rate if they want me to keep this up, I need to start charging.”

“I… Jackman! You aren’t not charging our kids for you to do their hair!”

“Why not?! They can pay a small service fee!”

“Lord, help me. I swear I cannot deal with you.”

“I can do yours next if you want. But um… I got the ultimate experience package for you.”  Jack said while eyeing you up and down and licking his lips.

“I’m going to act like I didn’t hear that.”

“You’ll fold by tonight. But uh we’ll take care of that first before I do your hair. Don’t want to sweat those curls out.” He said while leaning down to whisper in your ear making you earn a smirk on your face.

“But sweating it out is the fun part.” You whispered back as you leaned up to kiss him.

“Just wait until I put them to sleep.”

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[hanahaki-disease]

Been Left No Choice

Hell or High Water - Percy Jackson/DC crossover

Summary:

“But he also didn’t want Batman to overtake the demigod world. Bruce was a paranoid person, he had plans and contingencies and contingencies for his contingencies. He liked control. Because if he had control, then things would stick to the plan and no one would get hurt, no one would die, and he wouldn’t have to lose the people he cares about. And while the contingencies were helpful, the plans make missions and patrols and cases run as smooth as they can be, Bruce’s orders felt suffocating at times. Like a leash tethering them to the concrete block of morals that stood Batman firm in place

“I-I can’t tell you,” Percy decides. It was better to suffer this life in silence than to drag them down with him”

********************************************

Bruce was going to be out of town for the next few days, a League mission he couldn’t be absent from. What it was about, Percy didn’t care. He was just glad the man was gone. He had been back for the past week and Bruce hasn’t even spoken to him much. Too wrapped up in Wayne Enterprises and Batman stuff to remember his missing adopted son had returned from a nationwide manhunt and disappearance. It made Percy wonder if he had even known about the manhunt for Percy and his friend. Did he follow the news reports on the computer downstairs? Was he listening to the various police scanners in the cities he had been sighted in, trying to figure out if he was okay?

Probably not. Bruce just picked up the next kid with dark hair and colored eyes and gave them all of his care and attention.

A loud thwack echoed in the empty cave, followed by the sound of bare feet shuffling on the practice mat and two more hits. If Percy hadn’t known any better, and if the date had rewound two years ago, Percy could believe it was Jason in the cave. His brother wasn’t allowed to go out as Robin when Bruce wasn’t in town, not wanting him to get into trouble when there was no back up. Though at the time, Barbara was Batgirl and prowling on her own and had earned her own uniform display when he upgraded to her new suit.

He’s seen pictures of it and clips in the news. A darker purple than the previous version with ticker shin guards and sharper forearm spikes, not to mention the reinforced padding on her knuckles and knees, or the tonfas attached to her belt. Growing up as the daughter of the Gotham PD Commissioner, Barbara had a preference to hand-to-hand combat, surely the influence of her father. Her fighting style closer to Jason’s brawler type, but preferring more of a jiu-jitsu and capoeira blend. Vastly different to the flippy and distracted style that Dick has, one where his excess body movements leave his opponents confused and keeps them right where he wants them, and Bruce’s close range league training.

Judging by the sound of the feet, the whooshing in the air and the deeper voice that distinctly did not belong to Barbara, Percy was not surprised to see Tim training away while Bruce was gone. He was concentrated on the punching bag in front of him, chest heaving as he caught his breath, wooden practice staff held tight in his hand, positioned for another round of attacks.

Of all the weapons, he didn’t expect for Tim to have chosen the bo-staff, but as he watched him train, it was hard to imagine him with another weapon. He didn’t seem like the type of person to have a bladed weapon besides the birdarangs or wing-dings supplied by Bruce and Dick. Nor was he made for melee like Jason or Barbra. The mid-range weapon built for mainly defense and quick-thinking just felt right in the hands of his best friends.

He twirled the staff in his hands, stepping in a careful circle around his target as the weapon seamlessly wove around his body. The center of the staff placed just below his sternum, wrists doing more of the work to spin the stick, keeping his biceps and arms tense and ready to quickly counter any attacks. Tim was light on his feet when he lunged, staying on the balls of his feet as he parried and avoided imaginary attacks from the punching bag. He even went so far as to back flip away, one hand touching the ground as he retreated Nightwing style.

It was pretty impressive, Percy had to admit. Reminded him of the more experienced campers, the older kids who have been staying year round. For the convenience that sword fighting was, Percy was surprised to see many of the campers preferring spears. The wooden shaft ending at their nose with the a foot long blade at the end. Clarisse was the first that came to mind when it came to skilled spear fighters. Her attacks were similar to Tim’s distracting twirls around her body and light footwork despite her muscled size. But where Tim’s attacks were quick hits with the long sides of the weapon, smacks and heavy hits, Clarisse and the rest of camp were more of a lunge and slash style. They handled the weapon one handed mostly, using the other to hold a shield.

Tim would have fun going against Clarisse, their opposing, but still similar styles would be an entertaining fight.

He still has yet to figure out how, when, and where Tim learned to fight with the staff. Obviously it’d have to be while he was gone, leaving the possible time frame just shy of three months. Not including the play-pretend ‘spars’ they would have before Jason’s death. When they would run around the back gardens of the Drake estate or Wayne manor, defeating imaginary foes as their own versions of Batman and Robin.

Percy swiveled the chair to the Batcomputer, the brightness of the computer blinding him for a quick second before he got used to it. He wonders if his login still worked. If the silly code name of “Scyphozoa” and simple password he created at the age of eight was still an active account in the most secure computer on earth. It did. His notes and files that past-Percy was using were still up, the rogue profiles and maps, clues and evidence reports. All of it, untouched and where he had left them last. Had Bruce never went through his account? Did he not monitor, or at least gloss over, whatever Percy had open?

He checked the audit trail for the reports and files. Bruce had this implemented when someone had accidentally written their school book report on a case file, deleting about seventy-five percent of the notes in the process. There were no logs or signs to point out who had done it (It had been Jason, who else used fancy thesaurus words in a report about Harry Potter?) and Bruce was tried of going around in circles trying to find the culprit.

Percy sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of the audit trail, the counter ticking up every second he lingered on the page. It hadn’t been closed since he left. None of the pages that he had opened had closed while he was gone. Bruce never once opened his login, and he doesn’t know if he done that out of respect for him or if he simple hadn’t cared. If he wanted to keep it the way it was, to preserve the last things Percy interacted with. It wasn’t too far of a stretch to think that, Jason’s room was the same way, but he never would think that Bruce would have done it with him as well.

He blinked away the rising tears in his eyes and closed the pages he had up, not even bothering to save the notes that he had been working on.

It wasn’t hard to find and pull up Tim’s file when the screen was clear. His name had been another subsection in the Robin tab and a whole sub-folder in the “known allies” folder. All the information about his debut as Robin was clinical. Succinct and methodical, the style much like the reports where the mission was difficult in some way, emotionally draining or an innocent life had been lost. The way Jason’s death had been reported.

“Percy?” He turned around. Tim held the wooden staff in one hand and a water bottle in the other, shock and disbelief clear on his sweaty, red face. “You—you’re back! You came back!”

Percy watched as he best friend dropped his things and ran towards him, a big smile on his face, and it hurt to step away from the hug Tim initiated. But Percy didn’t want to a) get Tim’s sweat and smell all over him, ew. And b) be near him for a while. There was too much to think about, to process when Percy let the fact that Tim was now Robin settle.

“When did you get back? How did you get back? What happened to you?!” Tim asked, brushing his sweaty hair out of his face.

“You’re Robin?” Percy countered and he watched as the excitement Tim had damped a little. The smile on his face disappeared and his shoulders dropped. “Why?”

Tim didn’t meet his as spoke at first, keeping his gaze focused on the cave around him his fist closed at his sides. “After…After you left, Bruce wasn’t the same. He hadn’t been the same since Jason’s death, either, but once you were gone and he found out you had disappeared…Batman didn’t seem like the good guy anymore.”

“What?”

“His attacks were unnecessarily stronger against the rogues, against regular muggers and thieves.” Tim typed at the computer, pulling up a spreadsheet. “I tracked all the times Bruce put someone in a full-body cast, or the ICU, or even left them paralyzed. He was angrier. Ruthless, he didn’t care if he was going too far.”

That…wasn’t the answer he had been expecting. After all, Bruce hadn’t acted like he cared when Percy left, so why was his disappearance a variable to the sudden change? It made no sense. “What about Dick? Did he not help?”

“He didn’t want to talk to Bruce once he found out happened with you and Jason,” he said. “He left the Titans and moved to Bludhäven at the end of June, joined the police force there too, but, he didn’t want anything to do with Bruce. The only reason they talked was to help train me or if he needed help with a case over there.” Tim stepped away from the computer and faced Percy this time. His own questions running through his head the same way all the possible shots for a photo filtered in his mind. “He was a part of the squad that investigated the bus explosion you were a part of.”

Percy held his breath at that. He doesn’t want to involve his Gotham life with the demigod side. And while he knows that all the people here can handle themselves, they’ll be at a disadvantage against monsters. They’d never see them coming—literally. His first week at camp had Percy thinking about life at the manor and if there had been any indication that any one them had been apart of the demigod life or descendants of it, no matter how small of a chance that had been. But there wasn’t any. No hint, no hushed whispers, no trace of ichor in any of their blood. Percy even checked when he came back. He took a small celestial bronze nail that the Hephaestus kids use when making shields and poked everyone he knew with it, watching as the metal simple phased through them as if they were nothing.

(He hadn’t had a chance to try it on Tim or Dick yet, but he wouldn’t be surprised if nothing happened.)

“What happened when you disappeared, Percy?” Tim asked. “Nothing the Justice League did were able to find you, Superman wasn’t able to find you.”

“I…I…” He began. Involving Batman into the demigod life could spill the secret that Bruce was Batman and the rest of the bat-clan was their respective heroes since everyone at camp knows everyone. He was relieved when Chiron used his mother’s maiden name of Jackson instead of Todd or Wayne to introduce him to the camp, one less connection between Percy, young prince of Gotham, and Perseus, son of the sea god.

But he also didn’t want Batman to overtake the demigod world. Bruce was a paranoid person, he had plans and contingencies and contingencies for his contingencies. He liked control. Because if he had control, then things would stick to the plan and no one would get hurt, no one would die, and he wouldn’t have to loose the people he cares about. And while the contingencies were helpful, the plans make missions and patrols and cases run as smooth as they can be, Bruce’s orders felt suffocating at times. Like a leash tethering them to the concrete block of morals that stood Batman firm in place

And maybe that’s why Jason had a hard time of following the older he got, the more experienced Robin had become. Maybe that was the Poseidon’s powers in him, the restless disobedience that wanted to do as he pleases because he doesn’t like getting told what to do.

“I-I can’t tell you,” Percy decides. It was better to suffer this life in silence than to drag them down with him.

“What? What do you mean ‘you can’t tell me’?” Tim said.

“It means that I can’t tell you,” Percy answered. “I don’t have to tell you anything about it if I don’t want to.”

“But I’m you best friend! Best friends’ tell each other everything!”

“Yeah? Well best friends don’t wear their dead brother’s uniform either!” Percy shut his eyes. He didn’t want to dig into this barrel of angst, but he need a way to get to leave him alone. A way to push him aside so he doesn’t get hurt by Percy’s monsters anymore than he does with the monsters roaming around Gotham. “They don’t go behind their best friends back and take what isn’t theirs!”

It was so easy to pull the guilt and anger from this well, too. Because it wasn’t like Percy was making any of this up. He didn’t like that Tim took the mantle of Robin from Jason. He didn’t like that he changed the uniform where it was totally different than Jason’s. He didn’t like that Tim saw an opportunity to join the capped crusaders and replace his brother, how he followed Batman through the streets of Gotham that same way Jason had. It was like he was pretending to be him.

“That suit doesn’t belong to you, it’s Jason’s suit, and you know it!” Percy yelled, and while it hurt to break Tim’s heart, to mess with his emotions like this, he was glad that he was getting the reactions he wanted.

“Someone had to stop Batman from himself!” Tim fought. “You were gone and Dick said no, there was no one else!”

“That doesn’t mean it had to be you!” Percy said. “You didn’t have to be Robin. You didn’t have to use Jason’s suit. It doesn’t belong to you!”

“You didn’t want it anyway!”

“Doesn’t matter!” Percy tightened his fists. “It belonged to my brothers, their legacy was never yours. You just wanted to play pretend and think you were one of them. But you’re not! You’ll never be!”

Oof. That one hurt. Percy knows it for sure. He can see it in the way Tim deflates in his spot, the tension in his stance, and expression on his face.

He couldn’t stay down there longer. He wouldn’t be able to handle seeing his best friend (if they still were best friends after this now) break down, to watch as his trust in Percy shatter before his eyes. It wasn’t fair that he had to do this. That this was what Percy had to do to keep him and the rest of the people he cares about safe. And Tim might hate him after that, he might not want to see or talk or even bee near Percy again. But if this was what it takes to keep them safe, he’ll do it a hundred times over.

********************************************

Scyphozoa: “true Jellyfish” it’s what we think of when we think of jellyfish

Also, I forgot to put this in the notes of the last installment—we have finished the first “arc” of the series. Fics #1-8 titles are all from the song “High Water” by Sleep Token, this one and the rest of this “arc” are all going to be from the song “Descending.”

And, trust me when I say that next week Dick and Percy are reuniting. I promise. They’ll be hugs and tears and all the good stuff.

Also, Percy and Tim not being besties is only for a little while, it makes sense in the end. Trust the process.

Thank you so much for reading!!!!❤️❤️❤️❤️

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