#but i have set foot in a church few enough times that i can count it on one hand and that was all for choir stuff never for actual services

[vampirebiter]

im wearing the glittery berserk shirt to easter dinner and not even jessie crisco himself, freshly risen like a loaf of bread, can stop me

[jo-harrington]

As Above, So Below - Prologue: Annunciation

Prequels: Heaven - Hell - Purgatory

Summary: Burdened by a centuries-long curse, you must follow the path fate has set for you and defeat evil that roams the Earth. You've left everything your heart desires behind to follow this path, and unfortunately, it still isn't enough. Fate has other plans for you, and for your love, Eddie Munson.

Word Count: 6.9k (nice)

Pairing: Eddie Munson/Fem!OC (Told in 2nd Person POV - you/your)

Warnings/Themes: Violence, Death/Suicide, Torture, Body Horror, Blood, Established Relationship, Romance, Religious Themes, Criticism of Religion/Catholicism, Fate vs. Free Will, Supernatural Encounters, Angst, Biblical and Other Literary/Media References

Note: Welcome to As Above, So Below, my take on Kas!Eddie fic and a story inspired by Van Helsing (2004). This story has 3 prequels linked above that I highly recommend you read as this story will reference them.

This story is going to be EXTREMELY HEAVY to write, so I will not be putting out a posting schedule. Chapters will get posted as they are completed, however long that takes.

Please keep in mind, although this is an OC fic, our Knight will not be named or have physical descriptions noted. She is of European/Italian-American descent on her father's side. She was raised Roman Catholic, but her beliefs are very loose and you will see why if you read. You are free to imagine her as you wish. But her cultural identity will be referenced in this story, at least at the beginning and the end.

This series will not be for the faint of heart, nor is it something that was written with a general audience in mind. Please check the above warnings and ask yourself if you are in the correct headspace to proceed. I am happy to answer any questions via PM or Ask.

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

“Do not be afraid […] for you have found favor with God […] With God, nothing will be impossible.” — Luke 1:28-37

March 25th, 1986

In your short time on this earth, you had certainly seen a lot. Mysteries of the universe were made known to you, you'd encountered heroes and villains alike—monsters, even—and been to many places, far and wide.

But you could honestly say that you had never set foot in a lair before today.

And, truly, lair was the only word you could use to describe this place.

Vaulted ceilings, marble floors, velvet curtains. There was an elaborate organ set up on a platform and an ominous set of stairs that descended deeper into the ground at the far end of the room.

Eddie would say this looked like something out of a C-list horror movie or a James Bond film.

You were already deep enough as it was; you'd navigated through an abandoned old mansion and the Los Angeles County sewer system just to get here. To anyone else, it would have seemed as though it took some divine intervention to find this place at all, but the divine is what you knew best.

Archbishop Jinette had given you minimal information to stop the evil that was at play. A ritual to bring forth a River of Life that would flood the San Gabriel Valley and kill millions. More importantly, to Jinette at least, it would create a rift in the fabric of reality that would cause a surge of Heavenly Power to flow freely throughout the Earth.

The Church never cared about the details, didn't care if a sacrifice or two came about, as long as their power remained safe. So the Who's and How's and Why's were left up to you. Thankfully your adversary had been careless with the clues he left behind.

You couldn't tell if it was a coincidence or not. Easter was a few days away so a River of Life made sense but surely a ritual that mirrored the ten plagues of Egypt would be more fitting a little closer to Passover.

"Doctor," you called out, your voice echoed through the cavernous room. You gripped your weapon—a nightstick taken off the body of the police officer that had been swarmed by locusts—and ventured forwards. "I'm not here to hurt you, I'm here to help."

"You are not here to help," a stiff, croaking, disembodied voice reached your ears, filtered through some sort of unseen sound system. "You're here to stop me."

"Stop you from killing anymore innocent people," you explained.

"One remains," the voice replied. "Nine shall die. Nine eternities in doom."

"It will be a lot more than that if you don't stop whatever it is you have planned." You tried to reason with him, but you were met with silence. "Doctor! Doctor Phibes!"

Music suddenly blasted through the sound system and the room went dark, the only source of light came from whatever lay at the bottom of the stairs.

You knew the doctor wasn't done talking, he was just luring you deeper into his web to tip the playing field in his favor. You both knew there was no time to waste, so you walked into the trap willingly, with swift feet and a brave, but possibly foolish, heart.

Below the cavernous lair was an even bigger cavern still; a half-finished room with the same marble floors that suddenly gave way to rock formations and stalagmites and an underground river that offered a steady roar of rushing water. You didn't know where to rest your eyes, there were too many carefully crafted horrors laid out before you.

An altar with a body carefully placed atop it, a series of nine half-melted wax busts, a four-piece jazz band comprised of mechanical figures, a sterile area with a surgical table, and a ragged man who was elbow deep in another person's chest cavity.

A heavy hand clamped on your shoulder and you jumped to find the elusive Doctor Anton Phibes behind you. He was an imposing man who towered above you, his face sallow, waxy, and sagging. His red-rimmed eyes were bright with lively mischief, although his aura was heavy with the infernal stench of death.

You expected him to speak, but he simply tilted his head forward and urged you towards the altar. Not a question or suggestion, but an order.

You quickly weighed the possibility that if you killed him, struck him down, the ritual would simply end. Of course, then came the equally possible outcome that it would only hasten it.

Phibes pushed you the last bit of distance until you fell against the altar table itself and came face to face with the body resting there. You knew a dead body when you saw one, and generally you disagreed when people said they looked as if they were sleeping....this one however...she was peaceful in her eternal rest.

Face was full and serene, plump lips painted a succulent violet, with long, kohl-laden lashes that kissed her blush-dusted cheeks. Her skin was glowing and her long black hair had been fluffed and haloed around her. Her hands were folded below her chest and a lovely bejeweled ring glinted in the light of the candles that flickered from beside her on the altar.

The woman was preserved perfectly. Unnaturally.

"She's beautiful," you muttered.

"My wife," Phibes' voice croaked from beside you. You glanced over your shoulder to find that he had held a cord that ran from a porthole in the side of his neck to a phonograph-like speaker beside him. "My Rose. Taken from me far too soon, stolen from me."

"My God, please help my son," came an echoed mutter from the sterile area across the room. The surgeon had his bloodied hands folded in prayer as they rested on his patient's chest.

"Murdered!" Phibes voice grew louder and wrathful. "Don't cry upon God, Dr. Vesalius. He is on my side."

"And how do you know He's on your side," you questioned and Phibes' eyes cut back to you.

"He led me here," he explained. "Showed me the way in the quest for vengeance. Showed me the key to resurrection for my beloved and eternal life for us both. I plan to move Heaven and Earth to achieve it."

"Who are you to resurrect her?" you asked. "To bring about devastation for your wife? Is that His plan? The death of millions for the life of one?"

"He told me of you too, little Knight," he ignored your question. "It's how I knew to expect your arrival. He told me that you would appear to stop me."

"You're not only here to enact God's plan but to prophesize as well?"

"He said you would be the last step in bringing me back to my beloved Rose."

"So I must die too?"" You shrugged. "I'm the ninth?"

"No," he croaked. "Vesalius. Or rather, his wretched son. You must complete the ritual."

"I could kill you instead."

"Oh, but virtuous little Knight, I'm already dead." He released the cord and lifted his hands to his face. He peeled the waxy flesh and the tufts of hair on his head to reveal a twisted and burnt husk beneath. He was skeletal, barely a visage left; his nasal cavity shook with each labored breath and his exposed jaw clenched every so often.

Phibes inserted the cord into the porthole once again.

"I lost everything," he explained. "I lost my life, my purpose. And just when I thought it was enough, I lost my love too. I asked myself over and over: what was God's plan in taking it all away from me, in the blink of an eye? All at once? When I decided I would do anything—sacrifice anything—just to bring her back, He showed me the path and I took it. Wouldn't you? If you'd lost your love, what wouldn't you do, give, to get them back?"

A bitterness settled deep in your gut.

What did he know? What didn't he know? What was God's plan?

You'd asked yourself this many times over the course of your life, had become desensitized to the constant lack of an answer. Fate was an answer you couldn't stomach anymore.

So you had tried to run from it, only to collide with it instead. Fate cruelly led you to Eddie, and then away from him again...to protect him from the pain that was your damned life.

Yes, you would have done anything for him, even let him go. Love, for you, had to wait so that Fate wouldn't have been tempted to take him away.

Like it had for Phibes and Rose.

As you turned and stared down at Rose again...you felt for them...you truly did.

"Do you know resurrection takes more than just...some fancy ritual?" you asked Phibes. You could hear his feet shuffling closer to you. "It's unpredictable. The soul...the soul needs to be put back together, and by the time they ascend...or descend..."

"Rose was an angel," Phibes interjected and insisted. "My angel. My muse."

"...sometimes it's too late. How long has it been?"

"4 years."

"The ancient Egyptians had it right," you explained. "The Ka, the Ba...the Ahk...to put her back together after this long...would be impossible. Moving Heaven and Earth? More like breaking the walls between them. We could complete this ritual and resurrect her, but even still I don't think she would be whole ever again. She'd never really be your wife."

"And when would I have had to..."

"24 hours...48, maybe?" you offered.

Phibes' eyes slowly shut and he let out a painful hissing noise you could only attribute to a wail, or whatever equivalent his body could produce.

"I'm sorry," you muttered, hoping to provide some sort of balm on his wounded spirit. "But she's in Heaven...waiting for you."

You moved out of the way as Phibes collapsed on the altar and spoke in garbled tones to Rose's body, the cord pulled out of the porthole. Whatever confession in his mind was just for them.

You immediately ran across the cavern to Dr. Vesalius and his son. The surgeon sobbed his thanks to you as you began to work on the younger man. You didn't get the opportunity to heal others often—you were used more as an instrument of destruction than one of renewal—though the capability was always there. You dug deep into the celestial light within you and slowly his wounds knit back together.

Once Lem regained consciousness, Vesalius tugged at the restraints. Another spark of your power severed the chains and set the boy free and before long, father and son scampered up the steps and out of this pit of despair.

Vesalius had grabbed your hand before they had, though.

"Thank you," he said. "You're a hero."

No...you were nothing of the sort.

You walked back to the altar to check on Phibes, only to find his form still as it lay next to his wife.

"Doctor?" you shook him. "Doctor?"

You pushed him onto his side and a knife clattered to the marble floor; you balked at the needle in his arm and a slash in his wrist that lazily dripped...dripped...dripped...

Tubes ran out from the needle and embalming fluid rapidly replaced blood. It hadn't been that long for you to heal Lem had it? Had this always been Phibes' plan if the ritual failed? He was sure that you would be the one...the last step in reuniting him and Rose.

You touched his chest and closed your eyes.

Eight were dead but the first born son lived. The ritual was unsuccessful. The secrets of what really happened would stay buried deep below the city.

You could feel it...the ambient energy stirring around Phibes...slowly leaking from every pore of this mortal prison as his body died and he began his ascent. Anton and his beloved Rose would spend eternity together.

He was a good man, a loving man, led astray...and God was willing to forgive him and let him into Heaven.

You looked around the room again and felt sick.

For all the money that the Catholic Church had, the best they could afford when they sent their attack dog—you—to save the world for the umpteenth time was a crappy roadside motel off the 101.

You were used to uncomfortable plane and train rides, questionable motels and cots shoved into the corners of storage rooms in monasteries and missions when space could be spared.

This was your life though.

You had run from the safety of your Nonna's home when you turned 18 and then again from your little apartment in Hawkins a little over a year ago after Fate finally caught up to you. The next closest thing to...a base of operations, if you could call it that, was a tiny, unkempt bungalow house in a small suburb in Chicago that you barely set foot in because evil reared its ugly head a little too much.

Home was not a luxury you could afford, and even if it was...for you, it wouldn't have been a place, it would have been a person.

So you took comfort after a trying assignment in crappy gas station food and lumpy beds because it reminded you of the home you wish you didn't have to leave behind.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you exclaimed as you kicked the door to your room open and found an unexpected visitor sitting crosslegged on the bed you hadn't claimed for yourself. He held a stack of palm branches in his hand, a small pile of folded crosses placed neatly beside him.

"Watch the way you talk," he began. "Let nothing foul or dirty come out of your mouth."

"Is it not a little...weird for you to quote the Bible?" you asked.

"I didn't write it," he replied simply.

"Well your boss did." You fell onto the unoccupied bed and sighed. You didn't know if it was just the adrenaline finally wearing off after a successful end to your task—if you could call it successful—or something else. Something within you felt like you were...trapped under water.

"He did not either," he dismissed and went back to folding crosses. "You're planning to visit the cemetery." It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.

"Yes."

"When?"

"Before Easter, if Jinette doesn't have another errand for me to run." You fished a bottle of YooHoo from your bag of snacks and offered one to him. His lips quirked and in a blink, all of the palms were folded into neat crosses and he was on his feet.

"Good." He stared at you blankly, expectantly, and it made you feel claustrophobic.

His presence was greater than what was apparent to the naked eye, and in times like these where he was about to spring something on you, your soul could sense the swell of his being. It never got easier.

"I know this isn't a social call or a job well done for preventing the destruction of the Earth for the hundredth time," you begin and cover your face with your hands. "I'm tired, so if you could please just—"

"You say that a lot," he noted.

"What?"

"That you're tired."

"It happens when you're a human," you retort.

"Then you will do well to listen to me now," he says gravely. You peek through your fingers to look at him. "Something is coming. Something bigger than you've ever encountered before."

"Shit, really?" you asked. "When will I have to go?"

"You won't," he stated with an air of finality. "Or else, you will die."

Your hands fell from your face as your ears started to ring and your pulse pounded in your head.

You'd heard many warnings in the past, throughout your life, from him. Pain, suffering, duty. This was the first time he had ever warned you of your death.

Why now? After all of the other missions you'd been given, after facing Hell on Earth dozens of times...

You always knew it was a possibility...but a guarantee?

"W-when...why...when?"

"Soon."

That was helpful. You couldn't even prepare. It would be sprung on you. The next time you were called into action maybe? Or the time after that?

"So I just...I tell...tell Jinette o-or whatever Bishop that I can—” you stammered and he cut you off.

"This is not something that they will ask you to do," he explained. "This is something you will feel compelled to do. Strongly compelled. But you must heed my warning, young one. For you will perish and damnation will surely await you."

"I don't understand," you squeezed your eyes shut. "Isn't...isn't it already awaiting me? What makes this any different?"

"Because it will hurt. It will destroy you." What would...the task? Or the damnation? There was a rustle of wings and a roar of fire in your ears. "Do not be afraid."

They were words you had never heard from his mouth, but you knew he had said them before.

When you opened your eyes, he was gone, and you were left in the motel room alone.

"Gabriel?" You called for him, like you used to when you were a child and nightmares of monsters and demons plagued you. When you used to look for comfort when your father was off on a quest so similar to your own and your mother had no way to sooth you on her own. "Gabriel!"

March 27th, 1986

You knew from the moment you woke up that morning, something was off. As though you were operating on a different frequency than usual. You felt simultaneously sluggish and as though lightning surged just beneath your skin.

It didn't happen often, if ever really, which is what caused some alarm.

Perhaps when you were much younger and your abilities began to manifest. The holy light within you couldn't be contained by such a young body. It had led to massacres and miracles alike.

You remembered seeing Empire Strikes Back for the first time and feeling a kinship with Luke. "Luminous beings are we, not this cruel matter," a phrase you muttered to yourself often, taking comfort in the Light, when your future could only possibly be shrouded in Darkness.

It had taken years to control it, and you were well past grown now, but somehow you couldn't just shake the feeling that plagued you today. It was as though your fight or flight response was primed and ready, despite no danger in sight.

If Archbishop Jinette was any sort of reliable figure in your life, you would have confided in him. Looked to him for guidance. For help. Instead, you'd sat in his office with him for the past hour as he debriefed and lectured you—reamed you—for your handling of Phibes and the ritual.

"It was, quite frankly, irresponsible," he said for the tenth time. His cassock swished around him as he paced before you. "The number of innocent lives that could have been lost."

You rolled your eyes, fully of the belief that he wouldn't have given a shit about any other lives lost at all. You used to give Jinette—give all of your handlers—the benefit of the doubt, used to believe that they cared about innocents. Maybe they had once, but now it was twisted by the power their positions afforded them.

Once they donned a pectoral cross, guilt no longer affected them. It was only a tool used to bend others to their will.

"How can we rely on you to your duty fully if you take the time to negotiate?" He asked. "If you try to reason with agents of evil?"

"Phibes was not evil. He mentioned that God led him to this path," you interjected, and Jinette stopped in his tracks. "That He led Phibes to the ritual in order to reunite him with his wife."

"They would be reunited in Heaven," Jinette dismissed with a hiss. He turned his judgmental, wet eyes to you and glared pointedly. You knew exactly the warning he was trying to convey and you straightened your shoulders.

"It must have been the devil in disguise. Trickery. You, more than anyone, should know how easy it is to fall for temptation." The burn of his stare became righteous, but it was not what caused you to turn your eyes downward.

Was temptation really so bad if it brought you peace? If it made you feel more whole than you'd ever felt in your life? A year with Eddie and you felt sure in your skin, safe, loved. Was that bad? Did that make you evil?

You had let your pain get the best of you in the moment, but after a few days of clarity...Phibes had been right...

What you wouldn't give right now to be back there? To be anywhere but here?

It was regret.

There was a sharp knock at the office door and Jinette sighed and looked at the clock.

"It is time for Mass," he announced. "Think on your sins and the Lord may offer his forgiveness."

After he vacated the office, you forced yourself to your feet, trudged through the rectory, and into the cathedral where you slid into one of the last pews. You would hardly consider yourself a devout attendee—certainly not as you disassociated through the psalms and readings—but you knew if you missed Mass after your supposed sins, there would be Hell to pay.

"...Jesus knew that his hour had come to pass from this world. He loved his own in this world and he loved them til the end..."

You'd heard this Mass before, the Mass of the Lord's Supper. Not your typical Sunday service, so you couldn’t recite it verbatim, but familiar enough. Your Nonna dragged you to as many masses as she could, in every language offered at the local parish, hoping to spare you of this fate in a way she couldn't spare her son or her husband.

Over the years, her hand shrunk in yours. What was once a healthy, strong hand that guided you became small and weak, shriveled and brittle. Until one day, there was no hand left to hold at all.

"...I have given you a model to follow, so that as I have done for you, you should also do."

You spotted a group of women further up the aisle. Novitiates, probably. You could sense a tenuous peace about them. One could tell she was being watched and she turned to look at you. She was young, maybe around your age, and her eyes were wide and curious.

You tried to smile at her, encourage her—it was all you could do not to scream, actually—but she rolled her eyes a little and turned back around.

The sound of rustling bodies washed through the Cathedral like a wave as everyone got to their feet—

"Pray my Sisters and Brothers that my sacrifice and yours should be acceptable to God, The Father, Almighty."

—and as you rose, your stomach dropped.

Your body burned.

It felt like a thousand cuts were made along your skin. You gasped for breath but could find no air. Your bones cracked and crunched beneath an invisible weight, and the pressure felt as though your sides would split and your insides spill out through phantom wounds.

You fell to your knees and grasped the back of the pew in front of you. You tried to make a noise, to call for help, but nothing could overcome the rumble of the congregants.

"Lord have Mercy. Christ have Mercy."

The polished wood splintered under your grip before the world went dark.

When your eyes opened, you were met with a muted haze. A dark sky, with clouds that shifted in tandem with the howling wind, sizzled with infernal lightning over and over.

You laid on cold, damp ground. You could feel it seep through your clothes and leech into your skin, deeper and deeper, until it settled uneasily in your bones. An acrimonious rigor that would have overtaken you had you allowed it.

Something deep within your subconscious wanted you to.

You needed to gain control quickly.

Your fingers dug into the thick, unforgiving clay of the earth beneath you, and you pushed yourself upright, only to be met with a chilling sight that made your heart stop in your chest.

His was body was aligned with yours, the soles of his feet just inches away from brushing against you. His skin was pale and smeared with gore, and his ripped clothes belied the true extent of his injuries. He choked on his blood with fit of coughs, too wet for a death rattle. He was practically drowning in his own life's essence.

Eddie Munson lay dying in front of you, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

Your mind raced. Was this a vision? A prophecy? The gift of sight had never been one you could tap into before. Why now?

Was this a warning? If you didn't stay on the path He had in store for you, didn't listen to those He tasked to guide you, would this be your future?

You could hear a voice—an ominous, venomous voice—at the very corners of your mind, speaking to Eddie.

They left you behind. Left you to this fate. Left you to me.

What did that mean? You didn't leave Eddie. Not really. A part of you would always be with him.

You struggled and scrambled to get to his side. Your hands were unsure of where to touch him, how you could let him know you would be there without bringing him more pain.

He looked up at you with unseeing eyes.

"Eddie, please, please," you begged. "I'm here, I'm here with you."

His eyes wrenched shut and he cried out, mouth opening in a feral, heartbreaking howl.

To do with you what I please.

You knew it wasn't the Devil's voice. He wouldn't taunt and tease this way. It had to be some other malevolent creature who tried to get an innocent soul in its' clutches.

You closed your eyes and concentrated, tried to pour as much of your light into Eddie as you could, but despite his body being torn open the way that it was, he simply would not receive the help you could give.

You knew you couldn't leave him.

But Eddie was already gone.

And do to you, I shall...

When you came to, mass was over.

The closing hymn, heavy with organ song, rang throughout the cathedral as the procession made its way back up the aisle. You watched as Jinette glared at your prone form, laying on the pew, as he passed, but a light voice offered a distraction.

"Slowly, there you go, wake up," it said. A small, strong hand shook your shoulder then carefully tapped your face. "Sister Margaret went to call an ambulance."

"No," you groaned. "No ambulance. I'm fine." You immediately tried to push yourself upright, but the hands held you down to the pew.

"Don't get up, I don't know if you hit your head."

"I don't think so," you muttered. The pain that had wracked your body was nothing but a memory, a tell tale static that surrounded you, much the same way it would if your foot fell asleep.

You finally got your wits about you and found that your savior was the young woman you spotted earlier. Hell, if she didn't already think you were some creep off the street who'd wandered into the cathedral before...

"You're a part of the Order, right?" she asked disarmingly and pointed down to the small medallion that must have escaped from the confines of your shirt when you collapsed. Your hand immediately went to it and tucked it back into its hiding place; it was a reminder...a shackle. "A Knight of the Holy Order. Mother Superior said to steer clear of you if we ever crossed paths with you. She didn't say much else.

"I never thought I'd see one...just...pass out during mass."

"We're normal people," you sighed. "Not...Gods."

"Saints?"

"Sinners," you clarified and she laughed lightly.

"Yeah, me too" she agreed then frowned again. "Do you feel well enough to sit up?”

"I'm fine, just...tired," you explained and pushed her away from you. "I need to get back..."

"Back home?" she asked eagerly.

"Back to my motel." You got to your feet as the organ music stopped and the last few stragglers left. "Thank you for staying with me..."

"Oh...uh...Mary...Victoria..." she provided her name and you must have made a face. "I'm still working on it. I know I have time. But Victoria was my grandmother's name...so..."

"Well, I think it's a lovely name then," you offered a tight smile and your own name, then shuffled past her to make your escape. "See you around Mary Victoria."

March 30th, 1986

In the days following Holy Thursday, something was still off.

You had woken up the following morning with a sore jaw and a hoarse voice. Sometime later that day, you'd started crying blood. Only for an hour, but there was no controlling it. You were overwhelmed with emotion.

Hopelessness was the most prominent of them all.

You hadn't blacked out again, but something lingered beneath the surface. Given Gabriel's warning, you figured it would be best to lay low.

You knew it was a futile attempt to try and summon Gabriel again; he appeared when he felt like it or when it would best serve God.

The only time you’d ever desperately called for him, as fire almost consumed you and damp earth threatened to bury you alive, it had fallen on indifferent ears. It was then that you realized stories about Guardian Angels were just that: stories.

So instead, you went about your day as you typically would. Unless you were summoned somewhere by the clergy, they generally left you to your own devices. Especially on Holy Days like today.

Your plans for Easter Sunday specifically consisted of visiting the local cemeteries—

You would miss mass at the Cathedral today. Running your hands along the marble headstones and brass nameplates of those long-since-passed-and-forgotten and offering them a thought or two brought you more peace than any prayer or blessing would.

—and getting absolutely hammered.

You weren't a big drinker, really, since you typically were expected to have your wits about you. But it was a Holiday and you were far from home and alone. You made a blind choice at the liquor store on your way back from the cemetery, and it would numb you either to the point of blacking out, or make you give into your temptations to call Eddie.

You'd been thinking about him more lately.

Well...that was a lie, you always thought about him. Thought about calling, about visiting. You knew you couldn't trust yourself, so you did what you could to keep him safe. You skipped the letter M in the phonebook on the off chance he had finally made it out of Hawkins to follow his dream. Made it a point not to drive through Indiana if you could help it.

Maybe you didn't want to help it anymore. Maybe you should...maybe not visit...just call him.

Someone had left behind an honest-to-God glass in your motel room, and after a thorough cleaning, you poured yourself a helping of the nondescript amber liquid. It burned on the way down. Maybe it was a warning about the bad decisions that lay ahead of you.

You'd been tempted to call for his birthday last year, for Christmas...you sent a card. No return address, no name. Just a heart. You hoped he knew it was you because he always said your hearts looked like butts.

Another glass and you stood in front of the nightstand. You stared, transfixed, at the dingy rotary phone as you sipped your drink, savoring the burn this time. As if it had a mind of its own, your hand moved to grab the handset, but it just hovered for a moment.

How would Eddie answer? What would you say? What if it wasn't Eddie at all, what if it was Wayne? What if Wayne told you...that Eddie was spending Easter at a girlfriend's house? What would you do? What could you do? You practically forced him to say that he would wait for you...could you really blame him if he didn't?

Next to the phone was the remote for the television.

You hadn't really left him much hope after all.

You grabbed the remote and mindlessly aimed it behind you to turn the small set on. As it came to life and started bleating a commercial for some local restaurant, you momentarily prayed that it wasn't one of those Biblical epics, like The Greatest Story Ever Told.

Instead, the commercial ended and, as you poured yourself one more glass, the sterile voice of a newscaster reached your ears.

"...currently 68 degrees at the Los Angeles Civic Center. Lovely weather for Easter Sunday. For our top story, we bring you live to our own Robert Gilroy in Roane County, Indiana. Rob?"

You turned in shock and stared, dumbfounded, as the screen flashed to show a severe man in a brown suit. He frowned at the camera while a convoy of cars inched by behind him. You couldn't help but notice plumes of black smoke in the distance and you hoped that it was just a defect with the cheap motel tv.

"Thank you Laura. It's been less than 48 hours since a 7.4 Magnitude Earthquake rocked the quaint town of Hawkins, 80 miles outside of Indianapolis in an event that seismologists are calling a natural disaster of near unprecedented scale."

A wash of colorful stripes rolled across the screen before it showed b-roll of people running and crying, of a team of firefighters desperately trying to extinguish the burning Hawkins Public Library building, that was half rubble anyway, a man in camo bandaging a little girl's leg.

"The death toll now stands at 22, but with hundreds more filling Roane County hospitals and many more still missing, officials expect those numbers to rise."

You immediately dropped your glass and turned back to the phone, fumbling with the rotary dial to input a number you knew by heart.

"Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up." You listened as the ringing went on and on and on. You hung up and dialed again, and you desperately hoped you just got the number wrong. You screamed as it didn't even ring, but blared a taunting busy signal. "No! No! Who are you talking to? Pick up!"

"This is only the latest tragedy to befall this once safe town. Most recently, a string of high school students were killed in a series of ritualistic murders which have been linked to a local Satanic cult known as Hellfire."

Your blood ran cold at the word Hellfire and you refused to look at the television.

There was more b-roll, some chitter chatter saying how the Hellfire boys were always up to no good. How some upstanding students were killed, taken too soon.

Your breathing got heavy, enough that you started becoming lightheaded. The alcohol didn't help at all.

You tried to savor the last few minutes of ignorance as you wrenched your eyes shut, because if you didn't see it. It wasn't real.

"Eddie Munson, the leader of this cult and prime suspect in the murders..."

But you knew. You knew that this was the moment. You knew that this was what Gabriel meant. If you went to Hawkins, if you had to fight for Eddie, you would do it in a heartbeat and you wouldn't stop until you died.

"...has been missing since the earthquake..."

Those seconds that the reporter needed to take his dramatic breath were an eternity, one you would savor. Because it was easier to pretend that the only thing you had to do was just stop yourself from going to Hawkins, stop yourself from being selfish and wrathful, to punish those who would accuse the sweet, dumb, foolish, clumsy, trustworthy innocent love of your life.

It was just easier if you still lived in a world where you didn't have to hear what you knew was coming next.

"...and is presumed dead."

People often mistook the power of heaven to be one of peace, of hope, of new beginnings. And it could be. It usually was. But they forgot that the beginning of one thing was also the end of something else.

Divine retribution, a burning smiting wrath, the like of which had leveled Sodom and Gomorrah, flowed freely with your grief. It was illogical and irrational and inexplicable to any mortal, including you.

You remembered screaming.

Remembered the pain of the bones in your fingers splintering as you dug them into your skull. Your nails cut deep into the flesh of your scalp as you peeled the hair and flesh, as you opened the top of yourself to release the pressure that had suddenly and violently built up in your core.

Glass disintegrated into sand, furniture turned to ash, even the frame of the building began to buckle.

But there was a voice that called your name. A soft, sobbing voice that pulled you back from the edge of whatever precipice you subconsciously teetered on.

"It’ll be ok. I’m here."

You could practically feel arms slither around you, the phantom weight of them pressed into your skin. Dextrous fingers wove together with yours, soothed them, healed them. They caressed your wounds and the broken flesh stitched itself back together.

A cool breath grazed your ear and the screams that ripped from you began to subside. It shushed you and said unascertainable words of comfort as your fury subsided into woe.

"Close your eyes. It'll all go away if you don't look."

"But you're gone," you wept. The tears rolled down your cheeks and over your lips. You sniffled and licked at them; blood, again. "Why?"

There was no answer. You were about to open your eyes, eager to see and not just to feel, but the fingers glided over your face again. Over your cheeks to wipe the blood from them, over your lips to play with the softness of them, then over your eyelids.

Places he liked to kiss...places you wished you could feel lips instead...wished you could know that he was there.

"I'll never really leave. Even if you can't see me. I’m here.”

Every fiber of your being wanted to go, would have walked to Hawkins, run til your feet bled, to find his body. To clear his name. To say goodbye.

To die a most miserable death. Like Phibes and his Rose.

You would leave this world, happily, if it meant you could be by his side. But there was no guarantee. You could toil for a lifetime and hope to join him, and still be denied access to Heaven.

“I’ll be waiting for you. As long as it takes. I’ll be here.”

You heard the lovely whisper of your name, over and over as you sunk to your knees and you curled in on yourself. Every second it faded into the depths of your mind, and you couldn't help but crack your eyes open.

Lightning struck, the firefighters would explain to you later, on a clear day. The building went ablaze and was destroyed, but all the rooms were empty except for yours. The paramedics said it was a miracle you weren't injured. They touched you lightly, almost reverently.

"Hallelujah."

You were alone again.

It was a disquieting procession.

The creatures moved in a way that seemed unnatural, unfamiliar to them. Their feet shuffled across the barren waste and they dragged a hulking beast behind them. It was a large and ominous and twitching thing, and although the formality of this event it felt like a funeral, you knew that you were witnessing a birth instead.

The wings conjured images of Beelzebub...but Asmodeus felt like a more fitting comparison given how familiar you were with the inner workings of its mind.

Thinking of him as Beast or It was wrong. It felt sinewy and astringent. A bite you were reluctant to take.

You bore witness for three days.

It took two to break him, but images would haunt your mind and your heart for eternity. You tried to protect him, tried to undo what was done. You offered him comfort and a place to hide when he desperately needed a break he would never get.

How he had survived it, you would never know? But he was always stronger than you; if not in body, then in spirit. You never lasted long before you were forced to pull him back in. If you had remained, given him a longer rest, you knew you would have broken before he did.

He finally begged for mercy. He finally relinquished his soul.

You would stay beside him. No matter what they did to him. No matter what he did to himself.

They dragged him to their pit to put him back together again, and you forced yourself to watch, to listen, and to pray that every addition and alteration would stick. That he wouldn't have gone through the torture only to perish so close to the end of it.

You wondered where prayers went when they were made in Hell. Did they reach God's ears? Were they intercepted by Lucifer and his court? Or did they just...float in the void of oblivion?

He muttered words, you'd even heard your name escape his lips several times before they filled his mouth with too many teeth to speak.

By the end of the third day, he rose again.

And you sobbed in relief because somehow the sight of him complete, the sight of him rising and blinking and roaring brought you more comfort and warmth and joy than you had ever felt in your cursed existence.

It didn't matter how grim of vision he was. There was a beauty in that too. The beauty existed...simply because he still did.

Whatever they did to him, he was alive, and he would always be your Eddie. And that meant you had a chance to save him.

“When you loved someone, you put their needs before your own. No matter how inconceivable those needs were; no matter how fucked up; no matter how much it made you feel like you were ripping yourself into pieces.” — Jodi Picoult, The Pact

Special thanks to @big-ope-vibes and @pastel-pillows who can read even though she says she does not. And @fracturedarkness who I am determined to destroy/delight with this story.

Next Chapter: Illumination

[soup-14]

Dutch Van Der Linde x gn!Reader

Summary: You and the boys go on a job in Saint Denis and end up hiding from the law.

Warnings: smoking, violence, mild cursing, Dutch mentioning mangoes.

“Trelawny got a tip about some sort of secret operation. It's in the basement of a saloon, in Saint Denis.” You say leaning up against the post of Dutch’s tent. “Said it should be easy. Sneak in the back door, down the stairs, quietly take out any threats, grab the cash, sneak back out, split up.”

Dutch stands from his chair and pulls a cigar from a small box on his shelf. He holds it in his teeth and reaches for his matchbox. He opens it only to find it empty, he growls and tosses it aside.

He turns back towards you, a scowl now set on his brow, only to be met with a lit match held out to him. He shields the cigar and leans towards the match in your fingers. Once lit you shake out the flame and toss the old match into the grass. Dutch removes the cigar from his teeth and blows out a puff of thick smoke. “It sounds too easy. Could be a setup, who told him about it?”

You shrug. “Josiah’s got strange connections you know that.”

Dutch hums and steps out of his tent. “Let’s see what Hosea has to say.” He walks to one of the large wooden tables and leans over the map splayed out on its surface.

Hosea sits in a wooden chair at the table already examining the map. “What have you got for us now Dutch?” He asks.

“I would say ask Trelawny but he’s already disappeared again.”

“As he does.”

“So what do you think?”

“I think it’s worth a shot, bring with you some… quieter folk and I think you could get it done.”

“Alright then. I say we hit it Sunday morning, when business is slower, all them fancy folk will be in church.”

Come early Sunday morning, Dutch, Arthur, Javier and yourself mount up. All of you dressed in slightly more cleaned up clothes. The ride to Saint Denis is short, and soon your posse rides through its golden gates.

There are people out on the streets, stages and wagons a plenty, but as Dutch suspected most folks were headed toward various churches around the city. The perfect way to distract from you and your boys.

You ride slow and casual through the streets, leading the way to the cash. You decide to hitch your horses at the end of the block and head through the alley on foot.

Once reaching the back door of the saloon, you try the handle, locked.

“Here let me.” Javier pulls a lock pick from his coat and swiftly gets the door open, which squeaks lightly as it opens. You all cringe at the sound and Arthur hurries inside making sure the way is clear. He gives the signal and the rest of you tiptoe inside. You draw your throwing knifes and creep down the cellar stairs.

Around the corner you can see three men sitting around a table, two towards the back and one on a couch with a woman. Lemoyne Raiders, and they all have guns.

You look at Dutch letting him make the first move. He draws a throwing knife and signals to take out the men at the table, for Arthur to take the two in back and Javier the others.

He counts three… two… one… on his fingers, then hell breaks loose.

You throw two knifes quick, killing two men at the table. Dutch gets the third between the eyes. Arthur and Javier rush the others. Javier kills his man just fine but the lady is screaming and he doesn’t know if he should kill her or not, he decides to let her go. Arthur is able to get one of his guys with a knife in the neck but the other had just enough time to draw his gun.

The shot goes off splitting the previous silence in the room. The bullet nearly misses Arthur and lodges itself into the war wall. Arthur draws his cattleman fast and shoots him a few times in the gut. “Goddamn it.” He curses. “The law will have heard that.”

“You’re right,” says Dutch “we have to move quick, where the money?”

The four of you rumage through the room stashing whatever valuables you can find. Pocket watches, some jewelry, $15, crackers, cigarettes…

“Aha.” Dutch exclaims from across the room. “This should be it.” Dutch heaves a huge lockbox onto the table and fiddles with the lock. “Javier, would you be so kind?” Javier reaches for his lock pick again.

Once the lock clicks free he opens the lid to reveal large wads of the sweet green you were looking for. Each of you takes a couple stacks in your satchels, hurry back upstairs, and out the back door.

“We split up from here.” Says Dutch “conceal the money, stay out of sight, don’t head straight back to camp.”

You all nod in response and go your separate ways.

The sound of lawmen shouting and blowing their whistles echos across Saint Denis. You keep close to the shadows and try to make yourself as inconspicuous as possible. You turn down a dark alleyway, trying to keep your path untraceable. You hold up against a wall, taking a short break, waiting for the lawmen to settle down.

You continue down the winding alley and around a corner, keeping your gun tight in your hand. You turn your back for less than a second when the sound of a gun being cocked behind you.

Your heart stops in your chest and your breath hitches. “Stick em up.” says the perpetrator. You know that voice, Dutch. You place your gun in its holster and raise your hands slowly, turning towards him. “Now Dutch, you wouldn’t shoot me would you?”

A breath escapes his lips as your face comes into view. "My Dear." Dutch quickly holsters his gun and steps towards you. Hands still raised you walk to him and drape your arms over his shoulders. He places his large hands on your waist and pulls your body to his.

"Gave me quite a fright there Darlin'." Says Dutch.

"I knew it was you, Dutch. Only one mans gotta voice like that."

Dutch chuckles deeply and places a firm kiss on your lips. "Are you alright?" He asks once pulling away.

"Of course. You?"

"More than that. We've just got a decent score My Love, I can smell the mangoes from here."

"I sure damn hope so Van Der Linde." You laugh. "Now let's get outa here while we can."

"Agreed." Dutch pulls you in for another kiss, then grabs your hands and leads you through the alley.

AN: Thanks for reading. I didn't know how to end this one lmao.

[lyranova]

helloo. may i please request a fanfiction where Asta, Yuno and (Y/n) grew up together? and the two are just really, protective and soft over the clumsy and shy (y/n)? thank you!

Hiya anon! Of course you may, and I hope you enjoy~!

Word Count: 913

Warning: None

------

“ Hey guys, wait for me!” The young woman shouted as she chased after her foster brothers Asta and Yuno, the two were going off to train, and she wanted to join them. But as she was running up the small hill, her foot got caught on a rock, causing her to trip and fall face-first onto the ground.''

“ Hey! Are you okay?” Asta shouted in concern as he ran over towards her, with Yuno walking quickly beside him towards her. The young woman quickly jumped up, dusted herself off, and nodded.

“ I’m fine! See? Not even a scratch-!” They started confidently before they tried to flex their knee, she winced in pain, and they all looked down to see she had scuffed her knee on the ground.

“ You’re right, you didn’t get scratched,” Yuno said with a roll of his eyes as he knelt down. “ You have a large gaping wound.” He added seriously, causing both Asta and the woman to gasp.

“ R-Really?!” They asked in unison, and they both suddenly watched Yuno’s shoulders shake as he hid his face.

“ You’re both so gullible,” Yuno said as he looked up at them. “ It’s not a ‘gaping wound’ but it is a serious injury. You’ll probably need Sister Lily to take a look at it.” He added as he stopped laughing.

“ Aw, but…I don’t want to go back to the church, I want to go with you two…” She said shyly but with a small pout. Yuno and Asta looked at each other for a moment before Asta knelt down and turned his back toward her.

“ Hop on, I’ll give you a lift!” Asta said loudly, and the young woman’s face turned red.

“ I-It’s okay! I can walk!” She insisted, but Yuno and Asta weren’t having it.

“ Just get on, otherwise you’ll make your leg worse,” Yuno said seriously and Asta turned to look at her from over his shoulder, and he had a big smile on his face.

“ C’mon, this’ll help with my strength training and my endurance!” Asta told her brightly, and the woman looked between them for a moment before quietly agreeing.

She climbed onto Asta’s back and allowed him to carry her back to the church.

“ You know we aren’t going to be here to help you much longer, what’re you going to do when we’re gone, and you get injured?” Yuno asked with a shake of his head.

“ I-I’ll just…ask someone else for help, or, I-I’ll make it back myself!” She muttered.

“ You’re going to ask a stranger for help?!” Asta shouted loudly as he turned to glance at her out of the corner of his eye. “ What if they lie to you and take you somewhere else?!”

“ Or what they hurt you? Or cause your injury to become worse?” Yuno asked as he crossed his arms, and the woman giggled a bit.

“ You two are too overprotective, no one in Hage is going to hurt me or lie to me.” The woman said with a giggle.

Asta and Yuno were very overprotective of her and had been ever since they were kids, they always went with her into their small town or into the big city. And they always made sure she got enough food, and if anyone ever dared to flirt with her, they would stand behind her, glaring daggers at her potential suitors.

They were her big brothers, and she loved them dearly. Even if they were a bit overprotective.

The three of them quietly walked back to the church, and when Asta set her down on the small bench just outside the door, she quickly grabbed his and Yuno’s sleeves.

“ Promise, Promise, you two will wait for me to get patched up before you go train!” She asked, and Yuno and Asta both tilted their heads.

“ Why are you so determined to watch us train?’’ Yuno asked with a frown.

“ Yeah, usually you say training is boring since we won’t let you train with us, so what’s up?” Asta asked with a tilt of his head as he crossed his arms.

“ I just…I just want to spend more time with you two,” She said as she suddenly began to sniffle. “ You two leave in a few weeks, so…that’s why I want to watch you train, so we can still spend some time together before you go.” She admitted with another sniffle.

Asta and Yuno looked at each other, they really had no idea that she felt this way, but now as they thought about it, it all made sense. Why she was determined to go with them wherever they went, why she wanted to watch them spar and train, and why she had been a little more clingy than before.

Asta stepped forward and placed a hand on her head before he gently patted it. While Yuno walked over and just placed a hand on her shoulder. When the woman looked up at the two, she saw them smiling warmly down her.

“ We didn’t know, we’re sorry,” Asta said. “ But we still have time.”

“ Asta’s right, just because you miss us training for one day isn’t the end of the world,” Yuno said. “ We still have a few weeks, and from today on we’ll all spend time together, okay?”

The woman sniffled before nodding, and with that Asta and Yuno decided to train a little closer to the Church so that way she could watch them and spend time with them, while her injury healed.

-----

Thank you all so much for reading and I hope you all have a good~!

[kjmalfoy]

Filthy Criminal• 18+ Content

Warnings- Gun Play, Knife Play, Mentions of Stealing, Cursing, Degrading, Praising, Unprotected Sex, Vaginal Sex, Spitting, Breeding, Spanking, Rough Sex, Dom/Sub Dynamic, Pet Names (Dollface, Babydoll), Overstimulation, Pantie Kink, Authority Kink.

Summary- Greed powered your veins, taking over your morals. You snuck into your supervisors office, eyes set on stealing his prized possession— until he caught you in the act.

Pairings- Rough!Supervisor!Bucky & Criminal!Submissive!Reader

Word Count- 4.6k

Author’s Note- You can tell I’m down tremendously bad, I will be attending Sunday church after this.

A criminal, a title you became accustomed to. You were one of New York’s most wanted fugitives, nearly top 5 most wanted on the FBI watch list. You stole from anyone, not caring what their reputation held or what their connections were.

If you wanted something, you got it— no matter the price.

Currently, you worked for the notorious Winter Soldier— becoming his corporation’s full-time pirate. Anything Barnes wished for, you got it. But, this time? You were swindling from the Winter Soldier himself.

Recently, Barnes bought a historical dagger from Mesopotamia, the first civilized city on the planet. It was the same blade you had your eyes on since it went on display at the museum— the only downside, your supervisor put the order on before you could snatch it.

Of course, none of that stopped you. Your heart was set on having that dagger, and you were going to get it— at any rate.

Today was the perfect day. The mansion was vacant, along with James’ office. James and a few of his armed guards were attending a business seminar with Stark Industries, allowing you to snatch the dagger before someone detected you.

You checked the surrounding area, making sure none of the guards stayed behind. The halls were clear, the security cameras currently down— giving you the chance to quickly slip into his office without a trace.

His office was simple, with dark curtains and decor— files on files piled lazily on his desk. Your eyes nearly lit up once you saw the dagger— displayed proudly on the center of his desk. The copper blade shimmered in the dim light, the moon reflecting off the stone.

“God, aren’t you a beauty.” You mumbled to yourself, cautiously tip-toeing over to the desk. Your hands jerked as you reached for the blade, the digits of your fingers just barely scuffing the handle.

Your body froze entirely when you felt the frigid metal of a pistol loaded at your head, the thick sound of it being cocked back made you squirm. You closed your eyes, mentally screaming at yourself for getting caught so easily.

Whoever held the gun to your head chuckled behind you, placing a hand on your waist— fingertips digging into your flesh. “Stealing from me, babydoll?”

It was James. You knew that voice anywhere.

“Sir-“

���Speak and I swear to god, I will blow your fucking brains out.” He said sternly, pressing the tip of the gun into the back of your skull— enough to make your head throb from the pain.

You gnawed at your lip, obeying your boss’ orders. You stayed silent, listening to James click his tongue— his foot tapping against the floorboards. The silence was dangerous, the eerie feeling making your skin crawl.

You couldn’t move an inch, your body was paralyzed in panic. You feared no one— everyone feared you, but James? He was by far the most cold-hearted and formidable person you met. He had everyone wrapped around his finger, kneeling at his request.

James was pretentious, defiant, and bitter. He had all the right to be, he was a man of truth after all. James never once spoke a lie, he always crossed his heart— kissing the cross on his chest as he spoke.

“My, my. What should I do with you? I have to punish you.” James insinuated, the grip on your waist tightening by the millisecond.

You opened your eyes, looking at the window in front of you. James stood behind you, his hair was slightly disheveled, his black tie loosened around his neck— the veins in his neck pulsing as he fastened his fingers around the handle of the gun.

You found yourself breathing heavy— getting excited by the current situation. The adrenaline was surging through your veins, electricity coursing through your skin. The way his hands felt against your body made you shiver, the cold metal huddled against your head lighting a flame to every hormone in your body.

“Cat got your tongue, dollface? Or are you too afraid to disobey me?” He asked, his tone flat and gravel— as if he was wishing you would define him.

You scoffed, instantly regretting your decision. “Don’t know what you're talking about, Sir.” You spoke firmly, holding your confidence high— letting it ooze down your body.

“Do you think I’m stupid, Y/n? Mm, let’s talk about your punishment.” James said, his patience completely worn out from your sassy remark. “You’ve been such a naughty girl.” He added on, his voice turning into a sultry growl— his hot breath tickling the back of your neck.

“Punishment? Oh, what type of punishment, Sir? You asked playfully, squirming underneath his grip— kneading your ass against his crotch.

James nearly groaned, a raspy chuckle flowing off his tongue— withering down your spine. “Don’t push it, babydoll. Now, you want my glock or the fucking dagger?” He warned.

Your hormones went into turmoil, heat pooling from your cunt— your slick dripping onto the stretch of your panties. Your head was hazy, unable to process his question fully— leaving you dumb. James scoffed, growing tired of the silence. He drew his hand back, removing it from your waist and using it to strike you across the ass— his handprint painted underneath your pants.

“Fuckin’ answer me, Y/n. I don’t have time for your games.” He demanded, patience growing thin and sexual frustration growing robust.

“Both. God, use both.” You begged out in desperation, finally giving in to James’ demands.

You heard James chuckle from behind you, finally placing the gun aside. His free hand slithered around to grab the dagger, gently clasping it around his palms. “I’m gonna treat you like a fuckin toy, got that?” He growled, dragging the knife down your shirt— ripping the fabric in half.

Your body fluttered, the cold air of the room hitting your exposed back— nipples hardening underneath the fabric of your bra. James nearly went feral at the sight, the deep red color of your bra sending him overboard— wondering if you had panties to match.

“Did you not hear me?” He asked, spanking your ass again— adding force to his palms as he did so.

Your breathing shuddered, watching as James placed the dagger aside— his fingers hooking underneath the waistband of your leggings. “Yes, sir. I heard you.” You exhaled.

James smiled, caressing his large-sized palms along your waist— drawing them down to the curve of your hips. “For such a filthy, scum of a criminal, you have such a gorgeous body.” He degraded, his firm words making you whine.

You choked on your whimpers, roughly slapping both hands over your mouth. James snickered at your innocent reaction, continuing to whisper degrading comments in your ear— hands still ravaging your body. Your body was burning from his intoxicating touch, blood rushing through your veins— your temperature rising hastily.

In a swift moment, James had your back shoved against the desk— his steel eyes devouring your body with a single look. He scanned you carefully, a sinister grimace spreading across his face. “Take off your pants.” He demanded, reaching for the pistol that laid next to your body.

His fingers bandaged around the gun, your eyes watching him intently. James traced the gun down the middle of your chest, gripping the handle with all his strength as a shaky moan left the tip of your tongue. He nudged the gun into the middle of your stomach, leaving a circle indent from the pressure. “Strip, I want to see you.” He ordered.

You gulped down the dry lump in your throat, dragging your fingers underneath your leggings. You pulled the fabric off your ankles, booting them aside— not caring where they landed. You stood bare in front of James, wearing nothing but a matching red lingerie set. James sucked in his bottom lip, shoulders puffing up as he reached for the hem on your underwear.

“These are pretty, babydoll. Take em off and leave them on my desk.” James barked, his pinky grazing the damp spot above your clit— the sweet friction making you moan in delight.

Your eyebrows wrinkled together in humiliation, but nonetheless bowing to his request. You hooked your index finger around the waistband of your panties— pulling them down your plush thighs. Your cunt was completely exposed, your wetness glistening off your thighs, seeping down your legs.

You did as you were told, placing your red panties on the middle of his desk— adding color to the dark mahogany wood. “Good girl, now take the dagger and cut your bra off.” James praised.

You were humiliated. James looked at you as if you were nothing— nothing but a whore used for his enjoyment. You choked down the dry feeling in your throat, reaching for the blade that laid on his desk. You licked your lips slowly, pointing the blade to the straps of your bra.

You sliced the straps in half, letting them slide off your shoulders— leaving the center of the bra. James gawked in lust as you pushed the dagger into your skin, dragging it down the center fabric. You looked at James with wide eyes, giving him your best puppy dog expression— the lace seams shredding underneath the blade.

The lace bra fell to the ground, your perky breast now fully exposed— your body now given to his mercy. James studied your body, his moist tongue rolling over his lips. He wrapped his fingers around the glock, an evil smirk plastered across his chiseled face. James pressed the gun into the flesh of your shoulder, pushing you down slightly.

“Lay on your back, and spread your legs.” He instructed you, not bothering to strip out of his clothes.

You nodded your head, hoisting both your feet on the edge of the desk— spreading your legs apart as you laid on your back. Your warm slick dripped onto his desk, your pussy drenched in your arousal. James’ eyes broadened, his mouth slightly ajar as he watched your juices ooze out of you.

“Jesus Christ, babydoll. You’re fuckin’ drenched.” He idolized, running the head of the gun up your folds. “What are you, a shameless slut?” He degraded, watching how your body reacted to the feeling of his pistol.

Your eyes crossed over, sweet moans spilling out of your mouth— the cold metal of his gun nearly fucking you stupid. “Oh, yes. Fuck, I am.”

James slapped the side of the gun against your cunt, the sound of your wetness filling his ears sweetly. “Mm, that’s my good little babydoll. Now, I’m gonna fuck this sweet little pussy of yours. Stuff it full with my glock.”

You moaned softly at the touch, nodding your head frantically. God, you were so needy to feel him— to feel his gun stretch out your walls, to prepare your pussy for the feeling of his thick cock. James watched you like a hawk, the tent in his pants becoming tight as your body faded against his toying touch.

James brought the gun to his face, flattening out his tongue— pressing the metal against the pink flesh. He hummed in delight, the taste of your juices coating every inch of his wide tongue. His eyes practically rolled back, the taste of your fluids sending him overboard.

You watched James intensely, your eyes following his fingers as he cocked back the gun— the sound of metal bullets hitting the floor made you tremble in goosebumps. “I know you love the adrenaline, but I’d like to keep you in one piece until I can stuff my dick inside you.” He ridiculed, his steel eyes glowing in sinful desires.

You lost your ability to speak, the thought process of forming a sentence completely obliterated. You whimpered in response, giving James the satisfaction of knowing he already fucked you stupid with his words. The cold tip of the gun rushed through your body, the barrel slowly being pushed inside you. Your hips buckled, eyes crossing over together as James pushed the barrel fully inside you.

Your hands excitedly reached for the edge of the desk, digging your fingernails into the wood as he started moving the barrel in circles. A loud yelp flowed off the tip of your tongue, your body melting into putty as James consistently fucked you with his gun— pushing into you until he reached your sweet spot.

Your body jolted with each thrust, the legs of the desk scratching the floor as your body shook. “You like being fucked with my gun, Dollface? Hm, like being treated like my fuckin toy?” James mocked you, watching as your body submitted to him— as if he was of higher power.

Your eyebrows crumpled together, pain and pleasure washing over your core— your hands hopelessly latching onto the flesh of James’ forearm. Your mouth hung open, unable to form words— only broken moans slipping off your wet tongue.

“I’m sorry, babydoll. I didn’t hear you?” He taunted you, moving his wrist— fucking you faster with the metal of his pistol.

Your eyes shot open, pupils enlarged. Your back arched, hips bucking with each ragged movement. “Ah, fuck. Fuck, yes!” You cried out, tears filling up your beautiful eyes.

James smirked, slowing down the harsh pace of his wrist— letting nothing but pleasure take over your body. “Mhm, I bet you do. My good little fucktoy.” He degraded, a mocking pout wiping over his face— watching yours contort at his jabs.

An erotic expression washed over your face, eyes crossing over as your eyebrows furrowed into a thick knot. You felt the room spin, your mind in a deep haze— thought process foggy and wiped out. Your knees gave out, your strength weakened— barely able to keep your legs propped up.

Your body was close, the uneasy knot grinding against your core— your abdomen tightening, muscles flexing as your body trembled. James watched in all his glory, his eyes glowing a dark fury; nothing but the devil peeking through his sinful smirk.

“You wanna cum, dollface? Beg me. Beg for me to let you cum all over my glock.” James spoke firmly, roughly bringing his movements to a halt.

You whined at the sudden stop, a single teardrop streaming down your flustered cheek. The knot in your core was tied tight, your whole body engulfed in an uncomfortable heat— begging to be set free.

“Please, James. Please let cum, I can’t hold it anymore!” You wailed, screwing your bright eyes shut.

“C’mon, babydoll. Tell me where you wanna cum.” James chuckled, refusing to cave into your small and worthless pleas.

“James, baby. Please, let me cum all over your gun. Baby, please.” You begged, opening your eyes; revealing nothing but a dam of tears— letting them stream down your face.

James smiled, his ego rocketing at the sweet sound of your moans— his name flowing off your tongue like fresh vanilla. He pumped the barrel faster, your clear liquids shining through dull metal. “Cream my glock, dollface. Show me what a good little whore you are.” He said, his tough hands clasping onto your chin, calloused fingertips digging into your flesh— patting the side of your cheeks.

Your ears flared in heat, thick streams of blood rushing to your head— making you see stars. The fast movements made your core snap, the tight feeling engulfing your whole body— legs quivering as your hips bucked upwards. The creamy white substances coated the metal gun, taking away from the charcoal grey color.

James sucked his teeth, his eyes memorized by your orgasmic expression. He felt his jeans tightening, his tent growing prominent— his cock nearly bursting through the seams. “I bet you taste good, too bad this is your mess to clean up.” He cocked an eyebrow, slowly pulling the gun from your utilized hole.

He smacked the head of it against your lips, the salty taste of your fluids leaking through your lips. You moaned against your tongue, giving James wide eyes. “Yes sir.” You complied, sticking out your tongue— letting James gag you with his gun.

You worked your tongue around the barrel, sucking up every drop of your cum— engrossed with the taste of yourself. James watched with heavy eyes, forcefully pushing the gun further down your throat. “Mhm, just like that. Gag on it, babydoll.” He chuckled, using his free hand to wipe your tears.

You hallowed out your cheeks, taking the gun to the back of your throat— your tonsils swinging against the barrel. James muttered a small moan underneath his breath, his nostrils flaring as he watched you.

“Fuck, I can’t wait to break you.”

Eyes widened, you looked down— nearly foaming at the mouth from the sight of his erection pressing against the zipper of his jeans. “Mm, you did that to me. All you, babydoll.” James cooed, tossing the gun on his desk— your saliva dripping down the side of it.

James bucked his hips into the crook of his hand, palming the hardness of his cock through the denim jeans. His steel eyes hooded, the friction making his nose flare— jaw tensing as he massaged himself. He looked down at you through his eyelashes, his evil smirk resting lazily on his face.

“You want this, babydoll? Or did my gun fuck you stupid already?” James asked with a mocking tone, his coarse fingers fiddling with his belt buckle.

You licked your lips, eyes nearly popping out of your sockets at the sight of him. “Yes, please. I want it so bad.” You adjusted your body, lifting your foot off the desk— using it to palm James through his jeans.

“That’s my good little babydoll, so desperate for me.” He ridiculed you, pulling his belt from the loops— dropping it to the floor.

You looked up at James, those beautiful blue eyes clouded with a sinister desire— sparks of electricity in his irises. His fingers linked under his shirt, clasping the hem and lifting it over his head— tossing it across the room without care. James worked the button of his jeans, slowly— teasingly pulling down the zipper.

His eyes never left yours, his feet moving on their own as they kicked off his jeans— stumbling with excitement. James’ Ralph Lauren boxers clung to his muscular body, his rock-hard erection pressed against the seems— desperate to feel your warm walls. Pre-cum was dripping from his head, leaving a damp spot on the grey-colored briefs, the arousal on full display.

“My apologies if I ruin these.” James tugged down his boxers, reaching for your pretty red panties and wrapping them around his length.

You nearly choked on spit, watching with desire as James jerked off to your panties. Shaky grunts and guttural curse words filled the office, his pearly whites on display with each hiss of pleasure. His biceps flexed with each pump, aggression tight in his fist— the grip on his cock making his veins pop.

James stroked his cock, his pre-ejaculate adding to the previous damp spot on your panties. “You want this inside you, hm?” His voice was shaky, his sweet pleasure melting off his pink tongue.

“Yes, please. Just fuck me already.” You begged, eyes clouded with nothing but a sexual longing.

James cocked a smile, tossing your panties back onto the desk. His rough hands gripped the flesh of your thigh, pushing your legs against your chest— standing in between you. The length of his cock brushed against your slick folds, your shoulders shuddering together from the tight friction.

With his free hand, he took hold of his shaft— lining it up to your tight hole. James tucked his face into the crook of your neck, a bright smile forming on his face as he pushed himself inside you— your shaky moans trickling down his neck. James nibbled on your salty neck, the taste of sweat and tears coating his taste buds.

His wet lips soothed your sultry skin, sharp pearly white digging in your skin— his kisses trailing up to your jawline. Your mouth was ajar, small measly moans slipping through your swollen lips— being swallowed up by James’ rough kiss. His lips were soft, defining his rough and demanding movements— nothing but sweetness and passion taunting his lips.

His tongue swiped across your mouth, the leftover taste of your release washing over his taste buds. James tucked his hand on the back of your neck, your thick strands of hair tangling between his fingers. He brought your face closer, eagerly diving deeper into the taste of your lips— becoming drunk off your touch.

Your head stiffened, James’ possessive clasp on the back of your neck restricted any movement— urging to keep you close to him. James pulled away, his swollen lips still brushing against yours— watching your lips quiver as you inhaled sharply. “Be a good bitch and open your mouth.” He solicited, nuzzling his lips against yours.

You shamefully obeyed, your tongue poking past your bruised lips— mouth hanging open at his mercy. James smirked proudly, pursing his lips together— using his tongue to swirl his spit around. You looked up into his rich eyes— eyebrows clustered together as you watched his spit drip onto your tongue, swallowing it thickly.

“Good. Now, hold your legs up so I can fuck you like the whore you are.” He instructed, slowly retracting his cock before teasing your tight hole.

Your sweaty palms gripped the underside of your thighs, keeping them firmly pressed against your chest. You could feel his hips bucked against your thighs, his skin smacking against you— red marks coating your delicate skin. James’ cock fucked you with ease, your warm slick coated his girth length entirely— nearly making him unravel.

James let out a trembled exhale, his nose crunched together as your walls clasped around him— squeezing his cock entirely, milking him for every inch he stuffed you with. His brown hair fell flat against his face, the soft strands of hair sticking against his sweaty forehead— his sweat dripping down his body, making his abs glisten in the dark lighting.

With each thrust, James picked up his pace— your body jolting against the desk with every harsh stroke of his hips. “Oh, fuck! Shit, James!” You cried out, pain mixing into the pleasure that overwhelmed your body.

“Fuck, Y/n. Be quiet, I don’t want anyone hearing how much of a filthy whore you are.” James gritted his teeth, slamming himself inside you, burying his cock deep inside your warm walls.

The pleasure was overbearing, your mind melted into putty— his cock truly fucking your stupid. You lazily held your legs up, thighs aching with a tight painful pleasure as James fucked you with no remorse— showing your body no mercy. James pressed his thumb against your bundle of nerves, drawing circles on your swollen clit.

“Oh, James.” You moaned.

James looked at you, danger clouding those rich blue eyes. His movements stopped suddenly, his fingertips digging into the side of your neck— tears forming in your eyes from the violent grip. “Babydoll, keep that pretty little mouth shut or I'll gag you with your own panties.”

His eyebrows furrowed together, looking down at you with mockery— waiting for you to answer him. “Hm, c’mon use your tongue, dollface.” He teased you.

Your lips quivered, a shaky breath pushing its way off your teeth. “Please, sir. I swear I won’t make a sound.” You begged, aching to feel him inside you again.

“Awe, does my pretty little doll miss my cock inside her?” James widened his eyes, giving you a puppy-dog expression. His hands worked the bottom of his shaft, using your slick as a lubricant— slowly pushing the head back into your sex.

“Fuck, James. Shit, I miss it so much, so fucking much.” You moaned, hips bucking into James’ hopelessly trying to feel friction.

James slammed inside you, his heavy balls smacking against your asscheeks— tight walls swallowing every inch. Your body jolted, back arched and chest pressed against James. “God, babydoll. You’re so fucking tight.” He gritted his teeth, bottoming out every inch of his length.

His strokes were intense— aggression buried with every thrust of his hips, forcing nothing but pain and pleasure into your body. You could feel your head spinning, mind getting high off James’ touch— the aura radiating from his body becoming your favorite drug of all time.

You looked up at James with fucked-out eyes, his cold eyes staring into you like a hungry animal. Without say, his body was pushing you into his desk— lips colliding with yours. Your eyelashes fluttered shut, moans being swallowed by James as his tongue danced around yours— tasting every inch of your body.

James bucked his hips stiffly, snaking his arm around your body— pressing the digit of his thumb against your clit, drawing circles against the abused bundle of nerves. Your legs trembled, arms threatening to give out— an overwhelming knot bubbling in your stomach, waiting to snap at his mercy.

“Mm, I want to see you cum all over my cock, babydoll. Cream all over my dick, all fucking over it.” James mumbled against your skin, his hot breath tickling your skin as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

You withered against James, his hot breath making your skin tingle with lust. Your body was punch drunk, intoxicated with the feeling of his cock plowing past your walls— twitching against the warmth of your cunt, aching to release his seed.

James watched as your legs trembled, tight knots tickling your aching thighs. James reached for your calves, placing both legs on his shoulders— letting his sex push into your cervix, hitting a new pleasure. “Fuck, dollface.” He grunted out, pushing lazy strokes into you— chasing out your high.

You huffed in, nibbling on the bruised skin of your lips— your stomach turned flips, body threatening to snap with each thrust. James drew rigid circles on your clit, his neat movements turning sloppy— focused on making you cream his cock.

“Mm, shit. How about I cum in this pretty little pussy? You want that, babydoll?” James muttered out, his breathing broken into choppy huffs of air.

Eyes crossed, you mumbled a short yes.

James gripped your cheeks, the pads of his fingers digging into your flesh— leaving abrasion on your delicate skin. “What was that? Use your words, babydoll.” He said firmly, looking down at you with starved eyes.

“God, yes! Please, James!” You wailed— eager, aching to feel his warm cum inside you.

“Whatever my babydoll wants, she gets.” He grunted out, forcing one more thrust inside you.

You felt your core snap, that tight knot engulfing into pleasure— your entire body absorbing the punch-drunk feeling of his cock, letting your sex cream around his length. Your body jolted with each sloppy thrust, James fucked you through your orgasm— forcing your body to take him until his core unraveled.

James huffed, his chest caving in— shoulders puffing with each heavy breath, sweat dripping down his face. His pale cheeks were flushed a bright red, his body twitching— veins popping as his muscles flexed. James pushed into you, letting his cock bottom out— his warm liquids squirting into your cervix, stuffing your used cunt.

His nostrils flared, pearly white teeth sinking into his swollen lips. “Fuck, babydoll.” He heaved, watching his creamy liquids seep out of you.

James pulled his cock out, watching your body shudder from the loss of him. James used his middle finger, scooping up his cum— stuffing it deep inside you, sure it wouldn’t make a mess. “God, aren’t you a pretty little cumslut.” He admired, rubbing his cum-coated fingers along your folds.

You exhaled, looking up at James with a pout. His heavy palms wrapped around your jaw, his thumb playing with your bottom lip. “Have you learned your lesson, dollface?” He cocked an eyebrow.

“Yes, Mr. Barnes.” You said softly, body worn out— mind still a hazy fog.

James smiled, giving a praising slap to the side of your cheek. “Good. Now, let’s get you cleaned up. You look like a filthy whore right now.”

[marky4l]

you turn me on

pairing: mark lee x afab reader

wc: 5.9k

genre: smut! w/ plot

warnings: virgin!reader, they’re both hs seniors but 18, soft dom!mark, church girl!reader, praise kink, loads of sexual tension, hints at unprotected sex (no love, no glove)

hi, i wrote this on a whim. hi tumblr

–

you were an enigma to mark. barely out of reach, tantalizing and tempting, an image of grace and beauty and everything he wanted but couldn’t have.

he could count on one hand the number of times you’d both interacted for more than five seconds—significant encounters, actual conversations where you laughed, twirling a lock of hair around your finger and driving him crazy.

one would’ve thought your conversations would be higher in frequency.

he lived, after all, right across the street, and you attended the same high school. the sleepy west coast suburbs didn’t offer much drama or fun to distract either of you, apart from the usual house party (which you were never allowed to go to, though he would find you sipping meekly from a red cup late into the night) and sometimes church excursions, which mark went to solely to lay eyes on you. still, though your conversations were few, your long-lived stares and smile exchanges were much more frequent.

mark considered you his stark opposite. he, a jock, on the varsity baseball team, with two dads and a penchant for breaking hearts. you, just shy of innocent, a church girl with plaited hair, always alone, with the edge of rebelliousness that kept both of you wanting more. you’d turned eighteen over the summer, and, with both of you being seniors, he began to view you in a light that was more than just plain admiration.

“lee, the equation?” mr. woods booms.

he looks up slowly, surveying the equation on the board. he answers quickly. he turns, his eyes flitting briefly to where you sit. you’re already looking at him, pencil eraser gliding across your bottom lip. you’re wearing a pleated skirt, the waistband fattened from the amount of times you’d folded it over itself to achieve the length it was at, far above your knees. your sweater droops down, baring your shoulder. your hair was braided this morning but it’s down now, slightly crimped from the curling. you have gloss on, but you mentioned once how it’s not allowed in your house. you probably swiped it from another classmate. you’re adept enough to be in this senior math class.

your lips stretch into a timid grin. he hides a smile of his own, turning back to the board.

he can’t quite trace his attraction to you. it was an innocent crush on an underclassman back then, but it grew, perhaps because you simply refused to reciprocate his advances. he’s an athlete who drinks—he can get any girl he wants—but with you, the chase thrilled him. thrills him. you’re always leaving him on the edge.

you were like a dream, all his but not his at all. he couldn’t get enough.

lunch brings but more extensive gazes. you’re seated with two of your close friends, whose names mark has blurred from memory. a ham and cheese sandwich today, he notices, and your usual water. you never have anything much, just enough. you meet his eyes in the middle of drinking water and you wink, barely a flit of your eye, before sliding off your seat to deposit your garbage.

beside him, donghyuck throws his head back in a raucous laugh. “we’ll be in college and you’ll never get her out of your head, man.” mark’s heart both soars and sinks at the freezing realization that his best friend is right.

your mother is a strict homemaker. while seemingly warm, she exudes an air of iciness, and mark imagines this doesn’t exempt you. his attempts to set foot inside have always been futile—he presents his own dad’s pastries, they’re taken into the porch table and the door is shut. he offers opera tickets, they’re politely declined. he offers coffee, it’s taken and he’s forgotten. he spots you sometimes, on the stairs by what he presumes to be your room, an amused smile on your face.

your father is a little looser. maybe becausehe’s not that experienced in the field of raising girls, but he’s a little more awkward and unsure. he almost invites mark in for pie but his wife stops him with a brief pinch to the arm, and again his attempt is rebuffed. it’s not until a slow, quiet november night that mark glimpses, for the first time since his crush began and you reciprocated it, you in your natural habitat.

he’s always known your windows directly oppose each other’s, give or take a few feet and inches. he has to move a shelf out of the way to get your window in full view. but out of respect, he’s never actively tried to peek past your organza curtains and into the lamp-lit room behind it. not even his telescope is put to good use for it, stowed away and folded in a box under his bed.

physics homework is what nearly distracts him from the faint blinking of fluorescent white light that taps silently against his window. he finishes the problem fast, getting up shortly thereafter to investigate. he pushes the shelf to get his window in full view and, consequently, finds you across him. for once, your curtains are drawn, but the flashlight you’re holding obstructs you from his view.

he hopes you’d wait, fishing out his telescope and unfolding it quickly. he makes a speedy job of dusting it off, and then he takes a peek, adjusting it to the right, to the left, below, up, up, up, until—

your hair is draped on your shoulders, a lacy white camisole matching your short cotton floral shorts. your arms hold up a piece of paper, onto which is scribbled a message you’d written during his hasty telescope excavation: perv with a telescope much?

he laughs like you’re actually talking to him. you don’t have a telescope so he sticks a middle finger up in a sufficient nonverbal reply. he watches you place the paper down, your hand fiddling with the necklace that rests on your collar. he has a sharp intake of breath when he belatedly notices how obvious your nipples are under the thin cotton of the camisole. you bend forward to write a new message and he gulps.

you raise a new one. just wanted to say goodnight, markie—see you tomorrow. you bend forward to untie the ribbons that keep your curtains drawn and, like a theater show, mark catches the slightest glimpse of your pert ass before the organza censors your room again.

he sees you at school again the day next, and he catches you in a mild argument with your mother over the jeans that sit low on your hips and the long-sleeved, tight-fitting, sweetheart neckline top that shows much to the eye. you twirl a braid in frustration but when you spot him, you’re ushering your mother out in seconds, the car speeding off and you turning to him, braids flying in the late year breeze.

“sorry about that. i’m eighteen and she won’t leave me alone,” you say exasperatedly. “anyway. enjoyed last night’s show?”

“it’s okay. and, yes. quite,” replies mark curtly. “though it was a little short, i do enjoy whatever you put on.”

he’s aware of how dirty he sounds and revels in the flustered state you’re now in, saying goodbye before he can further press into you. your braids swish as you untie them hastily, hiding a smile. he watches you go, smiling satisfactorily to himself.

the afternoon classes are blocked out for the school’s baseball game against another varsity team in the tristate area. mark spots an opposing team member chatting you up just by the bleachers, ergo, planning to make out with you. you smile shyly, nodding along before mark steps beside you and stares menacingly at the opponent.

“oh, hey, man, she’s, uh, we were sort of kinda talking,” opponent says.

“she’s, uh, sort of kinda my girlfriend,” mark lies matter-of-factly, mocking his words. his arm slinks around your shoulders and you feel your face warm.

you nod in silent confirmation.

opponent blanches. “oh. i’m—shit, man, fuck. sorry.” he sprints back onto the main field and mark laughs, adjusting the cap that sits on his hair. you laugh when he’s gone, rolling your eyes at mark’s unnecessary display of possession. he turns to you, hugging you closer. his eyes flit down to your lips, half-parted in a forgotten statement.

“g’luck,” you say instead, shy but whispering with a glint of teasing. “i’m rooting for you…” your hand traces over his hardened bicep, back to his chest, down, down, stopping at his waistband. you meet his eyes again. “…captain.”

you pace onto the bleachers and mark spends a few gratuitous moments torn between reliving your actions and willing his boner to die. it’s not until the general fanfare begins that he reunites with his team, shaking you out of his head for the time being. the baseball game goes well, as they usually do when mark is in the lead and donghyuck, his right hand man, provides a generous amount of good energy, and their side of the crowd is in uproar when the game is finished.

the air smells like sweat and butter popcorn when the score is called and mark lets out a cathartic scream of victory. he turns to you instantly, finding you cheering beside a friend. he salutes and you blow a kiss back, much to his amusement. donghyuck claps him on the back to request a group picture with the trophy. eventually, the game winds down and mark meets you by the bleachers again.

“you were a god,” you say offhandedly as a greeting. “was i your good luck charm?”

“i like to think so,” mark says, without missing a beat. he watches you laugh, throwing your head back and everything. you grab the visor of his cap and tug him closer, pressing a kiss to his jaw. you taste salt.

“see ya,” you say, smiling, and you’re gone, blending into the crowd of students heading off the field. mark touches the place you’d kissed and absently wonders if he could saran wrap it to avoid it getting washed off.

donghyuck jumps on top of him seconds later, and mark is sufficiently distracted by his friend’s boisterous voice and promises of beer and wings to celebrate.

one week later, mark looks up from his book and finds the flashlight against his window again. he hauls the telescope out and after a few moments of adjustment, finds you by the window again, holding up a piece of paper. you’re wearing fairly similar clothing to last time—lacy top, with pajamas this time.

you hold up the paper. i’m going to a church thing this weekend is written on it. you drop it and then hold up a different one. which dress is better? you drop it again and then get up, picking a dress up from your bed.

mark gulps.

you teasingly untie the drawstring of your pajamas and it naturally loosens around your figure, and you tug it off the rest of the way. mark curses, like you can see him. now you’re only in your lacy top and your pink frilly panties. you hold up a third card. call me to offer an opinion, with your house number scrawled underneath, makes up this final card. he’s quick to grab his telephone and dial, and you pick up in the middle of the first ring.

he inhales. “hi.”

you’re standing in the middle of your room, twirling the curly phone cable in between your finger. you grin. “hi. remember, which dress, ‘kay?”

you place your receiver down and then tug your top off, revealing pale pink lace of bra underneath. mark whispers out a guttural curse. fucking hell. you slip the first dress on and it’s clear your mother’s remade these for you, what with the added inches to the hem and waist.

the first one is a long floral dress that ends below your knees and exposes your collarbones. you fiddle with your necklace again and pick up the receiver. “you look really pretty,” mark says breathlessly. “i like this one.”

you hum. “huh. real descriptive.”

“i’m speechless. can you blame me?”

you laugh, and then wordlessly place the receiver down again. you pick the dress off your figure, and mark revels in your bare figure, before you’re pulling a new one on. this one you’ve probably bought yourself and stashed away before it could be lengthened and hemmed—it’s dark red, tight-fitting, with two flimsy straps and a hem that ends at the middle of your thighs.

you pull it down but it rides back up, tantalizingly so. he watches you, entranced almost, watches you flick your turntable to life and sway to the todd rundgren song that starts playing from it, scratchy through the wire of the phone. you’re so far, but so near.

you dance a little more, your swaying causing the dress to ride up a little more. lord knows this wouldn’t be allowed within ten feet of the church’s vicinity. you wore this, you know it and he knows it, to rile him up.

you pick up the receiver. “how about this?”

“fucking lovely. but, i’m awfully biased.”

“thought so,” you say.

“can’t be taken to the house of god in a dress that short.”

“good thing it’s for your eyes only.”

before he can respond, you untie your curtains and hang up the telephone. you’re hot all over, like he’s right in front of you sitting atop your bed letting his eyes roam everywhere. but he’s not. he’s across the street using a goddamn telescope and he still makes you feel like this.

you fiddle with the dress’ hem, then you flop onto your four post bed, grinning yourself to sleep as you pull the covers over yourself.

mark talks to you next after a week. he’s in church, which is an unspoken rarity—as a regular, you’re able to detect the silent surprise on the churchgoers’ faces at the sight of the lee boy here—but clearly, he’s here for you. you clear your throat, and when you pass by you feel your mother’s grip on your arm tighten.

she turns once he’s out of earshot. “that’s the lee boy, isn’t it?”

you nod. “he’s been telling me he wants to attend service more often, mom.” it’s a straight lie, but you have a plan and you want—need it to work. you stroke her arm a little.

“is that so?” meaningful pause. “you’d better be the one to acquaint him with today’s service, then. stay with him, and your father and i will be in the eastern wing.”

you let go and press a kiss to her forehead, then jog back over to mark. your oxfords are tied neatly, and you’re wearing what your mother assumes to be full, white stockings but are, in truth, lacy thigh highs obstructed by your dress. you walk slowly to him, and he’s already looking at you in a way you can only describe as dirty.

mark is the first to speak. “thought i’d start giving church a try.”

“not everyone’s cup of tea,” you respond. “definitely not for me.”

“really?” you nestle yourself beside him, leaving enough space that the other middle-aged ladies won’t start whispering around about your being a supposed whore. you’ve built up a good rep, after all, and you’d hate to lose it to the nosey nellies.

“yeah. it barely gives room to explore faith. it’s like, ‘believe in this or you’re blasphemous!’”

mark chuckles. “i hear that, princess.”

the pet name makes you hot. you smile and roll your eyes, biting your lip. “the service is about to start, so you’d better be quiet.” he buttons his polo when he notices your lingering gaze, and laughs when your expression turns sour at his actions.

the remainder of the service goes on uneventfully. mark says goodbye to you at the front door, two vast and large wooden doors. you’re reunited with both parents. and then your father says, after a steady handshake, “we’ve always loved the church boys. haven’t we?”

your mother nods, visibly pleased.

“how about dinner tomorrow night, son?” he insists, and your cool exterior doesn’t do much to hide how shocked you are at the offer. your eyes switch from mark’s tall figure to your dad’s hunched over one. your mother doesn’t even protest or show any sign of refusal, just smiling and nodding, her grip easy.

“that’d be great, sir. i’ll bring over some cheesecake for dessert, it’s my dad’s latest obsession.”

“splendid.”

your mother asks so many fucking questions, you realize ten or fifteen minutes into dinner. your arrangement has conveniently placed you across mark, with your parents on either side of both of you. the six-seater dinner table is a little wide for just the four of you, but you’re glad for the small personal space you have with mark.

“you play baseball?” you shed your slipper, pinching the hem of mark’s black jeans in between your toes. mark shoves mashed potato into his mouth.

“yes, i’m uh”—he coughs, feeling your foot hike his jeans up—“the captain. great mashed potatoes, ma’am, by the way.”

“oh, please.” your mother is a little iffy around male guests (those your age especially), but she seems more comfortable now. “it must have been quite the journey to get to the captain role.”

“well, it kind of was.” you abandon the attempt to pull his jeans up and let them sag back down to his ankles, but return in full force to stroke his thigh. he coughs again. “but i love sports, almost as much as i love, well, sue me—science.”

“are you a bit of a chemistry guy yourself?” your dad asks, genuinely curious.

“physics is more of my strong suit, sir. in fact, i’m torn between pursuing astrophysics and a sports scholarship. i assume both might bode well for me in the future.”

“true, true,” muses your mother, obviously satisfied with mark’s answers. “well. eat up, mark. i’m sure paul would hate to see his son arrive home hungry.”

“oh, trust me, he’s fine. he always goes on and on about new fad recipes. at some point you get tired of all the spinach pan—cakes!” you leave lasting impression on his bulge, prominent from touch alone, and you resume normally eating the dinner.

your mother’s eyes gaze at you quickly, but mark distracts her with a silly anecdote about his dads. the dinner speeds by nicely, with stories and jokes being chipped in by everyone at the table. mark makes you laugh, your parents laugh, and his parents make a mean cheesecake.

you’re picking at the glob of blueberry on top when your mother speaks again. “i must say, mark, you seem like an extremely nice young man. where are you planning to pursue studies?”

“yale is up there for sure,” he says. “if not somewhere here on the west coast, miss.”

she’s swelling, at this point, with indirect pride, and she has to find it in herself to usher him out politely.

he says he needs to run an errand first and so crosses the street, not to enter his house, where you can spot his dads’ figures through the curtainless living room window, but to enter his car. you watch as he gets in and starts the engine, and then your mother closes the door. she retires to bed early with a forehead kiss, maybe from the exhaustion of cooking and serving, while your dad quietly finishes washing the saucers from dessert.

you think for a second, then run to change into your sleeping clothes.

mark watches his dads close the curtains and he can tell they’re well on their way upstairs. he sighs, trying to register and relive the fantastic dinner that just happened. everything was great, save for (or especially) the game of footsie you’d decided to instigate at one point.

god, you were fucking irresistible.

he’s headed to the nearest convenience store to buy something, but his mind is fuzzy with images of you—smiling, laughing, tucking hair behind your ear, winking when your parents aren’t paying attention.

he leans back and closes his eyes.

it’s during this brief, suspended moment of closed eyes and 10pm silence, where his breath smells like blueberries and his car’s windows are down to let out the stuffy freshener scent, that he hears the rapid footsteps increasing in volume.

he barely has time to open his eyes and investigate—if he did, he might have seen you come out from the back door, round your house, cross the lawn, and eventually the street, in your usual nightwear of lace and shorts—it’s pink this time. but he doesn’t, though, and instead he experiences the auditory sensation of the passenger seat being pulled open and you climbing onto the seat.

but you’re not here to sit beside him and idly wait, no. you’re on him immediately. your hair drapes over the both of you but suddenly your lips are on his, and he doesn’t care about anything else.

the kiss turns into two and three and seven in a matter of seconds. your hands are relentless, roaming all over him, on his chest, his abs, over his shirt, his belt loops, while you harden the kiss.

his hands, much bigger than yours, adjust accordingly to examine the flimsy lace material of your sleeping top. the strap falls over your shoulder and he lets his thumb graze over your barely covered nipple. you shiver into the kiss.

you pull away, then pull him closer to kiss him hard, one last time. you’re both hot and flushed and you can feel your panties dampening.

“bye.” your breaths mingle, toothpaste and blueberry. and then you’re gone, walking with the sort of suave one only gains after striking a makeout session with their hot, older crush.

november flurries into december with a rush of cold breeze in a crude western replacement of snow.

the weather is still humid but mark cherishes the breezy nights anyway, because it means getting to witness your makeshift fashion shows where you show off your short skirts and tight tops before anyone else sees them, lengthened and loosened.

your escapades have grown in promiscuity as of late, ergo he’s begun to tell you what he wants to do to you over the scratchy phone. “wanna flip that skirt up and feel you,” he’d say, relishing in your whimpers, clearly affected by his phrasing.

for all the filth that makes up your conversations, you’re both awfully meek in the halls of school. your interactions are limited to brief nodding and small smiles and long stares, not anything of the overly flirtatious variety. you resort to clutching your biology textbook extra tight when he passes by to somehow release the arousal welling up inside you.

but once you’re alone, there’s kissing—in janitor’s closets, under the bleachers, where his hand sneaks up your skirt and brushes over the lace trim of your underwear or thigh highs.

there’s you humping his thigh like a bunny in heat, in the backseat of his car while he sits back, arms folded behind his head as he watches you turn more and more desperate for climax, obscured by the sheer tint of his windows.

it’s an unsuspecting friday when you pull him aside and into an unlocked supply closet and, in the middle of open-mouthed kisses, ask if he can “please fuck me, markie, my parents aren’t home.”

maybe it’s because you’re so fucking cute—offering your virginity to him now, small whimpers leaving your mouth when his denim-clad knee bumps against the apex of your thighs, or maybe it’s because you’re such a fucking tease—whether it be licking over a popsicle or bending over just for him—but mark could never have found it in himself to say no.

“wore this skirt for me, princess?” his hand never seems to stop fiddling with its hem as you tug him into your room. you bite your lip, rolling your eyes as he latches his lips onto your neck.

“don’t flatter yourself,” you moan, but his smirk against your skin—you feel it—tells you everything you need to know. “shut up.” you both fall back onto your bed, butterflies flapping like wild in your stomach as he hikes your skirt up, revealing your lace panties underneath.

“d’you—d’you like it?”

his eyes are dark. “you’re so fucking”—he inhales, as if to steady himself—“cute.”

he notes, dazedly, that your panties have formed a dark spot from how wet you are.

“i mean, fuck. your first time and you’re already so desperate for me,” he says. his voice is raspy with arousal.

“shut up,” you respond, flustered. “mark, so—i just—please.”

“okay, doll,” he says, like he knows exactly what you’re asking for.

he bends down and presses a chaste kiss to the ribbon at the center of your underwear, before hooking his fingers onto it and tugging it, but not hard enough to pull them down. “this okay?” you shiver when his thumb swipes up your clothed slit, your thighs shaking.

“yes, fuck, it’s okay—mark,” you whine.

“patience,” he orders, pulling your panties down. his thumb rubs sleepy circles against your clit. you’re so delightfully ready for him despite your blatant inexperience, and the thought sends blood rushing straight to his cock. “if you can wait, it’ll feel good, baby.”

you nod, a nonverbal greenlight for him to keep going. “okay,” you add as an extra measure. you peek down to find him staring in between your spread legs and, hit by a sudden rush of humiliation, you attempt to close them.

he pries them open again. “don’t be shy. your little cunt is so pretty, baby, can’t wait to have this around my cock.”

“mark!” you yelp. “stop using such…such…dirty…ahhh—language,” you attempt to articulate the words but he has a finger slowly working in and out of you now.

he grins to himself at how ruined you look after a single finger and some teasing. he increases his pace, witnessing in real time how debauched you look.

“more, please,” you moan, bucking your hips up. “more.”

he laughs a little, but inserts a second finger anyway, slowly scissoring them apart. he begins speeding up his pace until your moans increase in volume and frequency, a glob of slick leaving your cunt again. the sight of your dainty fingers, bunching up the cotton of your pale floral bedsheets—it’s a stark contrast of innocence and dirtiness, and mark revels in the image.

he wants so badly to flip you over, breed you and fuck you hard—but he can’t, not yet.

he likes it, anyway, corrupting you like this. even if you’re the tease. he’s already painfully hard watching you crumble like this, and fuck you’re only growing wetter. “i—fuck, it—wanna cum, mark,” you say, your voice coming out in a singular pathetic plea.

“shh,” he says. “come on, princess. you can cum if you want to.”

“it—oh, my god, it feels s’good—mmmff! i can’t—it’s—fuck, mark, please,” you’re rambling, your fingers gripping your bedsheets so tight that you have to redirect your grip onto mark’s wrist to slow him down.

your inexperience has allowed you to never feel this kind of peak before: it’s so much all at once.

mark withdraws his fingers, mesmerized by the string of slick that connects them to your core. your hold on his wrist loosens, following his hand as he wipes his digits across your lips before inserting them past his, enjoying the way your eyes glaze over at the sight alone.

you need to have something else inside you—his fingers feel so good, and god it’s just two of them? you shiver at the imagination alone of his girth filling you up, the burn being replaced by pleasure.

you can almost taste it. you think of the real thing, and you need it so bad—your hands are nimble at the zipper of his jeans. he releases a guttural groan at your sudden eagerness, hands finding purchase on either side of your head. “baby,” he grunts. “patience, right? i said patience.”

“i don’t want to be patient,” you whine, your attempts at removing his jeans futile, “i want you to fuck me.”

“y’know, good girls know how to listen,” he emphasizes, pulling your hands away and placing them at your sides.

he hikes your sweater off of you, pausing when he sees your white lace bra to bury his face in between your tits. “can you listen?” you arch your back so he can reach behind, undernath you, and unclasp it. “are you a good girl?”

you exhale. “i’ll be good.”

“yeah, atta girl,” he praises, traveling downwards again. “can’t believe i’m finally gonna fuck this pretty little pussy.”

“fuck,” you whimper. “please, anything—just—god,”

“not my name,” he mumbles before latching his lips onto your sopping cunt.

you’re not sure what it is—if it’s your inexperience or his skill, or both—but having him eat you out feels like heaven. your fingers thread into his hair, tugging slightly. he groans, but continues to lick at your folds, pushing his tongue into your hole.

mark is extremely good at using his tongue, if his ministrations on your clit are anything to go by. you cant your hips upwards, whimpering. “wan’ you to fuck me.”

“yeah?” he grins, locking eyes with you for a second before diving back in, the expanse of his tongue licking up your wet cunt. you wail out, legs tightening around his head before he pulls away from your pussy. “kinda wanna keep tasting you.”

“mark,” you beg hoarsely, voice worn.

his tongue is back on your clit, two fingers working their way in, and your stomach tightens—the feeling is overwhelming, good and nerve-wracking all at once. you search for his free hand to squeeze it and somehow channel your pleasure into the grip. “pleasepleaseplease, fuck! please!”

his fingers piston in and out of you, the squelch of your cunt loud in the otherwise quiet room. he grins and his lips are shiny with your slick. “cum for me, baby.”

“wait,” you gasp, air knocked out of you. “ah—wait, it’s too muuu—hmmf! i—fuck—!”

you can’t even cry out, your thighs trembling as your orgasm washes over you in unstable, shaking waves. your grip on mark’s wrist is tight, loosening only when you stop riding out your high.

you exhale slowly, blinking your tears away as you gaze up at mark. he stares back, half in awe and half in arousal. “you did so well, sweetheart,” he coos, smiling. he pulls his fingers out, licking over them.

“really?” you ask, grinning. “will you fuck me now, then?”

he grunts, a smirk on his face as he unbuckles his belt. “only because you’re asking like a good girl.”

“i’d hate to be naughty,” you retort, your foot tracing the inseam of his dark jeans. you bite your lip.

“don’t try,” he warns. you watch with curious eyes as he produces a condom, biting it lightly while he removes his jeans and eventually pulls his cock out. your eyes widen.

“that’s not gonna fit,” you say hopelessly.

he inhales. “you’re driving me fucking crazy, baby.”

you giggle as he puts the condom on and then he’s lifting your legs to rest on either side of his shoulders. he kisses your inner ankle and then starts thrusting into you, slowly at first, gauging your face. your eyes glaze over once your pussy starts stretching to accomodate him, brows knitted together.

“good?” he asks, trying to take his focus off of how tight and warm you feel around his cock.

“da—dandy,” you joke, giggling breathily. “fuck, you’re so big, markie.”

“it’ll fit, baby, just relax a sec,” he reassures in hushed tones. he leans down, to kiss your neck and distract you from the stretch that quickly grows in discomfort. your toes curl and you sigh, long and drawn out—and finally, he bottoms out.

he shuts his eyes. one of your legs drops from his shoulder, and you wrap it around his waist, urging him forward. “it’s taking everything in me to not fuck you stupid right now,” he admits breathlessly.

“why not?” you ask. “move, please.”

“why not?” he repeats with a slight laugh, beginning to move. he pulls out and thrusts back in, causing you to whimper. the discomfort is rapidly replaced by pleasure. “why no—‘cause you’re so fucking precious, sweetheart. i’d hate to break you.”

his thrusts are gaining speed, his hips meeting your ass more and more frequently. your lips open in a silent scream, and you bite them closed. “mmmmfh,” you moan. “more, markie. harder, fuck.”

“hear that?” you try to peel yourself away from the pleasure and focus on the room’s noises. all you hear is—fuck. you nod and mark grins, completing the sentence for you.

“yeah?” he licks his lips. “baby can hear it? your cunt is so wet, it’s making so much noise, sucking me in ‘cause it’s so greedy.”

“yea, yeah,” you blubber dumbly. “yeah, want your cock.” his cock is so big, and thick, and it’s stretching you out in the best way, hitting a sweet spot inside you that makes you go dumb. “harder,” you plead, “markie, please, gonna cum, fuck. can’t—i can’t—”

both your legs are wrapped around his waist now, shaking with pleasure as you bite your lip.

mark watches you fall apart, tears in your eyes from the overstimulation. “see, baby,” he begins, his hand dropping to your clit to rub at it. you seize immediately, wailing out and gripping your sheets. “this is what you get when you go around teasing me in your little panties and skirts. you wanted this, baby. so take it. take it like a good girl and cum all over markie’s cock.”

“mark,” you moan. “fuck—please, i, shit, mmmf—!” your whines taper into louder cries when you feel the tip of his cock kissing your cervix. pushed over the edge, you’re finally cumming all over mark’s cock. he buries his head into your neck, groaning as he finally releases in you.

the thought of him cumming inside you sends a thrill up your spine, lips curling into a smile as your fingers thread into his hair and you think of the idea of next time.

–

“thank you again, mark, for helping her out.”

your mother beams at mark, aka your new physics teacher for the summer. her arm is tight around your shoulders as you smile shyly back at him, toying with the hem of your sundress. your mother nudges you, coercing you into saying your own thanks.

“thanks, mark. you’ve been a big help.” you bite your lip as he adjusts his baseball cap, grinning and jogging across the street.

“i’ve gotta go,” you say quickly, extracting yourself from your mother’s arms with a kiss. you flop onto your bed soon after, waiting by the phone.

after all, mark’s going to call soon, and you’re sure he wants you to describe how his cum feels in your sopping cunt.

–

[whatsnewalycat]

Just Dumb Enough to Try

Chapter 6: Amor Prohibido

Word Count: 3.4k

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Warnings: angst, swearing, smoking, alcohol use (binge drinking in this chapter), pining, existential crisis, mental health spiral, attempts at jokes, sexual tension, dancing, cheating

Series Summary: In 1993, you met Javier Peña in San Antonio. You made an emotional and physical connection with him. Now it's 1998 and you're starting a new chapter of life in Laredo with your fiancé. And who else walks back into the picture, but the man who left you high and dry five years ago.

Chapter Summary: Our heroes cut loose on a Wednesday.

Notes: Lets climb out of a depression pit then immediately toe the line of infidelity, friends. Chapter title from "Amor Prohibido" by Selena. Spotify playlist for this chapter. Cross-posted to AO3 here (UN: glitter_diety). Update weekly on Sundays.

[ First Chapter ] [ Previous Chapter ]

151 Fir St N, Laredo, TX

June 10, 1998

It takes you about a week to claw your way out of your depression cave. During this time, Dan is irritated with your lack of activity, but he’s accommodating enough. He asks if you want to go to the bar with him, go to church, go on a walk, encouraging any type of activity to get you out and about. But each time he asks, he’s met with a sorrowful, “no, I’m sorry.” You wonder what reason he gives friends and family for your absence. He probably just says you’re sick. Which, you suppose, isn’t wrong .

Claudia calls to check in on you a few times and tries to help you through it, letting you vent as much as you’re able, giving encouraging words, etc. But you’re pretty content feeling sorry for yourself. She lets you know that she’s planning to come visit you in July, so you have something to look forward to. You haven’t been able to spend time in person with her since winter.

Javi doesn’t check in on you. Which, you reason, could confirm your suspicion that he was just humoring you by hanging out. Or he could just be busy? Or maybe you two just aren’t that good of friends? Regardless, you think it might be best to keep your distance until you can figure out whether or not your presence is desired. The last thing you want to do is annoy him.

You’ve been ruminating on your identity, your relationships, your life, constantly. Unable to differentiate between your mental illness and reality: Am I a plague on these people? On myself? On society? Surely, I am. Or am I imagining that I am? You’ve spent a week paralyzed and numb from these thoughts that won’t stop.

But today… today you woke up, you took a shower, ate breakfast, put on clean clothes and some makeup. Today you’re going outside.

The second you step out the door, sun warms your skin. It feels good. Despite the fact that you still feel like a corpse in a human suit, you put one foot in front of the other and start strolling through the neighborhood. You walk past a woman walking her yellow Labrador Retriever; you force yourself to smile gently at them. She greets you and you nod in return. The dog sniffs at you and then continues to follow its owner.

Do they know I’m a zombie? Can they see that I’m rotten and dead inside?

The smile feels so foreign on your lips, you keep it there a little longer, just to practice. You come across the city park and decide to swing for a bit since there are no kids playing.

You walk up to the wooden barrier that encloses the playground sand, and slide your sandals off before stepping over it. The sand warms the soles of your feet; you dig them in a little further until your toes press into the cool damp sand underneath. Trying to ground yourself, you listen to the world around you, and hear birds chirping, a car sputtering off in the distance, trees rustling in the breeze.

You trudge over to the swing set and settle into the rubber seat, which wraps tightly around your wide hips. Gently closing your eyes, you tilt your face up towards the sun, and start taking deep breaths. With each long exhale, then inhale, life starts to return to your body. Your soul is defrosting.

Eventually your hips and ass are almost numb from the constraint of the swing seat, so you decide to go back, and (attempt to) work on cleaning your neglected house.

The phone is ringing as you’re walking through the front door, but the answering machine picks up just before you can get to it.

“Hey, it’s Javi.”

You freeze and your breath catches. Your hand hovers above the phone receiver as you hear him clear his throat. He doesn’t sound as sure-footed as he normally is.

“I’m going to go to the Pour House around 3 if you want to meet me up there. I- I haven’t seen you in a while. So I uh- I’ll maybe see you later then. Ok, bye.”

A small smile creeps across your face. A real one, this time, not a practice one.

After giving the house a half-assed cleaning, you sit barefoot on your patio couch, chain smoking cigarettes, drawing, and reading until it’s 2:45. At that point, you slide on some sandals and walk up to the bar. It’s about 95°F by now and you regret the decision not to drive almost immediately, but you’re too stubborn to change course.

While walking, you get lost in your head, racing through all of the scenarios that could possibly happen once you get to the Pour House, and before you know it, you’re yanking on the front door to enter.

You run into a wall of cold air as the door slams behind you. As is customary, the regulars sitting at the bar tilt their head up and see who the newcomer is. Javier’s face isn’t among them, so you order a beer from Gina and take a seat in one of the booths.

On the chance that Javier doesn’t actually show up, you brought a tote bag, and packed your portable CD player, a small CD case, pencils, and your drawing pad. Gina walks over and gives you the tap beer you ordered. After sitting, sipping, and twiddling your thumbs for a while, you glance up at the neon Budweiser clock hanging beside the bar; it’s 3:06. A sigh escapes your lips as you concede to your backup plan and start rifling through your bag.

As if on cue, light illuminates the bar as Javier saunters in. His hair is mussed up, starting to grow out a little bit since his arrival back in town. It looks like there are the beginnings of curls, which makes your chest tighten. Adorable . He’s wearing a white collared button-up shirt. There are just enough buttons undone for you to see the beginnings of his chest. The shirt is messily tucked into a pair of dark blue jeans. He runs one hand through his hair and uses the other to take off a pair of aviator sunglasses, then hangs them off of his shirt. His dark eyes shift around the bar until he spots you. His face lights up, and he makes his way over to you. Gina asks if he wants a whiskey, to which he nods in the affirmative.

He slides into the booth across the table from you. Now that he’s closer, you can see a sheen of sweat glistening on his skin. His scent wafts over and you lean into it. You realize that your heart is racing and your cunt is throbbing.

Touch me, touch me your skin screams, breaking out in goosebumps. Heat starts radiating from your face when you realize how turned on you’re getting by his presence alone. You can barely bring yourself to meet his warm gaze.

Get your shit together.

“Hey stranger.”

“Howdy,” you grin, running your finger through the condensation on your glass.

Gina sets his drink down and walks back behind the bar.

He takes a sip, then rests his elbows on the tabletop, leaning towards you, “Where have you been?”

You contemplate whether or not to be honest in your answer, before playing dumb, “What do you mean?”

He raises his eyebrows, “Well, I haven’t seen you around or heard from you. Dad said you’re always with the Bakers at church on Sundays. I didn’t see you there, either.”

“Oh. Yeah, I- I wasn’t feeling well,” you look down at your hands and start picking at your cuticles.

“Sick?”

“I guess you could say that,” you shrug and look back up at him. His eyes are hard and searching. Anything you can think of to tell him that’s bullshit doesn’t feel right on the tip of your tongue. You sigh and start rambling nervously, “I was going through a really uhh… bad depressive episode. I couldn’t do anything for, I guess, a week? It happens sometimes, it’s not really a big deal or anything, really. Just couldn’t bring myself to leave the house or whatever. It- it’s fine, though, I’m… fine.”

Jesus Christ someone shut me up.

He doesn’t seem uncomfortable. He doesn’t flinch, or wave it off, like you’re used to people doing. Instead, he nods and keeps his eyes on yours. His eyebrows are knit together, concerned, “I see. Are you feeling better now?”

The corners of your mouth tug gently upwards, “Yeah, I think I am.”

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” He rubs a hand across his mouth, shifts in his seat a little, then looks down at the table, “I was a little worried about you.”

He was worried about me? He was worried about me.

You can't help but widen your smile and blush a little. He looks back up and your eyes meet again, only momentarily before you chicken out and stare at your beer, “I appreciate that. And I appreciate you inviting me out today. I didn’t know if you’d want to hang out with me again-“

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I uh- I don’t know. I can be a little bit… much for people, sometimes.” Your heart starts racing again and you feel your stomach lurch, “I guess I didn’t think you would like to… be around me? Like um… you would have figured out that I’m a loser and…” you trail off, feeling silly for exposing this part of you.

Your confession is met with silence. You wait a few beats before looking up at him, cringing at your own insecurity. Head tilted, eyes narrowed, he’s staring at you like you’re speaking in fucking riddles. He scratches his chin and leans closer, “I like being around you. I’ve never not liked being around you. I know we just started actually hanging out but… it’s nice. And you’re my friend.”

“Ok,” you nod rapidly, trying not to get too intoxicated by his intensity.

“I did reconsider after you kicked my ass in rummy, but-“ he crosses his arms, raises his eyebrows, and cracks a small smile.

“Why am I not surprised that you’re a sore loser?” you smirk.

“But really,” he reaches over and captures one of your hands in his own, squeezing gently. They’re warm and rough, and the contact makes you gasp quietly. It doesn’t go unnoticed; you see his face soften at the sound, “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a bullshitter. So if I tell you that I enjoy spending time with you, that’s exactly what I mean. Do you understand?”

The sternness with which he asks do you understand? makes your body tingle with pleasure. You try to keep your cool and remember that there’s a good man taking care of you, giving you all the material things you want, and he’s going to marry you.

But is that what you want?

“Yes, Javi,” you coo, looking up at him through your eyelashes. He throws his head back and licks his bottom lip. You can’t help but smile.

Bad bad bad-

“Good girl,” he finally purrs. He gives your hand one more firm squeeze before releasing you.

Your lips part. You feel lightheaded and your entire body is flushed. The feeling of guilt, knowing you just crossed a line, rises to the surface briefly. Then you recall how long it’s been since you’ve felt desire… since you’ve felt desired.

It’s harmless flirting. Dan won’t find out, it’s fine.

You motion to Gina more drinks please. She acknowledges this. When you turn back to Javier, you notice he looks just as flustered as you.

You shake your head and laugh nervously, “You’re an unbelievable bastard.”

He fucking giggles at this, and it seems to ease the ( sexual ) tension between you.

“So,” Javier clears his throat, lights a cigarette, and offers one to you; you accept. He continues, “No movie today? It’s Wednesday.”

“Mmm no apparently not. This seemed like a better choice. What about you? Done with work for the day?”

“Sí. I’m all yours,” he winks.

You roll your eyes playfully at him, even though his wink lights a fire inside you. You’re pretty sure he knows that.

Fucker.

The two of you talk about this and that while continuing to drink. He tells you about working on the ranch, which you find fascinating. You ask him far too many questions about cows, then tell him about your last class at school. Then you play a few games of pool. Javi kicks your ass each and every game, which is super annoying (in an endearing way) because he’s just as sore a winner as he is a sore loser. Y’all have quite a few ( too many? ) drinks before you’re both hovering over the CD jukebox, flipping through the Pour House’s collection, arguing about which song to play.

“No no no, see, this is such a good song, we have to get this one,” you plead, pointing to ‘Come As You Are’ by Nirvana.

He tips his head back, puts both hands on his hips, then groans theatrically. His shirt is untucked and he’s undone at least one more button since he arrived at the bar. He’s disheveled and drunk, and so are you. You turn around to lean against your back against the jukebox and snicker at how riled up he’s getting. He puts one hand up, palm facing you, “Fucking- Nirvana ? Seriously? No. Listen, cariño, this isn’t even a discussion.”

He digs in his pocket to get a few quarters, then reaches around you to kerplunk them into the machine. You concede and turn around so your front is facing the jukebox. His hand moves up to the selection panel, which is next to your head, and he starts flipping through and humming to himself. You feel the warmth of his body right behind yours.

“Am I in your way?” you ask.

Javier puts his free hand on your waist gently just for a moment before it retreats, “No no, not at all.” Then he gasps, finding “Amor Prohibido” by Selena. He punches the digits into the jukebox, “Here we go.”

A burst of sugary sweet pop music blasts through the speakers. Javi takes one of your hands and spins you around to face him, then lets go and starts dancing in a drunk, but shockingly fun and uninhibited, manner. You do your best to have fun and not worry about what you look like as you join him.

To your surprise, he starts singing along to the music in a falsetto.

“Amor prohibido murmuran por las calles; Porque somos de distintas sociedades”

You squeal and clap with delight. He sways closer to you to grab your hands and put them on his shoulders, then he puts his own on your waist. His touch is firm and guides your movements to be in sync with his own. You look up at him, and he sings to you, quieter and lower now, a serenade only you can hear. You’re completely and utterly enraptured.

I want to kiss him.

The song fades away, and you hear Gina start clapping from behind the bar. The sound brings you back to reality. You jump back, laughing and trying to put distance between the two of you.

“Alright, you two. It’s been entertaining but it’s time for me to lock up,” her gravelly voice calls.

“Really? What time is it?” you ask while walking to get your things from the booth.

“Only 11, but you’ve been the only people here since 9 and I have to open tomorrow, so-“ she blows a raspberry and jerks her thumb towards the door, “Hey Javi, you want a ride home?”

“No, that’s ok. I’m going to walk her home, then walk back. By the time I get back I’ll be fine to drive,” he turns to you, “if that’s ok with you, anyway.”

“Yeah, of course.”

You and Javier emerge from the bar into the dark night. Both of you light a cigarette and start strolling at a leisurely pace. It’s so quiet all the time in this town, but especially so at night. He’s humming the song that you were dancing to for a while, and the melody fills the air around you.

“What does cariño mean?” you ask.

“It’s like sweetheart or love,” he explains, “why?”

You smile from ear to ear as your heart skips a beat, “you called me that earlier.”

“I did? Oh. I- I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I like it,” you cast your gaze over and witness him smiling happily to himself, even though he doesn’t respond to you.

You walk about a half a block before he breaks the comfortable silence. He sounds much more serious than he was just a minute ago, “Can I ask you something?”

Your heart starts to beat faster. You turn your head towards him, “Yeah, what’s up?

“So, what’s the deal with Dan?” he asks in a low voice.

The balls on this man.

Your hands start tingling and your stomach drops to your feet. Which isn’t terribly distracting since your body is feeling very… sloshy, anyway.

“What do you mean?”

His forehead wrinkles as he watches you, “Does he make you happy?”

You bite the inside of your cheek and take a deep breath.

Does he make me happy?

“Well…” you search through your liquor-inhibited brain for the right answer to such an unbearably complicated question, “I love him. His family is practically the only family I have. He… provides for me.”

He doesn’t say anything. It says everything.

About a minute passes before you admit quietly, “The answer is… I don’t know.”

“But you still want to be with him?”

You start kicking a rock along the road in front of you. You sigh, “Yeah… yeah.”

He laughs and shakes his head, obviously unconvinced, “Whatever you say.”

You would be offended if you didn’t know that what he’s implying is true. Your relationship with Dan is not fulfilling your needs. It’s something you’ve been able to look past, because you do love Dan. He gives you a house to live in, supports you financially, and promises that you’ll make your own family together. You can trust that he won’t leave you. He’s not that kind of person. It is not in his five year plan to start over with a new person. So… the person is you. And that’s the best you’re going to get.

Are you happy?

I mean… I’m happy enough. Right?

Right?

“Ok Mr. Relationship Expert,” you scoff.

“Touché,” he admits.

“Anyone you’re seeing?” you ask, to shift the conversation away from Dan. You’re not entirely certain you want to know the answer, but, this is what friends do, right? Talk about their relationships?

“No, not really.”

He seems hesitant, so you prod further out of curiosity, “There has to be someone you’re interested in, at least?”

“Besides you?” he raises an eyebrow at you.

A sharp nervous laugh burst out of your face that echoes down the street, and you’re not sure what else to say except, “Yes, besides me.”

“Well… There was this night at the bar… Kimmy Baker was trying to get me to take her home.” He shoves his hands in his front pockets and looks over at you, “I don’t know that I’m all that interested in her, though.”

“What happened with her?” You try to keep a tinge of jealousy out of your tone. But you’re sure by the way he smirks at you that it doesn’t work.

“You really want to know?”

You shrug, “You don’t have to share, I’m just being nosy.”

“She was way too drunk, so I walked her back to her place,” he scratches the scruff on his neck, “She came on to me, and we kissed, but it didn’t feel right, with her being plastered and all. So I went home.”

“Oh, is that the move, then? Walk the girl back to her house from the bar?”

He chuckles, “I don’t know, is it working?”

You’ve reached the end of your driveway; you turn and face him, “Thanks for walking me home.”

“No problem,” he steps towards you and rubs a hand against his mouth, hesitating a beat, then steps back, “Have a good night, now.”

You bite your lip to keep from asking if he wants to come in. You know you couldn’t keep yourself from him if you did. There’s this magnetic quality to the air between you that makes the temptation unbearable, and you have to walk away right now.

“Bye, Javi,” you walk up the driveway, putting space between you and him as fast as you can.

[ Next Chapter ]

[piratefalls]

previous lists here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here.

you showed up just in time by lecornergirl

can i come over, typed out quickly and sent before he has time to overthink it. He wouldn’t even ask, not normally, but nothing about the past twenty-four hours has been normal.

Eddie texts back almost immediately. No.

Buck’s blood runs cold, horror settling like lead in his veins, and his heart feels like it’s trying to climb up his throat and leave his body as he tries to figure out what he could have done to piss Eddie off. Eddie had seemed fine in the hospital waiting room—if tired, as worn out and frayed as the rest of them, but—

A key turns in his door and Eddie walks in, Christopher in tow.

the things that torment most by renecdote

Eddie makes himself comfortable at the other end of the couch, lifting Buck’s legs and putting them back down in his lap. His hand rests on Buck’s uninjured ankle, not caressing but sort of holding, touch achingly gentle.

“You should try audiobooks,” he says. “Or maybe podcasts. Chris has been downloading them on my phone, some of them are pretty interesting.”

“Sure,” Buck agrees sleepily. His leg doesn’t hurt so much anymore and he kind of wants to go for a run, hit his training goal for the day, but he’s warm and comfortable and it’s nice to just be here with Eddie. To just exist, without having to worry about what comes next.

In which Buck reads a lot and all roads lead to him figuring out he's in love with his best friend.

The undone and the divine by justhockey

He hasn’t set foot inside a church since he left home and never looked back.

It feels like a lie, now. To walk inside such a hollow building and have his trauma fill every open space until there’s no room left for Buck to breathe. He feels like a fraud for being here, like everyone who sees him will know he doesn’t belong.

Any Other Way by Indigo2831

'Buck Begins' 4.05 tag. Buck thought he could breeze over the fallout of learning about Daniel, but he's trapped in a vicious cycle of self-doubt and depression. Athena and the 118's newest and cutest member, Nia, helps him though.

This Date Sucks by soft_satan

Athena picked up on the second ring, concern already lacing her words. She and Eddie didn’t talk much outside of team gatherings and lighthearted conversation on the job. She knew immediately that he wasn’t calling to chat. “Hey, Eddie. Is everything alright?”

“No, not really,” he huffed with a humorless laugh. “I think Buck’s in trouble.”

He could hear the eye roll in her voice. “Of course he is.”

---

In which Buck goes on a tinder date and things go very, very wrong. Lucky for him, the Winchesters are in town.

making it right by itsmylifekay

Eddie knows he’s in trouble the second he sets foot in the firehouse.

But nothing could prepare him for how Buck looks up against the wall, not able to meet Eddie's eyes because Eddie's the one who put him there. He'll do anything in his power to make it right again.

Or, Eddie shoves Buck in a heated moment and then spends the next few days fixing his mistake. Angst and honesty ensue.

rainbows have nothing to hide by hattalove

“Glad to see someone is happy I’m here,” Buck yells into the house, and only gets the rustle of paper bags and a vague grunt in response. He leans down and whispers into Christopher’s ear: “Was he being a Kermit again?”

Christopher nods so hard that some of his hair ends up in Buck’s mouth.

“It’s so bad,” he whispers back. “You need to move in with us already.”

how is eddie diaz like kermit the frog? let buck and christopher count the ways.

get lost on the way to you by extasiswings

Buck’s locker closes loudly enough to make Eddie jump—there’s a strange set to Buck’s shoulders as he walks out of the room, but Eddie doesn’t understand why and Buck’s gone quickly enough that Eddie can’t call after him. Maybe he’s just tired? None of them really enjoy weekend shifts. Or something could have happened with Albert, or maybe he had another bad date, or—

It could be anything really. But there’s an uncomfortable itch between Eddie’s shoulder blades at the fact that he doesn’t know. At the fact that they haven’t been talking recently the way they used to. And an even more uncomfortable thought in the back of his mind that it’s because of him. Or, rather, because of him and Ana.

[Or: When a day between Ana and Christopher goes south, Eddie realizes that maybe he's been pushing his son too far, too fast. And takes a harder look at the things he already has.]

the differential equation of edmundo diaz by thisissirius

Eddie’s eyes—and it takes Buck a second to realize what he’s seeing—dilate.

Once could have been an accident, though, so Buck’s gotta be smart about this.

As his old physics professor used to say; verify, verify, verify.

you’re so golden by eddiesdiaz

Eddie really, really hates the way people treat Buck sometimes.

No one ever really sees him for all that he is. They look at him and see a pretty face and a beautiful body, and they assume that’s all there is to him. It doesn’t matter that he’s unbelievably kind, and fiercely loyal, and way smarter than he lets on, and all around the most genuine and good person Eddie’s ever known. They decide with one snap judgment that he’s just a dumb, shallow pretty boy, and they treat him accordingly. It makes Eddie sick.

So yes, sometimes he steps in and sets them straight.

The World Looks Red by prettyboybuckley

He thinks he will despise the color red after today. Red will never be the same. Red will mean pain and panic and…

Ambulance. Hospital. Eddie, don’t leave, Eddie.

Red is staining his shirt. Tainted white. Washing it won’t help. Burning it might. Yes, that is what he will do, he will burn it. It’s a cruel irony, a firefighter setting things on fire. But the shirt needs to go.

or: Eddie got shot and all Buck can see everywhere is red

Love Like Taffy by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels

Buck likes it when Eddie puts him in his place. And Eddie's noticed.

a warmth i’ve never known by ofloveandlonging

It’s quiet on the other end of the line for a long moment. Buck counts his heartbeats. They’re quick with worry while he waits for Eddie to speak.

“Buck, I think you need to take him to the ER.”

Memorable by JessicaMDawn

Six times Buck got recognized by people he saved during the tsunami, and how his team realized he was a hero.

Within/Without by anonymous

“I’m just saying, working the streets of LA is not exactly stress free.”

or,

Buck and Eddie begin with a bang. (2x01 insert with bonus 2x02)

Relationship Advice from Complete Strangers Online by HMSLusitania

When he gets home for the night, Buck turns to the one source of information that’s never let him down: the internet.

He gets as far as opening his laptop and pulling up a web browser, and then he stalls. His homepage, for years now, has been Wikipedia. He doesn’t know how exactly he’s supposed to wiki-search “Is my best friend into me.” It’s not like he really does social media, either. Ever since he bailed on dating apps, he’s sort of tried to avoid other people online. He likes people in real spaces so much more.

But where does one go for relationship advice from complete strangers online?

Which is how, ten minutes later, he finds himself on Reddit with a shiny new account and username.

It takes him a while after that to craft his question for r/Relationships, but he thinks he’s got it pretty accurately conveyed before he hits post.

Hi, I’ve never made a Reddit post before and I’m not 100% sure what I’m doing but I need advice and can’t ask anyone in my real life. So, I [30M] have this best friend [34M]…

[aquilaofarkham]

title: only then i am human, only then i am clean rating: M (canon-typical violence, gore, horror, ritualistic cults, discussions of pregnancy, mild suggestive themes) word count: 9,594 summary: After a diplomatic visit to an isolated commune goes horribly wrong, Alucard is forced to confront a much more monstrous side of himself. Meanwhile Trevor and Sypha try to offer comfort despite their shock.

Written for day 4 of @trephacardweek! The prompt was dirty/clean/touch ❤️ 

READ HERE

Wallachia is not a small country, yet its scope seems to diminish with each passing day. Word travels fast whether by horse, wagon, or foot. Rumours and gossip flourish the same as in a noble’s parlour or as crops prosper during a good harvest. And just like a lord with an unshakable grudge or a sudden cruel frost, rumours can change the instant they take root. 

Do you know about the new village near that manor? 

The one that burned down fifteen years ago? 

Well, I heard they actually named it after those black magicians and devil worshippers. 

No, that family wasn’t evil. They were always protecting us. 

Their last surviving son is a hero. 

If only it were so easy to put that much faith into the common people. Not the ones nurtured under a leader who carries a good if not insane head atop her shoulders. He means the tavern crawlers, the goat farmers, the church devotees, those pushing through life with what little they carry in their hands and in their heads. Maybe they did realize how wrong they were about the origins of his village’s namesake. They’re the ones who reached out, after all. Delivered a letter requesting conversation between communities despite their isolation. If lies can spread like the plague, surely the truth can as well. But Alucard has misinterpreted people before, consequences of which turned out for the greater good and the greatest regret.

Sitting on the front porch of a simple yet homely cottage, breathing in the cool October air while surrounding trees of orange and red emit silence, it grants him a sense of clarity. The place was rented only for the night, thanks to an aging groundskeeper who forsake the traditional single inn in favour of better business: multiple cabins used by other hunters and travellers looking for some privacy to pair with their rest. During a two day journey out to god knows where, it came as a blessing. The groundskeeper might have said the same thing about the three travellers’ generous patronage—were he not already aware of their growing reputation. A hunter who carries a slight limp as scars encircle his entire right arm, a man with unnatural eyes coupled with pointed canines, and a clearly pregnant magician traveling side by side would of course raise a number of wary eyebrows regardless of past deeds.

“Not a single monster around these parts so no trouble from either of you.”

Personally, the hunter had heard better greetings from businessmen but the small group obliged his request and slept together like the dead. If Alucard was a more narrow minded man, he would buy the cottage for himself as a retreat from the constant bustling of the world at large. To enjoy peace and quiet as life’s purest vices. Well, him and a few other persons. In reality, he is content with its intended temporary purposes.

Content is an apt descriptor of Alucard’s life as it currently stands. Not quite enough for him to leave his sword and cape upon their pedestals before setting out on a diplomatic mission, but still content with the way things are now. 

For the first time in my life, I have absolutely no idea what happens next. I just have this feeling that it’s going to be worth it. He cannot read the future, no one can be they human or vampire. Nostradamus was an anomaly in the annals of history. Knowing that fault, it might have been naive of Alucard to say such a bold proclamation. Yet some divine force must have stopped fucking about to hear him speak those words and actually listened. This life is good, he worked hard for it with more tears than sweat and certainly more blood than both combined. A life protected, but has every possibility of being taken away all the same.

Alucard won’t dwell on that fear, not when current matters demand his attention as representative of Belmont Village. He instead reaches into his pocket and rereads the letter stained with black ink and brown splotches along the edges. Dirty, so dirty. Most likely from the long arduous journey inside an equally ragged messenger’s pouch. It’s not a cry for help as he’s used to receiving but rather a cry for connection, allyship, negotiation. Things every developing village must take into account when it comes to setting up good relations between neighbours. Greta insisted on keeping a watchful eye on things at home, much to Alucard’s fear. Still trying to take her advice of being around the human half of himself as much as his heart can handle, until his planned excuses were scattered to the four winds when two others volunteered as delegates. Suddenly, meeting new people didn’t seem so horrifying.

“We’re ready. Sorry for the wait.”

He turns around at the sound of Trevor’s lackadaisy voice. The Belmont holds himself a little more carefully these days, not as spry or quick as he used to be. Thankfully (and depending on how well he behaves), it will take a good decade or a dozen years before he requires a cane. With Sypha at his side, the two meander onto the porch and shut the cabin door, leaving the key in a discreet location, lest they endure another blundering encounter with the groundskeeper. They seem to glow surrounded by the warm colours of autumn, though it could be due to how soundly each of them rested the night before. Sypha’s is a different sort of glow. Trevor caresses her six month bump, afterwards mimicked by Alucard’s gloved hand once he’s standing. Like rubbing a good luck charm to protect the three of them—four to be exact.

“What did you do with the chicken bones?” He asks Trevor.

“Tossed in a ditch a ways from the other cabins last night. Some wolves or foxes might appreciate them.”

“Do we have enough left for the journey back?”

“We have…” Sypha rummages through one of the burlap sacks. It feels considerably less heavy than when their little troupe embarked. “More strips of dried goat, a pound of sirloin, and a few apples.”

Furrowing his brow, Alucard checks their rations himself. Not that he doesn’t believe Sypha; he’s only curious about this abundance of meat. “And Trevor packed everything, correct?”

“Well, I helped. Something wrong?”

“Just… it’s a lot of meat even after last night’s feast.”

Trevor overhears the conversation as he finishes preparing their horses. “Don’t pin all the blame on me. Pregnancy apparently turns you into a carnivore.”

“Oh… how are you feeling, Sypha?”

“Fine! I promise you I am fine. Just hungrier than usual. And Trevor’s right…” She rubs her stomach, managing to stay light upon both feet. “This little one seems to have an appetite for meat.”

“Good. When the time comes, they will be born healthy and strong. But there’s no shame in resting for another day. I’m sure our benefactors will understand and I will haggle with that groundskeeper if need be.”

Sypha’s eyes narrow, a crease forming between them. Like something rotten passed through or a string of poorly times words sounded inadvertently offensive. “Count your blessings—both of you—that you did not just ask me to turn around and ride in the direction of the village.”

Both men shrink, tongue tied, nervous of the Speaker’s wrath. Neither of them were going to suggest it in the first place, but the months have gone by too quickly. Before there was barely anything, now they see the semblance of a child biding its time. How could they not voice concerns? Even so, they are unable to explain themselves. Sypha scoffs as though pleased with the mild fear she’s just wrought.

“I am riding a horse and spending a couple hours on my very sturdy feet. That is all. You worry too much.”

“Well, it’s sort of our job now.”

Sypha gives Trevor a well-meaning punch to his arm along with a chuckle. Secretly, she adores the added attention, within and without a convenient bedroom where she can truly, unabashedly enjoy it. Doesn’t mean she’s lost the ability to tease, prodding at their most sensitive bits. Trevor glances at Alucard as if to wordlessly say with cocked lips, “thank god she hasn’t lost her touch”. He smiles in return. The dhampir and hunter need to stay on their toes despite these times of peace.

Three horses set off mid morning carrying three travellers in high spirits. Late noon comes and three apples are eaten before the journey carries on. Deeper into the forest they trek, creating a trail all their own through the dying brush. Soon every colour of the season will fade into stark neutrals as snow replaces leaves upon the ground and skeleton branches reveal themselves behind lush foliage. Winter is on its way, swift as the death of nature, which is why this visit must be completed now before Wallachia falls into its deep cold sleep.

Autumn days are short. The longer the ride, the darker the skies. Not quite nightfall yet but far from the familiarity of daylight. Alucard almost reaches into his pocket for the letter again, grateful for his better eyes while wondering if he misread the directions, until Trevor points ahead.

“That what we’re looking for?”

He follows the outstretched finger, settling on a path of lights hovering in mid air. Except none of them are actually floating with no supports. Torches illuminate deep into the woods where it seems few have traversed before. Alucard should have suspected as much; the letter did mention the word “isolated”. Yet nothing this dark, this quiet, or this lonely came to mind. They ride closer over uneven terrain until it’s too much for the horses, snorting then loudly whinnying in protest. Each one fervently digs their hooves into the dirt.

“Easy, girl, easy…” Trevor pats his horse’s neck. Always a man more compliant with beasts rather than people—less of those finicky complicated emotions. He makes the wise decision of dismounting, silently encouraging the others to do the same. Nowhere to go now but onwards still. The horses comply for a couple more feet before stopping entirely.

  “Should we—” Sypha begins but Alucard already has her answer.

“We’ll tie them to the trees. They will be fine here.”

The other two agree with one of those statements. As they secure each rein around a sturdy trunk, Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard remain close. Occasionally, hands will embrace hands purely for reassurance. A physical way of saying, “I’m still here. I won’t let the darkness consume you”. Pathways scattered with light are supposed to bring guidance to wanderers, a sense of ease from the tribulations of travel, yet Alucard feels none of that. He brushes it off as merely a symptom of their lengthy journey. 

A different light appears at the end of the torches in the form of a human figure. Two more join their comrade, also dressed in the typical rags of farmers, peasants, people of the land. Harmless. Relatively gaunt for their statutes while their bloodshot eyes further betray poor displays of health. These countrymen need sleep, proper bathing, and food most importantly. They seemed deprived of everything, even good blood judging from their lack of colour. It’s lucky they reached out for help when they did.

“Are you from the village Belmont?” The first man hangs his head slightly low, deepening the dark circles beneath his hollow eyes.

“We are. You know me as Alucard. No ‘the’, please. I’ve come with Trevor Belmont and Sypha Belnades as representatives. It said in your letter that you would like to negotiate terms of trade between our communities. Is that correct?”

The people respond with empty stares then look to each other, their exchanged glances brief yet heavy, like carrying out a wordless discussion between themselves. No one can decipher whatever they’re saying despite it happening right in front of them. 

“Follow us.”

The dreadful unease returns. Perhaps being led into the unending heart of the forest by strangers who don’t seem altogether there is the root cause. Or the faint stench of something metallic wafting through the stagnant air which Alucard cannot shake nor can he discern where it’s originating. It could be both reasons or more. He wants to voice, or rather whisper, his concerns to Trevor and Sypha. Better them first than saying the wrong thing to their guides. But then Sypha commits her only mistake: she speaks to them first.

“So… where are your community leaders?”

The woods people stop, nearly causing a collision. Their answer to Sypha’s legitimate and responsible nature comes in the form of quivering… laughter? Alucard hears it as such, so does Trevor based on his expression of equal confusion. Before either one can demand the meaning of this, the silence of the trees is broken when Alucard’s arms, chest, neck, and legs start burning.

“GAAH!”

It happened too quickly. He should have heard the other humans rustling in the nearby bushes, following them the entire way. Unable to reach for his sword or transfigure into a wolf, bats, mist, anything his father taught him, Alucard violently sucks in air through teeth and flared nostrils. Smoke and the same smell of metal fill his exasperated lungs. It feels like something is tearing through his clothes to mark itself on his skin—silver chains. No. No, no, no, no. Not again. Not now. Alucard refocuses his mania back to the present. This isn’t only about him. Trevor and Sypha, where they are and if they managed to retaliate. His eyes dart in frantic directions, trying to locate them, widening when he does.

Trevor, always the apt fighter even with weakened muscles and bones, immediately counters with a swing at one of the men’s jawline, breaking it with a satisfactory crack. But his cohorts gain the upper hand by finding that very spot near the Belmont’s shin where a single well-placed kick sends him straight to the ground. Overwhelmed, they hold him firm against the dirt and mud with their boots atop his body. Trevor bares his teeth, angry, rageful, even more so when he sees Sypha. 

Holding off her attackers with fire incantations, relishing their screams when they burn, until concern for the safety of her child overrides concern for her own. She briefly places a hand on her stomach to shield it and the woods people take advantage of this open window. They hook a line around her throat, pulling her backwards before binding her wrists so her spells mean nothing and do nothing. Snarling and cursing, her head lobbing in all directions. Alucard has never seen Sypha this overcome with fury, though he never doubted her ability to lose control. 

He can’t focus on her forever as something else emerges from the brush, crawling forward on elongated limbs then standing upright. Alucard recognizes these creatures but only from his father’s books—the only place where he ever wanted to encounter them. Ancient vampires, perhaps older than most concepts of time. White skin, paler than fresh snow yet more grotesque, and naked without a single hair from top to bottom. Sypha continues to curse about how she’ll fucking kill every last one of them until one human woman with unhinged eyes finally answers her first question.

“Our leaders are here.”

The three of them remain on the ground before this amalgamation of insane monsters and equally insane humans. Sacrificing their freedoms, their health, and their lives to become familiars. All for a taste of immortality that may or may not be granted unto them. All because they fear the natural inevitability of death, that endless abyss. Alucard would speak every indecency towards them if he were not already occupied with numbing his own pain. 

“You could never hide from us,” rasps one vampire still creeping on all fours. 

“Not when you announce your home named after Lord Dracul’s murderer.” Another chimes in. Unlike the common blood drinker who can barely keep their selfish ego from growing into a tumour, these vampires seem more cooperative. They speak in tandem like a single minded hive.

“That’s it? That’s what this is all about? You freaks are still angry because your lord ate shit and then kicked it? Well, you’re not bringing him back. Others have tried and even got close but all failed miserably before dying themselves so just give up and go rot somewhere in a fucking ditch!”

Alucard winces at Trevor’s proclamation, thinking about the memories in his childhood bedroom deformed, defiled, and now gone. The moment passes. Trevor is angry, stressed, as he has every right to be. We say things we don’t consider for a second when we’re angry. It’s more important that their lives are being toyed with in a cat and mouse situation.

“We did not bring you here to avenge Dracul.”

“We were never under his command.”

“We follow a different master.”

“The one who bestowed upon us these gifts.”

“The one who made us pure.”

“The one who feeds off the end of a mortal life.”

Sypha calms herself and loosens the restraint around her neck enough to decipher their cryptid sayings. “Death? You worshipped Death?”

“Long way to go for a dusty pile of bones who’d rather take a shit on his followers than give a damn about any of you.”

The vampires suddenly turn on Trevor. They strain their vocal chords into shrill howls, fangs chattering and long forked tongues flicking in and out of their lipless mouths. He glances at Alucard, both their foreheads drenched in perspiration for different reasons. I think I pissed them off.

“Do not speak blasphemy against the master!”

“Lies! Lies! Snakes on his tongue!”

“Killer! Murderer! Killer of Death!”

Piercing through the painful fog caused by the silver, Alucard experiences a moment of clarity. An idea. Risky, perhaps stupid, but stupid is all he can rely on. “Stop!” He yells, hoping to distract them away from his friends, his loved ones. Those he fought for since the beginning even when he didn’t realize it. The vampires pause and listen.

“He didn’t kill Death. I did. I killed Dracula too. I erected a town for humans atop their ashes to spite them. If you desire revenge, then take me but let them go.”

Trevor and Sypha turn to him, shocked. Begging with their gaze. They know of Alucard’s sacrificial nature but hoped he would never resort to it. It doesn’t matter though as the vampires gag then spit out the bait.

“Liars. All of you.”

“We care not who dealt the final blow.”

“Who carried out the killing strike.”

“All three of you are at fault.”

“Your village, its humans, a stain upon our master’s grave and memory.”

“Tonight we carry out his final wish.”

One familiar with his boot on the back of Trevor’s skull starts to plead. “Let us have the half vampire. Please. Give him to us. Feast on the other two. We want him! We want to see if he bleeds like a vampire or human!”

Just as quick as he began whining and raving, his eyes are scratched out by a vampire too fast for the normal eye to catch. He weeps, legs crumpling to the ground in a pitiful display, but doesn’t shriek. Too mad for even that.

“Fools! Mortal sacks of pig blood and shit.”

“He is too strong for any of you.”

“Take the hunter and magician. Kill them with your knives and hands if you must. Leave the traitor son to us.”

Half of the remaining familiars grumble but dare not speak against their masters. Alucard watches as Trevor and Sypha are dragged away to some darker corner of the forest, struggling to the best of their abilities. Then they’re gone. He waits for the shouts, the curses, bones breaking and meat gouged. Frozen, in pain, panicking. His trapped skin reeks of blood and seared flesh. Don’t cry. Don’t cry from the fear or the agony or your mounting rage.

What can he do? What else is there to do? He can use his sword, wherever it lies. He just needs to picture it.

His mind won’t let him. Alucard cannot think of how to save himself. He only thinks of death among those supposed to be his own kind.

“The magician is with child. The hunter’s? Or yours?”

“Matters not. All bloodlines end tonight.”

“Yours.”

“His.”

“Hers.”

“Everyone’s.”

Trevor, torn to pieces. Sypha, her throat slashed. Greta, her blood drained along with the entire Belmont Village. Everyone dead, all because he wanted to be kind again. To trust humanity. The images of what’s to come in the future flash before him, distracting from the vampires’ hideous contorted faces as they laugh and taunt and fill his ears with terrible possibilities worse than anything Alucard can think of. The anger blocks it out. All he can hear is the blood pounding its way into his ears, telling him something different. 

It whispers so convincingly. Everything he loves, everything he risked protecting, everything he rightfully earned, gone. There is no question of if; it will be taken away from him, brutal and terrible. Why hold back his own capacity for monstrousness. Why not meet evil with evil. It’s a dirty thing to do. Dirty, so dirty, like the taste of blood from a wicked man.

Alucard waits for the first vampire to lean in before lunging forward and biting open their neck, his teeth elongated to unnatural lengths. The whites of his eyes are replaced with pure endless black while blood seeps into his yellow irises. By sheer untapped strength, he breaks free and further forgets his sword. His claws are faster this way, more unforgiving. The familiars who stayed behind are the first to die as well as the quickest. Lucky them. Their bodies rip easily. Alucard’s own skin tears as well. His skeletal structure rearranges itself both with and without his consent. 

He screams the only way a frightened, angry animal knows how. There is only a blood red darkness before his eyes.

--

Sypha Belnades and her handsome sidekick, often mistaken for a misshapen bear, have done this dance before. Cultists of this, fanatics of that, worshippers of whichever supernatural madman of the month sounds more appealing. They crawl out from the bloodsoaked underbelly of Wallachia like squirming maggots. Everyone's the same, their purposes unoriginal. Only the methods change but even those have become old tricks. If not for the added risk of Alucard, their community, their child not yet welcomed into this world, and their own physical barriers, it might even be boring. 

Regardless of how hardened this world has turned them, it doesn’t make the anger any colder or the urgency any less pressing. Trevor’s blood feels hot, boiling through his veins, while Sypha’s fingertips tingle with sparks. He reluctantly watches her captors push her towards a stone slab darkened by the remains of past offerings—presumably. They’ve seen pedestals like this before. It seems so long ago. Helpless children wetting them with frightened tears until someone with a whip and another with magic rushes in and gives back their short lives.

Sypha’s head is shoved against the top, her body forced into an undignified kneeling position. She doesn’t swear or spit or cry out. Nothing will come of that. Her eyes burn and she waits. Waits until she hears the withdrawal of some large blade—an axe or cleaver. Not that it matters when the back of her head collides with the unlucky executioner situated directly behind the apparent sacrifice. Teeth fragments fall to the ground, blood spurts from his nose and eyes, placing the familiars in a state of shock. They expected none of this, less of which the moment when Sypha frees one hand, reaches for the cloak brooch that’s been in her life longer than her own birth parents, and blinds everyone unfortunate to find themselves in her vicinity.

Trevor’s pride is outweighed by his own self-preservation. Disarming the last few with some well-timed kicks and punches is a time honoured Belmont tradition, but he isn’t happy. It’s not enough to break in their faces or crack their femurs; he wants them gone for good. 

When a certain last son was still woefully unprepared with a family whip left for him in the rubble of his home, Trevor saved himself on multiple occasions with a knife in his boot. Other and far more formidable weapons fell into his lap, he eventually got better with the whip, but the knife stayed with him  to this very moment. He always thought he’d need it one day when circumstances said otherwise. Sometimes well placed paranoia can keep one alive a day more than if they viewed the world as white, not in shades of varying grey. Few things get the job done better than a knife to the gut, back, or neck.

Sypha uses the last of her energy to raze those still alive into burnt artifices made to resemble human beings. She gags on scorched flesh as her knees meet the dirt once again. Barely a second passes before Trevor is by her side.

“Sypha! You alright? Where does it hurt? Show me where it hurts.”

“I’m fine. More tired than usual, that’s all.”

“What about the kid? Our baby, Sypha. Is it—” He squeezes her hand. Sypha responds to his unchecked strength by reassuringly patting his stubbled cheek once she’s standing.

“Also fine. I can feel the devil kicking up a storm. I think they want to fight as well.”

Trevor exhales as though it’s the first breath he’s let out all night. “That wouldn’t surprise me.” Placing his palm over her swollen belly. She’s right. Their little warrior, still kicking, still moving, still alive. They both are, same as him.

Another deathly chorus cuts through the trees. The two of them are used to similar sounds (sometimes being the ones who cause them), but not like this. Trevor feels his bones rattle; Sypha’s heart plummets into her already queasy stomach. It sits there for a disturbing amount of time while the screams and helpless chokes carry on their sickening death rattles, then stop. The comfort of their own survival is short-lived as they remember Alucard, desperate to know his place during the brief carnage. Was he fighting those things? Barely vampires, at least not the sort they’ve come to know. 

Trevor and Sypha hurry back to the meeting place of debasement and humiliation. None of them would have thought twice about how they were treated, but it hurt all the more especially after they floated through what was meant to be a hopeful day. Upon arrival, they cover their lower faces, assaulted by air so wretched with death, blood, and other bodily fluids neither one wants to think about. Forced to compose themselves, forced to look at the sight before them. 

This is the first time Trevor Belmont of the House of Belmont has ever been stunned into pure silence. Not since the fire.

The ground is soft; dirt and mud thick with blood. Their boots sink into the monster made marsh with every uneasy step forward. Like walking atop bodies until Sypha’s foot unknowingly crashes through a disemboweled ribcage. The shock is too great for her to even flinch. They find more pieces scattered to the ditches and hills. Gutted, mutilated, torn asunder. There is no identity here, nothing recognizable or identifiable. Familiars and vampires meld together in a cacophony of mangled flesh. Organs, bones, it’s all the same. Hearts smashed into pulp, tangled intestines, blackened livers, crushed skulls, and burst lungs. Brain matter scattered across the ground. They all look alike on the inside. The rest of the forest is dry. Here, it rains red. The trees and leaves, dripping. A fat drop falls into Trevor’s eye, snapping him back to the present. 

He never witnessed the real fall of Targoviste. Despondent Gresit only supplied him with a brief tasting of hell on earth. Lindenfield was the same, meager and short, yet enough all the same. Enough death and hopelessness. Those forsaken places now have one more in good company, one more addition to their lexicon of horror.

“I can’t find Alucard.”

Sypha’s shaken tone causes Trevor to jump after a prolonged moment of tense and unpleasant quietness. It also helps refocus him. Her voice could bring anyone back from the dissociative abyss. He rejoins her side only to see that she’s not all there either. Eyes wide, unable to tear themselves away while the rest of her body remains immobile, save for the continuous trembling. Trevor follows her gaze and notices a different set of footprints imprinted deep in the bloody soil, neither human nor vampire. Nothing their size or smaller. If he were to place his hand inside the outline, the print would swallow it whole.

“Something else did this. I couldn’t find Alucard, but, but I found those. They were not there before. I can’t find him, Trevor. Everyone’s faces, they… they all look the same. That thing must have... Trevor, he’s—” Sypha fights against herself. Normally so certain in her words and how she speaks, until now. 

She recalls that night when the sky above Dracula’s ruined castle exploded with a blinding light. The earth shook, a final war cry bellowed out, and then there was nothing. No Death, no Germain, and no Trevor. The following seconds felt like hours when she had to face the realization of what happened. How she tried to deny and rationalize the inevitable. Not again. Sypha hoped she would never again have to live through such pain. She holds her belly for comfort, perhaps in the last frivolous hope that something, some cosmic sign will tell her that she’s wrong.

Before, she managed to pull Trevor away from a dark state of mind with her voice. He does the same with his hands. Holding her shoulders wracked with shakes, he takes his thumb and rubs her hot cheeks before the tears can fall.

“Hey. Hey, hey, hey, listen to me. We know him. He’d never give up as easily as any of these creeps. I can’t see his clothes anywhere, so he must have gotten away somehow.”

Sypha presses her lips together, tight. She swallows past the lump in her throat and nods; not entirely convinced but it satisfies Trevor. He glances back towards the tracks leading away from the wreckage.

“Let’s follow those. Maybe he chased the beast into the woods.”

“I don’t see his footprints. It might have dragged him away.”

“Then all the more reason to go after it.”

She agrees, though with more doubt eating at her conscience. The beastial tracks thankfully lead them to clean air yet even more tumultuous ground. Whatever left them clearly wanted to lose whoever felt foolish enough to follow. With no second pair of footprints, the thought of Alucard helpless, in a worse state, dragged by some night creature they’ve yet encountered brings their dread to new heights.

Onwards Trevor and Sypha stalk their prey, helping each other over hills and rocks, always questioning if either of them will be able to fight it. The opening of a large cavern suddenly appears behind the dense tree brush. There’s no end, no back wall, only a deep void. Trevor wanders inside first, Sypha close behind, her hands ready. Each finger brimming with the sensation of fire, ice, lightning, anything that will make this monster suffer the same way Alucard did.

Something breathes. The cavern fills with hot air and the same bloody stench. They’ve found it, just as abominable as the carnage it wrought. Grey leathery skin blends into the darkness and with every heavy breath, the cave seems to move alongside its hulking mass. Stone walls can barely contain its massive wings, pointed, sharp, and stretched to their limit over an impossible bone structure. Claws fresh with blood rake at the dirt while the tips of its horns pierce the rough ceiling. Kept in a cage of its own body. Trevor and Sypha prepare themselves, but the one thing they weren’t expecting was the creature capable of speech. Knives scratch their way up its throat with only two short words.

“Go away.”

It’s not unusual for night creatures to speak. One memorable blue fang in Gresit trapped behind ice, warning them about the armies from hell before its head split in two, was the most articulate Trevor had ever heard. Most are intelligent beings, same as they must have been before death, before some necromancer got their kicks from playing with predetermined fate. This beasty speaks again, longer and with more malice dripping off its gore-covered fangs. Every syllable echoes off the cave walls, shaking the two humans down to their very core.

“I said leave. Run. Don’t look at me.”

Since entering its domain, Trevor had the feeling this night creature was different. A tickling sensation in the back of his mind. Call it a hunter’s intuition (or a Belmont’s). Because Sonia and Gabriel raised their children well, no matter how short the upbringing was for one child. The youngest Belmont, so deeply versed with understanding monsters and the ways in which a vampire or lycan or the lowliest fleaman think. Information has flowed back to him alongside the memories. Listening to its voice, the hateful desperation, the way it bitterly refers to these two intruders (still cautious enough to look first rather than leap into something beyond either of them), Trevor finally realizes. 

He knows what this thing is—and the knowledge scares him.

“Sypha…” He whispers and grabs her arm before she can take another step. “You’re going to think I’m crazy… fuck, maybe I am crazy… but—”

“It’s him.” They turn to each other, the disbelief just as apparent in her face and strained voice as it is in Trevor’s.

“You knew?”

“When he spoke. I was waiting for you to say something. In case…”

In case we’re both crazy. Maybe they are. There is no explanation, just a gut reaction that festers and boils over until it all vomits forth. Both their heads feel rife, overflowing with blood and violence, maybe the fact that this monster might be Alucard is a delusion. Yet it can only be proven by lowering their defenses. To put their faith in a concept as abstract as trust, companionship, and something like love but far more complicated yet just as wonderful in their cases.

“I said leave.”

“It’s just us, Alucard. It’s just us.” Trevor once thought acts of gentleness were some of the most pointless things in this harsh sad world. Always out of reach, something he would never truly achieve on his own. His older sisters were gentle, his parents (in their own ways) were gentle. Look at where it got them. But admitting wrongness within oneself is a part of human nature. Gentleness comes easy, now and onwards in his life.

“We’re here to help. It’s alright.” Sypha can’t stop how she trembles, reaching her hand out to touch Alucard—if he really is there. She’s terrified and it’s alright to accept that.

“I’ll kill you. I’ll only kill you. I killed them all. I killed them all. I killed them. I���ll kill you like I killed them. I’ll… kill… them all...”

He never does. Never strikes or paints the cave with gore like the outside, not even when feather-light touches drift over his rough skin before settling. Trevor’s fingers are calloused; Sypha’s as well though a bit less so. But they’re both warm, seeping through his tough outer rim and into his true self buried deep inside.

“You are not going to hurt us.” Like her hands, Sypha is firm and soft with her proclamation.

“I will hurt you.”

“No you will not.”

“I will…”

“We don’t believe you.” Trevor slowly rests his forehead between the two horns, unafraid. One more creature he can understand.

“I…”

They’ve seen Alucard transform from wolf to bat then back to himself. A quick process, more ethereal than supernatural. Graceful wisps of smoke similar to streams of incense. There is nothing graceful about this transfiguration. One moment, Trevor and Sypha hold a monster in their arms, dwarfed by his size. The next, Alucard stands before them, clothes torn, baptized in blood. His hair weighed down by that which does not belong to him. They try asking if he’s alright and if he can hear them. It’s nothing but muffled sounds piercing into his throbbing head.

Alucard doesn’t answer. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. His only thought is what he did. What he is.

--

They killed the horses. Why wouldn’t they? No one was expecting three travelers to come out of that burrow alive, so an easy way back towards the village was no longer necessary. The familiars could have spared the animals, if only to give blistered feet a chance to breathe along their crusade, but their masters would have eaten them regardless, pouncing upon the horses to create a massacre like feasting on a second course. Their deaths were preemptive.

“We’re walking,” Trevor declares.

Somewhere between the corpses and their far away home, Alucard regains alertness. He’s been trudging along with the help of two hands which guide him ever forward. Once his eyes start blinking followed by his quivering bottom lip, he feels heavier in his bones, flesh, his heart and soul. Heavy and dirty. What he did was wrong yet also right. He had no other choice, cornered like a hunted animal, but there is always another choice. His own claws were ready for use, his own fangs as well. None of which belonged to that thing, but he did not take advantage of them. Alucard’s mind holds an unshakable conclusion, despite the apparent contradictions swirling in his conscience. He is wrong. He is dirty. Drenched in blood not his, right down to the marrow. No amount of good deeds or erected townships or safe communities will change that about him.

Knees meet the ground again as Alucard breaks one more secret. He weeps, open and inconsolable. His tears used to be quiet even when no one was there to see or hear them. Strands of hair bunched in his hands, breaths shallow and hitched, fingernails digging into his skin until one finally breaks just to stop him from screaming. Tonight, in the presence of two individuals he fought harder than with anyone else to hide this facet from, to maintain his steadfastness and stay as the cold spot in the room, Alucard cries. Cries and cries and cries enough to turn his throat ragged and bloody.

Trevor and Sypha find themselves lost. Not on their current trail, direct as it may seem in darkness, but with someone whom both feel they have abandoned in some form. Neither can ask what happened, why he became that thing. All they can do is lift Alucard onto his unsteady feet and pull him further down the familiar path against the constant reluctance. Trevor considers snapping at Alucard; a firm grip on his shoulders or worse, a palm to his cheek. Brief thoughts, yet all the more strong. The more he resists, the slower they are getting him to a bath and warm bed. Swallow whatever misplaced guilt you have and fucking move. 

It would have been an awful, terrible thing to do to a friend. Any frustration towards Alucard dissolves into compassionate pity with every whimper and sob.

Their return to the rest site is not a welcome one. The groundskeeper’s hostility is matched by his incessant questioning. Sypha shields Alucard from his accusations while Trevor tries placating him, holding the man back for their safety and perhaps his own. He’s never been good at playing the middleman during heated tangents despite best intentions while also never starting them. Often enough (or rather too often), he’s put to rest various altercations by leaving more jaw-snapping and testicle inebriating punches than meaningful sayings. And if there were some tangible words thrown about, they were of the hateful variety. Bastard, fuck, and more colourful four letter insults. For tonight, Trevor brushes off his peacemaker skills until the flash of money eventually wins out over talk—as it always does with simple men trying to make livings for themselves in a country where humans in the daylight can be just as terrible as those who stalk the night.

The groundskeeper eyes the bag of coins offered by Trevor. Extra for what is essentially the same amount of time they paid not even a day ago. He takes it, reluctantly, but not before giving them one last caveat.

“And shut that friend of yours up. He’ll scare away my other patrons.”

Alucard is hastily shuffled into the nearest empty cabin. Looking over her shoulder, Sypha stares daggers into the groundskeeper’s back in the hopes they’ll somehow materialize and he’ll feel every prick and sting. Both have gotten used to Alucard’s weeping yet once inside the safe warm confines of the cottage, the enclosed space amplifies his cries, which shows little sign of stopping or quieting down. 

Sypha quickly draws a bath, heating the water with the simplest spell she knows. Between his whimpering, Trevor helps peel off what’s left of Alucard’s clothes, heavy and viscous with clotted blood. It stains his bare skin, a grotesque collage splattered across a trembling short-breathed canvas. His tears won’t wash it clean but maybe the bath will. The clothes finally burn to slow ashes in the fireplace. As Trevor runs to fetch new threads, Sypha begins. 

A pitiful soap bar is better than nothing at all. She soaks Alucard’s reddened body in steamed water and listens to his haunting lamentations. The only time she gently shushes him is when she wets a cloth and wipes his face, finally reducing his sobs to breathless sniffles. Her hands outline every curve, every crevice, washing out every unwelcome blemish. Alucard cannot stop himself from shivering. He’s still dirty, dirty, dirty. What is supposed to be holy work is made unholy because of him. Blood mixes with the soapy, white bathwater surrounding his naked body like a horrid baptism. At long last Trevor barges through the door carrying a fresh set of peasantry clothes long after the others have vanished in the fire. He thinks about what the groundskeeper said once he paid in more coins and more begging.

“This is the last favour I do for you freaks.”

Freaks, the same thing Trevor called those vampires and their familiars. Maybe the groundskeeper has a point. Not one of them is normal right down to the circumstance of their births. It’s a fact which Trevor has somewhat accepted, though perhaps he should give it more thought. Perhaps not as it might unearth more troubling personal discoveries, just as it has for someone else. He doesn’t bring up this sudden revelation or the comment which spawned it, not with Sypha and god forbid he tells Alucard anything while helping him dress. The better thing would be to say nothing. Take comfort in silence and rest his forehead against the other man’s same as when he wasn’t himself in that cave. 

Before Trevor’s head can lean forward, Alucard wobbles towards the bedroom, swallowed by clothes a couple sizes too big even for his stature, and requests to be left alone for the time being. They respect his wishes, waiting by the fireplace now smelling of burnt leather and cooked blood. Just the two of them and Alucard’s sword, having found its way back to them. After the dark void of night overstaying its welcome, morning will come yet no one can think about sleep. Instead, Sypha thinks about his dull blood-tinged eyes; Trevor about the troublesome softness in his voice.

“Did you know he could transform like that?” Sypha asks, uncertain of how the uncomfortable question feels on her tongue. 

“He never mentioned anything about turning into bats or a bloody wolf. What makes you think he’d say anything about this?” In all honesty, regardless of his answer, Trevor mentally assumes Alucard never knew himself.

“He saved our lives. Those creatures, those people, they would have done worse to us and the village… that must count for something, right? Why did he react in such a distressed way?”

“Like I said, he’s not one to air out personal details unless poked about it.”

“And are you willing to ‘poke’ him for an explanation?” 

There’s an unintentional bitter aftertaste to Sypha’s tone, suggesting he might be cruel enough to actually do it. Until Trevor deflects and metaphorically bounces the query right back in her direction like they were playing an awkward mind game.

“Are you?”

He’s got her there. It’s not to make Sypha feel guilt or to make himself morally superior, but to give both of them some valuable perspective. One step in the wrong direction, one careless word spoken with no thought, and Alucard would most likely crawl further into his self-made shell, refusing to emerge. Time passes as they sit with their options. How exhausting, yet still somehow necessary it is to think about these things. 

When the three of them started out, the unknown terrain surrounding Alucard was full of traps both literal and figurative. Trevor, with his then two left feet, was the first to set them off; happenstance which fate eventually twisted into the best decision of their lives. Soon the traps lessened into egg shells. If broken, tensions between them rose as did mental walls but there was no hate, no grudges. Whatever damage left behind was easily swept away.

Time runs out. Trevor and Sypha cautiously inch their way to the bedroom door before peeking through the open crack. Unsure if they’ll step on egg shells or a pit filled with bloodied spikes. Either way, no matter the outcome, they can’t be hesitant anymore. Inside, sitting with his knees against his chest atop the well-used mattress, is Alucard, his upper body covered with a blanket. The door creaks as Trevor and Sypha invite themselves in. A quick glance, a brief acknowledgement of their presence, is all they receive. Alucard won’t look at them, not when they stand before him and not when Sypha asks if he’s feeling alright even while holding her heavy stomach. She should be asking herself that question. Fingernails dig into the loose pant fabric over his knees. Seconds pass before his tongue becomes more complacent than his eyes. Someone needs to talk—might as well be him.

“I never wanted you to see me like that.”

“As… that thing?”

Sypha roughly elbows Trevor for the inconsiderate comment. Exactly what they were fearing. Yet Alucard doesn’t react in any troubling manner. He’s too tired, too spent of all his tears, and too uncomfortable with his own skin.

“It wasn’t just that… thing. How I wept and screamed while you both washed my body. No one should have to witness all of that.”

He despises how his voice sounds. Weak and shaken and the very antithesis of what they know him as.

“We care about you, Alucard. So, so much. Moments like that, it is par for the course. We do not mind and we could never think less of you because of it.”

Sypha can try as much as she wants with her comfort, which Alucard knows is true and tries reminding himself of it. Pure and selfless honesty won’t matter because the very part of him that he’s been fighting against will viciously refute it. The sadness grows, his throat tightens as his eyes glisten with sorry feelings, but forces himself to stay when Trevor and Sypha sit down on either side. Maybe they’ll see it too—the blood on his hands that didn’t wash away. Alucard rubs down his palms and fingers enough to hurt, constantly missing a small spot until realizing how pointless it is. Even when cleansed, he’s always dirty. Dirty, Dirty.

“Get it off… I need to get it off. I need to wash this blood off before it stains.”

“Alucard…” She holds his shoulder, the concern in her voice as worrisome as his sudden behaviour. “There is no blood. We already washed it off, remember? Your hands are clean.”

“No, no, it’s there. It’s still there. There was too much of it, that’s why—that’s why it won’t—I can still feel the blood it won’t—I can’t—”

Sypha’s gaze darts between Alucard’s expression, mixing guilt with fear, and his hands as he ravages them slowly at first then more erratically. His words are incomprehensible; she’s not even sure if he can still breathe normally. He can’t, or it’s getting worse with every attempted frantic syllable. She guides his head close to her neck, trying to soothe him. Fingertips running through his damp hair, tracing the curve of his skull. Things only calm themselves when Trevor steps in and takes one of Alucard’s hands, reddened not by blood but by his constant kneading. Slowly, gently, he repeats the same action, cleaning what has already been cleaned. 

Alucard concentrates on Trevor’s careful movements along with Sypha’s rhythmic stroking over his head. He breathes in her smell, listens to the blood flowing through her neck, but does not bite down. Rather than entice him, the sound lulls Alucard into a state of delicate peace. Briefly flinching when he feels Trevor’s lips on each of his fingers, then tongue and the edges of his teeth, but never tells him to stop. His skin doesn’t hurt as much now, nor is it drenched in what he assumed was blood.

“There.” Trevor mutters, removing the last finger from his mouth. Some time ago he might have acted embarrassed. “Is that better?”

A couple more breaths and Alucard feels ready to speak, clear and plain. “Perhaps I should explain everything.”

“Sypha and I have come across cultists like that before. All of them, obsessed with bringing back Dracula. Admittedly, those vampires were new but it’s nothing we couldn’t handle or were surprised by—”

“I’m not referring to them.”

Trevor and Sypha exchange a look as their grip on Alucard loosens. To give him space while he composes himself.

“You both know the story. God created Adam who used his rib to create Eve. Then the rest of humankind followed, starting with Cain and Abel.”

“I am… aware of that story, yes.” Trevor adds to Sypha’s hesitant reply with a nod. Alucard carries on, letting slip a sardonic chuckle.

“I suppose it’s quite ironic. God creates these two perfect humans and places them in paradise, thinking they can do no wrong. Then the unthinkable happens. God exiles them and they start a family. One of the first humans to walk this earth becomes a murderer of his own kin.” Alucard pauses before shaking his head. He and theology never seemed to be on the same page. Especially when he’s not feeling his most holy.

“However, my father had a different theory. Actually, it wasn’t even his to begin with. He acquired the knowledge from a Persian scholar during his travels. They hypothesized that every living being once originated from a form so vastly different from their current one. Something that could only exist thousands if not millions of years in the past. Over time, we eventually evolved until we reached our ideal form. But what humanity and even inhumanity started out as, he called it the original design.”

“So, this includes vampires?” Asks Trevor, surprised by his own ability to follow Alucard’s line of thinking. Still, it sounds no less plausible than a cosmic corridor with various doors leading to different locations in time and space.

“It does, but… he mentioned something different. When under threat or distress, when our powers seem insufficient, vampires are able to revert back to our original designs as a last resort. Our most primal forms… even those who were turned as humans.” Alucard stares down at his open palm, expecting to see nonexistent blood flowing between the lines again. Nothing. “To become a monster of all monsters.”

Just as he goes quiet, Sypha puts forth a genuine query. “How often does this happen?”

“Very rarely. Dracula avoided it at all costs. I’m not certain about the other lords, but we never heard anything. Vampires are inherently powerful, not to mention prideful, so reducing ourselves to these grotesque original forms is unnecessary. Most would rather die than reveal their true selves. But… I was so frightened. Frightened and angry and hateful towards those who wanted to take away everything I fought to protect. I didn’t care about myself, I cared about you, Trevor, the baby, Greta, everyone. I couldn’t control this primal instinct. Now I know, as do the both of you. I know what’s been lurking inside me. The very thing that can rip through my skin at any moment. I truly, deeply, don’t feel safe with myself. Even now I can still feel that thing writhing, breathing, waiting…”

Arms wrap around Alucard’s body, caging him in warmth and reprieve from his spiral downwards back into that dark place which the transformation forced him into. Trevor in front, Sypha behind. Hands cup his flustered cheeks, keeping his head raised, and kiss the space beneath his weary eyes swollen by a downpour of tears.

“No more crying. You’ll make yourself sick.” Trevor’s gentle command is said in good faith, yet shame runs deep. Alucard’s lips quiver once again even as Sypha presses herself firmly against his back and strokes his chest. Her fingers stay over the pounding beat within his ribs.

“This is you. Your immense strength, your powers, your fangs, even that creature, they may take up small parts. But this right here is fully you. And we’ve known you long enough to know that is true.”

Alucard wants to believe it like Trevor and Sypha do. Must be so easy for them. Easy to say and easy to think. Under his breath, barely an audible whisper, he apologizes to the both of them. He can’t. He can’t take their reassurance that nothing about this has changed their perception of him to heart. Nothing in his mind will allow him that luxury of trust, belief, and self resolve. It would be better for all if no one knew what lurked beneath his skin—including himself.

“Sypha… how much are you aware of memory spells?”

“Memory spells? Why?” She asks, despite already guessing what Alucard is requesting. When she sees him hide his face in the recesses of Trevor’s shoulder and hears him choke back tears, her twisted gut eats itself out of worry some more. 

“Please… I want to forget. I want to forget everything that happened. I don’t want to know myself.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Trevor adds a caveat to his comment in the form of another kiss. “I know it hurts now, but getting rid of everything is not the solution.”

“Trevor is right. Magic that changes the mind is risky and dangerous. I could take away far more than just one memory. It would be too cruel.”

“No more cruel than what I’ve done or will do.”

“If you’re trying to scare us, you’re doing a piss poor job of it.” 

Much like death—both the concept and the scythe-wielding bastard who couldn’t even beat a mortal human in a match—Trevor has never feared the dhampir. Nervous, yes, but once he realized what a sad, lonely man this brat turned out to be, all predispositions fell apart. When he looks at Alucard, sometimes the Belmont confuses him for a mirror. Cracked and warped, but still reflective. Sypha isn’t scared of him either, not since the beginning. Certainly not when she slips her hands under Alucard’s shirt just to draw him closer and feel his skin on hers. There’s no need for magic; he’s already unbearably warm.

“We can make a better memory right now. If you want it and if you’ll let us.”

Trevor’s voice sounds huskier than usual yet more patient than eager. He won’t force anything, nor will Sypha. She seems more than satisfied to keep her hands on Alucard, just so she’s aware of his presence. He ponders it, though not for long. He wants to forget his deeds in any way possible.

More than that, he wants them. Damn what he feels about his dirty, unholy body which they still lovingly praise with the touch of their hands, fingers, and lips. Limbs tangle together like macrame, slow and careful. Alucard, quickly lost in the feeling of them. Sypha’s grown stomach presses against him while Trevor’s scarred hand traces the outline of the first battle trophy across his chest. There is sweat, a few awkward head bumps followed by brief laughter, and perhaps one final tear shed out of pure relief and the overwhelming sensation of being loved. When it’s unfortunately over, Alucard struggles for a steady breath before Trevor and Sypha calm him after taking care of themselves. His hand brushes along Sypha’s belly to make sure everything is as it should be. She catches him and intertwines their fingers, settling his nerves. She’s alright. She’s safe. They all are.

“Rest now. There’s not much time until morning. Just rest…”

Sleep comes naturally. The only reason why Alucard takes longer than the other two by mere seconds is because he enjoys listening to the first few water droplets hitting the cottage window. Maybe, he thinks, hopefully, the rain will wash away all the blood left behind.

[i-mushi]

North Dakota Winter

Been digging around my fanfiction and opened an old folder of "Shorts Going Nowhere" which includes this little fic.

Summary: Hazel's been hunting with the brother's for a few years now, but the heat goes out and if she's gotta choose a brother to cozy up with... Word count: 893

Dean x OFC, no smut or anything, probably written during a winter night when I was super cold and did not have a Winchester brother to cozy up with.

Read on Ao3 --> Here

North Dakota was freezing in January.

Hazel stamped snow off her boots as she approached the motel room door, looking forward to getting back inside. She’d barely crossed the threshold though before she realized Sam was still wearing his coat.

“Heat’s out,” he said almost immediately, wincing apologetically as he rubbed his hands together at the tiny table.

“Are you kidding?”

“Something short circuited. No rooms have heat,” Dean added, piling more comforters from another room on one of the beds.

“We have to go to another motel.”

“It’s 11pm,” Sam pointed out. “This is a one-light town. I’m not sure we can get another place.”

“The library may as well have been haunted with the lack of heat in that basement,” Hazel complained, shuddering. She was cold damnit, and sitting in that dank, dark room looking at old newspapers had frozen her solid while the boys checked out the local church. It wasn’t like they could idle the car for hours either to run the heat. She had layers but she wasn’t prepared for full blown winter in a North Dakota motel room.

“Look, we grabbed blankets from some other rooms and—“

“We could start a fire,” Dean interjected. “I mean, they aren’t charging us and no one’s in the main building anyway. Break some of this furniture down…”

“No Dean,” Sam sighed.

“Why not? I don’t see a smoke detector—“

As the boys bickered, Hazel toed off her boots and went into the bathroom. She cleaned up for bed, adding another set of socks over her cold toes and as many layers as possible, then immediately dove under the blankets of the nearest twin, ignoring Dean’s squawk.

“Hey! You’re the shortest by a foot, you get the pull-out couch!”

“No. I’m too cold.” Hazel buried herself further, knowing she was being childish, but dealing with the brothers sometimes required those tactics. “It’s too cold and you put all the blankets here.”

“I can rip them off!” Dean warned, and he did take the top duvet off, but it was late and everyone was too cold and tired to pick a long fight about it. Plus, Hazel reasoned, she usually got stuck with the couch or daybed when they only had one room because she was the smallest, so a proper bed was a treat. She deserved it. Dean could sleep in the car if he was that pissed.

#

An hour later though, Hazel was no closer to sleep than she’d thought. Sam was out like a light, he always slept the easiest, but Hazel’s teeth were chattering as she curled up tighter. It was like her body just couldn’t muster up enough heat by itself.

She could hear Dean tossing and turning on the couch too, muttering about back pain and cushions digging into his spine when he wasn’t griping about the cold.

“Dean,” she hissed. “Dean.”

“What do you want?” he grumbled, audible but low, with that tired growl that Hazel firmly told herself not to get excited about. Dean was a friend, no matter what her imagination liked to wander to.

“Get over here.”

“What, you want to swap? Not cozy enough in your damn mountain of blankets?”

“I’m freezing, get over here. I need a space heater.”

“I don’t have a damn space heater.”

“You are a space heater.” Hazel didn’t know this for certain, but the one time she’d fallen in a lake Dean had laid with her under a blanket to get her body temperature back up, and he’d felt like a space heater then. That had been almost three years ago and she still thought about it.

“Fuck, fine.”

A grumbling dark shape sat up from the couch and shambled over to her, bringing more blankets and the warmth and familiar scent of Dean. Hazel scooted over to the far side as much as she could, shivering as she lifted the blankets for him.

“Jeez, your teeth are chattering,” he muttered.

“It’s fucking cold in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Trust me, my balls are gonna shrivel up if I don’t get some damn heat going. We could still do that fire.”

“Just get over here.”

The twin bed was too small for two adults, especially one of Dean’s size. His six-foot frame took up the whole bed so spooning wasn’t possible, which would have been uncomfortable if Hazel wasn’t so cold that cuddling up was her best option anyway. Now she draped herself over Dean as he laid on his back, pillowing her cheek on his chest and squirming until her leg draped over him.

“Whoa Hazel, uh—“

“Guys, I just want to remind you that I’m in this room too,” Sam said loudly.

“Shut up Sam, I’m freezing.”

“Ow, shit, watch your knee!” Dean cursed as Hazel accidentally jabbed him in a sensitive place. “I’m not a body pillow.”

“You are tonight,” she muttered, finally settling down as Dean’s heat started to seep into her bones, the blankets settling and trapping all that warmth in. If Hazel wasn’t a little drunk on his scent too then she was a liar.

His arm settled around her shoulders finally, hugging her lightly to him, and she felt his body tick down into sleep as the fog took her too. Neither of them saw Sam rolling his eyes in his own bed or mouth finally to himself.

[writingsbychlo]

sinner | bucky barnes

word count; 14,861

summary; bucky is spending the one day he get’s to walk the earth freely the way he usually does. normal demon things. then, he meets his angel.

notes; I got carried away, nothing else to say. the pic is pretty much exactly how I picture demon!bucky looking. also, I did not proofread this, because it’s three am. take it easy on me if it’s riddled with grammatical fuck-ups.

warnings; it’s literally called ‘sinner’. you can work out the warnings.

Bucky didn’t mean to run into you, in fact, you certainly weren’t what he was looking for as he wandered the aisles of a grocery store at two in the morning, but he still had hours before the day really began and the fun could really start, but sometimes he’d find runaways or strays who were so high he thought they surely shouldn’t be able to stand, who he could convince to do a little theft, but then there was you. 

Here he was, making the absolute most of the first few hours of the one day that demons were allowed to walk the earth, darkness still filling the sky and a cold breeze that was more than enough to make him shivering the coolness of the late-year air, and then you’d strolled in. 

An angel on earth, literally. 

He’d heard tales, girls so pretty they could bring you to your knees, an aura that glowed and glittered, all things holy and magical, and the absolute opposite of him, and he was drawn to you from the second that you’d stepped into the building. The cashier behind the till was just a kid, snoozing against his hand as the addict in aisle three continues to shove chocolate bars into his pocket, upon hearing whisperings that he should - something Bucky was still smirking about - as he followed you around towards the bread section.

He could see you more clearly now, and you really were gorgeous. Soft skin, covered mostly by hospital scrubs, and he tried to cover his scoff, finding it absolutely typical that an angel would be here working in a hospital, some kind of selfless act, and he wouldn't be at all surprised if you were a volunteer too, just to really rub your altruistic nature into everybody else’s faces. That was the one thing he didn’t understand, he didn’t get how everybody looked up to Heaven and prayed to a God or deity, how nobody thought it odd how they were all constantly being shamed by bars they could never reach, set so high they weren’t even in sight anymore, but then again, he didn’t like to judge. 

Not when his own actions would be so heavily frowned upon, but what can you expect from a demon? It’s in his nature.

You were tired, you weren’t paying much attention, a scrap of paper in your hands that look awfully similar to the back of a prescription as you moved through the store, trying to fill your basket with everything you’d need, none the wiser as he tailed you slowly, studying you, trying to work it out. From all the stories he’d heard, angels had left the earth long ago, so long that their existence at all had become something that he’d heard questioned many times in the underworld, and so he couldn't quite work out why you were herein a gas station store in the first few hours of Halloween morning. 

He wanted answers, he wanted to get a little closer, confirm it all for himself, and as you spun around to head to the checkout, you crashed right into him, a yelp leaving you as you jumped back, and your eyes finally met his, once you had steadied yourself. One look into his eyes, a quick flicker around the edges of his body as he was certain you could see his own aura, tainted and stained with darkness, before your eyes were going infinitely wider, and the basket in your hands fell to the floor with a crash. 

The items scattered around his feet, tins rolling away and disappearing under shelves, and that exhaustion you’d once had was fading away, replaced with shock and fear, and as you took a step back, he took another step forwards, crowding you up into the shelves, a hand on either side of your head to keep you kept from leaving, and a smirk took over as he watched you tremble a little. 

“Demon.”

You hissed the word out like an insult, and he feigned offence, before that wicked smirk he knew he was wearing twisted up into a sinister grin, head tipping to the side just a little. “Well, hey there, angel.”

“What do you want?”

“You’re very hostile. I haven’t even done anything to you.” He paused, eyes scanning over your face, closing in on the place where you were nibbling on your lower lip anxiously. “Yet.”

“If you’re going to kill me, then just kill me, demon. Get it over with.” You were shaking now, full-blown fear, and he let out a little sigh, dropping his hands but remaining where he stood. 

“There’s no fun in that, is there?” You only scowled, standing strong in spite of the fact that he could practically hear your heart beating out of your chest. “What are you doing here?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means; what are you doing on Earth, on all Hallow’s Eve?” You had the guts to shove at his shoulders a little, pushing past him to begin to collect your shopping back up, and he sank down into a squat, tipping the basket back to the way it should be, and placing the items back within it carefully, waiting for your answer.

“I live on Earth, and I’m running late to get home. Away from the likes of you.”

He handed you back your basket as the two of you stood, having gathered everything you could find, and he let out a low ‘oooh’ in teasing at your words, laughing through it as the furrow between your brows only deepened. “I thought angels didn’t live here anymore, not holy enough for you once it was corrupted with sin, so you all retreated back up to the promised lands, to spit on the rest of us from the clouds.” He sneered it a little, he couldn’t help it, but you avoided his eyes, shoulders sinking as you shrugged.

“Yes, well, that would be spectacular and all, but they don’t let halfbreeds into Heaven.” He waited, walking alongside you as you moved towards the counter, and he would laugh at his own image if he could see himself now, but somehow, here he was, wasting the only day of the year that he was free to walk around the surface and escape from the depths of the underworlds by helping you pack your groceries. “My father was one of them, and my mother was not. I’m just a cast out. Earning my way.”

“Interesting.”

You only deadpanned, punching your PIN into the machine a little more aggressively than he thought would be normal for you, but then again, you were on edge, and even with your soured mood, you still wished a cheery goodnight to the kid behind the register that made him sick with the amount of earnest goodwill lacing your tone. “What do you want from me, if not to kill me? Is this part of the thrill for you, to make me let me guard down and then to kill me?”

“I don’t want to kill you.”

“All demons want to kill people.” You stopped short at the door, and he almost bumped into you, close to dropping the bags in his arms as he avoided the collision, raising his brows a little bit as you glared at him, before snatching your backs from his arms and taking a wide step back from him. 

“I see I’m not the only ones with misguided ideas about the other.” He tried to take a step forward, but you twisted away from him, protective of your groceries and your life. “Not all demons want to kill. Some of us just get our kicks by convincing people to commit petty crimes and scaring kids on Halloween night. Well, that and stealing candy from babies, obviously.”

He could see the way you tried to suppress your amusement, but your lips flicked up at the sides, and you dropped your shoulders, seeming to give in. Your eyes rolled slightly, before you were moving once again, clearly trusting him enough to let him walk you over to his car, and he held your bags for you as you opened it, loading them into the trunk before slamming it shut, leaning against the cold metal. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, demons can only come up to the surface on H-”

“No, I don’t mean here.” You waved your arms, making a large circle that he supposed was supposed to represent the Earth, before you were pointing at the building behind you both, shaking your head. “I meant here. Like, the grocery store. Surely that’s wasting your one day.”

“Well, I met you, didn’t I, angel?”

“Stop being so.. flirty.” You shuffled uncomfortably under his stare, your true nature showing through, and a shock of thrill and excitement raced through him, tucking some hair behind your ear, before you shook him off. 

“Can’t help it. It’s in my nature. Lust, and the other ‘deadly’ sins, as such.” You didn’t reply, and as much as he hated to admit it, you were the most exciting thing that had happened to him in decades of Halloweens, so he gave in, moving a half-step away for you again to give you your space. “Not much to do at this hour, except kill people in alleyways. But, that’s not really my style.”

“I see.”

“Can I be brutally honest with you?”

“Have you lied to me, already? We’ve only known each other for twenty minutes. Then again, you are a sinner.” He chuckled at your pathetic jab, but shook his head in denial, soothing you a little. 

“Your life sucks.”

“It does not!” You crossed your arms over your chest, foot stomping a little, and it was an adorable display of anger if he was being true to his thoughts. 

“Yeah? Let me guess, you’re wearing scrubs so I reckon you work at a hospital or care facility, probably a volunteer too, or you do some kind of volunteer work to fill your time. You took a night shift tonight to cover for someone else, because you just can’t say ‘no’, even though you should’ve been inside keeping safe from ‘the likes of me’, as you put it, and I bet you’ve never even been kissed. You’re pure, completely and totally, you probably have a routine, oatmeal for breakfast, Church on Sundays, bible on the bedside table.”

You gaped at him, jaw hanging slack now, and he reached a finger up to push it closed, and you soon formed an irritated pout in response. 

“So, did I get anything wrong?”

“No.” You grumbled it under your breath, gritted out angrily, and he only laughed in response, winding you up further. Your foot swung out, colliding with his ankle before you even realised you were doing it, and as he bent over, crippled to grip at the sore patch in pain, your eyes went wide, fear suddenly flashing over your features again. I’m so sorry! I don’t know why I did that!”

“That would be wrath.” You shook your head, stepping away from him, and he could only nod in response, grin getting wider as he watched realisation flash across your features. “How did your first sin feel?”

“It doesn’t count! It was just a kick to the ankle!”

“Yes, in anger. That would be wrath, angel. It’s not that bad, trust me.” Your eyes were glassy now, and he placed a hand over your jaw, calloused pad stroking over the skin of your cheek as he tipped your head upwards. “See? No lightning strikes, no plagues, no punishments. And don’t you just feel so much better now that you’ve done it?”

“A little bit.” You gave in, letting his corruption really take place, and your eyes dropped down to find his, tearing your gaze away from dark and glittering skies. “I’m not a sinner, though. I’m good.”

“Yes, but this day is bad. Nobody is looking today. You liked it, I know you did. Don’t you want to try another sin? Just on this oh-so-evil day, and tomorrow, you can go back to being a good girl. Be bad with me today, angel?” You didn’t reject him, not right at once, and he took that as a good sign, your breath hitching as he stepped a little closer, enough for him to be able to taste the coffee on your breath at the short and sharp puffs you let out. “Have you never wondered? Which one have you always wanted to try, late at night, when it was just you and your thoughts? Is it pride? Gluttony?” He leaned in, enough to brush his lips with your own, your breath hitching in your throat. “Is it lust?”

“Sloth.”

“What?” He snapped back a little, not sure he’d ever really expected a response from you, and he felt a gleeful fire burn through you as you took your first step away from holiness and more towards him, just at the simple admittance, to both yourself and to him. Swallowing thickly, he watched as your mind spun, processing your own words, before you were seeming to settle on them with confidence. 

“I have a routine, just as you said. I get up early every morning, and have breakfast, and do some work. I volunteer at a shelter and I do rounds at the hospital even when it’s not my day in, just to pray with those who want some company, but some days I don’t want to. I’m tired, and I want to sleep in. I want to lay in bed until late morning, and fake calling in sick to work just to have a day off, to do anything I want.” You had your own smile now, something brand new flickering through your eyes, and as you looked at him, and he laughed breathlessly at the confession.

“So, do it.”

“I-” You seemed to remember who you were, and where you were, then disappointment took over. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s wrong.” He sighed, hand dropping down to your waist, pulling you closer into him, and he could feel the steady thumb of your racing heart against his chest now, and he wished his own would react at all, but it had been so long since he’d felt anything from the organ that he’d almost forgotten he had it at all. 

“If it’s so wrong then why does it feel so right?” You had no response to that, rendered breathless again, and he took his chance, pushing the boundaries a little further. “Give me this one day, I bet we can fit all seven sins into this day, when nobody will notice your sins when mixed with all the demons roaming the surface, and if you don’t like it, then I promise you’ll never see me again, and you’ll never have to think about it.”

“We can stop at any time?”

“Whenever you want.”

You hummed under your breath, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, before caving and offering him a nod. “Big words for someone who only has twenty-one hours left of the day to keep his promises.”

“Well, then, we’d better get you home, angel. You have a big day coming up, and I know just which sin to start with. Let’s get you that late morning you’ve always wanted.” You merely sighed out, contented and happy with the thought, before you were nodding, and turning around to get into your car. Nodding to the passenger side, his grin only grew as he took the offer, climbing in beside you, and settling into the plush leather as the vehicle rumbled to life.

After an exceedingly long sleep in, one where you’d actually then continued to just lie in your bed for upwards of an hour after the daylight had forced away your grogginess, you were left peering out of the window, staring down at the city below from the high-windows of your apartment, the bustling streets with a chaos that didn’t reach all the way up here to the serene quiet, and your lips flicked up at the sides as you remembered the comment that the man who’ already managed to flip your world upside down had made as the two of you had finally made it back to your apartment at almost four in the morning

‘Top floor, huh? Trying to get closer to heaven, or just in it for the workout?’

Turning onto your side, his lips were parted as he slept, slow breaths and a sight rasp following his breath each tie, but not quite a snore. As he was asleep, you had a chance to really observe him. You’d never met a demon, before, you knew the rumours, of course, and some of them were more tame, auras of darkness and a twisted kind of ugly that made you repulsed. Of course, there were also the wilder ones, horns and hooves and rotting flesh, but he was neither.

When you took him in, you decided that he was actually kind of beautiful. Scruff lining his jaw that made him look a little wild - something that was bound to be intentional - and the colour of his eyes flashed through your mind once again even if they were coed now. The colour was burned into your mind, not a glowing red, or all black, but instead the kind of soft blue shade that the ocean looked on a misty morning at the beach, grey clouds overhead that were the calm before the storm.

He was taller than you, much taller, and his frame almost filled your bed, broad shoulders pushing you to one side, further over than you’d ever slept before, even on the large piece of furniture, but he’ insisted that he wasn’t sleeping on ‘no damn couch’, and in your exhaustion and excitement, you’d simply waved a hand as he kicked off his shoes, crawling under the covers beside you. The comfort had been inviting, you’d never experienced such a thing before, but it was oddly peaceful to share a bed with someone else, to feel their warmth creeping over to you as well, the steady thump of a heart or the rise and fall of a chest with every breath, and you hadn't realised how lonely you were until right now.

“Stop fuckin’ starin’ at me.” You huffed, watching as that peaceful expression became a scowl, and he rolled over towards you a little, cracking an eye open to peer up at you. “What?”

“Nothing! You’re just not like what I thought a demon would look like. I’m taking it in.”

He sat up a little, running a hand over his face, before shaking his he'd to try and clear a sleep-muddled brain. “Yeah, well, you’re exactly what I expected an angel to look like.”

“I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or an insult.” Despite the bickering going on between you both, his movements had caused the blankets to lip down, a chill coming in to claim you, and you shuffled a little closer to him, seeking out more of the warmth you’d become addicted to in the last few hours of sleeping beside him.

“It’s neither. Just a statement. Innocent, pretty, that whole weird ethereal vibe that draws you in. That's you.”

“That sounds like a compliment to me.” You all but sang the words, and he rolled his eyes, a grunt leaving him, but he made no move to distance himself from you, and so you knew it was all in false anger.

“I’m revisiting the idea of killing you.” His eyes flicked up to the large clock on the wall, studying it for a second, before turning to look at you incredulously. “I thought we were sleeping in? It's eleven.”

“I normally get up at six! This is late for me, very late.”

He only shrugged, pushing back the covers and standing up, letting you wrap yourself in them a little more, before he was patting down his pockets, searching for something in the jeans that had been abandoned on the bedroom floor. A cardboard box and a lighter, and he was balancing a cigarette between his lips.

“Open a window!”

He only glanced over at you, raising his brows, before stepping across the room to the large panels of glass, clicking off the lock and pushing one open, before flicking on the lighter and igniting the tip. He held it between two careful fingers, a repetitive motion as he brought it up and down from his lips, lips curling each time he expelled the smoke, and it was a weirdly hypnotic scene to watch.

The sound of the traffic and bustle from below was now reaching your ears, muffled and distant but you could still pick it up, the bitter smell of smoke still making it over to you, and your nose scrunched up a little, before you were holding the blanket closer to yourself, and making your way over to stand beside him.

“You’re staring at me like you’ve never seen a cigarette before.”

“I have!” He chuckled a little at your eager enthusiasm, heat rising to your cheeks with your embarrassment, and you shrugged as best you could, from where your hands were pressed to your chest to hold the blankets closed and keep your warmth in. “I’ve just never..”

“Smoked one?”

You only nodded, and he seemed to consider it, taking an extra-long drag, before he was pulling the dwindling stick away from his mouth, flipping it between two fingers, and bringing it to your mouth. He had an expectant look on his face, nothing pressuring or judgemental, simply apprehensive, waiting to see if you’d take the offer before the flickering orange reached his fingers and burned him. The taste was lingering on the air, and you leaned in, lip parted and he grinned, placing it gently on your lower lip, pushing forwards until the edge of his finger was brushing your lips, and he gave you a nod.

Sealing your mouth around it, you took in a deep breath, dragging the air through the device, and the heat that coursed through you was enough to make you pull away and cough, a tingling and burning in your throat and lungs as the smoke clouded out around you, dissipating in the air, and you once again flushed with embarrassment, but the laugh you anticipated hearing from him never came. Instead, he looked almost proud, and you didn’t have a chance to question it, before he was taking the last breath himself, stuffing it on your window frame and ignoring your complaint, before flicking the butt out of the window and closing it once again.

“So, what are we doing with the day now?”

“Hm, well, I promised you all seven. One down, six to go. I’m hungry, so let’s go with gluttony next.” His eyes twinkled a little, and you thought about the sparsely packed fridge you had, just enough simple necessities to get you by and be healthy, nothing that could be deemed even remotely gluttonous, but you were excited to experience it, nonetheless. “There’s a diner near here, we’ll go for breakfast.”

As promised, you are allowed to take even longer, the longest shower you had ever taken in your life, until the entire room was so filled with steam that it felt like a sauna, and you were pruning up. You didn’t even bother to make your bed, instead opting to just lay flat on it for a while, still in your towel as you listened to the demon you were - for some unknown reason - trusting, as he moved about your living room and tinkered with your things.

When you were finally ready, you didn’t care to make the bed, or put on sensible shoes with laces, or even do your hair properly. Instead, you wore a hoodie, and your comfiest flats, and just ran a brush through it, and you’d never felt lazier in your life. You had spent every day doing yourself up to standards and making sure you were being sensible and rational, the proper attire for a day at work, running around a hospital and doing everything you could for everyone else, and nothing for you, and today, you’d texted in saying you were sick and weren’t coming and you’d relaxed, truly relaxed, for what you felt may be the first time in your life.

As promised, you were given a filling breakfast, with more than enough leftovers for a week’s worth of breakfasts, but you didn’t take any of them. At first, it had bothered you, watching as the waitress stared at you both with a little bit of judgement, a little bit of shock, and a little bit of amusement as the man opposite you had listed off dish after dish, until you’d been moved to a bigger table just to accommodate it all. With a bite of it all, you’d worked your way through the dishes, and the drinks, a sip from all of their wide range of coffees and milkshakes, and by the time you’d finished and enough food to feed a small army had been wasted, you were wandering out into the carpark with a wide grin on your face.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this full.”

He turned to look at you, beaming as you spoke the words as though they’d been a compliment, and you began to pat your pockets down for your keys, a wave of panic washing over you when you couldn't find them. A moment later, there was a jingling, and you followed the sounds, to find Bucky waving them at you, smirking around the straw in his mouth as he finished his milkshake, tossing the to-go cup in the vague direction of the trashcan.

“When did you even take those? How did you take those?”

“I’m not exactly new to pick-pocketing.” He shrugged, holding open the passenger side door for you, and you hopped up inside of it, grinning as he rounded the car, and it would seem that he was taking it upon himself to drive. Once he was inside of the car and starting it up, his hands were fiddling with the dial for the music, changing your classical music station over to some soft rock, and while it was unfamiliar to you, you tried to settle into it.

“You’re different.”

“We’ve covered this.” He mumbled, fingers tapping against the steering wheel to the song that was playing, and you turned a little more towards him straining against the safety belt across your chest, and not missing the fact that he hadn't bothered with his own.

“No, I just mean, you’re gentlemanly. You held the door, paid for breakfast, didn’t try anything with me last night, even though we shared a bed. It’s admirable.”

“Well, firstly, I didn’t pay for breakfast.” Your face paled a little, realising you’d essentially stolen the meal, but then again, you shouldn't know better. When he told you to go ahead and that he’d been right behind you, you hadn't questioned it, and now, that felt like it was slapping you right in the face. That’s where innocence gets you, you supposed. “Secondly, as I said, we already covered this. You do know there’s, like, tiers for this shit, right?” You only gave a short laugh, turning to look at him a little, and you could already feel your own mischief bubbling up within you.

“You mean the seven circles of hell?”

“Oh, you’re so funny.” He was grumbling now, pretty-coloured eyes rolling in his head, and you continued to snicker away to yourself, but didn’t miss the little flicker of his lips into a smile, that he did his best attempt to disguise as a simple twitch, but you knew better. “No, not the ‘seven circles of hell’.” He imitated your movie as you spoke, a scowl taking over your features at the poor impersonation, but it was quickly washed away. “More like, privileges, I suppose? Those down there because they’re not pure enough to go to all things good and dandy go down below.”

“So, how does it work, then?” He cast you a little glance, studying you for a second, deeming you to have a genuine interest, before one shoulder was raising and falling in a simple shrug.

“Those who are, like, the bad kind of bad get it, well, bad. People who killed for fun, the people who hurt others for their own enjoyment, people who do, y’know..” He didn’t have to say it, your face screwing up as you thought about exactly the sort of people who would count as ‘bad-bad’ and he nodded. “No privileges for them. They just get to suffer.”

It went quiet for a second, and you could practically see the cogs working in your new friend's mind as he tried to sort his thoughts out.

“Then, there are people who did bad things, but it’s not serial-killer bad, y’know?”

“Oh, like tax-fraud and grand theft auto?” He let out a laugh this time, entertainment shining through.

“Technically, yes. I don’t really know how it all divides up. It’s just my job to punish people who need punishing, I don’t ask questions.” That caught your attention, and you perked up slightly, ignoring the fact that you’d pulled into your building’s parking lot, and that the rest of the journey was over, the car coming to a halt, but instead, you were more intrigued about finding out more from the man before you.

“You punish people? The bad people?”

“Yeah. I suppose you can consider today my day off.” He grinned, moving to climb out of the car, and you struggled to follow him, falling into step beside him.

“But, doesn’t that make you good? Getting justice and all?”

“I never said I wasn’t good, angel.” He cast you a look from the sides of his eyes, a little put off by the insinuation you’d made. “I’m created in hell. I don’t really have a soul, or anything that would let me into Heaven. Besides, I do enjoy doing some of the things that would get me cast out.”

“Like what?”

You regretted asking the question from the second you’d asked it, a smirk taking over his features, and he turned to you in the doorway, finger under your chin to hold your face up towards his as he leaned down a little, breath washing over your face as your heart froze in your chest. “Like fucking.”

He watched you, heat crawling up your cheeks as your eyes went even wider, and he grinned, eyes flicking down to your mouth, licking over his lips for just a second, before he was pulling away.

“We can get to that later, though.”

He was ahead of you, long legs making wide steps as he crossed the lobby to the elevator back up to your apartment, and you had to race just to catch up with him. “So, do you have horns?”

“What?”

You slipped in just as the doors to the elevator were closing, and he scowled, clearly having been hoping he’d be able to cut you off, and you almost wished he had, because you'd forgotten just how cramped his large frame made the small box feel. “Y’know, like-” you lifted up each hand to the top of your head, index fingers sticking up as the rest of the fingers curled into a fist. “-horns?”

“Do you have wings?”

You felt a little taken aback by his sneer, lips pursing as you realised he’d taken your joke the wrong way, and you passed by a few floors in silence, before he let out a deep sigh, shoulders slumping slightly.

“No, I don’t have horns.” He looked around the ceiling of the building when you stepped out of the elevator, a hand on your arm to bring you to a halt in the corridor, and he must’ve deemed it safe, before his fidgeting stopped. “I have something, but it’ll freak you out if I show you.”

“I can handle it.”

“I don’t think so, angel.” You huffed, and he continued on, car keys being used to find your house key, the door swinging open, and you followed after, complaints spilling from your lips as you did, and you caught the door as it swung closed, before it had a chance to hit you in the face.

“I can handle it! You're underestimating me!”

“Am I?” He was making himself comfortable once again, already going through the contents of your fridge, pulling back with the carton of orange juice, and you cringed as he popped the lid from it and took a swig right from the bottle. “You’re just a half-angel. You can’t take it.”

Anger boiled within you, and you weren’t sure where this side of him had come from. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

You gaped, jabbing an accusatory finger into his chest as he finished off the orange juice of your own that was supposed to last you all week. “I’ll have you know that I’m a lot stronger than you think. I work in a hospital, okay? I can take whatever twisted shit it is that you have to show me. I can take a lot of things, alright, pal? I think I do pretty well for myself, actually! I mean, if you haven’t noticed, you’re standing in my penthouse apartment, drinking orange juice that I bought, after recklessly driving my fancy car, so screw you. I can handle anything you could throw at me and more, you’re just rude.”

His head tipped to the side, and you let out a ragged breath, not giving him a chance to speak, before you were continuing;

“And, for that matter, I think I’ve done pretty well all around. I have a great job, and I do good work there, and I have spent over two decades avoiding the likes of you, living all on my own, so this little hitch that came in the form of you doesn’t matter, because even after today, I’ll still be doing pretty damn good. ‘Can’t take it’, yeah, well, you can shove your freaky demon thing that you refuse to show me somewhere that the sun doesn’t shine, okay?”

You huffed out, and he crossed his arms over his chest, neutral expression cracking out into a wide grin. “That was a great speech, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, well, thanks.” You were confused, caught off guard by the praise after you were given, your mind still spinning.

“You seem pretty happy with everything you have here. Would you say you take pride in it?” You almost retorted, a witty comeback at the tip of your tongue, before you realised what this had all been about, your shoulders slumping, and you dropped your head into your hands, a weak laugh on your lips and you climbed up onto one of the stools at your kitchen island.

“You got me all worked up into a rage for pride?”

“You’ve achieved some pretty amazing things in your life, and you should be proud of them anyway, even if it’s not for sin.”

You paused, eyes meeting his own, and for a second, the whole misconception of an angel and demon sitting across from one another being the kind of thing that would end worlds seemed to fade away, you were just a regular man and a woman, sharing the moment and sitting together on a lazy morning. He cleared his throat, looking around the room, not for anything particular, just to take it all in, before coming back to look at you, with something else in his eyes this time.

“Well, that’s another one crossed off of the list, anyway. I’d say we’re making pretty good progress.”

You only hummed under your breath, but he seemed to catch onto your hesitation, raising a brow at you. “Kinda’ have an idea about greed.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Do you think, maybe, you could take me there?” He stilled, the hand he’d been using to rearrange the salt and pepper holder in the middle of the marble countertop between you both fell flat.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s hell. It’s literally Hell.” He was adamant on this one, not the same kind of cocky attitude he’d had while fracking pride out of you, but this was more just a complete close down on the situation, and he didn’t even have a flicker of emotion as you glared at him, standing strong in his decision. “You can’t handle it.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m not fucking with you this time, angel.” He stood up, rounding the little countertop to stand before you, and he rested his hips against it, one hand coming up to cup at your face gently. A thumb ran over your lower lip, his eyes tracing his own movements, and you pulled back from him a little, too angry to let him hold you so tenderly, even if something deep within you was craving that kind of contact and affection with him. “Too dangerous.”

“But I want to.” You pouted at him, ignoring the little smile he gave to you as you did, and he forced his gaze back up to meet your own, shaking his head.

“What if you get stuck down there, huh? Time works differently. If it passes midnight, you won’t be able to come back.” The thought did send a flash of fear through you, and he seemed to notice it, thinking that the argument was over. “Besides, down there is where everyone else gets to show their real faces. Where you’d see mine.”

“You could just show me now, and then I wouldn’t have any kind of surprise.”

You didn’t expect him to go for that, to buy it, and you gasped a little as the man before you changed. Soft and fluffy brown hair was longer, brushing around his shoulders in strands that weren’t tied back into a bun, faded blue almost entirely taken over by black irises. His eyes were sunken a little deeper, some teeth a little sharper, jaw a little more defined, giving a much more dangerous look, the kind of intimidating you were sure was done purposefully to scare those who needed to be scared, crafted in the bowels of hell to torture the people who deserved it.

A deep pink and puffy scar ran along from the middle of his cheek and into the stubble on the right hand of his face, emerging further down along his neck. The sleeve of his left arm seemed to strain a little more now, shining metal poking out from underneath, a mixture of battered metal and shining steel, metal digits forming a fist as you stared down at the appendage.

Reaching a hand out towards him, he huffed, pulling it away from you, leaning the entire left side of his body out of your reach. “What are you doing?”

You ignored him, taking the hand in both of your own, and the coolness of it sent shocks along your nerves, goosebumps rising on your skin. He let you lift it, inspecting each finger carefully, gears shifting under your touch each time a finger moved, and he sighed as you lifted the hand, resting it over your cheek again, the same way he’d had it only moments ago, when it had been under the illusion of flesh and blood. “You still don’t scare me, Bucky.”

He let out a laugh, a breathless one, before he was closing the distance between the two of you, lips meeting your own, and a small squeak left you as his mouth pressed to your own carefully. It was all entirely new to you, feeling his other hand find your waist, nails scratching lightly at your skin through the material of your shirt, before you were placing your own hands on his shoulders, grasping at his shirt as you moved your mouth with his own.

It was slightly awkward, and slow, and you could feel yourself fumbling, but as your eyes slipped closed and you matched his rhythm, you found everything within yourself slipping away. You hadn't quite realised what it would be like, to have another person pressed up so close to you, and to know how it felt when their eyelashes tickled your cheeks the way his were know, that feelings within your stomach like fireworks were going off was making you feel lightheaded, gasps for breath each time he pulled back, twisting his head, noses bumping, before softly swollen lips were finding you once again.

It was of their own accord that your hands slipped from his shoulders to his neck, one travelling even further into his hair, gripping tightly as you pushed up into him, almost falling from your chair as your legs went weak as you tried to stand a little, and he turned you around, lower back pressing into the cool marble for support, before a low growl sounded out. It reverberated along your entire body, and you trembled a little under his hold, teeth dragged over your lower lip, before he was pulling away.

You were chasing after him, feeling his grip loosen on you and you whined, catching his lips again in a little kiss, a chuckle breaking it as he backed away enough to rest his forehead on your own.

“Don’t be greedy. I’ll kiss you again, later.”

“Or, you could kiss me now?” You teased, letting him lift you up to sitting on the countertop, and he wrapped your legs around his waist, thumb smoothing over your cheek as he felt that same embarrassed warmth flood your skin. He pressed a kiss to the underside of your jaw, using his nose to tilt your head back, before he was nipping lightly about the pulse point along your neck, and you weren’t in control of the sound that left you as he did, or the way your thighs tightened around his waist.

“I could, but, I thought you wanted to go to Hell.”

“I do.” You mumbled, before realising fully what he’d said, and you pulled him back by a handful of his shirt between his shoulder blades, darkened eyes finding yours in a curious gaze. “I do. Are you serious?”

“You have to promise to stay by my side.” You nodded, vehemently, a wide smile taking up on your face. “You also have to wear a watch.”

“I thought time worked differently?” You teased, and he rolled his eyes, taking your chin between his thumb and a metal forefinger, cutting off your laughs with a short kiss.

“It does, that’s the whole point. We need to know when to get you home.”

You only nodded, dropping down and disappearing, searching through your drawers and cabinets until you found the device you were looking for, checking its display against the wall clock on your bedroom wall, and thanking your lucky stars that it still displayed the correct time. You were attaching it to your wrist and waving it at him proudly as you reemerged, and he held his hand out for you.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Well, you only live once, right?” He huffed, fixing you with a pointed stare, and you burst out in a series of little laughs at your own words. “Well, some of us only live once, anyway.” He took your hand in his, barely letting you swipe up your keys before you were following him out of the door and back towards the stairs, stumbling over your own feet slightly. “Am I going to have to die for us to get there?”

“What? No. Why would you think that?” The crackling in his voice was amusement, and you shrugged, letting him guide you through the door that said ‘staff only’, and at this point, you’d stopped even questioning his actions.

“Well, I don’t exactly see a lot of portals to hell on my day-to-day travels.”

“It’s like a door that only demons can open. On this day, of all days. Sorta’ like a magnet, you just think about it, and it pulls you to where you're supposed to be.” It wasn’t exactly a description that set you at ease, and as you made it to the top of the staircase he was pulling you up, you were met with the sight of the sprawling skyline, the sounds of a busy city filled with people who were none the wiser to your current situation going about their mundane lives below, and even after today, you know you’d never be that same mundane person again.

Stepping out onto the roof, you were in awe, never having ventured up and gotten to appreciate it, and while your apartment was high up and the view was the same, it was more the experience that was leaving you speechless.

“Are you ready?”

When you followed the sound of his voice, he was standing on the edge of the building, hand held out to you once again, and you weren’t sure when you’d ever slipped away from him. You wandered over, nausea sweeping across you as you leaned over the edge to look down, the people on the streets below looking more like specks in the distance, and you pulled back rapidly. “To jump off the roof? That’s seriously the way to go?”

“It’s the fun way.”

You scoffed, knowing he was just doing it to mess with you, and he took your hands in his, guiding your gaze back up to his face. Wrapping your arms around his neck, and you held on tightly, feeling him grip your waist, pulling you in close.

“Just trust me, angel.”

For whatever reason, you did. You had full faith in a man who’d you’d only known for twelve hours, feeling him inch the two of you towards the edge, up onto the ledge, until you were precariously balanced, and your heart was threatening to beat right out of your chest. Pressing your face into his neck, his grip on you became bruising, and then you were falling.

The floor fell away, and you were racing downwards, hair whipping around your face as your eyes squeezed shut, that floating feeling becoming more like you were being dragged down. It was cold, biting cold, and utterly terrifying, and then it all just stopped. There was ground beneath your feet again, blood wasn’t pounding in your ears as you found yourself upright once again, and you were only dizzy from the way you’d held your breath, not from tumbling such a distance, and you forced yourself to exhale, slowly.

When you pulled away from him, the hand stroking soothingly up and down your back then stopped, and he lifted it to smooth down your hair instead. Whereas in your apartment, he’d seemed out of place and daunting in his own skin, now, he seemed to fit in perfectly. Shadows cast across his face made his features stand out, strong and bold, and instead of being scared you felt protected by his presence. It wasn’t nearly as loud as you’d expected it to be, and it was the exact opposite of what you’d pictured.

Instead of burning pits of fire and tortured screams, it was much like what Earth was, buildings and pathways and doors along each one, a reflection of the home you’d known so well, just with a little more destruction. He seemed to already know exactly what you were thinking, smirking his eyes a little, but you just accepted it, taking it all in. There was a bump against your lower leg, something soft that made you jump, and the man holding you chuckled. Turning, you watched a little cat run away. It had a torn ear and was missing an eye when it looked back at you, before it was dating through an open door before it closed, and you gaped a little as you lost sight of the orange-furred little critter.

“That was a cat.”

“Well, yes.” He deadpanned, hissing at the way you pinched his arm roughly for his words, and he mumbled under his breath about being careful before you ‘inadvertently achieved wrath’. “Haven’t you ever heard about cats being the guardians of the underworld?”

“In, like, Egyptian mythology, maybe.”

“Yeah, well, all myths and fables come from somewhere, right? Everything you’ve heard is just one interpretation of the same thing. Like versions of a story.” He offered, and you felt like every answer you got became all the more confusing, like you had no real idea about the world you’d been living in at all, until now. “C’mon. We have much to do, and little time.”

“What are we going to do?”

“You wanted to come here, that’s your choice.” He shrugged, and you gave him a blank look, as though you had any idea about what you were supposed to be doing. He seemed to pick up on it, a smile on his lips, before he was slinging an arm over your shoulders, and beginning to guide you away towards a door only a few down from one that you’d seen that little orange cat disappear through. When you got into the other side, you were in the hospital, the time seeming to move differently, everything around you flying by at super speed. “What’s the worst thing you ever witnessed in the hospital?”

“What?”

“The west thing. One of your patients, something you remember because it was just downright evil.” It took you a moment, but the worst one came to mind, and you felt sad witnessing it all over again.

“There was this man in here, once. Both he and the kid across from me were my patients. The kid was a car crash victim, both parents died, he was on life support, we were doing everything we could. If the kid died, he would have been the organ donor. The man smothered the kid in his sleep, we didn’t realise until the autopsy was done, by which point the guy had fled.” You shrugged, and he asked for the date, to which you mumbled, that day burned into your mind to last forever.

With a wave of his hand, that same speed that had been dizzying to watch as it moved like a movie on fast-forward was now frozen completely, and with a click, there was an entirely new setting.

Easter decorations, all around the hospital, Mercedes at the reception desk still had her hair dyed blue instead of her usual fiery red, the colour had taken a good couple of years to totally grow out; somehow, he’d taken you right back to the night that it had happened. Rainy, filled with clouds, water swilling around your car, and there was a loud storm outside. You remembered because it felt fitting, and it almost felt comforting when you’d cried in your car about it all before being able to drive home that night.

“Which room?”

“I, um, room three-oh-four.” You guided him through the halls, completely in awe of the way it resembled your place of work so clearly, and yet nobody could see it at all. You could see yourself, a younger version, standing behind the nurse's station and covering your yawn with your hand, a file in your hand as you tried to focus on it, and it was shocking to see it from such a different angle. You froze up a little as you approached the room, the two opposites, and you felt your heart crack a little at seeing that little boy alive once again, even if it was just barely. “That’s the guy.”

He followed the direction of your finger, a head of black hair in the bed across, idling himself on his phone, and Bucky stepped into the room, a sneer on his lips. Glancing at the name across the chart, he couldn't quite see it, but you already knew it anyway.

“Brock Rumlow.”

“Sounds like an asshole kinda’ name, already.” You could only nod, and just like that, Bucky was moving the timeline forwards again. Day to turned to night outside, you watched as he disappeared for a second, only to reappear a moment later, and then there was night becoming day, and he was taken to surgery, and the day flew by, bodies flying in and out, the flash of your own floral-patterned dress as you move in and out throughout the day, and then, a week later, he was leaving. It slowed, you watched as he went, following him right out of the hospital and into a cab, and he was none the wiser as in this turn of events, you and Bucky joined him.

It went by again, years flying back, Bucky’s eyes moving as he somehow seemed to see and understand every moment, before suddenly, it was all stopping. You were out of the cab, but when you left it, it was a firetruck instead. The building before you was burning, thick plumes of smoke curling up into the air, windows were broken as tall flames curled up and roared into the sky. Sirens were wailing, and water was spraying, and you could feel the heat even from here.

“Building fire.”

“Hm?” You twisted to look at him, and the demon beside you motioned up to the building.

“That’s how the universe got even with Brock Rumlow. He stole organs from a child, and he got trapped inside his apartment. He’s down here.” You felt your breath get stuck in your throat as he said those words, before you were finding his hand, gripping tightly with both, and his fingers curled back around your hand, before he was sighing, loudly. “Do you want to see him now?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” He asked, everything around you seeming to go into slow motion as he dulled the sounds, before you were pressing yourself into him a little more, feeling his lips brush against your temple as you let out a breathless laugh.

“I’ve thought so much about what I would do if I ever saw him again. Give him a piece of my mind, tell him how bad of a person he is, make him feel bad. Now, though, I’m not all that sure I could control myself.”

“Who says you have to?” You peered up at him, eyes wide, and he shrugged, cupping your face with both hands as he watched panic begin to take over you. “He’s a child killer, a selfish prick, he deserves everything he gets down here. This is a place for punishment, and maybe it’ll make you feel better.”

“Okay.”

He took your hand, the closest door to the two of you opening back up, and just like that, you were back in the stone hallways, crossing over to a wooden door, bolted from the outside, and as his hands wrapped around the handle, it changed, simplistic designs shifting to that of one you’d expect to see on a little farm cottage, before he was opening it up and ushering you inside.

“Where are we?”

“His Hell-scape.” The door scratched against cobblestones as it was pushed shut behind you. “Germany, early nineteen forties, the precipice of modern medicine. It’s cold, and he’s fled from the war, he’s taking shelter in a little farm cottage. He needs surgery, and you’re about to perform it. There’s a kid, who could donate the blood, he’s sitting over there by the fireplace.”

Just as he said that, the door swung open once again, and there he was, stumbling inside as blood seeped between his fingers, and just like that, for the first-ever time in one of these scenarios, he was looking you dead in the eyes. He begged for help, and the little boy by the fireplace looked up, wide eyes and he was on his feet, dashing over to you. He cleared the table, helping the man to lie down, like the good little soul he was, and you ushered him away upstairs. With a knife from the kitchen, you sliced open the front of his shirt, watching as blood oozed out of several bullet wounds across his front.

Blood spewed out, and for a second, guilt washed over you as you hesitated in your motions to save him, but then you were remembering everything he’d done, and you could feel the presence of Bucky behind you, the scene you’d relieved as you watched the evil take place, and you felt no regret as you pushed a finger against one of the wounds. Hard metal met your finger, blood-curdling screams from him on the table as you pushed it even deeper, before pulling away, and making sure that he was looking you in the eyes as he did.

You weren’t sure if he was able to recognise you, or whether he was completely engrossed inside of this illusion, but you swore you saw something pass over his eyes, seconds before he was passing out. Little feet were coming down the stairs, and the boy was there again, watching rivers of blood dripping into puddles as they ran from the tabletop, a teddy tucked safely in his arms as he looked up to you again.

“Are we going to save his life?”

“No.” You hummed, wiping your hands on a rag, and it was shockingly different to see the way the boy whose eye colour you’d never seen before looked, how young he really was, and you took him by the hand as you guided him up the stairs. Tucking him in and brushing the hair back out of his face, you pressed a kiss to his forehead, and he fell asleep before your eyes, chest rising and falling of its own accord. It wasn’t real, you felt it slipping away under your fingers, and when you made it back down the stairs, the man on the table was dead, hand hanging limp, and it all slipped away.

Darkness filled the room, the features melted away, and he guided you back to the corridors, tears sliding down your cheeks as you left it all behind.

There was concern on his face when he looked at you, but you didn’t care, because you were pulling him in by a fistful of his shirt in order to press desperate and needy kisses to his lips. He reciprocated, humming happily as his hands found your hips, smoothing around towards your back, one warm and one cold as they pressed to you, and your wet cheeks pressed to his, gasping breaths as you sought out comfort in his touch.

“Are you okay?

“I’ve never felt like this before.” He pulled back, whining a little when you kept pressing up into him, and he pushed you back a little bit, ignoring your complaints. “It’s a rush, and it felt bad but only for a second, before it felt right. Not to hurt someone else, but to serve justice. I love saving lives, I do, but that felt incredible. It felt like closure.”

“You officially checked off wrath, angel.”

“I don’t think you can call me that anymore.” You teased, and he shook his head, pulling you in close enough to brush his lips against your own. It was a fleeting kiss, something that left you desperately craving more as you burned up from the inside out.

“You’re always gonna’ be my little Halloween angel.” He grinned, trying to wipe your cheeks dry.

“I think I’m checking off envy, too.” He beamed, raising his brows in silent questioning, and you gave him a lame shrug of your shoulders in response. “I just don’t think I could go back to my regular life and be happy now, knowing there’s so much more that I could be experiencing. My job won’t be fulfilling when I know how much better it would be to do yours, and be here. I hate that you don’t worry about anything, that you haven't spent your whole life worrying if you're good enough to get into somewhere only to spend the rest of eternity keeping up those standards. I wouldn’t have to be anyone but my true self here, and now, I’m not even sure if I know who that is.”

“You could find out, though.”

“Also, there’s a girl over there who keeps looking at you and I don’t like it.” He glanced over his shoulder, noting the pretty demon who was waving at him, tight curls and red lipstick and she looked like she was straight out of the world war’s era, but then again, everybody down here seemed to be fixed in some kind of time period or another.

“Envy doesn’t suit you, angel. You much more suit pride.”

His fingertips pressed into your sides a little, tickling you lightly, and you grinned, mind leaving her as you came crashing back into a world where only you and he existed. Dipping down, his nose brushed with yours, and you closed the gap, sighing out happily when you felt the rough prickles of his beard under your palm, the other hand sliding down to rest on his chest.

The tip of a tongue traced your lower lip, and you gasped at the feeling, before his tongue was pressing through the parting and into your mouth, a needy noise slipping from you before you could control it, leaving you feeling like you were floating within the clouds as you fell even further into him. You were pressed up to him now, bodies colliding, and what was once slow and sensual suddenly felt like it was rushed and frantic. Mouths meshing, growls and whines shared between you both and you were ruining the neat bun in his hair as your hands were pushed into his mouth.

His hands were exploring too, further than they’d ever been, one solid and one fleshy and then there was a warm palm gripping tightly at your ass, squeezing the flesh there roughly, and you keened up into him even further. Metal lifted you up, your legs fastening around his waist automatically, and you could feel him moving as you gripped onto him roughly. One hand digging nails into his shoulder as the other tugged on a fistful of his hair, a ragged moan leaving his lips as the two of you stumbled through the nearest doorway. Bedsheets found your back, and you were breathing clearly again as a hot mouth travelled along your jaw.

Stinging skin, drags of his teeth over heated flesh, and you were living in a world you’d never been in before as you felt those same hands now dip underneath your shirt, beginning to push it up as he adventured further.

“Where are we?” You mumbled, eyes fixed on the low hanging lighting extension from the ceiling, and he pulled back from the mark he was working to leave on your collarbone, an incredulous look on his face as he peered up at you. Swollen and shiny lips, half-lidded eyes, and a slight shine to his skin that paired with his messy hair made him look even more sinful than he usually did.

“My, uh, my room?” You sat up a little more to take it in, and he leaned back from where he was balanced over you, letting you take it all in.

“How convenient that all the doors you need are so close together.” He grinned, shaking his head in a way that made you think you were missing something, and he pulled you to sit up a little more, the haze over you both clearing slightly.

“Sweetheart, most of the doors work like the entrances, you just have to think about where you’re going, and you go there.”

It was like your world was clearing up, and as he knelt back, you moved forwards enough to settle into his lap, a soft giggle leaving you when you felt his hands come down to grip at your ass to keep you balanced, a smirk on his face as you did. “I was kinda’ expecting, like, bones on the wall, dungeons, dark, flickering torches, the whole shebang. I’m almost disappointed that it looks like a normal bedroom.”

“You have a bad habit of believing stereotypes.” He muttered, leaning in again to take your lower lip between his teeth, tugging on it lightly, and you keened up into him, finding the mattress either side of you dipping a little as he held himself up over you. “And I thought that after everything we’d done today, you’d have reconsidered it all.”

“Well, after all we’ve done today, I still have one sin left to complete.”

He grinned, nodding his head before his mouth was closing over your own. With one warm hand gently pushing up the edge of your shirt, you let him take it, sitting up just enough to let him peel the material from your body, before he was kissing along your neck, licking and sucking his way along the flesh until it was stained with blotchy red marks that would blossom into purple bruises sooner or later.

Then, as his fingers brushed over the delicate skin of your ribs, he was letting out a breathy laugh, pulling away once his lips were grazing the edge of your bra.

“Angel, I gotta’ be honest with you. I really like you, I do, but this bra is awful.”

You looked down at yourself, head clearing for just a second, before you were groaning, shaking your head as you looked down at the garment strapped to your body. “I don’t own any other bras! They’re practical, they support me at work. I’ve never really had a reason to own fancy underwear."

You were popped up on your elbows, and he grinned wickedly, metal hand undoing the catch with a simple flick of his fingers, and then it was falling loose. “Bet you’re wearing cute little white cotton panties, too, huh?”

You could only nod, feeling a blush beginning to climb onto your cheekbones, and it was a feeling you were rapidly growing familiar with while being in his presence.

“You drive me insane, in all your innocence. Am I the first person to get near your sweet little cunt? Tell me I am, angel.”

“You are.” You were breathless, everything from the way his lips curled around the words, to the sound of his voice, right to the way his eyes raked over you in a way that could only be described as predatorily, made your body burst out in flames, craving something you didn’t even know, but you just knew you needed him to keep going, to continue with whatever it was he was doing, because he had you floating on Cloud Nine.

“I’m gonna’ take such good care of you, I promise.” As he pulled the material away from your chest, that heat was spreading down, along your neck, and yet you didn't feel anything but powerful under his gaze. You’d never expected to have this kind of life, after hearing from your mother what had happened to your father for his sins, you were determined not to follow that path, but now, you wanted it all. You didn’t care about standards and responsibilities, you just wanted to drown in the way his tongue was dragging along your stomach as he left wet kisses along your skin, until he was mouthing at the place just above your jeans, soft skin teased with lips and teeth, until he was popping the button on your jeans carefully.

He took it all, stripping you down and taking his time, mumbling praises into your skin until there was nothing else clad on you, except for the slip of cotton over your core, and he was kneeling back at the end of the bed, two large hands palming at your thighs, and he licked over his lip, dragging the lower between his teeth roughly.

“Fucking hell, angel, you’re drippin’.” A single digit, lifting to brush over your covered folds, and as you were touched so intimately, you couldn't help the gasp that slipped from you. “Ruining your panties, sweetheart, soaking right through ‘em.”

“Please.”

He looked up as you whispered the words, eyes already blown out dark with lust, the grey-blue colour you so deeply adored was almost entirely gone, and it was like the tension in the room shot up even further. “Do you even know what you’re asking for, angel, or do you just want more?”

There was a teasing undertone laced in his voice, and you would’ve commented on it, snapped back at him for his taunt, had it not been for the way he lifted that finger up, knuckle brushing over the pulsing bud between your legs, and then he was circling it, a dull pressure applied, and your hips left the bed as your back arched. “That! I want more of that.”

“So fucking pretty, all needy and beggin’ for me, already.” He switched his positions, instead of a knuckle, it was the flat of a finger, and you were already shaking under his touch as your entire body lit up with fireworks. “Are you sure you want to do this? Once we do, there’s no going back. You don’t want to save yourself for someone special?”

“I’m already with someone special.”

His motions paused, before a slightly bashful smile took over his face, and you giggled upon looking at him, sitting up enough to take his face in your hands, moaning against his lips as he picked his movements back up, just to drive you crazy. “You sweet-talkin’ me, angel?”

“Nobody would ever believe me if I could make a demon blush.”

“Just something about you. Don’t know what it is, but you drive me crazy.” He whispered, closing the distance as you continued to test him, a sloppy kiss that was more collisions of lips and tongue, and you could barely keep up. You were so focused on the way it felt to be utterly surrounded by every inch of him that you didn’t feel him move until the barrier of fabric was gone, tearing meeting your ears and then there was nothing between you both, a calloused finger gathering the wetness you’d built up, slick on his finger, and your breath hitched as the tip of that same warm digit traced your entrance.

Anticipation, anxiety, and slight fear washed over you, and he seemed to sense it, from the way that you tensed up, before he was pushing you back down to lay in the bedding, body pressed to your own. You were tugging at the shirt on his shoulders, whining a little, before he let you pull it up, holding himself up long enough for you to strip it away.

“Let me open you up, okay? Get you ready, I don’t want to hurt you.”

Stealing a final kiss, he distracted you, the way a finger slipped inside was something entirely new, your closed eyes snapping open again, and he let out a long and deep sound into your mouth, feeling every inch of your walls clamp up around his intruding finger, wet and velvet and enticing. He pumped it slowly, a wince on your face at the pull at your entrance, before you forced yourself to take a deep breath, focusing instead on the way his lips felt on your skin, and the way it felt when your bare flesh was gliding over his.

Erotic, sweat built up that made your skin stick against his in the most arousing way, the dips between his muscles shining, making everything about him stand out even more prominently, and you had never allowed yourself to consider a man as particularly attractive before, but now you were seeing through a whole new gaze, you were certain it couldn't get much better than him. Sharp jaw, pretty features, broad shoulders and a mouth to give up all innocence for, you couldn't even blame yourself for giving everything up to him.

There was a curling of his finger, the blunt nail dragging over your walls, and a shudder ran along your entire body as he did, a cry of his name leaving your lips, and suddenly, the final puzzle seemed to click into place. There was something romantic about offering yourself up to someone like this, something incredibly intimate about the way it felt to let yours be this vulnerable under someone else’s gaze, and you had never felt anything like this in your entire life.

A twisting in your lower belly, muscles clenching, and then another sting, a second finger sliding into you with ease as you all but dripped for him, the pain far more tolerable and even a little bit pleasurable this time around, before you were stretched around two thick fingers, barely processing the words he was offering to you, because your vision was going fuzzy and you felt like you’d left all forms of reality that you’d ever known.

Hands clenched in the sheets, tugging them roughly as you stiffened, and a soothingly cold hand pressed down on your chest, you hadn't realised your heart was racing and you were dragging in desperate breaths until the weight of the limb forced you to calm down. Bringing a hand up, you clung to him, frantic for some kind of grounding connection as you felt the rest of your inhibitions slip away. It felt like you were breaking down that final gate, like you were bursting from a cage, freedom and liberation and a feeling you’d never had before but were already addicted to the taste of.

Your throat stung, eyes burning from unshed tears, before he was pulling those fingers from you, an obscene slurping finding your ears, and you weren’t sure when your eyes had rolled back, or when your body had left the bedding, but when you collapsed back down into the soft cushions, with deep and raspy breaths, and forced your eyes open, he was licking crudely at his fingers, watching you carefully, something between caring and cocky stitched into his features.

“What just happened?”

“You just had your first orgasm, baby. How’d it feel?” He wiggled his brows, a smile that made you laugh, and you were still trembling, forcing yourself to relax as you melted into the blankets and untangled your fingers, surprised you hadn't ripped them entirely.

“I loved it.”

“Good.” The tip of his nose bumped against your own, and yet he never granted you a kiss, swerving away just long enough to settle himself between your thighs. “So much I want to do to you, so little time.”

He tutted to himself, and the denim of his jeans brushed over your sensitive centre as he dipped his head down. You weren’t sure where to focus, whether you were meant to fix your attention on the way his lips seal around one perky bud of a nipple, or the way you were meeting him roll for roll as you ruined the front of his jeans, material growing damp with your juices as you pleasured yourself, broken noises let out into the air as he abused your chest, switching between your breasts until he was satisfied with the way he’d left your skin spit-slick and shining.

A hand in his hair, you dared to take control, sick of waiting, and just wanting to get to the main event, what you did now know, and you needed it more than you’d ever needed anything in your entire life. You hadn't felt truly alive, or comfortable in your own body, until this moment, as he brought you to life and made you see stars, gave you things you’d never even known existed.

“Bucky, please. I can’t take waiting any longer.”

“Okay, angel. I got you, I know what you need.” He managed to peel himself away, a cool breeze sweeping in where he’d once been before he was stripping himself down of the remaining garments covering his body, and you felt your mouth go dry as he was finally revealed to you. He may have been crafted in hell, the epitome of sin and debauchery, and you weren’t surprised that so many people gave up on their purity to give in to lust, because you were just as weak as the rest of them as you looked at him.

Toned and tanned flesh, tapering down from broad shoulders to a narrow waist, defined muscles, sinewy skin and prominent veins, before a hard and leaking cock as bobbing in the air before you. He seemed to know you were admiring him, taking in every detail and committing it to memory, because he flexed a little, a look on his face that you were oh-so-familiar with, before you were reaching out to him.

He was happy to crawl into your arms, lifting your legs onto his waist, sticky pre-cum smearing across your thigh, before he was dipping into your wetness, gathering it up as he rocked his length against your folds, shared breath turning to pants as his forehead rested to your own. “Before we do this, I just wanted to say something.”

“Hm, don’t tell me you secretly have a tail that only comes out when you cum.”

He shook, his entire body wracked by the laugh that he let out, and he pulled back far enough that you could see the sparkle in his eyes, before he was shaking his head, a series of pecks pressed to your lips between muffled giggled from the pair of you, until you managed to calm down. “No, sorry to ruin another one of your predetermined opinions on demons.”

“I’ll get over it.”

He delivered a particularly sharp thrust, the tip of his cock bumping your clit, making your jerk in his hold, and you encouraged him on quickly, the scrape of your nails along his back making him hiss out. “I wanted to say that I haven’t felt like this in centuries, you’ve flipped your whole world upside down in just twenty-four hours. I wanted you to know that this is special, between me and you, just so you don’t regret it in a few days, when you think about us, when you're back home in your fancy apartment and living your normal life.”

“I’ve never felt more alive than when I’m with you.”

He took the compliment, not bothering to reply, but leaning in to take your lips with his own in a passionate kiss, as another hand slipped between your bodies to line himself up, before he was inching into you, taking his time and making sure not to hurt you. When he saw your face screw up, his hand caught yours, fingers weaving together and pressing back into the mattress, confirming that he was with you, an apology for the pain and a promise that it would go away without him even having to speak.

As his hips finally came to press to your own, you were holding back a sob, the wide girth and length he had were far more than his fingers had been, and while you’d stretched to accommodate him, it was still a new struggle, and you let out a low breath, feeling the soft presses of pecks along your cheeks and jaw, as he waited patiently. There was tension in his body, from top to bottom, feeling his muscles clench under your hands, and you rolled your hips experimentally.

A shot of pain, a whimper from your lips, but you weren't sure if that sound came from the sharp pain or the heated pleasure, a burst of it from within you, and your jaw dropped, and he let out a ragged sound, face pressed into your neck. “Holy shit, angel, you’re squeezin’ me like a fucking vice, tightest damn pussy I’ve ever known. Perfect, just like the rest of you.”

You grinned, hating the way that his filthy words could slide right into something endearingly sweet that had your stomach flipping and your heart skipping beats, all within in a split-second. “You can move now, it’s okay.”

He only gave a short nod, before he was doing as you offered, pulling back just enough to press back into you, a shallow thrust that didn’t offer much, drawn-out and delicate, but then there was another, stronger and faster, and he moved slowly, inch by inch each time, until he was pulling himself from you almost completely, and sinking back into your sodden heat.

“Oh, fuck.”

He bit down on your shoulder as you swore, cursing himself under his breath, tongue lapping over the spot. When he raised his head, there were wisps of brown hair plastered to his forehead, messy and tangled and you thought he looked stunning this way. Pink flushed cheeks, wide eyes, glistening skin, it was almost angelic, and there were certainly bits of him that made you question his allegiance, but then again, in the span of just one day, he’d made you question absolutely everything you ever knew.

Deep and fast thrusts, and you could feel every throb, every drag of him within you, each time he pulled away just to sheath himself within you once again, and you could feel your own throat stinging with the continuous loops of noises that you were letting out for him. He shifted, slowing for just a second, before one of your legs was being hiked up from his waist to his shoulder, and then, it was getting even better.

You thought he’d shown you the height of pleasure, that the feeling of being connected with him in such a way was all that it could be, but then he was reaching all new depth that made you scream. You couldn't take it, the continuous pounding on that little patch that made everything go blank. Stars in your eyes, white noise that barely let through the sounds of his loud moans and sobs of pleasure, but you could feel him coming undone atop of you, the way his pace faltered and his arm gave way, pressing you into the bed as he lost all semblance of self-control.

He was fucking into you without mercy, and you knew you’d be sore in the morning but right now you needed more. Your heel was digging into his lower back as you came unravelled once again, a peak crashing over you that was ten times stronger than the first had been and you were clinging to him like he was your only lifeline. Fingertips were digging into his flesh, nails raking red welts into his skin and he was growling and grunting, before gripping you with a hold so tight it was bruising, and a whole new kind of warmth washed over you.

His heavy-weight collapsing onto you was enough to warm you from the outside, but then he was spilling deep within you, a broken sound that tailed off at the end as his voice cracked, and you decided that in that exact moment, if you never got to experience anything this good ever again, you’d always cherish exactly how it felt to be marked and claimed as his, to know that no matter what, a little piece of your heart and soul would always belong to him, and him to you.

When he finally stopped moving, he didn’t pull out, but instead, rolled the two of you over until you were cushioned against his chest, and cheek pressed over the racing heart under his chest, and you grinned to yourself at knowing that you could make his heart do that, the organ he hadn't felt used in so long was now in overdrive under his ribs, and it was all for you. It wasn’t love, it couldn't be, it had only been a day; infatuation, curiosity, adoration, a range of emotions flooded through you but it was the possibility of something entirely new, and you thought it was perfect.

Clearly, he was feeling it too, because when you finally moved away from him, his eyes opened again, a weak sound of protest coming from him as you removed yourself from his body, laying down beside him, and sitting up a little, offering him a smile as he watched you. “Don’t leave yet. Stay with me a few more minutes.”

“I’m not going anywhere just yet, don’t you worry.” He was put at ease by that, you could see it from the way his shoulders slumped, and the breath he let out, before his arms were circling your waist and he was collapsing down against you.

You may never get into the version of ‘Heaven’ you’d always believed you were destined for, but this was more than that, it was everything you never knew you needed. Bringing a hand up to his hair, you wove your fingers into the damp strands, and he rumbled blissfully at the feeling, nuzzling further into your body as he did.

The rough stubble on his cheeks tickled you, made you want to shove him away and laugh out loud, but you wanted to hold him and comfort him more, the man overwhelmingly clingy after being intimate, and you treasured it. You had no experience to compare anything to, he was the master here, and you were learning everything, and you were sure to him that was like learning to walk while he was running marathons and doing hurdles, but he was patient and kind, and it was just another thing you’d assumed wrong about him.

Twenty-four hours ago you were someone completely different. Pure, and innocent, and completely unaware of the world you were a part of, and now, you never wanted to go back. He’d made you a promise that everything could be forgotten by midnight if you didn’t like it, but you wanted these memories and these moments burned into your mind forever, never to be taken away from you, so you’d always live in the time that your life changed for the better.

“So, I get it now.”

“Get what, sweetheart?” His words were given to you in a whisper, from where his cheek was pressed to your stomach, and you continued his hair, enjoying the happy rumble he let out as you did. The watch on your wrist showed the time, and you watched as he checked it, letting out a disgruntled little huff, before he was squeezing you a little tighter once again.

“Lust. Why so many people give in to it. That was incredible.”

“It only gets better. Didn’t want to break you on your first time, though.” He pressed a kiss to your skin, snickering as you scoffed at his words, and then he was pulling away far enough to sit up. You could see the scarring along his left shoulder so much clearer now, metal meeting flesh, bound with red scarring that marred beautiful golden skin, and yet his imperfections only made him seem even more perfect to you. “Maybe next year we’ll explore some more.”

“Next year?”

“Halloween is almost over, sweetheart.” You let him crawl further up your body, searching for your lips with his own until he wound his way home, and you flopped back into the pillows, taking him with you, breathless laughs expelled into both mouths until he was pulling away. “Mhm, no. When you kiss me like that, we get carried away.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, I like to think I can hold out, and I don’t think we could get everything I want to do to you done within six minutes.” He sighed dramatically, before rolling off of you and onto the bed beside you.

“What if we had more than six minutes?” He twisted his head studying you for a minute, before his lips were parting, and he was pulling your hands from where you were picking at the loose threads on the bedsheets, and he was bringing your knuckles to his mouth, gentle kisses pressed to them.

“Don’t speak in riddles, we don’t have the time for that.”

“What if I stayed?”

He sat up a little more, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “You know if you stay, this is the only place you’ll ever end up. Even if you left next year, even if you decided not to be here anymore, while you still have your life. You’ll never get into Heaven. You only have three minutes to make a decision that’ll decide the rest of your life.”

“I think I’ve already made it.” Something eerily similar to hope flickering between your eyes, and you only gave him a sweet grin, before his face was cracking open in a wide beam, and he was lunging at you again. “What did Heaven ever do for me anyway? I think I’d much rather stay and be a sinner here with you.”

He bumped the tip of his nose against yours, before moving down to press a sweet kiss to your lips, pausing for long enough to speak; “Maybe, but you’ll always be my angel.”

[thatonegreyghost]

I feel like being extra today, so have some California gothic(SoCal edition):

There is no rain. There is never rain. If it comes, it comes when everyone is inside or asleep. Roads flood and swimming pools spill over and there is half a foot of water on every corner. Then it dries and its gone forever. There is no rain.

There is something in the ocean. You can't see it, because you aren't far out enough for the water to be clear, but it doesn't matter; anytime you do go far out enough, it's too deep to see the bottom. There's a ledge where the sandy floor drops into a steep cliff; young kids who are brave enough to swim out the ten feet to reach it dare their friends to jump. You see fishermen on the pier and the beach, and even though you've never seen as much as a piece of bait on the shore, you keep your distance to avoid a hook in your foot. The water glitters with flecks of gold; when the waves crash, the sand is stirred up enough to reveal the precious metal. You've heard stories about people jumping off the pier, but you never see it happen. You love the ocean. Maybe you'll come again when there's less people. There's something in the ocean; maybe one day you'll actually see it.

The air around LA is dirty. Its orange and gray and disgusting. Breathing it in makes you feel nauseous, dirty, depressed. When it rains(it never rains), you can see all the skyscrapers, and the mountains! The mountains are so clear. It only lasts a few days, and the smog is back. Time slows down on the freeway leading into downtown. You sit in traffic, staring at the license plate ahead of you. Its been ten minutes since everyone stopped moving. You look up at the skyline; has it always been that orange? Someone honks behind you, and you turn your attention to the road. Its been five minutes. No one's moved.

There's a fire somewhere. It makes sense; you got a lot of rain that winter, and the summer was predictably hot. You wake up at three in the morning; on the coast, because you smell burning, in the hill, because a neighbor is pounding on your door. The sky turns red, and when high schoolers leave their third period, they can't see. Nothing gets canceled except for sports. There is ash in the pool; it will stay for weeks until the first home meet.

"Coyotes are back" the sign says. You think of your dog, a good sized dog that can protect itself. You think of your neighbors dog, a scrawny thing that would get snatched in an instant if it were left out at night. You think of your friend's cat, and how the only dead cats you've ever seen are mauled on the side of the road. Coyotes are back. You don't think they ever really left.

The lights went out last night. You know this because your alarm went off at two am instead of six, and because of the blinking 12:01 on your clock. Your fan is still going at least; without it, you would be smothered to death by heat, heat that builds and builds and builds until its cooler outside than in. The pools are open for the summer, but unless you know friends or family with one, you'll have to pay. You think that's kind of cruel, but say nothing. You're too hot to think.

There is a June bug in your house. Its July. There is a June bug in your house.

A gun shot goes off. No, wait, that was a firework. You wonder how your neighbors got those fireworks, the kind that bang instead of whistle and shriek instead of scream. You hope they don't go to the hill to set them off. There have been enough fires in recent years. You hear the bang again. You count the weeks to the fourth of July; three weeks to go. You'll get some sleep in a month.

There is nothing in the dark. Absolutely nothing. You know this because the night makes you feel safe, because it is cool and refreshing. There is nothing in the dark. You walk faster anyway.

A tourist from the Midwest complains about sunburn. You laugh; you don't get sunburn. You can't remember the last time you had sunburn. Sunburn is what happens to outsiders, or those with less melanin. You stare at the strawberry blonde whose face is as red as her hair. Even your white friends aren't so pale; living here, you've absorbed the sun into your skin and the golden warmth into your smile. Outsiders say you are beautiful. Insiders know why.

Disneyland is too expensive. You can't afford it, you don't want to go. You still think fondly of your past trips. Knott's is smaller, more local, but a yearly pass is a fraction of a Disney day ticket. You go to Knott's with friends. You don't regret anything. You say you should go again. You still want to go to Disneyland.

Southern California is its own state. Outsidrrs say "NorCal" and "Frisco" and wonder why locals stare. See's Candies are everywhere, every city has at least one. SoCal is dry and arid and has such a different climate from up north. There are forests in the north. You have never seen them.

There are abandoned train tracks everywhere. You want to walk along them. Your parents and friends say no. You ask why. They say its dangerous, they say there are coyotes on the tracks. They never say you might find a homeless camp. They don't need to; you already know. The homeless aren't dangerous. You stay away from them anyway.

You are chatting with an online friend. They say the snow is bad. They say their parents hate them for coming out. They say they don't feel safe at night because of the things outside. You are shocked. You know thses things can happen, but you never really believed they could before now. You tell them you are sorry. You try to understand what their life is like. You can't; you don't understand how their life is so different, yet they live in the same country as you.

LA to San Diego is 3 hours. LA to San Francisco is 8 hours. You have been to San Diego before. Its very nice. You've passed through it on your way to Mexico. You don't like coming back from Mexico; border patrol is scarier on that side. You worry that you will answer a question wrong and you will be kept on the wrong side of the border. You are a US citizen. You think about San Francisco. You've never been. It sounds lovely.

Your friend has a green card. You don't care; your friend is the same age as you, you met in elementary school. You hear a person in power talking about deportation. You are nervous for your friend. Your friend is a good person, their family is nice. Your friend wonders if they should take the citizenship test. You say nothing.

As a child, the police scared you. No one told you to be afraid of them, you just were. Now, you are still scared. At least this time, you know why.

You keep a bottle of baby powder in your car, right next to the beach towels and a scrubbie brush. "To get the sand off." You say to the questioning looks from the out of towner. You think they are visiting family. Most of your family lives here, and you don't remember who the outsider is related to. They gawk at the ocean. Its just the ocean.

Big Bear is pretty. Its always pretty. In the summer there's camps and in the winter there's snow. You go up for the day, once a year; its why you have a sled you never use.

Fourth of July is pretty cool. You get fireworks from the local high-school or local church, and you spend two hours setting them off. The pictures and video don't come out right, but it doesn't matter. You know this is a holiday celebrating America. You only care about the colors, and in the back of your mind, if someone might accidentally start a fire.

[tamagochiie]

a line without a hook | part three.

part three. “merely tolerable, really.”

chapter synopsis. Had you known freedom tasted like this, you wouldn’t have bothered to form an attachment with Mr. Ackerman. Was there really a point in what you were doing? 

word count. 7.5k

tags. swearing, angst, tones of misogyny

notes. This is a very late post, and I apologize for that, but I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. As for the upcoming chapter for this week, there may been another delay. I’ve been swamped with a lot of assignments and its my finals week, so I hope you all understand :/ 

back to master list

<< part two. | part four. >>

Your mother always told you gossip to women is like honey to a swarm of flies: you can catch more of them depending how sweet the scandal is. But she never thought to tell you what it'd be like if you were the honey, that the women would stick to you, drinking the life out of every little thing you do and unpack it together with their girl friends over afternoon tea and biscuits.

Your name, along with Mr. Ackerman's, had travelled from one tongue to the other in the last four days.

Each story are more intricately fabricated than the last. You heard all sorts of things, too many thing to keep track of — something about Mr. Ackerman's family background and more so yours, but you didn't want to pay heed over something that didn't come directly from the man himself.

And just the other day, while you commuted to town to deliver Reiner's forgotten lunch, you overhead a group of women whispering that you were already singing with the church bells.

You had shuddered at the thought and assumed it was something your mother must've cooked up given how she easily melted at Mr. Ackerman's feet when he came to visit a few days ago.

You and Mr. Ackerman were both aware that his visit, and all the kind and loving words he had said before you and your family, were merely for show. And that it was for purpose of sweeping your house clean of all trespassers and violators of your freedom.

But nonetheless, even with a letter that came to heed you of his visit, you were still left utterly speechless.

Mr. Ackerman had strolled into your cozy home, he hadn't been swathed in his usual drab choice of clothing, but settled with more pleasing fashion that didn't say,"I'm pessimistic and moody, and I've got a reputation for killing for sport".

He had been bathed in shades of blue, but still leaned on the darker side of the color spectrum. It had been a good change save for his signature cravat, and it led you to wonder just how many he owned.

You came to the conclusion he owned quite enough to be stitched together and make a thick and long blanket to last through the winter.

However, what had left you gobsmacked and rapidly blinking in succession was not Mr. Ackerman's slight change of style, but the little smirk across his lips while he spoke to your mother. His tone hadn't been clipped and did not drip in annoyance, but was a twinge softer — completely out of pocket for a man with a reputation for being dark and brooding.

Sasha, on the other hand, had been easily tickled in pure curiosity by Mr. Ackerman, poking and prodding him with peculiar and rather personal questions. You had expected he'd yell at her, seeing he'd be the kind of person to do that.

But he didn't snap. It was obvious his patience had been wearing thing, so he kept his replies quick and short just like his temper.

Pieck never spoke a word, but had instead observed the exchange as she sat on the couch, sandwiched between Connie and Jean while your mother had done her best to entertain Mr. Ackerman in small talk even though the man reeks of disdain for it.

Though Mr. Ackerman had successfully wooed your mother, and probably the rest of your sisters and Connie, Reiner was anything but.

Your brother protectively glued himself to your side, glaring down at Mr. Ackerman with a vexed look plastered across his scruffy face. Unfortunately, Reiner's attempt to be intimidating had fallen short and made you not only you, but Mr. Ackerman, suppress a stifling laugh.

Regardless of your brother's wishes, Mr. Ackerman's visit had been deemed fruitful. Your mother's eyes as well as her heart completely set on Mr. Ackerman and Mr. Ackerman alone.

To which both requests you firmly nodded and smiled at.

But your smile had been quick to fade.

You agreed to this little sham because you admired your freedom, but ever since Mr. Ackerman's visit, despite no men coming to bother you from the early hours of the morning till the late afternoon, you find yourself anything but free.

Your mother, the seventh circle of your personal hell, has taken it upon herself to berate you—tells you to make more of an effort on your appearance. She'll comment on how you sit, how you speak or how you eat, and every other thing you do.

You may have been liberated by the lusting grips of men, your mother's iron clad hold on even the thought of you being a few steps away from marriage is much tighter, and much more stubborn than you ever imagined.

So you spend your days hidden in your room, away from your mother and the rest of the world.

Sometimes you'll read or stare out the window, and when you do decide to step out of your little bubble, you'll be sure to check if the coast is clear from any possibly ambushes from your mother.

Though the only time you really do go out is to check the mail to see if Mr. Ackerman has written to you — he has not — or spend some time with your great love, your horse, Maria.

But for the most part, you plant yourself on the couch right up against window sill with your back slumped on the wall and legs sprawled out. You stare outside, not really looking at anything in particular.

Maybe the chickens.

You heavily sigh, fogging up the class as you gaze idly, twirling the ends of your hair. You grow jealous of the chickens and the roosters because at least they have their freedom. Their simple minds and their simple lives; the lay eggs and crow at dawn.

Damn chickens, you seethe in thought.

There's a faint knocking on your bedroom door that cease your internal tanget. You turn your head as the door creaks open, revealing your sister, Sasha, poking her head out between the gap. A friendly smile adorns her pink lips as she holds a plate of food in her hands.

"Can I come in?" She asks, already stepping inside. "I brought you food. You've been cooped up in here for too long, I thought you might be hungry."

You chuckle and motion her to come in.

Sasha moves briskly and steps inside before shutting the door behind her. She tiptoes across the room and over to you. She lightly taps your foot to make room and you swing it off the couch.

She places the tray between the two of you. A few loaves of bread, some grapes, and other fresh fruit that you assume she's stolen from the batch Reiner's supposed to sell.

She swipes the loaf of bread, breaking it in half and hands you the bigger piece before chewing her's down.

"You alright?" She asks, her words muffled by the bread. "Mamma's gotten under your skin, hasn't she?"

You bob your head, humming in response as you eat the bread bit by bit, taking your time.

Sasha follows your line of sight, checking to see what you've been so keenly staring at. Only to find that it's just a bunch of chickens running around.

"I'm overwhelmed," You confess breathily. You pull your legs up to your chest and rest your chin onto your knees. "I don't like the feeling one bit."

"Is it because of Mr. Ackerman?" Sasha looks at you with concern outlining the softness of her face. You don't really reply, just lulling your head in thought. "You surprise me, you know."

"I do?"

Sasha hums delightfully as she takes her last bite of her bread before moving onto the grapes.

"For someone who admires her freedom and never spared an interest in even the thought of forming an attachment, you latched onto Mr. Ackerman rather quickly." Sasha had always been mistaken for an idiot at a surface level, but she's a lot more perceptive than people give her credit for — than you give her credit for. And for once, you hated it. "One could even say that it's a bit...odd. But you've always been off, so maybe it isn't so out of the blue."

"Oh, how you read me so well," You say, sarcasm oozing from your words. You take a quick bite of bread.

"What's he like?"

You shrug your shoulders, pouting in thought. "I've only ever met him thrice," You point out, laughing at the curiosity avidly pooling from her eyes. "There's not much I can judge. If anything, I think you'd know more than me since you've pummeled the poor man with one too many questions."

Sasha takes the tray of food and scooches closer to you before putting it on her lap.

"But that's different! You've gotten first hand experience. Is he really like all the rumors?" She asks, a little too keenly. "Is he really as mean as they say? Because when he visited the house, he seemed too stiff for comfort."

You snort and are quick to cover your mouth to keep the bread from spilling from your lips.

"Mm, well, Mr. Ackerman is man of few words and very few expression, but he seems...genuine?" You don't mean for it to come out sounding like a question, but the more you speak, the more you're hit with the realization you know absolutely no idea who the man is.

All you're really left with is his hatred for attention, and your mutual need for peace. Everything else you try to think of comes up short.

Mr. Ackerman hasn't written a letter to you since his visit. It's not like he said he was going to, but a very small and naive part of you thought he would.

Sasha continues to rain down on you with more questions, but it isn't as persistent as you'd expect her to be. Its either her line of concentration snaps too quickly for you to formulate a response, or she's just too excited to hear more.

You answer what you can until you can no longer think. Eventually you're too tired to talk about you and the subject of the conversation shifts to Sasha.

"Hey, Sasha," You carefully speak between chews, minding the grape in your mouth. Sasha's eyes, still colored in hunger as she takes another loaf of bread, darts to look at you. "What about you, though?"

"Hmm?"

"You and..." You shift in your seat and lean in. "You and Nicolo - are you two really - Oh! My God, are you alright?"

Sasha nearly chokes on her bread. Clenching her fist, she beats her chest to help soothe the burn in her throat, coughing for air.

"Sasha!"

"I-I'm fine!" She finally says, swallowing thickly. "Sorry, yes, I'm fine."

"Do you need water?" Sasha shakes her head as she rests her hand on your shoulder to keep you still in case you choose to leave. You move even closer to rub her back to ease her, but once she does, a smirk plays across your lips and chuckle stumbles from your lips. "So, I guess it's true. You and Nicolo really are —"

"Shut up!" Sasha interjects, her head snapping up to look at you with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. "Please! I've had enough of mamma pestering me about this— ever since Pieck decided to tattle on me! If you're going to being just as annoying as her than—"

"I won't be!" You argue, your tone playful and lilting. "I'm only asking, and you're taking forever to say anything!"

"Well, fine! Alright." Sasha sharply huffs in defeat as she tosses her bread onto the tray and sets it back onto the couch. "Yes, okay, I suppose I might have feelings for Nicolo, but I don't know. I can't tell."

"You can't tell...?"

Sasha lets out another breath as she slumps against the wall. Her head tilts up to look at the cracked ceiling before looking back down to you, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she picks the right words to convey how she feels. She nervously twiddles her thumbs while doing so.

"How do you even know when you like someone?"

You blink at Sasha, taken aback by her question while she looks at you eagerly.

You realize, after a few breaths, you don't have a definite answer because unlike Pieck, you've never really experienced the feeling yourself. You always lived vicariously through fictional characters you read in novels, and Mrs. Bloom's sweet story of how she met her husband.

But other than that, you come up short—you can't tell at all.

"I think I'm the wrong one to ask." You confess, causing Sasha to look at you quizzically as confusion stirs in her mind. "I haven't really found the answer myself, I'm sorry."

Sasha sighs dejectedly.

"It's best to ask Pieck, isn't it?"

"As me what?" Pieck's voice, delicate and laced in curiosity, has your heads turn to the bedroom door.

It seems you were both too deep into your conversation to hear her knocking.

Pieck stands by the door, her olive green dress flows in the gentle window coming from the opened window, her hair into the usual messy, low ponytail that falls down her shoulders; her eyes heavy-laden with sleepiness.

Your eyes trail down to her hand, finding a pile of letters tightly held in it.

"Pieck, what's that?" You ask, dismissing her question with a question.

"Now hold on," Pieck hides the letters behind her back, pressing herself against the door to create even more distance—as if the wide expanse of the room wasn't enough. "What's the question?"

Sasha rolls her eyes. "It's silly."

"Well, if it's from you, I'm sure it is."

Sasha grumbles at Pieck's sarcastic retort, and you watch as your two sisters begin to bicker.

"If you're going to be an ass, I won't tell you." Sasha crosses her arms and twists her body away from Pieck and towards the window, her eyes falling to the clucking hens.

Peick nimbly trots across the floor and over to Sasha's side, crashing into her and quickly wrapping her arms around her shoulders, nosing through Sasha's hair bunched up in a high pony as she rests her chin onto her shoulder.

"Go away!" Sasha growls, her face contorts a sour expression as her attempts to shove Pieck off fails.

"Oh, c'moooon," Pieck coos, peppering kisses over her little sister's cheek, "won't you tell me? I hate being left out, especially when it's the two of you."

Sasha grunts as she tries to pry away from Pieck, but only to be caught in sloppy kisses on the cheek and the temple of her forehead. Though Sasha visibly shows disgust, even you can see that she loves being showered in affection from Pieck.

Pieck, being the eldest and holding the most responsibility, had always held you both with great love and adoration.

"Alright!" Sasha yells in surrender, tangled in the arms of her sister and somehow in a headlock as Pieck sits behind her. "I'll tell you, I'll tell you! Let me go and give me room, please."

Sasha elbows Pieck away from her, giving her enough space to breathe, and you snatch the tray off the couch and onto your lap to keep it from falling.

And as Sasha begins to explain her little dilemma, Pieck comfortably sits herself behind her, propping her chin back onto her shoulder and winding her arm around her waist as she listens intently. Pieck's gentleness doesn't go unnoticed by Sasha, and you watch as she sinks in the hug.

Pieck clicks her tongue, her eyes look at you as she falls into a thought, not deep enough to overthink and get carried away as she finds the answer.

"Hmmm, love and likeness can be complicated, but only if you let it be." You tilt your head at Pieck as she continues on her train of thought. "But you can tell if you like someone if you enjoy being with them and find their company pleasant. Do you find Nicolo's company pleasant?"

Sasha mindlessly hums in thought as her head lulls back on Pieck's shoulder.

"I do, actually." Sasha admits without hesitation. "I think..." She takes a beat to suck her teeth as she continues to think about it a little more, "I like the food he makes and that he, well, never seems to be bothered by me..."

"He's always so kind—like his eyes. His smile's nice, too, I suppose. Whenever he speaks, whether it's about food or well, other things, I can't help but listen."

There it is, the shimmer of affection in her light brown eyes and the oh-so-subtle smile across her lips. You almost miss it, but the world stills around you as you're caught in her bubble.

Pieck gives you a knowing look, smiling playfully.

Without saying a word or even slipping a sound, you and Pieck come to the agreement that Sasha'll have to come to her own realization that he loves him. The question is when she'll arrive at it.

Sasha brushes it off, not wanting to muddle herself any longer. She plucks the letters from Pieck's grasp and eagerly swifts through the pile while humming thoughtfully, completely ignoring Pieck's groan of disdain.

It's the usual; a couple of people from your father's family, inquiring when you're to sell the estate, one from your distant aunt from your mother's side that never bothers to actually visit, but diligently sends letters whether it be rain or shine, and one for —

"You've got a letter!" Sasha chirps, snapping her head up to look at you before shoving it into your hands. "It's from Mr. Ackerman! He's finally written to you!"

You throw your legs over the edge of the couch, sitting upright and fixing your hair as if Mr. Ackerman's just right there, watching you as you open his letter with shaky breaths and nimble fingers.

You quickly but carefully open his letter, scanning through his words and your eyes bulge out of it's sockets.

"What's it say?" Pieck inquires, excitement dripping from her lips as she scooches closer to try and peak at the letter. "Will he be visiting again?"

You shake your head.

"Well, don't be shy!" Sasha whines, "What is it?"

You open and close your mouth, blinking frantically as your shock still rides through your body. "Mr. Ackerman would like me to visit him at his estate next Tuesday."

When your mother heard news of your presence being requested by Mr. Ackerman, she took it upon herself to teach everything you needed to know about being "prim and proper". She stole your remaining days of peace and prepped you as best as she could.

When it came time for you to leave, she was adamant that you opt to take horseback instead of taking the carriage. All, especially your brother Reiner, were completely against it when they noticed the storm clouds reeling in. But your mother was deeply rooted in her stance, firm like a tree that not even the wind of your brother's disdain could change her mind.

So there you stand, having been caught in the rain, dripping from head to toe as the Smith estate towers over you, as if it's ready to swallow you whole in one go. You have to crane your neck back in a particularly painful angle to get a good look of the entire building, and you’re sure you’re only seeing the very tip of the iceberg.

Your mother warned you it would be much larger than you were used to - you just never imagined it to look like something out of a book.

Shivering and tightly wrapping your coat over you to trap any warmth you might have left with one hand, you swiftly knock on the door with the other. A shuddering breath escapes you when the door creaks open, revealing a servant to greet you in.

“Ah, Miss,” The servant’s eyes widen in fright, flinching back.  His gulp is audible even with the thundering behind you. He scans you from head to toe, and he doesn’t bother to mask his sneering at your drenched frame and all the mud collected at the hem of your skirt. “You must be Miss Blouse, yes?” You greeted him with a sneeze, and briefly apologized. “Come quickly before you catch a cold.”

But your second and most aggressive sneeze yet tells him you might already have one.

“He’s been expecting you,” Is all the servant says before guiding you down that hall.

You rub your eyes, wiping your hairs sticking to your face as you take in the sight before you. The air in the estate is chilly and deadly quiet - enough to hear the sound of your clothes dripping with water and to catch the servant clicking his tongue at you.

You hold your breath; you didn’t think the estate could get any bigger, but it does. The hallway is vast and seemingly endless; portraits of many different men and women - all who you assume were probably family members of Mr. Smith because of the signature blonde hair and blue eyes - canvas over the great walls.

Giddiness tickles down from your chest and into your stomach as you trail behind the servant, your arms swaying to the side with a little skip in your step. You try your best to catch a peak at every room and hall you pass by, but everything moves in blur.

You can’t tell if you’re tired from your travels or if it's the pace you’re walking in. You take deep breaths, trying to pull yourself together as the servant ushers you into the drawing room.

“Mr. Ackerman will be here shortly,” is all he leaves you with, not bothering to spare another breath.

You’re surrounded by more paintings and books, but a particular painting catches your eye. It’s a portrait of a woman relaxed on a chair; she looks nothing like the ones outside.  She has soft features and kind eyes, her lips supple and plump with an endearing smile. Her dark hair flows down to her shoulders, framing her face.

You squint your eyes, inching towards it with your hands clasped behind your back to avoid reaching out to touch it. The longer you stare, you find a weird sense of familiarity in her. But you just can’t -

“You’re wet.” You snap your head towards the gravelly voice to find Levi standing by the door with his brows pulled down in horror. “You’ve tracked in so much rain water, I thought a dog had stalked in.”

“Oh, I’m quite fine - achoo! Thank you for asking - achoo!” Your feeble attempt to shoot down his sarcastic remark is embarrassingly interrupted by your persistent sneezing. You wipe your nose with the back of your glove, earning a look of disgust from Mr. Ackerman. “Excuse me, I got caught in the rain.”

“I couldn’t tell,” He clips with a tight lip. “You could catch a cold -”

“Achoo!”

“It seems you already have…” Mr. Ackerman groans, and you find yourself picking at your fingers in embarrassment, your head lowered to the floor. “Follow me, I’ll give you something to change out of.”

Mr. Ackerman wastes a single breath, nor does he allow you to. But instead, with the utmost jaded expression on his face, he turns on his heels and leaves the room, expecting you to follow. You have to admit, with a fuzzy feeling buzzing in your head and the sudden sensitivity to the ache in your bones, it takes you a moment to pick up what he says and follow suit.

Has it always been this chilly?

A tremble in your damp coat, exhaling tremulously as you trot down the hall behind Mr. Ackerman. Your struggle for warmth doesn’t fall on dear ears, but it does motivate him to pick up the pace, up the winding steps and into another hallway.

Your shoes continue to click against the marble, passing by paintings and statues; for a moment you mistaken yourself to be wandering around a museum and not someone else’s home. But your head is spinning and you can’t appreciate the art even if you wanted you - you can’t even glance at a painting without wanting to vomit.

Mr. Ackerman comes to a jagged halt, causing you to nearly stumble against him. He glares at you over his shoulder.

“Sorry,” You mutter before stumbling a few steps back to give him space.

“Wait in there,” He instructs dryly, “and I’ll get someone to help you in a bit.”

“Oh, I - I don’t understand -”

“You have a cold,” He points out, “and I don’t think you’ll appreciate it if it were me helping you change out of your clothes.”

Your cheeks flush and your heart paces quickly in your chest; embarrassment overwhelms you and you wish the ground would swallow you up. He’s too direct and it makes your knees a little wobbly along with the rest of your body - you’ve turned into jello.

“Just wait in there and there’ll be a maid to bring you clothes. I’ll meet you again once you’re done.”

“Oh, uh, thank you.” You whisper, your eyes finally snap from the floor and meet Mr. Ackerman’s same old arid visage, but there’s a tenuous, unfamiliar gleam in his eyes you can’t seem to read.

He sternly nods, but just before trodding off you call after him, “Mr. Ackerman?” Your voice hushed and trembly.

“Yes, Miss Blouse?” He watches you expectantly, his head faintly tilting to the side. “Is there something else?”

Ironically, despite Mr. Ackerman coldness and indifference, you can feel that he cares - his warmth. And you can’t help but feel dangerously eager, a little selfish even, for wanting more. You can’t help but want to push further, but you’re reminded of the rumors and prefer not to push your luck.

“Thank you,” You say with a smile, a genuine one that catches him off guard, but not that you can tell with your glossy eyes.  “Thank you fo - achoo! I appreciate your kindness, Mr. Ackerman.”

There’s a very, very subtle blush that spreads across his cheeks that reaches the tips of his ears, and maybe if it wasn’t for the odd lightly in the hallway, you would’ve caught it. But once again, Mr. Ackerman thanks his lucky stars and gulps, “Don’t mind it too much,” and spins on his heels before striding down the hallway.

You watch till his footsteps fade and his slender frame disappears as he turns the corner before finally looking at the door beside you. You stare at the door knob, your hand fidgeting over it before finally taking it in your hand and opening the door.

You gasp in awe, your eyes going round - the room can eat your house in a single bite. Even the bed that sits at the center, headboard pushed up against the wall, is bigger than the one your share with Pieck. Maybe bigger than the bed your mother and father shared.

You step inside, pushing the door shut behind you before twirling and taking in all the green and gold in the room. You’ve never seen so much gold - you’ve never seen gold in general, but here you are completely surrounded by it.

The strident knocking on the door causes you to still, staggering over your feet to find a familiar face greeting you with a cheerful smile, balancing a folded pile of clothes in their hand.

“Hange!” You squeak in shock, nearly losing your balance.

“Miss Blouse,” They playfully salute to you before entering in completely. “I saw you come in earlier and Levi said you’d be in here, so I thought to help. Though he did oppose, I'm not one to follow orders anyway.”

They cleverly wink at you, stretching their arm out to hand you the clothes and you meekly take it.

“How are you feeling?” They ask, taking a seat on the bed, “You can change over there, behind the partition,” They point to the other side of the room where it stands beside the window, and you quickly shuffling behind it.

You finally peel off your clothes, finally being freed by way your damp clothes and the way it clung to your body. You sigh heavily, tremulously.

“So, how are you feeling?” Hange’s voice echoes in the room from where they sit. They lean back on the heel of their palms, lulling their head bad carelessly as they wait for your response. “Levi said you might have a cold, and luckily for you, I’m a doctor.”

You hum in response, your focus directed on changing your clothes as quickly as possible.

“I’m, uh, I think I’m okay,” There’s a tingling in your skin and an unbearable ache in your bones. Your whole body feels sensitive; you’re not sure if you feel chilly or too warm. But you don’t want to be a burden, especially since you’re already borrowing someone else's clothes.

Whose are these anyway? You can’t imagine these are Hange’s, it’s way too small.

“He said you were sneezing!” They say, their voice slightly raising. “That you were sneezing a lot.”

“Probably just allergies!” You try and laugh it off, hoping Hange doesn’t press any further. But much to your displeasure, Hange isn’t one to simply let things go.

But the moment you step out from the partition, tying your hair up to keep from staining the dress, Hange strides over to you, placing her wrist onto your forehead and hums.

“You’re sick.”

“I’m fine.” You press.

“You’re a liar.”

“I'm not!” The whine that escapes your dried lips, takes enough energy from you to have your vision grow spotty and have your knees give in. Hange loops their arm around your waist and you slump onto their chest for support. “Right, maybe I am a liar,” You admit breathily, your eyes fluttering shut. “I’m really sorry, this is extremely impolite and my mother would kill me if she found me like this.”

“Never mind what your mother says,” They sigh before helping you over to the bed, “nothing good will come of thinking about what your mother says,”

You laugh softly, finding irony in their words.

The cushions are warm and comforting, pulling you into ease as you’re swayed by your need for rest. You try to combat it by blinking away, but drowsiness overtakes you like an unrelenting storm and you fall perilous to it the second your head sinks into the pillows.

You're greeted by a sharp, persistent ache in your head and a stubborn throb in your bones. You moan in discomfort and writhe beneath the cotton bed sheets.

You feel something cold dripping down your head, but before you can reach to check, you feel a wet cloth being placed on your forehead. You crack your eyes open and draw a bitter breath to find Mr. Ackerman towering over you. His brows pulled into a deep line of focus and his eyes colored in determination as if its taking all his verve to adjust the way the towel sits on your head.

He looks down at you and his expression softens.

It softens?

"You're awake," Mr. Ackerman notes. Maybe its the sickness, and that you're probably imagining it, but does Mr. Ackerman's tone sound a lot gentler? Its almost as if he's concerned for your well-being — almost as if he's worried and relieved you're finally awake. But his face remains unreadable, devoid of emotion. "You've been asleep for quite some time, but your temperature seemed persistent. Hange said as long as the rag is frequently changed then you should be better. How are you feeling?"

Does that mean he's been changing the rag? He said it should 'changed frequently' —

You arch your back when the ache in your bones come back stronger than ever. You whine in pain and drown back into the mattress.

"I don't feel too well," You croak, swallowing dryly.

"Do you need water?"

You can only nod.

Mr. Ackerman swiftly reaches for the glass of water that sits on the bedside table. You try and sit up , your bones feel like chalk as it grates against each other. You try to take it from him, but he raises his free hand to stop you. “Let me,” is all he says to you before bringing it up to your lips.

Baffled, you still drink it.

Your thoughts are still too foggy to draft a single thought. But all you is know your heart’s drumming in your chest and your breath is hitched in your throat for an entirely different reason that’s far from your cold.

You sigh in relief after a few gulps, muttering a ‘thank you’.

“Mr. Ackerman, you said that I’ve been asleep for quite some time,” You recount, looking at him puzzled, “How long have I been asleep?”

“Two days.” He replies flatly, as if he's not bothered by it at all.

“Excuse me?”

Mr. Ackerman hums as he falls back into his chair grabbing the book beside him before opening it up to the page he left off.

“You needn’t worry,” He eases without looking up to meet your eyes, as unbothered by the worry screaming in your eyes. “I’ve already written a letter to your mother the moment you fell asleep and informed her of your current state.”

“And what did she say of it?”

“She deeply apologizes for overstaying your welcome, but is pleased to know you’re in good hands.” Mr. Ackerman turns to the next page before he crosses his legs. His eyes flicker up to look at you to find irritation seeping out of your through eyes narrowed at an empty space on the floor, chewing on the inside of your cheek “I assured her that **you are in good hands, Miss Blouse.”

“I’m sorry,” You apologize again for the umpteenth time as you stressfully run your fingers through your hair. “My mother must’ve planned this in hopes that I may grow closer to you.”

Mr. Ackerman cocks his brow at you, “Are you blaming your mother for your cold? Shouldn’t you be blaming the weather, or that you rode on horseback on a rainy day?”

"I cannot blame my mother for my cold or the weather, but I can blame her for scheming along with it." You sigh, leaning your head back onto the pillow, "My mother is an opportunist, so she must've seen the rain clouds as her 'moment to grasp'. She was adamant that I take horseback and not that carriage. My mother is many things, but most importantly, she's a scheming woman."

Much to your surprise, Mr. Ackerman smirks at your words. He smirks.

He licks his thumb before turning the page of his book, his eyes ghosting over the words without much intention to actually read.

"What are you doing?" You ask, twisting to face him, your hand tucking beneath the side of your face.

"I'm reading." He isn't.

"Here?"

"Would you rather I not keep you company?" His grey eyes blink away from the page and up at you. "Isn't this the whole point of your visit, to get o know each other?"

"W—Well, yes, but I didn't think you'd take our proposition quite literally." You voice falls soft at the end of your sentence and you feel yourself shrink in embarrassment.

"How else are we to make them believe we've formed an attachment?"

"Oh, well—"

"Is my company a bother?"

You shake your head. "Is mine?"

Mr. Ackerman chuckles and if it weren't for the whirling of your brain, you would've caught it. "Merely tolerable, really. You best get some rest, Miss. Blouse."

When you awaken again, it’s a little later in the afternoon and the sun is harshly bleeding through the glass window and casting over your face.

The first thing you notice is not the freshly changed rag resting over your forehead, but the empty chair that Mr. Ackerman sat himself earlier. You pout and you feel a little disappointed.

Disappointed?

What?

You prop yourself up on your elbows, drawing a sigh of relief. The smell of fresh sheets permeate your lungs and your tilt your head back before tilting it back up again.

Through your hooded gaze, your eyes scan through the room. You finally appreciate just how beautifully decorated it is. Shades of complimentary greens canvas the room and soft golds accent the room here and there. It’s ingrained in the walls and on the doors, and coloring the the bed posts, too.

With nimble fingers, you peel the covers off and a wave of cool air washes over your body.The floor is just as cold when your feet meet the carpet. You shuffle around the room, nosing through things but never really touching anything. You're too scared you might accidentally break something.

But the thirst of your curiosity has yet to be quenched, so you find yourself straying out the room, trotting down the hall and twirling around the space gleefully.

The estate is something written in the books. If it wasn't for the dreary, unsettling air hanging over you as thick as fog, the feeling would be magical.

Too busy to play make believe in your head, you find yourself too far off the path. Everything looks the same, and you eyes widen in panic.

Think, think, think, you chant inwardly, twisting your head around for something familiar.

Panic rises from your chest and lodges into your throat, and the last thing you need is to fall onto Mr. Ackerman's bad side.

But before your knees can shake in such unnerving trepidation, faint whispers echoing down the hall and towards you pull you from your thoughts. The voice are so faint and low, you nearly mistaken it to be elves.

You listen intently and follow the source, passing through a few more paintings and doors to lead you to a fragment of light bouncing off the wall and onto a door left ajar. You come to an immediate standstill when you recognize the voice — it's Mr. Ackerman.

Every inch of you tells you to turn around and walk away, but you aren't your mother's daughter for nothing. So the greater part of you belonging to her tugs you close, stealing a peak through the little gap as you hold your breath.

"When did you hear of this?" Mr. Ackerman's voice is gravelly, laced in annoyance. You hear him sharply huff followed by the sound of a hand slamming against the table, causing you to jolt in place. "How long have you known?"

"Not long," The unfamiliar, gruff voice says, and Levi grumbles. "Be thankful I'm telling you now and not waiting any longer. How could I with all your dallying? Since when have you taken any interest in marriage?"

"I haven't." He clips, tone dry. "The point is —"

"The point is, he's back and the last thing you need to do is wasting your time in courting a woman. Honestly, Levi, since when have you been so reckless?"

"Erwin," Mr. Ackerman grits, "my personal affairs have nothing to do with you. Who I choose to spend my time with has nothing to do with you."

"It has everything to do with me!" Mr. Smith seethes, yelling in a whispers. "If you cannot do your job, then how can I trust you? Do you not remember the reason why we're here?"

"I'm not an idiot."

"It seems that you are," Your eyes widen at Mr. Smith's counter, "she's slept here for two days, and you for two days, you've watched over her instead of doing what I've instructed you to do."

"She was sick." Mr. Ackerman argues flatly.

"Hange is a doctor for a reason."

"And I don't trust them for a reason."

You can only assume it's Mr. Smith who sighs dejectedly and clicking his tongue agitation. It only further piques your interest, and you wish it doesn't. But you can't help it, hearing that Mr. Ackerman stayed by your side while you rested made your cheeks burn and you can't help but grin to yourself, completely overjoyed.

You mentally kick yourself for being so much like your mother.

"You cannot hold that burden with you forever." Mr. Smith sighs.

"Whatever," Is the weak counter Mr. Ackerman spits back. "I'll take care of it tonight — the one of Governor Pixy's."

"Be sure to make yourself like an artificial night when you do." Mr. Smith commands, his voice smooth and stern. "You mustn't be caught."

"When have I ever been?"

You quickly leave, sprinting down the hall the moment you hear a chair grating against the floor.

Your heart drums in your chest and you breath tremulously. You heard something you shouldn't have even if it was only in incoherent pieces. Truly, it could be anything, but with the rumors circulating around him, it shouldn't be so surprising.

So why is it?

You find yourself in a more familiar part of the estate and you breathe out in relief.

You’re about to head back into your room when you stumble past a room, catching a glance of a grand piano standing tall from the corner of your eye. You retract your steps and turn your head to get a better look, your lips falling into an 'o' when you do.

She's beautiful, you think.

It’s an alluring, glossy ebony piano — one Sasha finds herself drooling over to play on whenever she sees one. She'll hate you so much when you tell her about it.

Against your better judgement, with all the bells warily ringing for you not to, you walk over to the piano, your hand shadowing over the wood. You take a seat before the keyboard just to take a good look at her. You have no intention to play her, really. Even if you wanted to, you couldn't for the life of you.

Your eyes flicker to the fall board of the piano and find a name engraved in gold.

"Petra," you whisper. "It's very nice to meet you. You're very beautiful, aren't you?"

"What the hell are you doing?" You shoot up from the chair and snap your head up to find Mr. Ackerman fuming at you. His eyes dark with rage and his jaw screwed shut, gritting at you. "I asked you a question."

"I— I didn't touch anything." You peep. You feel incredibly small underneath his scrutinizing gaze. You wish the ground would swallow you up right then and there. "I, I really didn't—"

"Get the fuck away from her." Mr. Ackerman speaks lowly, his voice quietly trembling, but you can't hear it. 

Even if you hadn’t done anything wrong, you feel as if you’ve been caught red handed. Fear buzzes in your head and fogs up any line of thought. 

"I'm sorry?"

"GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE PIANO!" He bellows, his eyes as fiery as his anger, causing you to stumble back and nearly trip up on your feet. "Who the fuck do you think you are, wandering into places you have no business? Is this what you shitty farm people are like? You get a chance to walk into a place thrice the size of your home and they think they could just parade around?!"

"I—I didn't mean to —"

"You and your family are fucking disgusting."

There are many things you're willing to put up with. You don't mind if someone were to come after you and call you out, but coming after your family is completely different. So your kindness and the very last bit of your patience snaps like a twig.

"I would imagine you're the disgusting one." Your voice is still small, but you’re building up to your confidence, peeling your eyes away from the patterned carpet to stare daggers right back at Mr. Ackerman who stills completely.

"Excuse me?"

"I'll admit I've overstepped and I deeply apologize for that," You begin, your voice no longer wavering in fear, "but how dare you? My family’s been nothing but kind to you."

"I think you've mistaken that I fucking care."

"I've heard many things about you, too many, for that matter. Yet I never labelled as anything as derogatory as what you've called me." You draw out a sharp breath, closing your eyes for a moment to steady you heart before continuing, "I think its disgusting, I think,  that such a man as yourself, who've I've heard has been through hell and back, would think so lowly of people that's no different than him."

You never dared to listen to the rumors or any of the gossip. Even when your mother would try to entertain any of it, you’d stop listening or leave the room if you could. But if Mr. Ackerman was willing to aim for such a low blow, you couldn't think of a reason why you shouldn't do the same.

"I think you’re 'fucking disgusting' for forgetting where you came from."

Mr. Ackerman clenches his jaw and balls his fits tight til his knuckles paint white. He's ready to fire bullets into your self-esteem, but before Mr. Ackerman can even utter a syllable, a servant appears behind him, clearing his throat to cut of the momentum.

"Apologies for the intrusion," The servant says, his tone monotonous and dry, "but it Miss Blouse's brother is here to collect her."

You widen your eyes at the servant, and your expression softens. 

“Reiner’s here?” You voice is small again. 

“Yes, Miss.”

"Perfect." Mr. Ackerman huffs, his whole body still tense. "Get the fuck out."

You snap your gaze back to Mr. Ackerman, sneering, "Gladly."

tag list. @castellandiangelo @astronomyturtle @regalillegal @oshuncheyenne @drapetomaniaac @whalerus @hinaamaya @ggsmashgg @kyosugi92 @daikushiji @acker-baby @lundabean @moonxochu @melodiamore @unlikelyfestivalshepherdhuman @osmosly @halparkebitch @leashaoki @bonkybabe @myeg1993 @chikenbitches @subtlepjiminie @mangobee

[enigma-im]

Third Day of Christmas...

Trope: Enemies to Lovers (NSFW) Relationship: Minotaur x Human Word Count: 4,025

It all started with a note on the door.

Imani didn't expect to find a letter taped to her door that morning, or any morning for that matter. For a good couple of seconds she feared it was from her landlord, an eviction notice of some kind. That went right out the window as she read the chicken scratched handwriting.

Dear apartment 23 resident,

I'd appreciate it if you would keep the noises to a minimum after 10 pm. The singing has kept me up well past midnight. The stomping at all hours has been less than appreciated. Also, I hate to point out that your dog hasn't been a saint either, barking every morning at 7 am. So if you would please, muzzle the dog and stop the late-night parties.

                                 Signed, apartment 15 resident.

Imani is confused for a moment, walking back into her apartment while rereading the letter. All of it is not true, starting with the singing. She does not sing, especially that late in the day. The neighbor on the other hand has a daughter who doesn't understand her own volume, blaring out BTS songs at odd hours. The stomping is a ridiculous accusation, almost typical in these situations. The only time she can admit that her walking would be loud is when she first gets home and hasn't gotten to removing her shoes. Besides then, she is as quiet as a church mouse. An hour after she gets home she spends most of her time lounging in the living room. so how can she be making noises if she isn't moving?

The woman drops the note onto her kitchen table, put off by the audacity. She looks over to her little dog, shaking her head as she thinks back on the next line. Her dog doesn't bark! He is as silent as can be, never even growling. The most this 'resident' can accuse her pooch over is his nails scratching at the floor. Even then that shouldn't even register through the floors.

With the morning turned sour, Imani quickly organizes her things and heads out for work. The whole day is spent thinking hard on her letter, thinking about what needs to be done. Should she ignore it? Pretend she never got it and go on with her life? That would be the easy approach, even kinder one, but she ain't that kind of bitch.

When she got home late that day she storms into the kitchen, making sure to stop with her shoes still on, and grabs a notebook. She jots down a little message for 'resident 15' with as much passive aggression as she can put into words.

Dear resident 15,

The bold claims you have taped to my door have been read. I'd like to take the time to inform you of your misguided claims. I, for one, am not the local American Idol star. That award goes to Tiny Tina in apartment 22. I don't know why you have such an issue with her music, BTS songs are a bop.

Next on the list is my 'stomping'. Excuse me for correcting you again, but I do not 'stomp' around my apartment. The minute I get home from work I am sitting on my ass watching television till it's time for bed. So I ask you, how can I be stomping around if my feet do not move off the couch?

Finally, my dog. My dog is a saint, for your information, he is the quietest animal I have ever owned. I haven't heard so much as a peep from him since he was a puppy. Maybe check around for other noisy pooches because mine isn't the problem.

With this all said, I hope you find a solution to your problem because bugging me was not it.

                                       Sincerely, resident 23

Signed, sealed, and ready to be delivered. The next morning on the way to work she tapes the little note to the numbers on unit 15. smug, she walks out of there with her head held high.

Feeling proud of herself even further into the day she isn't ready for the speedy reply taped to her door, along with a missing doormat. With a huff, she snatches the note and heads inside. She unfolds the sheet, reading:

Dear 23,

I am not mistaken, and I'm taking your welcome mat until you know how to be a proper upstairs neighbor.

                                         -15

She gawks at the letter, put off by the blatant admission of theft. Are they a child, taking away things as a punishment? This is completely idiotic! She should march downstairs and confront the fool who thinks this is a proper course of action. Well, she would if she didn't also want to get back at them.

Throwing the paper onto the coffee table she flops down on the couch to think. What is the best way to get back at them?

A floor below rests Church the Minotaur. He is getting ready to go on a run, sliding on his sneakers as he opens the door. Glance to the side he catches sight of a gaudy plethora of stickers and glitter, his door dressed to the 9s with rainbows. He is taken aback, looking at the decorations with ire. Above it all sits a folded up piece of paper taped to the door. He quickly snatches it, reading it.

15,

Return the doormat and I'll clean your door.

                                    -23

Church chuffs, grinding his teeth as he looks to the door again. He didn't think he was being unfair when he first gave them a letter. It was a polite way to ask them to shut up. He just wanted some sleep, was that too much to ask? He looks to the door again, apparently, it was.

Imani opens the door fully expecting the letter. With a bit of a pep in her step, she grabs it, reading it as she walks to her car. She snorts, crumpling the paper and tossing it in the trash.

23,

This means war

                           -15

The next few weeks are filled with pranks of varying variety. The two start small, Imani stomping around upstairs with her heaviest pairs of boots, Church banging his hand against the ceiling during the quiet hours of the night. Next with more glitter courtesy of Church, a well-timed package that exploded in Imani's kitchen. He swears he could hear her surprised scream from below. Imani gets him back with a similar package, one with a jump scare card.

It's a back forth of one-upping the other. Church orders Imani eight pizzas, forcing her to reluctantly pay for it when seeing the nervous kid trying to deal with the mix-up. Imani manages to hook her phone to his Bluetooth speakers, playing random screams at all hours of the night. Church gets her back by attaching an alarm to her door so when walked out that morning she was startled by a firetruck worthy honk.

It seems it’s the last straw for Church when he receives his own glitter bomb of confetti cocks. It gets caught on the carpet, sneaking into the couch cushions, and sticking to his clothes. Quickly dusting himself off he charges upstairs, reaching her door and banging on it. He taps his foot frustrated and angry.

The door clicks open, Church already ready with his rant. Imani is equally prepared, excited with the chance to chew him a new one. When the two see each other they stumble on the words, looking one another over with confusion. Neither of them expected the other to be anything but some angry middle-aged person looking for a fight. They hardly assumed that the other would be so…attractive.

"I, uh," church shakes his head," You! A damn dick bomb? Do you understand how ingrained they are into my carpet? I sent you a cheap one, something you can easily clean up but you couldn't even consider that!"

"What," Imani comes back to her own," those craft herpes were not easy to clean, I'm sure it's still in the kitchen now and staining my clothes. So don't you dare come at me with 'woe is me' look like you had any consideration at all for my floors."

"Well excuse me, I didn't hack into your speakers to play Halloween screams all through the night. I damn near had a heart attack at 2 in the morning because of you," he points to her, debating on jabbing her in the chest. She slaps his hand away before he gets the chance, scoffing.

"At least I didn't make you spend money on eight pizzas! Do you know how much eight pizzas cost? It was like seventy bucks. I'm just glad you didn't splurge on something more than a single topping pizza. But fuck you for making them all pineapple you monster," she bites back.

The two ramble on long enough for the neighbors to peek their heads out. Embarrassed, they close out their argument with a huff and a door slam. Church heads off to his apartment, falling onto the couch while grumbling to himself. Imani growls and mumbles in her bed. They both can't help the thought that ruins all their anger:

God, they were hot.

The pranks don't stop in their frequency. The two continue, using their frustrations at their traitorous thoughts to fuel their revenge.

Imani still plays with his speakers, using screamo songs to annoy him in the afternoons. Church booby traps her door again with more glitter, his preferred weapon as of lately. She takes up tap dancing, he pays the kid next door to blare BTS near the shared wall of her apartment. She puts a fake ticket on his car, he puts vulgar stickers on her's. the childish game goes on and on.

Imani sits in her room one night, frustrated beyond belief with the sexy minotaur. She can't get his face out of her head. Why did he have to be cute? It's not like it makes the little game they have going harder to do. No, it just makes it seem more than it is. She has to constantly catch herself praising his wit in some of the stunts he pulls. Scolding herself nonstop for wanting to stop by his place and yell at him some, just to see him. It's stupid, wanting to actually get to know him.

Church relaxes in bed, feeling more bothered than Imani. He has hit a bit of a dry spell in his sexual life, or his solo sexual life. He can't jerk off without picturing the little hellspawn upstairs. It would be easy to give in and just think of her but it would be too much. She is an enemy, not a potential interest. So what if she is one of the sexiest humans he has ever seen? Who cares if her ability to keep up with him in this little war is kind of turning him on? It doesn't matter, right?

He sighs in defeat, "I don't think I can believe that even if I tried," he grunts as he clenches his shaft.

Imani is at home setting up her next plan when someone knocks on the door. She looks to the clock surprised at someone visiting this hour. Confused, and cautious, she gets out of bed and walks to the door. Looking through the peephole she rolls her eyes at who she sees.

Imani opens the door," if this is about the folk music I'll tell you now I'm not changing it back."

"No," he growls," this is about the tap shoes. Metal on wood makes for some very undesirable sounds."

"Well, excuse me for trying to take up a new hobby. What about you paying off the kid next door to play her music next to my wall? I swear that little demon doesn't sleep," Imani scolds.

"Speaking of little demons, can you for the love of god shut your dog up. Every morning I hear his damn barking and I'm seriously debating calling someone," he takes a step into her space, scowling at the dog behind her.

"He doesn't bark," she pokes at his chest," I have never heard him even make a yelp since he was a puppy so I suggest you come up with a better lie than that."

"A lie," he shouts," your fucking dog barks, stop thinking he is some sort of mute."

"He does not," she shouts back.

"Does too," he steps closer.

"Does not," she raises her chin.

"Does too," he grabs her hips.

"Does not," she tugs at his shirt.

"Does too," he says, lowering closer to her. Before she can get her turn he quiets her with a rather harsh kiss, mashing his lips to hers. They grapple one another, pulling the other closer as they stumble into her apartment.

Church kicks the door shut as he fumbles with her shirt. She helps, parting from him long enough to cast the clothing aside. He tugs her back in for a sloppy kiss, delving his tongue into her mouth as she unbuttons his top. Thrusting his shirt down his arms while they bump into the sofa. Church beings unclasping her bra, uncoordinated as she sucks on his tongue.

The two fall to the couch, church not wasting any time with her freshly revealed tits. Imani gasps, petting down his chest to his pants. As he suckles on a nipple as she pulls him from his pants, holding his cock in her hand. He stutters in his attentions, panting heavily against her chest as she jerks him off.

"Oh, fuck," he groans.

"Like that big boy," she steals his attention, him looking at her cocky smile.

"Shut up," he reaches down to her pants, palming her through her jeans. She bucks into his hand, rolling her eyes at his smirk. He quickly discards her bottoms, tossing them away without a care. He watches her as he pets at her pussy, delving between her lips to feel how soaked she is for him.

"Am I wrong to assume this is all for me," he pushes a finger in. she clenches her jaw, groaning from the intrusion. He chuckles, feeling rather confident as she rides his hand. Not caring for his large ego she reaches for his cock once more, feeling him throb in her grip.

"Am I wrong to assume this is all for me," she mimics back smugly. He throws her an annoyed look, removing his fingers and slapping her hand away. Dropping a hand beside her head he leans down, looking between them as he prods his cock to her pussy. They both flinch, eager above all else. They both watch as his head parts her lips, poking at her clit with short nudges.

"You think I can make you scream like those damn Halloween recordings," he jokes as he grinds into her.

"No, I don't think you have the stamina," she jabs back, trying to stop the urge to buck against him. Church leans down and nuzzles against her neck, pressing a sweet kiss under her jaw.

"I guess we will just have to see," he grins, feeling less confident than his words suggest. His cock is damn near ready to burst with just his tip being coated in her sweet juices.

Church reaches between them, pressing his cock to her entrance. He guides his tip in, stretching his arm up to rest it beside her head. The only warning he gives her is a sultry smile before he shoves forward, both crying out at the suddenness.

"Oh, shit," Church whimpers beside her ear. Imani grabs at his arms, feeling utterly stuffed. He pulls back, thrusting forward quickly. Imani appreciates him not wasting time just pistoning into her. The need has been building up all week, the denial adding a new level of appeal to this want.

He rams into her, listening to her try to hide her cries of pleasure. He feels her body tell him what he needs to know, feels her walls pulling him in with every buck of his hips. She wants him as badly as he wanted her. It's satisfying to church to know this. To know that she needs this as much as he does. Not wanting to miss a thing he sits up, grabbing her hips as he does.

"Look at you," he groans," trying to hold back those little moans and whimpers. Don't fight it, babe, I wanna hear you." Imani startles herself with a cry, arching her back as his words add kindle to the fire. She wants to pretend this isn't happening, that she isn't getting fucked by her apartment enemy. But damn, does it feel fantastic.

Church watches her writhe on the couch, his stomach clenching as he tries to fight off cumming at the sight. Her tits bounce with each clap of their hips and it's driving him wild. Reluctantly he shuts his eyes, thinking about anything else to prolong this blissful torture.

Imani wails and whimpers as her insides are set aflame. As her orgasm comes rushing to the forefront she locks her legs around his waist, grinding like a madwoman into his thrust. She cries out her pleasure, utterly wrecked as she falls apart.

Church chokes on his breath as she clenches around him. He can barely think as she holds him in a vice grip. His hips go wild as he finds himself coming to an end. It's only half a thought that he undoes her legs and pulls out, grinding against her as he cums on her stomach. Imani watches in rapture as he tosses his head back and moans, the sound going straight to her already throbbing clit. She watches him spray out over her and she can't look away for even a second.

Church falls onto his hands, panting as he holds himself over her. He can't believe it. He got to fuck the cute hellspawn that has been tormenting him all month. At this moment he couldn't even think about the countless hours of sleep missed because of her little pranks. Right now all he can think of is holding her close and taking a much-needed nap. As he attempts the action he looks to her stomach.

Imani is bone-deep satisfied. Her body is relaxed against the couch and she feels like she's on cloud nine. She hardly notices when Church climbs off her, his footsteps fading away. When she does notice, it stabs at her heart a little. She watches him button up his pants, reaching to the floor to grab his shirt. I guess he's leaving, she thinks.

Church grabs his shirt from the floor, bunching it up as he turns back to her. She looks surprised when he crouches beside her and mops up the mess on her stomach with his top. He wants to laugh at the shocked expression but bites his cheek against it. With her all clean he tosses the shirt away and crawls in beside her. The couch is rather small so he lifts her onto his chest, lounging on his back. He cradles her against his front, ready to take a well-deserved nap.

Imani is rather confused as she watches him fall asleep. She fully figured he would dip after everything, she surely didn't expect anything from this. They were still in a war. A truce was never called but she can't help but think this changes something.

Shrugging, she snuggles up to him, enjoying his soft fur against her cheek. This is a problem she will deal with in the morning.

Imani wakes up alone in her bed. She is nearly tempted to figure the night with Church was all a dream till she feels the subtle ache in her legs. Ride a bull, you should expect some soreness. She chuckles to herself as she dresses. Walking into the kitchen she prepares for a lazy day indoors while she figures out how to deal with Church and her's relationship. As she gets ready to feed her pup does she realize the lack of said pooch.

"uh, Giovani," she calls out. No answer. She calls out again, searching around her apartment frantically. Did he get out while the door was open last night? Surely she would have noticed if he managed to sneak past. She rounds the apartment again just in case before she runs to the door, throwing it open in a rush. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots something hanging on her peephole. She tenses at the sight, snatching it.

Imani I have your dog Church

Imani scoffs, crumpling the letter as she marches downstairs. She can't believe she let herself think that things would change between them. That this little prank war can be swapped out for an actual relationship, friendship or otherwise. Above all, she can't believe he stole her dog.

Rounding the corner and stopping at door 15 she pounds her fist against the wood. She continues pounding till the door opens, revealing a smirking Church.

"Hello, babe, what brings you here so early," he asks, leaning against the frame.

"You stole my fucking dog, I want him back," she snaps, no ounce of playfulness available. Church nearly stutters on his act, a little worried about her protectiveness over her dog.

"Now, I stole him for his own good," he explains," with his separation anxiety I figured it is best if he got used to my apartment since I'm going to take up training him."

Imani scoffs," Excuse me? My dog doesn't have separation anxiety nor does he need to be trained by some dog snatching idiot with horns."

Church deadpans," idiot with horns?"

"It's early, they can't all be gold," she rolls her eyes," doesn't matter, give me my dog back."

Church shakes his head, frustrated at her denial. Instead of answering her, he calls for the pup, leaning down to pet him when he comes trotting over. With the dog properly excited he takes a step into the hallway with Imani and shuts the door. Imani looks from him then back to the door.

"What are you doing," she asks.

"Just wait," he holds up a finger. They both stand silently, nothing happening. Imani opens her mouth to acknowledge the ridiculous of waiting in front of a door when her dog begins whining, yelping loudly from inside the apartment. Church looks over to her with a smug grin, "Told you he barks."

Imani flusters, gawking at the door and listening to her dog cry out. Church opens the door, the pup running out and jumping at Imani. Still embarrassed, she pets at her dog before picking him up and walking away. Church watches her turn the corner, not saying a word as she departs. He sighs.

It's a good day of nothing that picks at Church. Surely he didn’t push too far, he didn't really intend to keep her dog so it wasn't that mean. He just wanted to prove that her dog did bark, finishing the month-long war on a hopeful note. It wasn't meant as another attack against her. He really did intend to help by offering to train her dog.

Throughout the day he debates going up there and apologizing, to offer an olive branch of some kind so he can actually get to know her. Last night for Church was…amazing. It was something he wants to do again, to explore further. That may be a pipe dream now.

Late into the afternoon church gets a knock on his door. He jumps up, feeling rather stupid as he quickly answers the door. Expecting Imani he is left disappointed as no one is there. No one could have left that fast. He looks down the hall, left to right. Nothing. With a defeated sigh he begins to close the door. He stops when a fluttering piece of paper catches his eye. Excited, he snaps it off the door unfolding it swiftly.

Church,

Dinner at my place, 8 pm

                               -Imani

Church smiles to himself, refolding the paper and heading back inside to get ready.

[enbies-and-felonies]

Only Then I am Human / Only Then I am Clean

(AO3 link)

@jatp-rules-my-life, this is your fault (based on this post)

Summary: Alex listens to 'Take Me to Church' by Hozier and maybe it affects him in a way he wasn't prepared for, maybe it just let's him heal a little bit.

warnings for homophobia and religious themes

taglist, just ask to be added or removed (i know it's not my normal work but,, yeah): @barrel-of-cat-mituna @completekeefitztrash @tiergan-andrin-alenefar @lemontarto @hershis-kotlc @genesiscaveat @everything-else-and-mars @juline-dizznee @chaotic-basics @an-absolute-travesty @classyfunnyquotesmuffin7 @smolanxiouscatvoids @itstiger720 @introvertedscarecrow @sunset-telepath @an-idiot-in-a-trenchcoat @cowboypossume @anaccidentwaitingtohappen @sofia-not-sophie @fire-sapphics @dr-alan-grant @real-smooth @juline-dizznee

The first time Alex heard 'Take Me to Church' he was on the verge of dozing off, which was an interesting feeling as a ghost, like he was a boat tethered to a dock and he might drift away if he fell asleep for too long. The evening sun was casting lazy beams through the windows of Julie's garage, and he smiled as the warmth hit his face, causing his eyelids to droop lower. At least as a ghost, he could still enjoy some of the simpler things in life.

An old radio crackled on the little table nearby, playing songs Alex had never heard before. He enjoyed a few of them, but others he rolled his eyes at. Idly, he wondered if Reggie and Luke were having fun with Julie; She had taken them on a trip to see some sights, but Alex had opted to stay home, feeling listless, and decided to catch up on whatever new tunes had came out since he was alive.

He bopped his head slightly to 'Bad Liar' and hummed a bit to 'Counting Stars'. He had missed out on a lot of good songs. Yawning, he stretched and settled deeper into the couch, giving a contented sigh as the next song started playing, a strong piano coming in and setting the tone.

Alex liked the man's voice, and he raised an eyebrow at the lyrics.

"-She's the giggle at a funeral / Knows everybody's disapproval / I should've worshipped her sooner."

He sat up and cocked his head by a margin, feeling a tiny, guilty thrill at the way his lips quirked at the lyrics. There was a forbidden excitement that came from it's gentle blasphemy.

"Every Sunday's gettin' more bleak / A fresh poison each week."

His heart twinged. A choir, a pulpit, fire-and-brimstone preaching, he was just a kid-

"We were born sick / You heard them say it."

He sucked in a breath and his eyes flew open, throat tightening like a noose, trapping his breath like a fluttering bird in his lungs.

~~~

"This Sunday we will be touching upon the topic of a Biblical marriage!" The preacher's voice booms across the congregation, and fourteen year-old Alex's stomach sinks as he tries to slouch further down in the pew, as if he could just slip low enough that the words won't catch in his heart and weigh him down like so many stones. He briefly thinks about the millstone the preacher once mentioned. He tried to remember the context, but the only thing he comes up with is that it was for people who sinned. He gulped.

"Now, 'what exactly is Biblical marriage?' you might be asking yourself! Biblical marriage is a holy union between one man, and one woman-"

Pastor James' voice carries on, and Alex does his best to let the words pass through his ears without hearing them, the rocks weighing him down turning to boulders. His stomach turns.

"-now, the men gotta love their wives!! Just like Christ loves the church, and cares for her. Marriage is a wonderful blessing, the greatest blessing we could ever experience in fact! It is perhaps the second greatest gift God has given to humans, and as such we must respect it.

"There are many ways you can disrespect the holy marriage bed. Divorce of course is one of them. In fact, in Matthew chapter nineteen, verses one through eight-"

Alex tries to tune him out harder, knowing what's eventually coming and yet still hoping to avoid it. He counts the number of stained-glass windows -twelve without turning to either side, thirty-six if he rotates all the way- and taps his fingers on his leg to the cadence of Pastor James' words.

One, two, three, four. One and two, and three, and four-

He makes increasingly faster and more intricate beats, imagining drumsticks in his hands, base-drum pedal beneath his foot.

One and two-o-o, and four and, one and two and three-e, four-

His fingers are pattering rapidly, and he forces himself to swallow, trying to remember not to bounce his leg, trying not to distract his mom and dad, trying not to dwell on the words he can't avoid, trying not to scratch at his wrist, trying-

He can't breathe. He's trying to calm himself down but his fingers aren't a drumset and he can't play away the sin that coats his soul and he's just a kid but he can't breathe, he can't-

"And that leaves us with those who have disrespected the sacred act of marriage by letting themselves be lost in sexual perversion. I am, of course, referring to those disgusting individuals who have chosen to live the transsexual and homosexual lifestyles. People like these were born sick."

Alex's hands quit their anxious movement. He's completely still. He was born sick.

He was born sick.

~~~

"The only heaving I'll be sent to / Is when I'm alone with you."

And he started breathing again.

"I was born sick, but I love it / Command me to be well / A-a-a-amen amen amen"

Air was rushing back into his lungs and maybe it was the way reliving that memory gave him closure, but it felt like the song was purging the preacher's burning words from where they'd branded his heart with wounds he never thought would scar-over.

Alex felt his eyes close again, letting the lyrics and the lilt of the man's voice wash over him in a cleansing baptism. His fingers began pattering against his lap, joining in with the beat, weaving him together with the music, becoming one with it.

"We've a lot of starving faithful."

He thought of himself when he was younger, sitting in church week after week begging God to fix him. He thought about the girl who bowed her head at the foot of the altar the Sunday after a lesbian couple was attacked, he thought of the way her fingers linked together like someone else's hand used to hold them, and he thought of the way she cried: silent, tears streaming down like shooting stars, her lips whispering unspoken prayers.

This song was for him, he realized. It was for him, and every moment he cried himself to sleep under his parents roof, thinking he was dirty, thinking he didn't have God's love, didn't have God's forgiveness.

It was for every time a prayer caught in his throat like a trapped butterfly, the prayers he could never bring himself to say because he was 'unworthy'.

"I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife / Offer me that deathless death / Oh good God, let me give you my life"

The lyrics seeped under his skin, replacing the lies that he had believed over the years. The lies about himself, about his faith, about his gayness-

Washed away like a world-destroying flood.

Because this song? This song was for every cold-shoulder from his parents instead of a warm hug, and it was for every time he had to watch him mom recoil from his touch, every time his father didn't quite meet his eye.

"There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin."

The first tear slipped past his eyelashes, and he heaved a shuddering sigh.

"Only then I am human / Only then I am clean."

He cried, but there was a smile on his face.

~~~

When Julie and the boys got back, the radio was long silent, but Alex still sat on the couch, tear-tracks on his cheeks and a relieved smile on his face.

He had sat there a long time, reliving moments in his life, and then letting them go, letting them be washed away. He was quiet when he was surrounded by the rest of Sunset Curve, letting himself be held by them; Julie comfortingly running her fingers through his hair, Reggie linking their fingers together and side-hugging him, and Luke tugging him halfway onto his lap. They were his family, and they loved him.

"You okay, Lex?"

Alex took a deep, slow breath, letting himself take in each of their faces, and he gave a small smile.

"Yeah, I really am."

[chilling-seavey]

Seasons Change (d.s.) - ONE

↳  A/N This one already holds a special place in my heart and it has barely even begun! Might be a bit slower on updates because I want to make sure it’s perfect for us all. Thank you to @stuffofseaveyy for your unwavering help with plotting this storyline out, @randomlimelightxxx for your excitement and help, and of course, @jonahlovescoffee​ for being my hype girl and the best mayor’s wife anyone could ask for ;)

↳ Summary: Everyone knows everything about everyone in this small rural town in east Connecticut and the handsome single father who owns the farm down the main street seems to always be the talk of the town. Balancing the care of his acreage, raising his school-age son, and coaching the local boys’ hockey team keeps Daniel busy; but his mind never strays far from the expansive and vibrant flower gardens planted outside his farmhouse.

↳ Word Count: 2520

↳ Warnings: This story touches on topics such as loss of loved ones and grief. Nothing too detailed but read at your own discretion x

If you weren’t looking, you would miss it. An hour-and-a-half drive east of Hartford, Connecticut rested a small town that barely occupied more than an intersection of space in time. On your way east towards state lines, a rectangular green sign half covered by an oak tree would welcome you to Lincoln – Population: 200. You’d leave the town before you even realized you were in it if you weren’t paying attention but maybe that’s how the locals liked it.

People moved to Lincoln to get away from the bustle of the city…it was full of those people who had ‘let’s ditch this town’ mindsets and set down roots in a section of the world where they wouldn’t be bothered. It was the type of town that lived in the lyrics of a country song: picture perfect homegrown peace where everyone knew everyone and everyone had a place. It was easy to know everyone in a town like Lincoln. Driving in from the city you would pass a white paneled church, a few small single storey houses with lengthy driveways, the red trimmed general store, a brick sided restaurant, a run down and rusted mechanic’s shop, and catch a glimpse of the small community center just past the park before being enveloped by the nothingness that middle-of-nowhere Connecticut was known for.

Not much happened in Lincoln – at least nothing that was worth noting. Sometimes a car would break down and a city dweller in a designer suit would find his way to the general store to ask for assistance or, more often, a coyote would be rumoured to be roaming at night but that was the extent of the excitement. The most exciting thing to do outside of day to day work was play hockey and it seemed to be the town’s pride and joy of a pastime. There was no such thing as ‘hockey season’ as hockey season was year round in the small town of Lincoln, Connecticut. The community center housed an ice rink that could be melted down to a basketball court but everyone stayed for the hockey. The Lincoln Lighting Junior and Senior leagues were usually the talk of the town. The school-aged boys (ages 7-13) played for the juniors and the later teens and most of the fathers played for the senior league. The captain of the senior league was the coach of the juniors and he owned one of the few farms a few paces north of the main intersection.

A father of one and the best hockey player Lincoln had ever seen, Daniel Seavey was more than one could expect from a small town man.

He wasn’t your everyday potato farmer with uneven tan lines or a body that housed more beer than muscle and, in fact, he was the talk and the eye candy of the town. At only twenty-nine, Daniel was the best of the best in Lincoln: best hockey player, best coach, best farmer, best guitarist, best father; and he had the sandy brown hair and sky blue eyes of a heartbreaker to top it all. At six feet tall, Daniel was slim and handsome, and yet had the muscles capable of running a farm and shooting slapshots like you wouldn’t believe. Daniel was quiet and polite and he innocently humoured the wives of the town as they flirted with him in front of their unimpressed husbands.

But no one could be mad at Daniel. Not when he was the first and only widow Lincoln had ever seen.

Marigold Seavey was twenty-six when she died in her bed at their farmhouse in the early hours of the morning. Her passing was the first major event to ever shake the town of Lincoln. Everyone knew everyone in this town and, that being said, everyone knew what a sunshiny soul Marigold was. Daniel, especially, seemed to have his light burnt out once she was buried behind the church at the corner of town. Some of the folks in town will tell you that the saddest sight they had ever seen was Daniel standing at the foot of his wife’s grave after the funeral with his six-year-old son holding his hand and the two of them crying silent tears into the fresh fall soil.

Despite Daniel’s quiet persona, he was strong and he knew he had to be for the sake of his young son. He couldn’t wallow in his grief for long since he had a son to raise and a farm to tend to and the generosity of the townsfolk certainly helped him to stay on his feet after his wife passed.

It had been a year-and-a-half since Marigold died. Daniel had just turned twenty-nine as March moulded into April and the winter chill was starting to fade into spring and the second birthday without her wasn’t any easier. The birthday cake baked by his neighbour wasn’t as delicious as Marigold’s classic lemon cake she would make him every year but he politely thanked the woman and dared not complain. Daniel would never complain over the niceties of the townsfolk.

That’s what came with living in such a small town; everyone had everyone’s back.

It was the first Sunday of April and the first truly nice spring day of the year. With a crisp breeze in the air, it was only just warm enough to discard the winter jackets and most of the town was gathered in the large backyard of the mayor’s house for the usual after-church brunch. On the colder Sundays, brunch was held in the main restaurant but everyone preferred to gather in the fresh air and over the crisp green grass of the mayor’s house as soon as the weather permitted.

The mayor’s house was the largest and had the most land outside of the farms that were just north of the main intersection in town. Jonah – known by the locals as such since he didn’t like the formality that came with the title of ‘Mayor Frantzich’ – and his wife Jocelyn kept a pretty house on the edge of the little town. They could be what you call the ideal small town family with two kids, a dog, and white picket fence – enough backyard space for it to be the perfect spot for weekly brunch.

The town children had space to play and stretch their legs after sitting for an hour in church and the yard was filled with the shouts from their games. The adults lingered around the yard in various little circles, nursing freshly squeezed orange juice in spring-themed clear plastic cups and talking amongst themselves.

Daniel did a lot of listening during Sunday brunches, standing amidst one of the groups of parents as they talked about school, clubs, and work. Marigold was always the chatty one of the two of them…without her, Daniel felt out of place.

“What about you, Daniel? Think the frost will be gone to break ground this week?”

Jack spoke first, a shorter man with unruly brown hair and enough tattoos to surprise anyone with the fact that he raised an apple orchard. He owned the farm beside Daniel’s and was one of his closest friends in the town.

Daniel thought for a moment and scuffed the toe of his dress shoe against the grass. The cold ground was still pretty solid and the chill in the air still had them all wearing blazers over their Sunday button-ups.

“Only if this cold front lets up.” Daniel answered. “I’m hoping to plough by next week at the latest.”

“Everything’s been going well with the farm and your boy?” Jonah asked, his hand tucked around his wife’s waist and he raised his opposite hand to his mouth to sip his juice.

Daniel shifted on his feet and gave a shrug, his eyes drifting past the group of parents to easily pick out his shaggy haired brunette son across the yard with the rest of the kids. At almost eight-years-old, Lennox was the light of Daniel’s life; his little hockey star, helping hand, and the one whom his late wife’s smile and spirit lived on in. It had been a hard year-and-a-half for the two Seavey boys but Daniel was relived that he could hear his son laugh again, his audible glee reaching to the far edges of the mayor’s property and to his father’s ears.  

“It’s been…fine.” Daniel sighed, his eyes lingering on his son as he answered Jonah’s question, “Lennox has been doing well…his grades are better this year which I’m relieved about. I just…I already sold the sheep and half the chickens and the second cow last spring to try and tame some of the workload but it’s still a lot.”

“Running a farm on your own isn’t easy.” Jack said, “I know how much work it takes for two owners let alone one.”

“We’re here to help with whatever you need.” Corbyn assured him. “I can give you deals on whatever you need from the shop as often as I can.”

Corbyn owned the general store in the center of town and was the bachelor of Lincoln. It wasn’t like there were any women to date in such a small place full of cookie cutter rural families but Corbyn was very happy as he was: running the store and being the eyes and ears of the town.

Daniel shut down his generous offer politely as he looked back to his friends, “No, no. I don’t want that…thank you though. I’m just worried the garden will suffer. With so much to do with ploughing and planting and coaching…I don’t know how much time I’ll have for the flowers.” Daniel let his gaze drift back to his son playing across the grass, “Lennox is too young to tend to them himself but he loves the gardens so much so I don’t want yet another thing to disappoint him.”

“Have you thought of hiring someone?” Jonah asked.

“Like a gardener?” Daniel hummed, “I dunno.”

Corbyn sipped his drink, “Is it in the budget?”

“I think so.” Daniel shrugged, swirling his orange juice in his hand. “Never thought about it. Mari always took care of the flowers so…”

“I have a family friend who’s pretty good with gardens…I’m sure she’d be more than happy to help out.” Jocelyn offered.

Daniel chuckled under his breath, “That’s…a nice offer but I’m not looking to put anyone out of their way. They’re just flowers after all.”

But everyone knew that they weren’t just flowers to Daniel. They were Marigold’s flowers.

Jack tisked at Daniel’s hesitation, “Well if it’s in your budget to hire a gardener and you know the gardens are important to Lennox and yourself, then why not give it a try? You don’t have anything to lose.”

Jonah only added onto the argument, “She’s been wanting to come visit Lincoln for a while now. Why don’t we invite her to town and she can stay with us and you can give her a look over…if you think you want to hire her then you can.”

Daniel thought about it for a moment, taking a sip of his juice as his eyes found his son again. It was habit. Lennox was already running for him at top speed across the grass and Daniel set his cup down on the table just in time to welcome his seven-year-old’s energetic jump at him. He scooped him up with one arm and a tired grunt as he hiked him up onto his waist and Lennox held onto him around his neck, giggling as the other kids ran over after him.

“Daddy’s safe. You can’t get me.” Lennox told them matter-of-factly.

Daniel smiled proudly and linked his hands under his son’s bum to hold him up securely. At almost eight, Lennox was a bit heavy to hold but after nine years of farm work and working out for hockey, it wasn’t much of an issue for Daniel to hold him. He’d never complain regardless.

The other kids found their parents, gladly taking sips of juice or pieces of cut up fruit after a tiring chase around the yard. Jonah and Jocelyn’s seven-year-old twins found their way between them and helped themselves to the few snacks on the table. They were the closest to Lennox’s age – although a few months younger – and the boy of the set of fraternal twins was on the junior hockey team with him.

With the parents busy for a moment with their children – Jack was helping to fasten his daughter’s curly hair back in her headband – Daniel pondered the previous offer. His son rested his head against his with his small arms slung around his neck and Daniel could feel each of his gentle breaths rising and falling his chest. Everything Daniel did was for Lennox. He bit his lip.

“No rush.” Jocelyn said to him, reassuring their offer as if she could see his hesitation, “Just let us know.”

“Thank you.” Daniel said honestly.

“The Herron’s are coming over.” Corbyn whispered to the group and right away they shifted awkwardly as the family approached. Daniel let out an anticipatory sigh.

If you ever thought of jealousy, you would think of Zach Herron; father of two boys who weren’t very good at hockey and husband to a wife whose eyes liked to linger on Daniel’s biceps a little too much. Zach envied a lot of Daniel…maybe even envied him that his wife was dead. He would never admit that out loud though.

“Seavey.” Zach greeted as his family approached the group with his petite platinum blonde wife on his arm. He glanced around to the others, “And friends.”

There was a dull chorus of replies.

Zach continued, “I’m still willing to buy your horses off you. You know I have a generous price to offer.” 

Daniel chuckled lightly, “Yes, I know. But the horses are not for sale and they never will be.”

“Daniel would sell his house before he sells those horses.” Jack said. The group laughed lightly at the truth behind that. 

Lennox wiggled from Daniel’s arms and he set him down to join up with the two Herron boys who had just come over. The children gathered together at the other side of the table and chatted excitedly. Daniel picked up his orange juice.

“Daniel,” Zach’s wife set a hand on his bicep, her face filled with nothing but dramatic concern, “how are you holding up?”

“I’m doing fine, Katie, thank you.” Daniel replied politely.

She sighed, “It would just be a terrible shame to see your beautiful gardens go to waste; I overheard you talking about it from over there. Please let me know if I can help in any way.”

Zach’s annoyed scoff had Jack smirking into his orange juice. Corbyn and Jonah exchanged amused glances between themselves. Daniel offered Zach’s wife a small polite smile.

“That’s very nice of you to offer, but Jonah and Jocelyn already offered a family friend who’s in the business.” Daniel looked over at the couple again, with slight thankfulness in his eyes, “And I think I will gladly take them up on that recommendation.”

Seasons Change Taglist: @stuffofseaveyy @randomlimelightxxx @jonahlovescoffee @hiya-its-amber @hopinglimelight @midnightpsychic @sbrewer21 @bessonsbxtch @viamiasoncrack @the-girl-who-cried-wolf

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