#dyed my hair again but now the tub has a blue tint to it and my mom is gonna freak the fuck out when she sees it

[savethepinecones]

guys i fucked up (again) (i keep making these posts at like 1 am i should probably just go to bed earlier)

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Glass Coughs

(Apart of the possible mini series where Anna moves in with the ladies in waiting)

TW: Themes of depression, implied self harm

———————

Some days, Anna knows, Bessie can’t get up.

Bessie, who’s usually so headstrong, strong, spitfire, can’t get up some days.

She will lie in bed and just…lay on her side, not looking at anything but the sheets around her and the pillow next to her, curled up in a small ball and wide awake but unable to lift her head. She just stares and stares and stares and sometimes it looks like she’s dead and Anna wonders if that’s what she’s going for.

A corpse. That’s what Bessie looks like.

Anna recognizes it easily enough, now, when it comes, at least when it’s this bad, and knows what to expect. She stays in bed a little longer herself, about half an hour or so, under the covers, making sure to keep close but not quite enough to be touching. Bessie doesn’t like to be crowded, not even by her, on days like this. She’ll flinch away and snap and scratch, and that jars her out of her trance, but it leaves her bristled and in shock for hours. Sometimes she breaks mirrors. Sometimes she pulls her hair out. Sometimes she scratches Maria across the face and leaves a bright red scar across her left eye that lingers for a month because the drummer stepped a little too close to her.

When something like that happens, the mental image of “corpse” is quickly replaced with “bear”. Or maybe her favorite animal, a Tasmanian devil.

(It’s funny that a Tasmanian devil was her favorite animal. Given that the females were trapped in dens by males during mating season and weren’t allowed to leave until pregnancy was ensured.)

Anna makes sure to hum a little, even if it’s a bit off-key sometimes. It helps, Bessie told her once- helps her not get trapped in her thoughts too deeply.

Anna knows that after an hour and a bit, she won’t be helping anymore and she has to get out of bed or Bessie will feel guilty about it later, even if she won’t say anything. She knows not to rip off the sheets and probe her into getting up like He used to. She knows that, even though Bessie might not respond, she still appreciates the light kiss on her cheek and Anna talking to her idly as she gets dressed as if she is. Sometimes, if Anna is lucky, Bessie will manage a small, short smile in response.

By the time Anna is in the kitchen, it will probably be around 10:30. She’s making her breakfast in the hopes that the smell of fried eggs and bacon will manage to get Bessie out of bed. It’s worked twice before, so you never know, and she always makes extra.

She knows not to try bringing a plate to Bessie, though, because that makes Bessie feel guilty too, and she might leave it and let it grow cold before she can get up which also doesn’t help. And she knows not to force Bessie out of bed like that either.

Sometimes, she knows, she just has to rest.

But she also knows that sometimes just leaving her be is worse, makes the heaviness and emptiness grow, that Bessie, sometimes, needs a hand, even when she doesn’t say so (especially then.) Usually, around 2 or 2:30 is when Anna starts to get really worried.

She eats what she can of breakfast before leaving it to the other ladies in waiting to finish, which they will, of course. Then she goes out shopping to try and clear her head- thank god there was no show today. She didn’t want Bessie to force herself to perform, especially when a few of the songs make her uneasy and how she hates hearing about Him and how They get chances to be seen and loved but she couldn’t.

(Those thoughts scratched and scratched and scratched at Bessie’s mind and that just fed the guilt that held her by the throat. Sometimes Anna worries about it becoming to much and it completely hounds her until she’s nothing but pale strips of mangled flesh and red blood and pink shredded muscle and crimson gore.)

By the time she’s back, she has a small carrier bag of goods and it’s around 1:30. Anna drops off most of the stuff in the dining room, hearing Maggie and Maria going to snoop as they do, and hurries off to check on her girlfriend, knocking three times before entering the bedroom.

“Hey,” She says, taking off her jacket. “I was just out shopping.”

Bessie is still in bed, cocooned in the covers, but she does look up blearily from lying face-down, so Anna counts it as a little win.

“I bought a bunch of stuff,” She continues, coming to sit at the foot of the bed. “Pastries, obviously. I feel like Maggie keeps finishing them for some reason. More toilet roll. Oranges. Milk. Hot chocolate powder.”

It’s a pretty ordinary list, nothing exciting to be honest, but, eventually, Bessie’s head emerges fully and she blinks before her dull, but beautiful blue eyes finally focus on Anna.

“There’s my pretty princess,” Anna coos, smiling lovingly. She so badly wanted to kiss Bessie soft, pale lips or caress her flushed cheeks or at least stroke her unruly hair, but she knew better than to touch during moments like this. “How are you feeling?”

Bessie’s eyes move from Anna’s gaze to the crumpled blankets she’s been laying under all day. Her hands clench in the fabric and Anna knows she’s getting worked up with guilt.

“Hey, hey,” Anna scoots closer and dares to brush Bessie’s knuckles. “It’s alright. You’re okay.”

Bessie’s eyes squint slightly, eyebrows lowering and knitting together like dark thunder clouds. She stays rooted in that position for a long time and Anna finally stands up and began to go through her drawers.

“Think you can switch shirts for me?” Anna asks. “You’ve been wearing that one for three days now.”

Bessie looked down at her shirt, which was soaked with her own sadness. It was just a plain grey piece of fabric, yet it hid so much.

“Come on, baby,” Anna murmurs, walking back over. She has a shirt slung over her arm- Bessie can’t really read what it says, she just knows it’s purple. “Then you can go back to sleeping.”

Bessie didn’t move for a moment, then nodded ever so slightly and clambered out of the bed. She went for the door for some reason and Anna understood what she was doing.

Bessie is still quiet when she gets up, finally, trailing behind Anna a little like a ghost, though Anna doesn’t mind, certainly not when Bessie silently tugs at her sleeve and they hold hands on the short trek to the bathroom.

As the bathtub fills with nice, hot water, Anna shows Bessie an assortment of bath bombs she had indulgently bought while out on the shops. She mused about some that Kitty had liked and recommended back when she was living with the queens, but quickly shut her mouth. Bessie didn’t like when she brought up her past residence when she was like this- it was another thing among many that made her feel terribly guilty.

However, when she turned to see if Bessie has finally succumbed to that overbearing sensation thanks to her stupid comment, she just found her girlfriend sitting on the toilet seat, studying a galaxy themed bath bomb. It black on the outside but all rainbows and glitter on the inside.

Just like Bessie, Anna thinks privately.

“Good pick,” Anna smiles.

Bessie just barely managed a crack of her own smile.

The bath is hot, and both of them watch as the bath bomb is dropped in and begins to fizz, tiny bubbles of color rising up and gathering into a frothy foam and staining the water pink and purple and midnight blue, sparkles of gold suspended throughout the multicolored mess.

Anna helps Bessie get undressed and in the tub before going to fetch her a cup of tea and some toast, too, because she hasn’t eaten all day, even though she knows Bessie probably still doesn’t feel hungry.

When she returns, Bessie is just staring dejectedly at the whorls of color water encompassing the bottom half of her body. Silent tears are dripping down her cheeks but she doesn’t make a sound- no sniffles, no gulps of air, no whimpers. Not even her shoulders were shaking.

Even with the dark colors dyeing the water, there’s definitely a red tint that wasn’t there before. Anna sees it, but doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Hey, princess,” Anna purrs. She sat down beside the bathtub, making sure to keep her gaze up. Bessie was finally starting to let her keep her eyes open when she was naked and she really didn’t want to lose that privilege. “I made some tea. It’s your favorite. The raspberry kind.”

Bessie nodded. She lifted one hand and wiped her cheeks.

“Also some toast.”

God, she wanted Bessie to eat so badly. The way her ribs were poking out of her flesh was absolutely worrying. No fault of the bassist’s- it was the lasting effects of dying from the white plague.

(She still remembered watching as Bessie grew thinner and thinner the days she worked as her lady in waiting. She remembered how very pale and delirious she was. How she coughed blood all over her sewing station.)

(They say when she died she wasn’t even ninety pounds.)

Bessie nodded again. Her eyes are still cast down. She takes a sip of the tea and then just holds it in her hands, staring down into the saucer of dark liquid.

“I’m going to wash your hair, alright?” Anna says. “Is that okay?”

Bessie placed the mug back on the toilet seat and nodded.

“Take a deep breath, my darling. I’m going to dunk you under really quick.”

Bessie obeyed. Anna caught a glimpse of a fresh cut on her sunken in, already-scathed stomach when she gently presses her back into the water.

Now she know what the lump against her knee under the fuzzy shower mat was.

Bessie inhales sharply, almost gasping when she’s brought back up. Her eyes are wide for a moment before dulling back down. Anna assures her she’s alright.

Anna began to massage coconut-smelling shampoo into her girlfriend’s messy, greasy hair. She gently raked her nails against her scalp, something Bessie usually enjoyed when they would bathe together. It seemed to help some, as Bessie was definitely pressing her head into her hands. She smiled softly.

“Soap isn’t getting in your pretty eyes, right?”

Bessie nodded.

“Good.” Anna pressed a quick kiss to the back of her girlfriend’s neck, causing Bessie to shudder slightly. “I’m going to put you back under now, alright?”

Another silent nod.

Fifteen more minutes are spent in the bathroom. Anna talks softly to Bessie, grounding her. She washes her hair and towels down her body with a rag and some soap, then helps her out of the bathtub and into fresh clothes. The cut has stopped bleeding when she glanced at it, luckily.

“Anna,”

The word is so soft, so weak, so strangled.

“Yes, darling?” Anna gently cups Bessie’s cheeks. “I’m right here.”

Bessie’s hands are shaking when she grips Anna’s sleeves. Tears are rolling down her face again.

“I love you,” She croaks. She’s blushing because that phrase will never fail to make her flustered. “I love you so much...”

“Oh, baby...” Anna wrapped Bessie up securely in her arms and began to sway her gently. “I love you, too, princess. I love you so so so much. And I will never stop loving you. Ever.”

Bessie hiccuped weakly. Despite being in bed all day, it was clear she was exhausted. Probably from holding everything in for so long.

“P-promise?” She chokes out.

Anna didn’t even hesitate.

“I promise.”

Some days, Anna knows, Bessie can’t get up, and that’s okay.

[okaybutlikeimagine]

What if Billy and El decided to team up against Hop and they have a prank war

LOVE. IT. DUDE. Hopper doesn’t stand a fucking CHANCE, my guy!!!

Bc El and Billy are such an Iconic Duo! esp in terms of pranks bc Billy is Devious as Hell and El is Just Devious Enough to go along w/ it and not only that, but she has the mind powers that are able to bring all of Billy’s terrible thoughts to fruition and tell me he doesn’t get such a kick out of that bc he so does.

and before they team up, El will often get super fed up and irritated w/ Billy bc he’ll do that dumb thing where he pretends she has something on her shirt so he can flick her chin up (to which she just uses her mind to flick his chin up) or he’ll put a fake spider in her room (to which she’ll throw it at him w/ her mind and innocently say she was just “returning” it) or he’ll put whipped cream on her hand while she’s sleeping and make her scratch her face (to which she’ll wipe the whipped cream off of her and send it flying towards Billy but….

It gets Hop instead.

Hop wipes his face, jaw tight but eyes with a hint of amusement.

“Alright alright… cut it out, you two.”

and El nods, twisting her mouth up a little bc she doesn’t like to disobey but she’s irritated and when she heads back into her room, Billy follows her and closes the door.

“Wha-?”

“What do you say we call a truce?” Billy asks quietly, closing the door.

“Tr-uce?”

Billy bends a bit to explain the meaning and then his reasoning. And El is a little hesitant bc a “prank war” sounds dangerous and she doesn’t wanna upset Hop but Billy is adamant about how it’s “all in good fun” as he ruffles El’s hair. They brainstorm a bit and Billy decides to head to the little pop-up Halloween store to gather some supplies.

And in a couple of days, there’s a bat flying around the cabin and a very shaken, very spooked, very loud Hopper running around trying to shoo it out with a broom.

“It’s over here!” Billy yells from where he’s sat at the their little dining table, trying for all the world to not smirk or laugh as Hopper stumbles over the couch to get to it. When he eventually smacks it out of the air, it falls to the ground lifelessly and Hop takes tentative steps towards it, leaning over it and about to touch it with the broom when-

-whoosh!-

It flies up into his face and Hop shrieks, smacking at it before Billy and El are busting out laughing, El from the doorway to her bedroom and Billy at the little table next to Hop and Hop realizes… it’s fucking fake.

He gives harsh looks to both of his kids, throwing the fake bat down.

“Oh ha ha.”

But the kids are basically gasping for air at this point with how hard they’re laughing, El even flopped on the couch and tapping her feet on it as she laughs and Hop drops the fake bat onto her.

“Eek!” she shrieks as she uses her mind powers to fling it away from her and straight into Billy’s face, who gives a very similar shirek.

About a week later, Hopper walks into a completely dark cabin, and gets a little nervous for a second bc El really doesn’t like the dark and his kids should be home on the couch watching TV and ruining their dinner??? So why so quiet?

“Hello-?”

It’s just then that a flashlight turns on, illuminating a large, floating figure that looks to be wearing a cloak of some sort. It spooks him, making him jump and putting him immediately on edge. Suddenly it’s laughing a deep, rumbling chuckle and then it’s flying towards him, rushing and Hop has his hands up and is punching strongly into-

Pillows…?

The blanket that once seemed like a cloak falls over Hop’s face and he’s still punching when he hears the laughs. He’s struggling with the blanket over his head, pulling it off and flicking the lights on to reveal tiny feet kicking in the air from behind the couch and a curly head of blond along with crinkled blue eyes peeking over the top of the couch.

Stupid kids.

“What was that????” Hop demands, hands on his hips and anger in his voice. El pops up then, nothing but amusement in her face.

“Prank!” She shouts excitedly. Billy is still laughing when Hop turns irritated eyes onto him. Hop’s too tired for this.

The next time, they get Steve involved. Steve is not happy about it.

“Look, guys, you’re both very cute and very intimidating but this is Hopper we’re talking about here! We can’t… he’s gonna kill us!”

“No he won’t.” El is adamant as Billy pulls out the bucket full of water from the quarry that they’ve been hiding all day.

“Okay, he won’t kill you guys because he loves you guys. He doesn’t have any attachment to me! He’s gonna murder me on the spot!”

“Stop being so dramatic.” Billy says, straightening up and walking towards the window to see if Hop is coming.

“Hey!” Steve whines. “I’m not dramatic!”

“You are, and it’s adorably irritating.” Billy says as he kisses Steve soundly. “Now go out there and distract him.”

And Steve does. He stumbles over words and keeps Hop from coming in until Billy gives the signal that El has the bucket in place, which is just to open the door and let Steve in slowly so that Hop stays just past the doorway and Steve’s face is stressed and Hop isn’t an idiot, he knows something is up.

“If this is another prank…” he looks up and-

The bucket tips over and water pours down over his head.

Billy and El are laughing hard as Hop wipes his face and Steve is terrified. Hop starts taking heavy steps in the direction of the trio.

“I’m sorry Hop!” Steve is fumbling. “Uh, Chief! Sir! I’m so sorry, I was just used as bait, I promise!!”

“Come here.” Hop grumbles threateningly.

Steve is shaking like a leaf.

Hop extends his arms out. “And give me a hug.” He says it menacingly.

El’s eyes go wide and she giggles as she tries to run to her room. Billy holds his hands up in protest to the incoming Hopper.

“No no no, this is my favorite shirt.”

But none of them are safe, even as Hop chases Billy around the couch. He scoops all three of them into a very big, very damp bear hug, faces smushed and whines loud as they complain. Steve is…. Confused. But glad he’s not dying at the hands of the Police Chief so he guesses this is…. Fine….

And it’s ON at this point. Hop starts by only buying sugar free cookies and sweets but then realizes that affects him too so it’s a bit of a failure. He takes Billy’s car to get “serviced” but really he just gave it to a buddy of his down at the auto shop to hold it for a bit so that Billy has to be driven to school by Hop for a whole week. He buys only whole wheat Eggos. El hates them and pouts every time she picks up the box.

They table the Prank War so El can get her Eggos back.

But once Hop gets together w/ Joyce, Billy starts the prank war again w/ a renewed vigor. This time they have Jonathan and Will on their side, against Hop and Joyce. They all feel a little bad about doing anything mean to Joyce, but it’s still fun to watch her jump and shriek when Will’s stuffed puppy starts running around her feet. Or when they switch out all of the groceries to frozen pizzas. Or when Will and El sweetly tell her that they ran her a bath and then lead her to their bath tub full of the Jell-O they all 4 spent all day making.

Joyce and Hopper are ON IT though. they’re the fuckin dream team and were probably totally partners in crime in high school whenever they’d hang out together. They replace Billy’s hairspray w/ water. They hide all of Jonathan’s records and switch them out for old stuff from the 50’s. They let the Party come over and then embarrass the living daylights out of Will by sitting and pretending to try to understand DnD, purposefully getting everything slightly wrong and making Will want to pull his hair out. They let El go out on a date w/ Mike, but they insist on being there and they actually start dancing w/ each other in the middle of the ice cream parlor. El is mortified.

But the real straw that breaks the camel’s back is when Joyce helps Hop turn all of the kids’ clothes pink.

On picture day.

Like….. Billy is standing in the middle of their living room in a pink button down bc his clothes are fucking tinted pink now and he’s not happy.

“I can pull off anything, sure, but are you serious???”

“It was an accident.” Joyce says as she smirks over her cup of coffee.

“Let’s just get this over with.” Jonathan sighs, walking out in a pink short sleeved button down and a pout.

Will hops out, smiling a bit bc he really doesn’t care that much that his t shirt is pink. He’s a little worried about bullies but Mike helps him w/ those and he’ll be fine. El waves bye to them happily and totally not perturbed in her big pink-ish sweater with pink-ish shorts underneath.

Jonathan is pouting as he heads out to his car. “The prank stuff is over, Billy.”

“No, we can’t let them win.”

“We’re wearing pink for picture day, Billy. It’s over.”

Billy huffs in angered defeat.

[vide0-nasties]

whatever a moon has always meant

Pairings: Julian/MC, mentioned Asra/MC

Content Warnings: NSFW, mutual masturbation, vaginal fingering, mentions of past bodily harm, strong language, mood whiplash, butchering of a poet’s most famous work, Jeff Goldblum-isms, lethally high corn content

Word Count: 6.8k

Author’s Note: Post Book VIII: Strength, Julian and my apprentice get into their feelings then each other’s pants wink emoji. If you find the Seabiscuit (2003) reference, I’ll mail you a check for $5 that will bounce.

Two long bodies, all in black, devour a sea of tall grass by virtue of their immense strides, under a moon that’s turned their quiet night-world an eerie shade of blue.

Many of Eustacia’s nightmares have started out this way, but she’s never been one of the long bodies, and the other has certainly never been Julian Devorak. She’s not had any dreams about him, yet, though he looks like something out of one.

Weak light catches on his harsh features—turns the precipice of his cheekbone, the scalpel-sharp line of his jaw, and the sickle-slope of his nose into platinum slivers carved from the moon herself, making him phantasmal.

But, like a phantasm, he looks cold and bloodless. Like her—greenish veins under waxy skin, a body left to set too long with eyes bruised by a fight that hasn’t happened.

Eustacia imagines him wearing Portia’s freckled complexion—the veins on his eyelid less blue and more purple, color and warmth high on his harsh cheekbones.

She imagined that in Nopal, if only for a few moments when she hadn’t been rapt by and wrapped in Asra. Julian, bright as man’s red flower, dancing in the desert’s peyote-fugue dusk. Julian, setting sight on vistas impossible to capture in oil paint or chalk, barking awed laughter at land older than humanity.

(Julian, caught between a water-sick town waiting on a hero and the wailing ghost of locked-away history, mistaking beetles for flames, then checking himself for soot or scorch.)

Were he not so yoked by sleeplessness and a full stomach, his voice might’ve carried its natural bustling cadence and shattered the scenery as he asks, “Eustacia. Could I, ahm. Ask you something? Several something’s, actually.”

Their hands swing between them lazily, the six of her fingers laced protectively through his five. It is late, but not so late. They tromp through the fields outside the palace’s gardens, destined for her shop and a scant few hours’ respite before parting in opposite directions with plans to reunite and pursue his beetle-ended key’s lock.

She cannot remember the last time she slept a full night, but that is not so distressing. Better than her other days—days like lost dogs, unable to budge from bed more than minutes at a time.

“Three questions I will answer for you—no more.” It’s an old fall-back, a defense beaten in with closed fist and repetition. “Answers as honest as I can provide, with the hope they’ll sate that which fuels your seeking.”

“Three…” he hisses softly, staring into the middle distance, as if trying to pare down a two hundred verse southern eda into a limerick. “Enigmatic as a sphinx, aren’t you? Tell me, are you a fan of classical tragedies? Oh—damn, no, those weren’t—”

“I wasn’t going to count them,” she assures him, waving her hand in a mock trick of magic. “I know what a chatterer you are. Like one of those shitey morning-time birds, making noise just to make it. It endears me to you.”

He snorts, moves around like he wants to face her, but can’t quite accomplish the feat. “You just had to say something insightful and heartstopping, didn’t you? Right before I ask all these rude questions.”

“So long as you don’t ask whether my toes are webbed like my fingers. They are. Only slightly, makes a stronger swimmer of me.”

“Ah, good, good. I only have two questions now!”

That mopey-dopey grin he wears so well, so tragically self-deprecating and ingratiating, she can’t help but pitch her head back and laugh at the night. He laughs along, only a moment, and not so heartily, letting it peter out to a vexed sigh that captures her attention and forces her to draw the smoke back through the keyhole.

“Alright,” he begins, swallowing again and forcing himself to face her, bullying his voice into keeping from questioning, “I know that Asra lives with you…”

She gives a half-nod of confirmation, a tilt of the head and hand, so-so. “He travels constantly. When he returns to Vesuvia, he is a welcome guest in my home. He doesn’t live any one place, really.”

Less a lie than a half-truth. These days, he’s little more than a drifting stranger, mirror-backward-image to the beginning, when she can scarcely remember a moment that was not filled with his presence and help.

Julian clears his throat. “I’m—it’s not that I want to pry. Everyone is entitled to their secrets. Personal lives,” he corrects. Now his eye will not meet hers. “You and Asra, are you…you know…together?”

Yes. And no. She has loved Asra even before she’d known his name, when he was only soft hands, smoke scent, and a gentle voice she’d thought she’d known from dreams that promised they would be alright. But, these three short-long years and the revelations of the last several days have muddied the waters.

“This cannot be a satisfying answer, but I’ve none better to give: I am not entirely sure. He is…dear to me,” she admits, painstaking. Even at odds with him as she is, she loves him as if he is permanently moored to the center of her being, but there are rubs.

She cannot fucking stand the way he treats her as if she’s no more substantial than a blown glass flower. Actions, loving in nature, that are stained with fear and concern. And Julian—she does not wish for him to feel belittled, or insignificant, or used. He is not a diversion or dalliance. He is more.

“And I,” she continues, “as I believe you surely know, am dear to him.”

“I. Uh. Yes, I’ve noticed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look at someone the way he looked at you in the library.” There is a tint, there, that leans toward jealousy. Eustacia is not sure of its direction, toward her for being the object of Asra’s affection, or toward Asra, possibly standing as a competitor toward Julian’s keen little romantics.

There is a possibility that both are true, but she doesn’t know how to grapple that beast.

“Whatever we may be, he and I, he knows of the tender bruises I’ve come to nurse for you,” she tells him, filling her words with warmth and hoping he tastes sincerity. “They’re in the shape of your name, and I can’t stop digging my fingers into them. Like half of myself is broken apart, and I’m choice-spoiled with body aches.”

She finds him frowning, the shape of the word why forming and dying on his lips without ever being given life. He’s not asked, but she will give him the balm for that sore. “I have found something familiar in you, in this world of strangers. It’s precious to me.”

Julian’s eye goes wide and he shifts about the shoulders. Truthful sentiment might be a touch too heavy for him. But, there he goes, throwing off her balance in kind. Taking her hand, he brings it to his mouth and presses a lingering kiss to her busted knuckles. He chances a look at her from under his lashes, then demurely—almost shame-facedly—to the back of her wrist.

When the man that has something to say to everything chooses to forgo his voice, what is to be done?

She takes him to a safe place. She takes him home.

+

His second question comes when, from a different place in the city, a clock tower strikes eleven. Not quite time for the carriage to turn back into a pumpkin, nor the horses into mice, but well past time for sleepless skulls to lie down and make amends with their abandoned dreams, for good or ill.

Julian changes into a pair of her loose, silk buccaneer pants behind the frosted glass of the changing screen that separates the tub from the rest of her home above the shop. When offered trousers to borrow in any color he wanted, so long as the color was black, he’d scoffed no peach? but admitted that he looks wretched in the color at any rate.

They’re close enough in height, only two inches difference between them, that they could theoretically wear each other’s clothes whenever—had he had twice and a half the amounts of hips, and she a third wide slice of chest. But, for a few hours, he will make due cinching borrowed drawstrings tight as they’ll go.

Eustacia rids herself of boots and clothing, stripping down to cotton drawers and the flimsy camisole slip keeping her tiny tits from kissing the wind while she washes her makeup away. It feels heavy after three or four days without it in the middle of nowhere, but there is a wrongness to her without the ritual and the sleight. Even the blue bottle glass pendant dipping in the murky suds on its long, braided gold chain and needing a wash of its own is muscle memory.

She does look like the risen dead. Her skin’s got a sick pallor to it, pulled tight over her face with no muscle or fat for cushioning. All bone and teeth. The drooping of her left eyelid is obvious without the pitch makeup she smears around it, no matter how often Asra kindly assures her this is no truth she need consider. Corpse-blue lips, like kissing a drowned woman.

There was a time that this wasn’t the face she painted away every morning—the face of a half-finished thing, Asra’s project in media res. Like he’s still pulling her from the glowing-hot gut of a forge and beating out her bends with a hammer. Knocking off the accumulated slag and pig iron.

How burdensome a thing she is, for a thing that should not be here at all.

“Oh. You have tattoos.” Julian’s voice brings her out of the old thoughts and old ritual of oiling her earlobes for the gold-and-abalone discs she favors, and she tracks him carp-eyed, bewildered, and in a state of sweet undress near her kitchen table. “Lots of tattoos.”

He is divine, she thinks. Wearing her pants cinched tight and still exposing the sharp jut of his hipbones, the hair on his chest that truly begins to concentrate on the little, adorable paunch below his navel, traveling down. Broad shoulders, big arms. But it’s the simple sight of his pale, bare feet on her floorboards that unspools her.

She’s never welcomed a wounding such as this.

At least he’s staring, too. She’s not an isolated fool, just one on equal footing with another.

“More than these, even,” she mutters, exhaustion weighing down her shoulders. Of course, she’s seen her skin, but she has no names for the green-black symbols that cover her from face to foot. The woman she used to be had made a grimoire of herself, and the body’d turned into a necronomicon when that stranger passed it into her hands. “Did you think I was southern?”

“‘I was southern.’ Now that could be a very interesting tell, if you maybe sounded like you came from anywhere close to the south,” he laughs uneasily, taking a few circling steps in his immediate area. “No, I didn’t think you were from one of the tribes, but I—hah—I don’t know a fucking thing about you, do I?”

She gives no response, not wanting it to count against the two questions he has left. She goes to the bedroom, and he follows along in buzzing silence.

+

He sits on the edge of the mattress—cast half in the warm, pale gold of her witchlight, half in the eerie moon-blue that persists through the window, mired all else in the unbent dark of night—while she tries to divide the pillows into a more even ratio, pushing her rabbit pelt blanket to the wall-side. She intends to give him the door-side; freedom, should he require it. Hopefully, she tells herself, she will not wake up alone in a few hours.

“Eustacia…?”

Here it is, then. The second question.

Rocking onto her haunches, she hushes her hands and faces him with devout attention. His words come fast, rambling, like he’s chasing them out before he can change his mind and let them stay living in him, “That night we…talked—you said, you said something. That, you said that I’m not the only person that ever lived who has a—ah, ah, ah—a history. What, exactly, did you mean by that?”

“You’re not the only person that’s had tragedy bred into your bones,” she tries gently. “Or the only person that’s done bad things, or hurt people—meaning to, or not…”

The words are stuck behind his teeth. It’s a physical pain he endures before they crash out, “Have you ever killed someone?”

The third and final question, striking like a slap.

“Julian—I don’t…”

She could tell him everything—the crater of her past, the why of her dodging.

How often she wakes with smoke charring her lungs, and someone else’s tears on her face.

To speak and babble and open up for the vivisectionist, the way she does with Asra—

Did. The way she did with Asra. There are so many secrets there now, minuscule torments of her own making, things she can’t let go of.

Her hands want to tremor, but don’t.

She offers one, palm-up and waiting. He obliges, slipping against her, hooking his thumb with hers and squeezing slow. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s…” His other hand drifts like a ghost over her scars. Ones hidden under her tattoos, or cut into them. A crescent moon hugging her waist. The long gouge on her stomach, under her ribs. The blanched stripes on her shoulders.

He lingers over the necklace of scar tissue at her throat, the one that hides under her collars or chokers.

All she can think is, I’m so sorry I’m empty-handed. I’m so sorry for being built of blanched scars and hollow-eyed cackling.

“What would you do if I had? Would it really benefit you if I’d the stain of blood on my hands, never to be washed off?” she asks, soft as ash and not aiming for interrogation or accusation. “If I wore that mark, and you’re innocent of this murder that haunts you, you’d’ve made concessions to the sort of person I think you’d despise. If you are guilty, would you even find comfort from like attracting like?”

That is no answer at all, fluttering obfuscation and only. She lays out something plainer, more plausible, and truer-ringing, “I like barroom brawls. I’m angry, all the time; it builds up like venom. The way you enjoy your pain is not so much the way I enjoy mine, but there is a pleasure to bleeding.

“Beyond that, I am a stranger to my life before Vesuvia. It doesn’t matter that, in my heart, I still sleep with my boots or, or wake flinching as if I’m still there.”

An answer, but not much of one.

He pulls the misery and poison back in, draws ragged breath, and returns it a sigh, “I’m sorry for asking. I just thought…maybe you’d understand. If that makes any sense. I, uh. I don’t actually know. Maybe if you had, it wouldn’t be so…bad to have dragged you into this.”

He’d invited her to run with him on the aqueduct, turned at the end to make sure she was following when the guards were coming and that stretch of lemonstone might as well have been the edge at the end of fucking world.

He could’ve turned on his heel and sped away without a word. Rescued himself from depending on the kindness of a stranger. And she could’ve planted her feet and watched him disappear in the gloom.

But. He didn’t. And neither did she.

By cosmic coincidence or fuck-up, they’d found each other that night in the shop, and they kept finding each other.

Her hand reaches out, runs her thumb over his orbital bone. This, at least, she can own without apology or wondering. “My choices have always been mine to make. There is no action in my life where my hand has been forced. That I promise you.”

“If you say so.” He turns into her hand, heaves a heavy breath, and gives a drippy, dubious little half-smile.

With consideration, he pulls her lower lip down a little with his thumb, eyeing the chipped front tooth he’s so fond of, the one she’d given herself crashing into him at the Raven that night they traded names. The edge of the digit runs over the missing corner. “You’ll forgive me if I have trouble buying that bridge you’re trying to sell, right?”

“It is your nature,” she kindly agrees, kissing his finger and threading her lacquered-black, pointed nail through the end of his eyebrow, into his sideburn. “If you’re agreeable to it, I’d like to lie down a time and listen to one of your stories.”

+

She sleeps, she dreams, and she wakes with a jolt and Julian’s forehead in her armpit. He’s drooled, she can feel it following the curve of her ribs, and a silver string of spit connects his bottom lip to a tattoo of a lion grotesque’s head when he cracks his eye and croaks, “Bad dream?”

“Not sure,” she mumbles, absently patting his hair, blinking fish-eyed at the room. “…Storms at sea. I was beyond it.”

“Hm? It’s storming?”

“It’ll storm today, bad. Can’t you feel?” Without looking, she motions to the window. The glass jiggles in the pane against the steady wind. The air has an electric, earthy taste.

He wipes his mouth, then her ribs with an apology. “That’s ominous,” he laughs, rusty. “Ah, fuck it all. Now I’m awake.”

She doesn’t want to cast about looking for some indication of the time, so she doesn’t. She shifts around Julian, pulling him farther up the bed, close enough to kiss. He seems in better spirits after a few hours gone-dark under his belt. Maybe the questions of last night have left him, or perhaps weigh lighter. “Any idea the time? I can cook you breakfast before parting ways…I need to go to the palace and play pretend I’m at all in the Countess’ good graces.”

“Prooobably half-past three. Maybe four? It’s still dark out.” He smiles when she hunkers close and touches the tips of their noses together. “Are you sure you have to go back? We could just…hmm-hmm, get to know each other, play by ear from there.”

“If my name alone was holding up my reputation, I’d stay, but we both know that’s not the case.” Idly, she runs a finger over the shell of his ear. It makes him shudder. “We’ve some time, yet. I’m thinking we definitely could get to know one another a bit better.”

The look of disappointment doesn’t last long, and he is the one to draw first blood, as it were, teeth grazing her lip as he goes in for the kiss, responding in kind when she adds tongue to the party.

Something rises in her body when she presses close to his. The image of ships burning in the open ocean. The howl of wind over a barren blue desert. A sea of grass writhing under the gale hand of the bruise-colored thunderheads rolling over the land. Frothing red sea foam, boiling up into three hundred pounds of gold bullion.

All exultant, crackling with the feral notion of hard-bought freedom.

Beauty. Beauty. Beauty.

Syrup-slow, their bodies slide together. Her leg slots between his, his hips find a comfortable landing against hers. Their chests and bellies come together so neatly that every breath is noticeable.

His arm wraps around her, hand to the back of her head. If only she had more than stubble for him to find, but he travels to the crown of her head and kneads his fingers into the thick mass of black waves.

A tired smile against her matching mouth, his sigh so content and pleased, tinged with the ghost of his braying laughter, “There it is.”

“You can grab a handful,” she teases, reveling in the innuendo, “it won’t break me.”

“You? Doubtful—couldn’t knock you over with a pail of water. Me? Oh, my dear. They wouldn’t be able to pick up the pieces in a hundred years—maybe a thousand.” His eye pops open and he pulls her tighter to his body, absorbing her shocked cackle. “Don’t you—I know what you’re going to say, so don’t you dare. Don’t even think it!”

Oh, she’s thinking it. That big, bawdy bullshit—you are much more fragile than I—but he’s asked in a roundabout way that she not shove her hands into the barely-settled earth of their new history to dig it up and dangle in his face.

So, she mimics locking her mouth with a key, and tosses it carelessly over her shoulder with raised brows and an affable, closed-mouthed grin. There’s not much room betwixt the two of them for such a movement, but she manages, and his kiss, tender and tentative now, picks the lock.

“I’ve a proposal, if you’d like to hear it,” she mumbles against his mouth, tracing the line of his shoulder blade. She can test the waters, she thinks, feeling him half-hard against her hip, his skin against hers furnace-hot and flushed. She is long-past excited, drenched in her drawers and thumping. “I’ll warn you—it’s forward, and a little fresh besides. Very fresh, in fact. It might even offend.”

“Oh, please, please offend me,” he laughs, but it doesn’t sound many shades from whining. “I live to see the day I’m offended by something—it’s never happened before, and it looks quickening.”

“I’d very much enjoy touching myself while you watch,” she tells him, full aware her voice drops close to a growl. “And, heartsweet, I would love it if you touched yourself, too.”

This noise comes out of him, like his soul has left him. He gapes and gapes. “I died last night, didn’t I?”

“I’m hoping not, otherwise I’m taking necromancy to soaring new heights, and I will be paying for these crimes.”

Again, he laughs (HAH!), and he nods, eager as a puppy. “Yes. Please—that’s fantastic. It’s devastating.”

She smirks and unlaces the drawstring keeping her drawers up, shimmying them lower to make space for her hand. Not once do her eyes leave his face, his rapt attention on her fingers.

His hand drifts to the waistband of his borrowed trousers, touching the laces, fingers twitching. Even in the dark, for lack of the witchlight that died as they slept, she can see his erection against the fabric, and, fucking hell, if this doesn’t feel as natural to her as swimming.

“Mm—can I, uh, can I…?” He nods down toward himself, and she laughs—throws her head back and cackles so hard the bed quakes in the ebony frame.

“Heartsweet, I don’t know how to break this to you,” she wheezes, sitting up on her elbow and taking her hand away from her pants to tug the fabric on his thigh, “but you’ve already gotten yourself into my pants. You can do whatever you want.”

Before she returns attention to herself, she pats his chest and points toward the petrified wood stump that serves as her nightstand. A gift from Asra, gone red-faced and grunting, struggling it upstairs on his lonesome a memory burned into her (no, no, I got it this far, didn’t I? Don’t worry!). “There’s an amber-glass vial of mineral oil there. It’s for my skin, but it should slicken your stroke.”

She dips two fingers between her lips, settling back onto the pillows with space between them now, swirling her clit in alternating figures that make her head swim and heart race. He pulls double-duty, stretching himself long for the oil as he takes his cock out of the trousers, then gives himself a firm, oil-dripping squeeze-and-stroke that forces his face against her shoulder, leaving his leg jolting not moments after.

She can’t stop looking at him—not just his cock, as pretty as it is, thinking of taking it in her mouth with his body backed against a wall—but all of him. The color in his face, the hurricane of his hair, the spectacular lines of his limbs.

To hell with herself, she has never felt more covetous, has never wanted anything more. She wants to find a way to live under his skin.

Breath hot against her neck, he physically restrains himself, slowing to something hellish. A drop of pre-cum forms at the slit, and a swipe of his thumb disappears it, racking his body with a shudder. Already, there’s a thin glimmer of sweat on his shoulders, collarbones. The blankets and bedsheets grow too warm, and they kick them away.

Eustacia almost slips a finger into herself without thinking when the point of one of her nails almost catches her entrance, and the whine that emanates from her is pitiful. These damn things. So naked without them, and frustrated to howling when she needs them gone the most.

Julian pulls away, brow furrowed and lips swollen from his teeth, breathing from the bottom of his lungs. His eyepatch rides up, but not enough to show anything he’s not willing to share. His throat bobs again, and his eye boggles looking at the shape of her hand. “Oh…nails?” he asks, and when she nods, he offers very carefully, “what do you think about, er, trading?”

“Where the fuck have you been hiding my entire life?” she demands, but there is no heat to it, none at all. His fingers skim down her belly, over the sigil that halts her monthly bleeding, and teasingly between her labia, stealing the breath from her lungs in a shameless act of larceny.

“You are so wet,” he groans, adding two more fingers to spread her lips, running over her clit with his middle finger. “You’re soaked—that’s—oh, fuck me, that’s the sexiest thing…”

“More, please,” she urges him, wrapping a hand around the back of his arm, reaching between them with the other to take hold of his length, stroking it hotter and harder in her grip. He moans, deep and loud like a bellows-press, rattling in her throat. So vocal, so vocal, and, again, she asks for, “More, more.”

It takes pumping him tip-to-base to kick him into gait, passing all pleasantries and sliding his middle and ring finger into her to the third knuckle. It’s the perfect angle, the perfect feeling of fullness, and the heel of his hand sits where she can ride it, rocking against him and trying to match the rhythm.

That’s a failing endeavor the moment he arches his hand, rubbing his thumb over her clit with pressure that’s all liquid gold, brushing against the sweet spot in her that makes her hackles raise, her pupils blow out, her sex clench.

The hand on his cock loses rhyme and reason, and she throws her knee over his leg to keep from squeezing her thighs together to impede him. Her hands are suddenly very stupid, not knowing where to go or what to do when he curls inside her, watching the stunning lines of his superb hand, wet with her slick in the palm, almost to the wrist—so shamefully wet.

Knuckles bending, tendons flexing, the veins on the back of his hand and the underside of his forearm standing in harsh relief against his skin—vascularity and vitality, and, shit-shit-shit, that has always been so attractive to her. Parts that are supposed to work and do, a body built the right way.

Fuck, it’s all firecrackers, and the taste of gold rings, and muscle knots coming loose. It’s his breathing, and his fingers, and his tongue laving over her pulse point. It’s her eyes crossing under her clamped-closed lids, and his name clenched savage in her teeth like a coin to buy passage into the afterlife.

Her orgasm drags her deep like undertow, blotting out all light and thought and feeling apart from gold, liquid gold, and throws her mercilessly back to shore, where she breathlessly giggles a hyena’s bark, still twitching on the fingers inside her.

Her hand’s wrapped around his wrist and he gazes with a look of drunkenness. “Wow.”

“Sorry, oh, hell, apologies for all that noise.” Might not be a pretty sight, trying to catch her breath after that cracked cacophony, but Julian shakes his head and grazes his teeth over her shoulder, a burning look in his eye when he tells her, “No-no, it’s called a hysterical paroxysm for a reason.”

The mournful moment she is empty of his hand—though she was the one that gently pushed him away—she spares no time nudging him onto his back. His hands don’t so much guide her hips as follow the path they take when she straddles him and snatches the mineral oil from the floor in a fluid motion.

Let it never be fucking said that she is one for inaction over gratitude.

One pause draws between them, her hand dripping on his stomach, poised over his member between them. The other cradles the base of his throat, thumb over the space his sigil lives, feeling every swallow. She waits until he meets her eyes, then breathes, “Please, take what you need from this—what you want. Ask for it. Will you do that for me?”

He studies her face, prodding the words around his mouth like worrying a broken tooth. “Yes, I can do that—for you. Since you asked so nicely.”

Oil-slick, her hand wraps around him, and her mouth is just in time to catch his groan like passing smoke.

All his little noises and movements, she commits to memory. Sometimes she’s frightened she’ll forget again. That this thing that has only recently begun to feel like living and breathing once more would be stolen a second time.

This is not something she wants to forget. He is not someone she wants to be twice a stranger to.

Rising off his pelvis, she maneuvers her wrist between her legs and encourages the bucking of his hips to fuck her hand. Clenching on the upstroke, loose going down, working the head with the slick loop of an index finger and thumb with a flicking wrist that leaves him near to simpering.

He slides under her camisole, rolls one of her still-sensitive nipples between his fingers, and groans in tandem with her when he finds the ring piercing it. He bucks into her hand so that she feels her last knuckle thunk his pelvis.

“What do you think of this?” she asks him, hoarse from ragged lungs. Her legs burn with the effort of keeping herself hoisted, neck tight from her dropped head watching him. “Have you ever imagined this?”

It is a croak, it is a whine, it is a declaration, “Sometimes—sometimes I—mm-MM—hah, I’d try to sleep, and—there you are!—traipsing in my thoughts like you own them. In the tea house—or theater—whatever-the-fuck, when you bit me? That ruined me—that’ll haunt me forever. I dream about your teeth.”

Quickly, she resituates between his knees. Hooks an elbow under one, hitching his leg up and away when she looms over him. His hand locks around her wrist, squeezing with urgency.

“Tell me what you’ve imagined of us? How you pictured our bodies coming together?”

His eye drops half-open, same as his mouth, halting little gasps escaping him. So undone, so pretty and wondrous. So damnably charming is the color flaming his ears and face.

Red as poppies. Red as velvet. Red as his hair.

She wants to wrap herself in the color and get lost.

There are people she’s come across that looked as though they were ripped out of statuaries, from the pages of illuminated text, but never has she ever seen someone like him—like the gods chose to breathe life into stained-glass. Vibrant, lovely, where the sun could shine through him and make him brighter and brighter if he’d the chance.

“You—we’re…we’re some place we’re not supposed to be—faster, please, please. Could you—could you grind against me?” he rattles, tremulous, everywhere and nowhere all at once. She obeys, thrusting against his ass and amping up the speed of her hand, her reward a strangled noise and his hands locking around the back of her neck for want of anchor.

He grinds out, “We’re not supposed to be there, a-and you—you want me to fuck you up against a wall—tell me how to move. I do good—so good, you’re so happy and twisted up and wet. Pulling my hair, kissing me, and tell-telling me I’ve done good, you’ll use your f-fingers on me next time, and—god, Eustacia, please.”

What bodice-ripping bullshit, she won’t be able to stop herself from thinking of it every time she masturbates.

He cums with a shout, shooting hot over her hand and his belly, legs bunching fiercely around her elbow and hip. She almost pulls away from his twitching cock, but he catches her, wrapping around her hand and continuing to stroke the last drops of seed from his body, even when his eye screws shut and his jaw goes tight with clenched teeth and whining.

When he relents, it is with a wince, taking breaths like a run-hard animal that’s found safety in shelter. He loosens, jaw mulling, eyelids going slack, knees and the rest of him turning to putty. Then, he begins to laugh. A small chuckle deep in his chest, escalating.

His hands travel up her arms and he just keeps honking this gut-busting laughter, eye squinted and watery. It’s so infectious, so invitational, bright and bubbly as champagne. She worries, amusedly and only for a sweet second before she joins him, that he will dissolve if he continues and she’ll have to sop him out of the blankets with a rag, bring that to Mazelinka’s in a few hours.

Here’s Julian, he’s much more slippery now, I’m afraid.

“Thank you,” he manages, smile cut so wide she can see his molars, “thank you.”

Eustacia climbs from between his legs and into the lifted arm he offers, accepting his hold around her hip as drapes happily and lazily over his thorax. “Thank you. What’re a few hysterical paroxysms shared among friends, anyway?”

Arms folded over the breadth of his chest, she rests her cheek on her hands, and lets her eyes drift closed. She can feel his heartbeat in her arms—through her heartbeat, too. For a few bars, they answer each other, thump – thump, until they come very close to syncing up with his fingers curling a pattern on her nape, one she can’t decipher.

Why he touches that spot so often and tenderly, she does not know. Why spare the sweetness? It doesn’t matter, she droops like a dog and turns into the touch, wanting more of it, wanting it everywhere.

“Would you humor me wondering what you’re going to do after all of this?” The sighed question is almost lost in a hard gust of wind against the wall, rattling the glass fierce.

After all this—after the masquerade, implying that he will dead or out of the picture, she thinks he means. Humor him, what a crock of shit. Might as well, and why not jerk him about at the same time.

His fourth question, and she lets him get away with it.

“I’m going to go on a long journey. I will find a hopeless place, and there I will fall in love.”

“Don’t let this sway your impression of me, but I always did take you for a romantic.” Another sigh, not so sad this time, and he lolls his head until he can make eye contact with her. “Where’s hopeless place of yours, anyhow?”

Maybe it’s the air between the fingers he curls against her neck.

She’s not going to tell him this. Already, he’s had his three questions, and snuck in a fourth, besides.

Instead, she drums her fingers against his collarbone and chatters, “Did you realize you sleep like a bird? Tuck your face under your wing, or someone else’s. Kept your head on my shoulder, my arm ‘round your face like you’d like to smother, and woke in my armpit.”

“Okay, okay. I get the hint,” he snorts, shaking his head with a smile. “…Do I really?”

+

“I know what my last question is!” he calls from behind the changing screen, popping his head up over the edge. “It’s a real barn-burner, too. Oh, you’re just going to love it.”

Running her hands over two ceramic mugs glazed over gold leaf, warming them with minor magic so their coffee isn’t piss-warm when poured, she scoffs, “You’ve had your three tonight, don’t go turning into a greedy, promise-breaking little bampot.”

Come to think of it, she’s certainly let him get away with four questions. She’s slipping.

“Like hell, my dear, I very distinctly only remember the two.”

“You can ask,” she concedes, tacking on a silent but I may not answer to the end.

He comes slipping back out into the kitchen with one of her wrap-skirts around his hips, eyeing the coffee press and the mug she promptly passes to him. There’s no modesty to him, invading her personal space while humming a toneless little tune, pressing his back against her as he pours himself a coffee, neat. “Here we go,” he says, now leaning his hip against the counter, sipping and hissing, “oh, that’s good.”

“Are you a morning person?” she accuses, righting the shoulder of her black silk robe.

“Hardly. The nap helped, and that was one hell of a ‘how-do-you-do,’ but I’m still borderline delirious.” He sucks his teeth and lowers the mug. “Third question—”

“Fourth.” Fifth, actually.

He plows on regardless, shit-eating grin on full-blast. “Do you ever give straight answers?”

Oh. Oh, that’s not even a question at all! That’s a fucking forgone conclusion! “How can I be expected to give straight answers, when I am such a deeply crooked person?”

“Two of a kind, hm? Rrrr! That’s why we ended up crossing paths—moths to flame, and all. Our sort has to stick together. The deeply crooked, I mean.”

She’s smiling a pinched smile that’s all sarcastic accusation and sincere agreement, just looking at him and trying to think of any snappy little zinger when it happens.

A coolness, a stillness, a calmness—it all slides over her shoulders and down her back like water. At once, she is sleepy and warm and unworried. She wants to go back to bed, and she wants him to come with her, even though they cannot.

“Are you staring at me? You’re staring. Is there—oh, shit,” he mumbles, checking his eyepatch. It’s still in place, and that’s how he finds it. He looks back to her, almost frowning in perplexity, but he goes a little slack and catches on, mouth curling into a bashfully pleased, disbelieving little twist. He wears this smile peering down into his mug.

For a moment, she is crushed with an ache deeper than blood or bone, more powerful than the hammer-strike landfall of a tsunami. I wish we’d found each other young, she thinks, we might never have been lonely.

His hand has moved, and so has his body. Closer to her, the tips of his last two fingers crawling over her craggy, inked knuckles, the cautious legs of a wary spider on uncertain ground.

This is it—the image of him that will be summoned to her when her thoughts lift his name to the surface, from not until the jumping-off point. Whether it finds them gray and bedridden in another hundred years, or in a sudden outpouring of blood and pain tomorrow, she will think Julian, and her mind will show her this:

He is tall and pale, thin through the waist and broad through the shoulders. He is barefoot on her warped floorboards, and he wears nothing under her clothes. A soft blush colors his cheeks and ears, and his lips are the same hue because of her kisses. He smiles, sweetly-sadly-softly, and he holds her hand.

Then, she thinks it.

She thinks it so quickly the words don’t have a chance to form out of the ether, but she is doomed all the same: a fool girl with fool notions, ten hundred questions, and not a single answer, who would not cry near so much as she does if she did not have them.

She will carry him in her heart.

She will carry him forever.

[emmaekay]

Kotonari - Chapter I, part two

AN: I am seriously sorry for the cliffhanger that I left 1-1 on. It was as much as I had the time to actually edit and stuff. Here is the conclusion of Chapter One - Birth, which I will now warn you, ends on another cliffhanger. I think I have a problem.

Again, Kotonari is a sequel to Keiyaku, and if you don’t read Keiyaku first, you’re gonna have a bad time. Here’s the Keiyaku Master Post with all the chapters for your catching up needs.

Chapter One – Birth – Part Two

Beri wrapped the babies up once more in snug and careful bundles of the softest cloth. Twins, yes, but no such twins had ever looked so different in all her years of caring for Saiyans, royal houses and more. 

The little Prince was fey and fair – his hair was the lightest lilac, his eyes were the same soft aubergine that Beri had witnessed in Bulma’s eyes during the strange ordeal that had been the antefasting battle. He was just 18 inches long, but his body was sturdy and he weighed a respectable 7.15 pounds. A stout little boy, with a voracious appetite and a boisterous voice – crying, cooing, even once growling – with soft lilac hair falling down around his ears & eyes in velveteen swirls. Despite the delicate coloring he’d inherited from his mother, it was clear that the boy got all his temperament from Vegeta.

The little Princess was just the opposite – nearly as dark as her father, and a quiet babe. The little princess would be taller, Beri thought, as she was already an impressive 24 inches long. She weighed about the same as her brother, but didn’t look nearly as rolly poly as the boy. Her hair was most properly Saiyan – a shock of black hair, rising up from her head in a distinct, sharp point.

The little prince and princess were beautiful – healthy, calm, sleeping bundles in their little bassinette in Beri’s room. Beri called them by their titles, and Daiku called them whelp or cub or princeling or little Saiyans. They both still believed that their mother should, and would, give them their proper names… soon, surely.

Beri clenched her fists at her sides after she laid the babies down once more after their halfnight feeding. She blamed herself for the way things were – what had she been thinking, leaving the estate with Bulma so close to birth? Why had she gone out after running that bath? She should have stayed right by Bulma’s side, right by the Prince’s side.

The Prince. Poor Vegeta. When Beri had burst through the door, she had thought that another miracle, like the one at the antefasting battle, was happening and she had wanted to make sure Vegeta wasn’t missing it. Instead, she’d walked in to a scene of such horror – the bathtub a bloody pool, Vegeta’s face drawn in terror, Bulma’s fair skin an ashen grey with her ki low like the last ember of a long cold fire.

She’d just run from the house, flying from the estate and up to the castle. She’d risked immediate execution when she burst through the tall glass window of the Queen’s private chamber, sending a spray of glass shards in every direction and finding her Queen’s hand around her throat. “Your son –“ Beri had choked out, and the Queen released her. “Your son and the Princess and the babies! Please, they need doctors and –“

Queen Pea threw Beri toward the chamber door. “Then get them!” And she flew out the smashed window herself toward her son’s estate. She refused to think, to entertain the fear’s nipping at the edge of her mind, to allow herself to wonder what could have sent that dressing woman into such a panic. Queen Pea stomped down her emotions, her questions, and she put a foot straight through the roof of the bathing chamber, sending stone and eaves crumbling to bits.

Pea had been Queen of all Saiyans for thirty four years  - she had fought at her husband’s side against the Cold empire, she had lead troops in bloody, horrific battles. She had seen limbs severed, entrails spilled, Saiyan men and women that she loved torn to pieces and their bodies worn by Cold soldiers as badges of honor. Pea had seen horrors. Pea had seen blood. 

And for the first time in her reign, she was grateful for these trials, because they prevented her from collapsing to the floor in tears and grief now. Bulma was in a pool of bloody water, laying like a corpse astride Vegeta’s legs, and she was nearly dead. Her son was frozen, clutching the two babes to his chest, tears streaming down his face in rivers that Queen Pea had thought long dry. She alighted next to the tub and gave her son a hard slap across the back of his wet head.

“How long will you sit there, Vegeta?”

Vegeta turned his face up to his mother’s, eyes wide and unblinking. “Mother, I – she just screamed and I ran in – I wanted to get you, I wanted to get a doctor but she just screamed and cried and th-“

“Vegeta.”

He stopped.

“She isn’t dead yet. Will you let her die?”

Vegeta snapped out of his shock and jumped out of the tub then, scooping Bulma’s cold and naked form out along with him. Her face pressed against the babies as they began to slide out of their little nest under Vegeta’s suit.

“Vegeta, the children!”

He tossed Bulma to his mother, a morbid hot potato, as he caught the little ones before they slid out of his suit entirely. He had never felt so clumsy, so ill-equipped, so stupid. He followed his mother silently out of the bathing chamber and into the bedroom he shared with Bulma. He watched, a thousand miles away, as his mother laid Bulma’s body onto the plush mattresss, dumbly pressing his children to his chest.

“Vegeta, bring something warm and cover her body.”

He moved robotically to a pile of clothing Bulma had tossed over a couch in their room. His mother gently stepped next to him and attempted to take one of the twins, to free his arms a bit. He found himself growling, snarling at his own mother as his grip on the child intensified. His ki began to flare out around him – he was losing control.

“Vegeta, let me help you,” his mother attempted to reason with him. To calm him. He crossed his arms over the children tucked once more securely into his suit, power radiating from him in waves as he continued to snarl wildly.

Then, suddenly, he stopped and fell to his knees – eyes hollow and closing. Queen Pea dropped with him, cushioning the impact for her grandchildren and removing them from their father’s desperate grasp. She looked up and into the eyes of her King and husband, still lowering his arm from the impact his elbow had made with the base of her son’s skull.

“Take them,” she said, standing fluidly and handing both the babes to their grandfather. “Your son was on the verge of losing himself, Vegeta.”

“My son? No, that’s your son. He inherited his wild, emotional side from you.” The King bounced the little royals in his arms. “Your father’s a madman, isn’t he, little warriors?”

“Tch.” Queen Pea rolled her eyes and pulled a few articles of clothing from the couch before heading over to the bed to bundle Bulma up against her nudity and the now drafty house. She dressed the girl’s unconscious form before piling the blankets over her. “The doctor?”

“Beri is rousing every doctor, nurse, medic, doula, serving woman and mother in Asket awake as we speak. I’m sure a host is inbound now.” The answer came from Daiku, standing unexpectedly in the doorway. “I felt her fear, and found her frantic, but she explained the situation... so here I am.”

“Daiku.” The King raised a brow in greeting. “What services does an arena warrior offer the crown at their medical need?”

“Not a medical one, sire, but one of honor. I came to collect Vegeta, who will be a nuisance at best and a liability at worst, as the doctors attempt to heal his woman.”

“He’s…” the King faltered.

“…resting.” Pea finished, “and even if he were not, he wouldn’t leave with you, Champion.”

“I propose a mission to distract him, and to heal her. The doctor that your highness the Queen sent for, the one with knowledge of the Saiyan Gemini who refuses pod travel? I propose that I take Vegeta to find, collect and return with the man. He and I are strong, fast flyers and can have the doctor back here within the day. His last transmission came from the city of Caarte, which is a week’s journey by foot.” Daiku glanced at the blue haired fair form on the bed. “I do not think we have a week.”

“Astute.” The King commented.

“And, I fear, correct.” The Queen admitted. “As it is, life supporting measures will have to be undertaken, and I doubt my body can sustain them for a week.”

“Your body?” The King bristled, “Absolutely not, Pea. I forbid it.”

“Oh, you do, do you? Fool.” The Queen’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing in anger. “Who else will I entrust my precious Princess-daughter to? Who else has the ki to sustain two lives? Who else has the knowledge? Shut your mouth and never again presume to forbid me anything.” The Queen spat, hackles raised and claws out. 

Daiku looked away nervously – no one liked to watch a married couple fight, but nothing could possibly be worse than watching your King and Queen in a marital spat over the dying body of your Princess as your Prince is passed out on the ground. “Shall I… take Vegeta and leave?”

The King sighed. “Yes, take him and make for Caarte. Best he should come to in the air and already on his mission.”

“And when he awakes, what should I tell him of the Princess Bulma’s condition?”

Queen Pea sat on the bed next to Bulma and took her hand. She breathed deeply, wrapping her own power in glowing bands around the sleeper’s form until she glowed faintly with the golden tint of the Queen’s ki. As power wrapped around them both, the Queen’s hair changed from raven black to finest gold, eyes changing from darkest ebony to brightest sky. There was no exertion, no uncouth exhibition of power – just her dignified sigh, her steady breathing, and a golden light that filled the room.

“Tell him,” the King began, “that his mother is using her secret power as the legendary Super Saiyan to link her ki and her lifeforce to Bulma’s – as life support until a healer can be found.”

Daiku’s eyes were wide, nearly falling out of his head in awe.

“Y-yes, my King.” Daiku bent and hauled the Prince up over one shoulder.

“And Daiku?” the Queen called, as the man made to leave the room. He paused, looking back over his shoulder at the radiant, golden Queen. “Perhaps this discovery you’ve made can be treated as need-to-know information?”

“I’ve made no discovery, my Queen.” Daiku said. “I will return with the doctor as quickly as possible.”

---

And so, when Beri returned to the estate, the King handed her the babes and bade her take them home with her to look after until their mother awakened or their father arrived home, whichever happened first. And although Daiku had arrived home with the little green doctor a week ago, Vegeta was not with him and Bulma was still not awake.

[notsugarandspice]

Spin for Me (Chapter 3)

Spin for me, I'll let my bruises do the talking. If you close your eyes, I'll disappear, but maybe not tonight. You're too good for this world, I won't save you.

Pairings: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier

Warnings: Angst, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Psychological Trauma

Previous chapters on ao3.

 There’s nothing but a nauseating dull pain when Richie wakes up the morning after his twenty-first birthday. His throat feels dry and bitter, the stale taste of alcohol and puke lingering on the walls of the esophagus. It’s a combination vile enough to send him running towards the toilet. The clear liquid hitting the water isn’t that astounding - anything that wanted to come out did so last night. Memories are a black haze, occasionally filled with snippets of the evening. Blue thong between tanned cheeks. Pink on brown. Stanley’s guffawing face. The green and red of street lights as they drove down Pine Tree Drive. His tears hitting the bottom of the tub. Plunk. Plunk. Stanley was long gone.

Richie doesn’t know how long he stays there, nausea slowly subsiding from the coolness of the toilet seat. He flushes lazily after several minutes, unable to stare into the repercussions of his own mistakes. He doesn’t get up right away, afraid that any movement would instantly trigger another vomiting fit. He thinks of how to go about the events of last night. How to talk to his friends about the importance of boundaries. How to tell his boyfriend that they just don’t work anymore.

His head eventually slowly lifts up as if on its own accord, his stomach producing terrifying sounds that can only mean hunger, but the last thing Richie wants is anything in his mouth. He pushes himself up from the toilet and stands in front of the sink, contemplating surging forward and smashing his head in the mirror. When has life gone to complete and utter shit?

Richie looks up, meeting the eyes of the ghost reflection of himself staring back. His skin is sickly pale, with a tint of purple green that people typically associate with things like mono, except he’s perfectly healthy. There are several broken blood vessels around the brown irises. The dark circles under his eyes have a deep red forming from constant insomnia and overwhelming stress. Last night was the first time he slept more than five hours in the past three years.

The acne on the hollows of his cheeks has gone into overdrive, feeding on lack of hydration. Richie bends down and splashes his face with cold water, rubbing it with amplified intensity. He opens the mirror to pull out one of Stan’s prescription scrubs and makes work of the tiny stinging beads, focusing on his cheeks. He’s supposed to leave in on for five minutes, but Richie decides to wash it off right away instead, caring very little about the long-term effects. He brushes his teeth quickly and spits out without rinsing, clinging to the relief that spearmint brings in lieu of a bitter taste in the back of his throat.

Richie walks to the dresser, rubbing his abdomen absentmindedly. He hasn’t eaten well in weeks, and it shows - his stomach isn’t just flat anymore, it falls in from lack of nutrition. He picks the red t-shirt with a little pocket on the right side, spraying a large amount of cologne all around, trying to avoid showering as long as possible. Someone undressed him the night before, and he feels fresh nausea hit the back of his tongue from the image of Stanley kissing his thighs after pulling the jeans off. He doesn’t know if it even happened, it might just be a recurring memory.

Pulling on a pair of old jeans he stumbles into the hallway, zipping up on his way to the kitchen. Richie just notices a fresh smell of coffee that clings to the entirety of the living room area. He rounds the corner to the kitchen and sees Stan sitting on the breakfast table, folded newspaper in hand. The ominous domesticity almost makes him vomit again.

Stanley lifts a finger motioning not to be disturbed, and Richie rolls his eyes. As if I wanted to fucking talk to you. He opens the fridge door, ignoring the pancakes resting on the large white plate, butter melted on top. He knows his boyfriend’s schemes through and back: he does some shit-fucked move, fucks up their night, and then apologizes with greasy breakfast and a blow job. Neither seems appealing to Richie, and he ignores the food, pulling out the milk carton to pour on top of his coffee.

He sits down next to Stan on the table downing half of the mug in one go. His boyfriend doesn’t even bat an eyelash, engulfed in another boring political article, sipping black coffee from the smallest mug in their kitchen. Richie wants to throw it against the wall.

“You going to say anything?”

Stan finally lifts his eyes, a very disinterested expression on his face. “What do you want me to say, babe?”

“Don’t call me that.” He knows I hate it. Why does he insist on doing things that make my skin crawl?

“I don’t have time for arguments if that’s what you’re here for.” Stanley’s eyes shift back to the article.

Richie’s entire body fills with rage so powerful he has to dig unkempt nails inside the heels of his hands. He’s done. Done, done, done, done. Done feeling like he doesn’t deserve better. Done being with someone who wants a submissive servant for a partner. He doesn’t want anything to do with this relationship anymore. It doesn’t just make him unhappy - he is downright miserable.

Richie grabs onto the newspaper and gets up from the chair, throwing it on the floor. Stan’s expression barely changes, and he looks back at his boyfriend with an amused leer as if he expected this to happen.

“I’m fucking done, do you hear me, Stan? I’m done with this shit!” Richie knows he probably looks like a stubborn child but his throat feels tight and tears are stinging his eyes. This has to happen. This SHOULD’VE happened a while ago.

“You say that every time. And every single time you come back.” Stan leans into his own palm, probably waiting for another outburst.

“I mean it this time. I’m not sticking around. You need someone who’s going to keep up with your shit and crawl around you like a dying puppy. I’m not doing that anymore.” Richie’s voice is cracking, disturbing sounds of his suppressed sobbing filling the small apartment.

“Look, why don’t you go have a walk, and we talk later? How does that sound?” Son of a bitch.

Richie puts his hand on the table, leaning towards Stanley’s face close to get the message across. “I. Said. I’m. Leaving. Got it?” His voice is ice cold. He shivers from it himself.

Richie turns around on his heel, his head pulsating from receding anger and relief that’s shooting through every inch of his skin. He’s done something that was in the works for a while. He did this. For himself. By himself. I don’t need him and his controlling fucking words, and his manipulative ass sitting on my breakfast table every morning. Fuck this.

He goes back to the bedroom to retrieve a jean jacket and put on his most worn leather boots. There are no sounds coming from the kitchen, the only noise is Richie’s heavy breathing and the shuffling of jeans. Since the car he usually drives is Stanley’s, he decides to take a taxi instead, devoid of a specific destination. He puts his hands into the pockets of the jacket, feeling for the wallet and cigarettes. The pack is there, completely empty, but not the other item. Richie furrows his brows and then closes his eyes in realization, an image of a dollar bill on top of the black glossy bar passing through the blackout haze.

Richie sighs heavily and strolls towards the front door in haste. He doesn’t even look at Stanley, but he can feel the judgmental eyes on him, causing his hands to shake on the doorknob. The smell of fresh coffee is soon replaced with the scent of a moldy carpet in the hallway, and Richie smiles.

Eddie feels awkward. He never feels awkward. The fingers holding the cigarette are shaking, ash falling down in his lap. The pressure with which he presses the breaks is irregular, and both he and the passenger are flung forward at every red light. But he doesn’t hear the man complain as they drive around in silence, smoking, smooth rock music coming through the old speakers of the Toyota.

He’s never had anyone in this car before. It was his ma’s. He can’t afford a new one, and it fell into his hands after Sonia’s death, along with the house and anything else she owned. He sold the house a month later, and the rest of her belongings were sent to his aunt who he never held contact with. What do you mean, Eddie? Sonia would never touch you that way. Baby, she probably wanted to make sure you don’t have a disease. You know how the fags in your town are. He wants to vomit.

Eddie eventually pulls over to the bar on Collins Ave, parking in two spaces to make sure that nobody scratches the doors of the car. He can’t afford to patch it up. He looks over to the man in the passenger seat, taking a moment to observe him briefly. He sees somewhat a reflection of his own exhaustion on the other’s face. Brown-eyes’ hair is greasy, sticking to the top of his head, there are slight burns on his cheeks that Eddie recognizes as the acne medication. When their eyes meet, Eddie’s heart clenches at the raw misery and pain reflected in the dark chocolate. He knows that look. It watches him in the mirror every morning.

Look at this, Eddie, you found another victim. Why don’t you hit him? Hit him now and see if he runs. Maybe the pain won’t scare him. Maybe it will take him longer than the other. Maybe he even likes it.

His eyes start burning with approaching tears and Eddie steps out of the seat, quickly rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of the jacket. He hears the door creak and knows that the man got out of the car but he can’t lift his head from the crook of the elbow, afraid of his own mind.

“Hey, you okay?” asks the man quietly, and his voice is very close, Eddie guesses he’s standing right in front of him.

He finally lifts his head and squints a little, even though the stranger is conveniently obscuring the smoldering October sun, hanging mid-sky. The temperature rarely ever drops below eighty here. Eddie smiles in response to the warm voice, and he doesn’t want to feel as safe as he does. He doesn’t deserve to be safe.

“Yeah... um, I’m good.” Brown-eyes smiles, sunlight framing the thick black hair, and Eddie can’t help but want to know everything about him, against better judgment. I thought I’d never see you again. I thought you’d be nothing but a daydream.

Eddie starts walking towards the glass door of the bar, and there’s a typical jingly noise when he opens it, signifying their entrance. The whole place reeks of cheap whiskey and tobacco but it reminds Eddie of the club, and he instantly relaxes. It’s not sickly sterile. I hate sickly sterile.

They walk towards the orangey oak bar, taking a seat right in the middle. It’s too early in the day for anyone else to be here but Mike used to work at this joint, and it makes Eddie feel sheltered.

A bartender is in the back, and Eddie leans over the counter, grabbing a random tequila bottle. He makes a ‘that’ll do’ expression upon reading the label and leans downward again, snatching two shot glasses between his fingers. The man sits quietly next to him, looking over the small wooden pieces hanging on top of the bar top with beach paintings on them. He seems genuinely interested, and Eddie smiles at the smallest glint of shine in the other’s eyes. Eddie thinks he deserves to smile more.

“You okay with this?” Eddie pushes a full shot towards the man. His expression seems unreadable at first, something dark flashing in front of his eyes but then it’s gone, and he downs the tequila in one go.

“Yup,” says the man, popping the last letter and smiling wider than Eddie has ever seen. Eddie’s heart jumps straight to the back of his throat.

He downs his own shot, feeling the dull warmth spread somewhere in the middle of the chest. He sighs in relief and instantly refills them.

“So, are you going to tell me what you were doing there yesterday?”

The man seems taken aback for a second, confusion crossing over his features and then his mouth becomes an understanding ‘O’.

“My friends wanted me to have fun, I guess. I’m not a club person at all. Everyone thinks so, but I’m not.” Eddie just now notices how young the other’s voice is. His looks scream thirty, but his innocence is all teen. But Eddie knows how unforgiving outer layers can be. You’d know all about it, won’t you, Eddie?

He clears his throat to respond, pushing the lump further down. “Why did you let them?”

“What?” asks brown-eyes, downing another shot.

“Drag you there. You don’t seem like someone who can be taken anywhere against his will.” Eddie’s eyes trailed up and down the man’s body quickly.

Brown-eyes laughs and Eddie honest-to-god wants to jump him right there. “Looks can be deceiving. I’m tall, but I weigh practically nothing. All bones.”

“Bones are heavy.”

The man grins and pushes the shot glass towards Eddie. He notices how long and bony the other’s fingers are. Eddie feels goosebumps cover his forearm. “Are you a nurse by day?”

Eddie snorts, filling the shots again. “Definitely. I’m all about helping the needy.”

There’s a long stretch of silence, and Eddie turns to see what caused a delayed response. The man sits there and just stares, searching all over Eddie’s face, then looking lower. Eddie feels his knee twitch as the stranger’s eyes get stuck on the hole there.

He nervously pushes the shot in the other’s direction but the man doesn’t move, fingers tapping against the bar in contemplation. “Gonna tell me your name?”

Eddie can’t help but smile. And he wants to, really does but he also wants nothing more than to protect this wonderful, young man from himself.

“Not yet. Why don’t you tell me about that boyfriend of yours.”

The man’s face contorts, and Eddie sees the jaw clench irritably. He wants to say that he regrets saying it but everything about last night intrigues him. Everything about you. I want it all.

“How did you know?” asks the stranger, downing another shot with an empty void in his eyes.

“He seemed like he didn’t want to let you out of his sight.”

“Yeah, he suffers from those tendencies,” says the man and his voice is strained and final, but Eddie wants to hear anything and everything. Press, press, press.

“Tendencies?”

Brown-eyes pauses for a second as if composing himself. “Manipulative.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Eddie decides to give him a break. He’s never too afraid to ask a personal question but the last thing he wants is to make this man uncomfortable.

The guy is sitting in complete silence, shoulders slouched and face staring at the empty shot glass and Eddie is about to ask if he stepped over the line when the bartender enters the room. Eddie instantly recognizes him, along with the distinct reek of a drunk man. Polly has always been like that - careless and generally very bad at his job.

Eddie quickly realizes something and is about to stop the bartender from talking, but it’s a losing battle with someone drunk at eight in the morning. “Polly-“

“Eddie! What a fuckin’ riot! Can’t believe you’re here this early in the day. Aren’t ya a night owl?” screams the bartender, leaning on the counter right in front of them.

Eddie hasn’t blushed in years, but he must be now - he feels his entire body burning. He’s secretly hoping that the man didn’t catch the name and turns his head carefully. The guy’s face is nothing short of pure fascination: mouth open, eyes wide and black eyebrows raised almost to the hairline. Eddie’s face drops into his hands.

“Fuck me sideways! I know your name now!” Eddie laughs into his hands and looks back at the man who is still grinning, cheeks flushed and eyes a little glassy. Shit, you’re gorgeous.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait a second. How come you have a client this young?” asks Polly, looking over the man darkly. Eddie suddenly wants to shield brown-eyes from view.

“He’s not a client, P.” Eddie really doesn’t want to elaborate on the implications of that word. He already senses confusion coming from the stranger.

Before the conversation gets out of hand, he pulls out a stack of cash and smacks two worn twenties on the counter. He nods towards the door and starts walking, waving goodbye to Polly. Polly works a lot with clients too. But he also doesn’t use protection, so Eddie hurries out in case the stranger is more inebriated than he looks.

Brown-eyes follows Eddie, and they both end up leaning on the car, lighting the last pair of menthol sticks that make the suffocating humidity somewhat manageable. Eddie stands in silence, simply enjoying the other’s company. He is pleasantly buzzed, feeling even more so when the nicotine spreads itself through his darkened lungs. Thoughts of his father come rushing back, and Eddie feels another episode of choking fear of death come back. But he’s not even sure he’d mind it. Dying. He’s inflicted so much pain, enough so that if hell and heaven were real, Eddie knows where he’d end up.

He feels eyes on him, and he turns to look at brown-eyes. There is some color on his face now, on both of their faces, and it makes for a nice change. Eddie doesn’t feel so empty anymore. The stranger is smiling smugly, and it makes the soles of Eddie’s feet tingle. He doesn’t want this to end. I don’t want to let you go, but I have to. I know I have to. I’m like a sleeping volcano. And you’re Pompeii.

“Hey, so I was thinking-“

“You do that a lot,” says Eddie giving the man a wink. He feels a smile tugging the corners of his mouth, and there’s something beating the inside of his stomach. It’s all too unfamiliar.

Brown-eyes laughs and Eddie’s eyes water instantly from the gratifying sound. “Right that. It’s unhealthy, I think. Nothing good happens when I do.”

“Same here.” Eddie smiles warmly, the muscles of his cheeks already used to the novelty of sensation.

“Are you hungry? There’s a nice Mexican place next to my office. We could eat there. Should open at nine.”

Eddie wants to ask him about the job. And why in the fucking hell a guy like him, with charisma and heart of gold works a stuffy 9-5. But getting to know him more might cause Eddie to get attached. And that absolutely cannot happen. No, Eddie, attachment leads to commitment and we all know you can’t do that. You can’t even commit to the same cigarette brand. Piece of fucking shit.

Eddie swallows the malevolent voice down and forces a smile. “I actually have a lot to do. I can drop you off home if you want.” Fuck. No. Bad idea, Eddie. You can’t know where he lives. Come pounding on his door begging to be loved. You can’t be loved. Piece of fucking shit.

“Oh… Okay. Um… Sure.” The disappointment in the man’s voice is as clear as the bright blue sky above them. Eddie suddenly feels the stifling heat approaching midday slowly but surely, and he wants to get indoors. The alcohol is making him sweat, so he finishes the cigarette, throwing it close to the storm drain without stopping. He takes off the jacket, feeling the tingling of burning UV light on his forearms. Brown-eyes is watching him, cigarette long gone, his hands in the pockets of dark jeans. Eddie wants to take them off right there in the parking lot. Take his skin off as you go. You’re good at hurting people.

Eddie blinks back another rising hysteria and leans on the car in front of the man, stepping closer. He can smell the unmistakable sticky sweat that’s not entirely unpleasant, a scent of strong, cheap liquor and expensive cologne. Smell of a man. It makes Eddie’s mouth water.

“Are you going to tell me your name?” He shouldn't ask, really shouldn’t. But he wants to know everything. God, everything.

The stranger smiles nervously, his eyes darting between Eddie’s eyes and lips. Eddie feels the tension resonate in his groin like a shockwave. It’s an avid reminder of how long it’s been since he’s been with someone he wanted.

“I guess you’d have to make me a promise that I’ll see you again.” Eddie’s hand involuntarily goes to the man’s chest, and it rests there, feeling a speedy heartbeat. It matches the punching of his own ribcage perfectly. It’s terrifying. There’s an intake of breath and Eddie is afraid to look at the other’s mouth. He might lose it.

“Sure,” he answers and puts the hand away. It feels cold and empty now.

He gets into the driver’s side and starts the car after a couple of tries. Brown-eyes gets in almost a minute later. Eddie wouldn’t blame him if he just walked away.

The man guides them back to his place, pointing the long bony finger in the direction of the correct turns and exits. Eddie’s eyes linger on those limbs longer than appropriate, and the stranger probably notices. A sweet strawberry redness covers his cheeks charmingly, and Eddie wants to press his lips to the color. They finally pull up to a five-story apartment building in a good neighborhood. Eddie saw a crowd of girls on the street corner so he might be wrong. The man gets out instantly and leans on the open window.

“I’m not going to live here anymore. Gotta find a place to crash. Can I see you some other time?” There is an alarming amount of hope in his voice that makes Eddie’s chest tight.

“Your boyfriend wouldn’t mind you hanging out with me?” Eddie wants to be closer. He doesn’t even care about the boyfriend.

“Nada. Kinda useless to ask for someone’s permission when you’re not theirs anymore.” The man nods towards the building and Eddie connects the dots. He said it as if he’s some sort of property.

Eddie’s palms are sweating where they’re clasped in front of him, and he wants to hold the stranger’s cold ones. Brown-eyes straightens and fishes for something in the pocket of his jeans. He takes out a business card and reaches it out for Eddie to take.

RICHARD TOZIER

Sales Associate

(305)676-9988 ext. 667

Eddie smiles at the name, something pounding the inside of his tightened throat. The logo of some nonsensical company is on the back, and so is the address of the office. It’s too much and too little information all at once. Eddie leans over to the passenger seat and waves the card in front of him, smiling.

“Thanks.” Richard, Richard, Richard, Richard. Rich.

“Okay, well, I’m not gonna lie. I don’t ever sit at my desk, but I’m gonna now. Please call.” Rich slaps a palm on top of the car and strolls to the main door. He bends down to wave before he goes in and Eddie starts driving several minutes later, tears slowly rolling down his face.

Three months will pass until he sees Richard Tozier again.

[cosmiccornersav]

How to dye your hair the natural way!

Henna is an ancient and holy material that has touched almost every culture but saw particularly heavy use in Asia and Africa. It is a natural dye made from the Lawsonia Inermis plant that stains clothing, hair, and skin a rich, orange-brown.

If you want shiny, strong, naturally colorful and healthy hair- henna is your best option! 

Recipe, tips, tricks, pics, and FAQ below the cut! 

You can get a range of colors and shades from the dye depending on your natural hair color and texture and the blending of indigo (for darker shades) or cassia (for lighter shades). Always sift your henna before use and try to purchase in bulk from reputable and local sources. Not sifting your henna can mean you might find little twigs and rocks in your shower… so it’s worth doing.

To obtain a natural brunette color, use an equal mixture of indigo and henna. Pure indigo gives you a nice blue-black color and pure henna is firey orange. Pull some hair out of your hairbrush and do some test samples of mixes to get the perfect color for you! Cassia powder does not dye the hair but will give you some amazing benefits.

DO THE THING

Alright! Now for the fun part… ready for my top secret specialty never-fail Henna Brew recipe?

Wing it. Yeah, that’s right- just stare into your spice cabinet and have fun… as long as you have…

-Something acidic. This can be tea, lemon juice, wine, or beer- just make sure it’s strong and it makes up the majority of your liquid. This is what gets the dye to release.

-Henna (and/or indigo and/or cassia) powder

And that’s it for the requirements! Now, here’s a list of my favorite additions

-Brew your tea with dried rosemary- it’s so good for your hair!

-Tea tree oil helps break up clumps in the mixture and acts as a preservative

-Clove oil smells great but please only use 2-3 drops, it’s strong!

-Hibiscus can give you a boost of red but it only lasts for about a week.

-I like to boil my tea with an anise star because I’m a STAR. It’s witchcraft.

-You could put honey or sugar in it to make it gloopier… might stay on your hair better

-Lavender in the tea!

-The bones of your enemies make perfect stir sticks

-Olive oil, coconut oil, or shea butter can all be added into the mix to soften your hair but it will definitely not give you quite as much dye release. If you just want a tint then go for it! Lush’s henna bars contain a lot of shea butter and therefore don’t give you an intense color but they do make your hair feel amazing. Personally, I’m cheap so I just make it from scratch.

Now, slowly add in your liquids and mix until it’s the consistency of yogurt. Once it’s nice and gloopy (there’s that damn word again), cover it tightly (plastic wrap will do but if you can get your hands on it use bees wrap!), set it in front of a window and let it stew for 12 hours while the dye releases. This is the hardest part… remembering to make your dye the night before.

Dye day!

Okay, get some gloves on to protect your precious fingers from Orangeness and dig in! You might want to save a little Brew to add in at this point- you want it fairly liquidy so you can easily spread it through your hair. Start at the roots and work your way out, covering your whole head with henna! Once you look like a swamp monster, wrap some plastic wrap and a towel around your head and binge watch The Handmaids Tale on Hulu for 2-4 hours (If you’re really into the show you can leave it in your hair for up to 8 hours before you GET SOME SUNLIGHT). The longer you leave it, the darker brown it will get. Sweet spot for me is usually 3 hours. Wash it all out with water and conditioner only DON’T SHAMPOO. Listen, I know you like to be clean, I do too, but please don’t shampoo this time. Just enjoy your hair being silky soft and healthy. You can shampoo tomorrow.

The color will be quite a few shades brighter for the first 3-4 days and then it will settle into the color it will be FOREVER. Yes, folks that’s right. Henna doesn’t fade. Not even a bit. The sun might lighten it like it will anything but under normal conditions your hair will never ever change color again until it grows out. Bless.

FAQ

Why does henna make hair healthier?

Unlike commercial chemical dyes, henna binds to each strand of hair and strengthens it naturally. You may even notice the difference in individual strand thickness! Henna (as well a indigo and cassia) can eliminate split ends, enhance shine, and add volume.

Can I use any henna?

Use the best quality, finest henna you can get your hands on. Never buy pre-mixed henna as it can contain dangerous terps and is often meant for body art only. Henna will naturally range from bright green to beigish-green and smells like freshly cut grass. The greener and more fragrant the henna, the fresher it will be!

Can you be allergic to henna?

Most people aren’t, but always do a patch test and make sure you don’t have a reaction. The biggest cause for concern is what you put into the henna to release the dyes. Be careful when using essential oils- they’re stronger than you’d think! and be smart with your other ingredients. There is no shortage of henna brew recipes on the internet to choose from! Some even involve hard candies, wine, and cayenne pepper! And… do me a favor. If you plan to use your henna to dye your Special Hairs… do not put cayenne pepper in it. Learn from my horrible, horrible mistakes.

Can you use chemical dyes over/under henna?

Ehhhhh I’m going to give this one a big fat “At your own risk”. I’ve personally done it a few times with no adverse effects but oh the horror stories I’ve read. Spot Test! Also, dyes do not work very well over henna because most of your hair strand is already full of henna so often the dye won’t even take.

Will henna stain my skin/tub?

Yes. Yes it will. If you’re really concerned lube up your skin around your hairline with hair conditioner and wash out your tub immediately (or just jump in the ocean to get the henna out- that always works!)

Will henna stain my-

YES

Stainless steel?

Wait no, you’re safe there. That’s the only thing it won’t stain.

How do you know all this? SOURCES??

I’ve been a henna-head since freshman year of highschool which was... oh god it was 8 years ago. I’ve dyed my hair every 2 months since then with this green gloop. You learn things. 

Alright, now go forth and be beautiful, Goddesses!

Love and light, Laura Loup <3