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musouie · 1 month ago

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃-𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐀𝐖𝐍 ⋮ 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒

broadcasting announcement ⋮ the annual purge begins

DDDNE ⋮ toji fushiguro x fem!reader, explicit violence, gore, fear, purge au, reader in her 20s ﾉ toji in his 30s, attempted murder, bondage, referenced cannibalism, sadism wc: 8.5k

anthology masterlist . . . 𓅨 . . . ao3 version

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 was a smothering hush that only ever came before the Purge. That brought with it something primaeval — perverse and cunning — that slithered through the acrid air of the city.

You could almost taste it — hidden in the metallic twang on your tongue — the bloodlust, the horror...the desire. It came to you in flashes — caused your flesh to prickle and pull itself taut as you pictured an axe through your boss’ head, the bit lodged clean between his eyes as his body crumpled like a ragdoll, brain matter fanning out by your feet. Clinging to your shoes. Staining your trousers.

It was grotesque and inhumane and bestial (and oh-so-relieving), but that was what it always did. Corrupted then soothed. Infected then lingered. In the back of your skull, the spaces between your fingers, the tip of your tongue —

— until you thickly swallowed. Tried to force it down; render it inert. Store it where all the other ugly things hid. (By now they’ve coalesced with each other. Formed a monstrous fusion of rotten flesh, weeping boils, black tar.)

But this… this was much more potent. More restless. With jagged edges and serrated claws and a syrupy scent that quickly turned sour as you tried to force it down the velvety walls of your throat, phlegm bubbling from the roof of your mouth. It needed to be known, known, known — like an ill-tempered child that hadn’t gotten its way, pulling and tugging, beating its fists against your insides until you bled.

So, you swallowed again. And again and again, until you could feel it begin to burn, burn, burn — like flames from a dragon’s maw — down your throat, warming your belly, and scorching up your oesophagus as it howled with its brethren. Subdued, for the moment, but eager and clawing. (Scratching at flesh, peeling skin back. Where all the other ugly things hid.)

When your lips parted in a sigh, your tongue passed over the backs of your teeth to swipe at the residue — ensure none was left behind.

And none was left, thankfully. No savoury remains lodged between canines and molars. No tinge of metal nor sharp sting of tang.

...Nothing.

Now, the only things to fear were those who could not so easily resist. That revelled in the taste — the sourness of it, the relief of it, the depravity of it — shamelessly. That drank in the screams and the terror as though they were the finest of wine, rich and deep, so rare they chose to exploit it:

…The weaker of man —

the purgers.

In the corner of your dim apartment, your dingy radio sputtered to life, broadcasting a morose, wailing tune before a scratchy voice began speaking through the crackling:

“In 5 minutes time,” it warbled, excitement evident even through the fissures in the signal. The buzzing, the low rumble, like the hum of bees swarming close and waiting to pierce skin and tear into muscle.

“I repeat, in 5 minutes time, the nation’s citizens will begin their annual purge, commencing the release of all tensions, frustrations, and violent urges deemed socially and criminally taboo. Caution: once the purge begins, all services — including police, fire, and emergency-medical — will be unavailable. All emergency services will re-operate when the purge ends.

May the odds be ever in your favour.

Happy purging to one and all.”

Happy Purging, happy purging, happy purging.

Happy… purging?

A scowl marred your face as the static petered out, silence trickling back in with the lack of audio to fill the absence. There was nothing happy about the Purge. Couldn’t be…no matter how prettily they tried to wrap it. (Red ribbon and all — bruised, foetid flesh at the centre, straining against its garnish as it was bound tight.)

To dress it up and water it down — turn the carnage, the destruction, the sheer, animalistic violence into something that didn’t crawl along the underside of the tongue (up the spine, through the marrow), into a time for unwinding, a time of excitement, celebration — was despicable. Made you sick. Turned your stomach into writhing maggots and your throat to dried clay.

Your teeth grinded together as you checked the barrel of your pistol, slamming the magazine in with more force than what was probably necessary, on the verge of grating your teeth to dust. The metal whinged quietly, a high-pitched sound that soon gave way to a muffled groan when you holstered it at your hip, shrugging on a faded grey hoodie that was a size too large, frayed and bunched awkwardly about your wrists.

You then padded across the scuffed floor, heavy soles of your combat boots thudding mutedly across the wood as you made your way to your bed, snatching up a hunting knife you kept underneath your mattress. Carefully, you slipped it into your boot, nestled between leather and your lamb’s wool socks. Safe. Warm. Hidden . Like a babe in the womb.

And just like a babe in the womb, the blade would eventually be drawn forth, umbilical cord severed, and would be set loose. From one darkness to another of a different kind.

(Where all the ugly things hid.)

With a final cursory glance around your small apartment, you flicked off the light switch, plunging the room into darkness as the siren sounded.

As if summoned, shadows seeped and formed. Intruded and flocked to each other as they always did, like greedy crows fed one too many times.

They crept forward, licking at the shabby, moth-eaten rug, and the rusted, bent, broken pipes that snaked across the ceiling, and the cracked, peeling paint on the walls. And then they moved to you, as if compelled. As though they’d just sniffed you out and couldn’t resist a bite.

They writhed and twisted and contorted, stretching their long, bony wisps-for-fingers out towards you. Beckoning, calling, crooning :

Come. Come. Come.

A poorly veiled request, but you saw it for what it was. A demand.

Long, inky fingers crawled across the room, dragged themselves down the walls, grabbed for you and quivered with anticipation.

Come. Come. Come.

But the lone source of light from beyond your window, seeping through the yellowed blinds, seemed to stop them short. Caused them to screech and fizzle and sear as they ghosted near where you were. Repulsed.

Outside, the sky had split open into nothing but the reds, oranges, and violets of hellish flames as the sun began to sink. As its rays trickled in one by one, the shadows shrank away, slinking back into the corners and the crevices and the cracks and the fissures and the holes and the tears.

(And the spaces between your fingers, and the tip of your tongue, and the back of your skull.)

And then finally…you heard the screams. The dreaded, dreaded screams.

The Purge had finally begun, and the beast had stirred.

You were now a mix of the most peculiar kind.

Half woman, half chair. Meshed and moulded and sewn with the worn wood of the seat, the armrests, the legs. Your spine curved in a similar manner to the back of the chair, and your arms were fused by sweat to the rests. Your elbows were locked and your wrists limp, clothed legs weaved into the wooden ones of your perch, right down to the toes.

Perhaps that was why you couldn’t feel a thing below your waist. No creeping tingles in your calves, nor a dull throb in your toes from the nippy autumn air, or even the lancing ache of having sat in one spot for a good couple of hours now.

Just… nothingness …

To stay like this was no good. You knew . You’d have to move eventually — whether by force or mere survival. (Like how birds flocked south, or deer bolted when a twig snapped, or mice scurried to corners, or frogs fled to ponds. Anything to get out of the chair, and out of the chair, and out of the chair.)

But you couldn’t move.

Refused to.

Somehow, you convinced yourself that the moment you rose, if only an inch, the monsters would come. They would smell the fresh blood pumping through your veins, the adrenaline, the fear, the fight . And they would descend upon you, ripping you limb from limb, tearing the meat from your bones, feasting on the innards, and leaving you a hollowed husk.

A shell of what once was.

A blood-curdling scream pierced the air, and you flinched . Torso violently jerking to the side as your head moved with it, legs still tethered, arms rigid. The cries grew in their intensity the farther along they drifted, until they were shrieking. Raw and untamed and enraged , and the only thing louder was the boom-crack of a gun firing.

Yes ...you were much safer here. In the chair, in the chair, in the chair. Where even Rationality could not touch you. (After so long, it hardly ever tried.)

So in the chair you took root, like a stubborn mutt clinging to its master, unwilling to part. And in the chair your fingernails dug, leaving jagged crescent moons which left your flesh raw and stinging and throbbing . And in the chair you remained, situated between the window and your door, (between certain death) and waited. Listened.

And waited.

And listened.

And waited.

And listened.

Ignoring the slight pressure building in your bladder.

Your ears strained, trying to pick up any sound: the scrape of a shoe, the rustle of clothing, the click of a gun. It’d be comical, in almost any other situation, how desperate you were to hear a sound. Anything . How desperate you were for the presence of another.

But there was nothing . Only the steady drip, drip, drip of the leaky tap in your kitchen, and the rustling of leaves as their shadows swam across your walls.

You pressed your thighs together.

It was tantalisingly slow, the water, how it seeped from the pipe, hung precariously — for seconds, hours — before eventually relinquishing its hold. A single bead trickling down, down, down the smooth mouth of your sink. Another then following. A second. A third. Each one stacking themselves atop the last like ants until the stream began in earnest.

The stream. Yes, the stream. You couldn’t help but notice it. Hone into it.

Its trickle became a gentle swell, and the gentle swell a rushing torrent — as if taunting, rubbing salt into a festering wound as the pressure against your bladder worsened. Begging you to rise, rise, rise and quell it, make it disappear.

It was a battle that lasted but a matter of moments, and one which you lost with ease, the discomfort and desperation finally outweighing the fear of discovery. (And the madness and the hysteria and the terror.)

You stumbled forward on shaky legs, aching limbs trembling at every step, a dull ringing filling your ears, drowning out any and all sound.

Except for the dripping.

The dripping, the dripping, the dripping.

You gripped onto anything you could as you dragged your anchors for legs across the floor, a tingling sensation peppering itself throughout your toes — your calves, your knees, your hips. A tickle at first, but soon enough, a sharp ache. A pain so excruciating, you were certain you would have screamed.

Drip, drip, drip.

With each step the drops grew harsher, sharper. No longer water but pellets of lead, bludgeoning against the drain as they tore down the steel. An avalanche; a horde. One after the other until they drowned the leaky faucet whole.

Drip, drip, drip.

It strung you along, fish to bait through the murky water, hooked itself straight through your bottom lip, past the molars, and back through the cartilage of your jaw. But even with the hooks and barbs, it wasn’t forceful. It didn’t need to drag you to it, but only led, waiting, trusting — its stream ever-widening into a sea, the staccato thrum turning into a symphony of rolling, crashing waves as you reached the sink.

You were so close. So, so close, you nearly trembled, nearly sobbed.

And—

A light push was all it took for the sea to cease. For it to go silent. It did not trickle, no. Its end was instantaneous. (A brush of fingers against steel. And then a squeak. A squeal. A screech. Dwindling to a creak as it fell silent.)

—Then,

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Your brows furrowed as you heard the drops sound once more. Hand still on the head of the faucet, you pressed down. Once, twice. The faucet was shut tight … so just what was that sound?

It changed the next time you heard it. One hesitant drip and two loud ones, bordering on that of a bang. You padded around your apartment, making sure to listen keenly. Hoping the monster didn’t follow the sounds of your footfalls, nor the pound of your heart, and instead, focused on the drips. On that incessant drip, drip, dripping —

You turned a corner.

— or the bang, bang, banging —

The sounds seemed stronger towards the front of your apartment. Past the guest bathroom, down the hallway, and…to the door?

— or the knock, knock, knocking.

...Knocking.

So close now, you finally realised what the sound was. And all that it wasn’t. Three quick knocks sounded again — more aggressive this time. Panicked. And after gnawing on the inside of your cheek, scraping at gum and flesh and veins, you relented — moving closer and craning your neck to peer through the peephole.

There were no eyes (white or dead or hollow) that greeted you; no sharp canines or silver claws or black tendrils; no miasmic smoke or smoky musk or any form or any colour at all.

It was just a woman .

A red woman — no . A woman drenched in red. The difference was palpable, almost to a ludicrous degree. While her clothing could very well have been a deep scarlet, or even brown, you knew — felt — the way it clung to her body: her skin, the gory bits. Knew the deep scarlet was as she would remain for all time, the bright and the red, because they were hers . Not the clotted, smeary crimson on your door, not the viscid red that slopped against wood with a wet schluck — but the viscid red which smeared her hands.

All her burden to bear.

“P-Please help!” she cried, as though she knew your eyes roamed over her. Curiously, warily. “My son…” She trailed off; opened her mouth a few times before closing it and frowning.

You watched as she attempted to compose herself, tucking her trembling lip behind her teeth and clenching a fist that no doubt smeared her wound an even deeper shade of crimson.

She was shaking. Trembling like a newborn foal. And through her fingers, and the gushing and gore, her lips peeled back, revealing white, jagged teeth, her breaths haggard as tears carved rivulets through the mess of it all.

As they trailed down her cheek, down her chin, down her neck.

Smearing, smearing.

(Staining.)

“T-They hurt my son…my —” Her voice cracked, a porcelain bowl to tile. “— my Johnny.” She pounded her fist against your door once more, and you briefly wondered how they weren’t bloodied. Down to a pulp. The bone. “I know you can hear me!” She tiptoed between hysteria. “P-please. He’s so young — doesn’t have much more time left. I-I can’t see my baby die. God , I don’t wanna see my baby die.”

Her head hit the wood of your door with an ungracious thump, as did her arm; a solid, decisive, finalisation to her words. One which almost forced you to respond, to crack your door a tad and peer through, if only to check whether her forehead remained intact. If only to assuage yourself with a pat on the back when it was.

“Please…” She croaked. “Please.”

Her hands slunk to the handle sluggishly, as though she did it in a state of near unconsciousness. When she tried turning it and felt the lack of give, she simply didn’t seem fazed. Instead, she whimpered, her forehead sliding down until her face was pressed against the cool, unforgiving metal — eyes squeezed tightly, brow screwed in concentration.

“My boy. My little Johnny. Please, my Johnny. I’m begging you…”

“It’s��the Purge, ” you finally whispered, albeit harshly, scolding her in what you thought was a subtle way.

She seemed shocked at first, that someone truly stood on the other side of the door, that she hadn’t been talking futilely to herself. But so quickly, as she registered your words, her expression melted into one of anguish, the tremor in her lip quickening.

“I kn-know it is,” she rasped. “B-but he’s dy—!”

“— It’s the Purge.”

She begun to wail. “Do you have no heart? My only son is –” there was a gurgle, like she was choking on the blood and phlegm that’d gathered in her mouth. “– dying! Have some humanity… s-some mercy! That’s all I ask.”

You scowled. She’d asked for so much more and didn’t even realise it, or perhaps didn’t care for it, for what you’d sacrifice if you opened the door. Something so irreplaceable, that you were content with playing the monster she so desperately tried to make you out to be. The monster she couldn’t recognise in herself.

“Where is your son?”

Her face shot up, eyes dancing. There was a twitch in the muscle beneath them; a jolt, a quiver, and soon they widened. “He’s just down the corridor, i-in our apartment a few doors down. I couldn’t touch him, couldn’t bring him, h-he was bleeding so much, I-”

“You left him there, unguarded and alone?”

“N-No! I’m protecting him.” Her eyes were wild now. Desperate. “A-Always, from the minute he was born. I’ve been a good mother. I ha- I have. I-I’d do anything to protect my Johnny, my sweet boy, that’s why you need to come, have to come help. Please, God, just open the door — open the goddamned door! S-So we can save him, so he won’t fucking die!”

There was silence then. Deafening, save for her choked, wet whimpers as she sagged against the door, holding onto the handle as though her life depended on it, on you. “Please…” she softly begged, for the umpteenth time, her voice a rasp and strained, scratchy from exertion.

From the angle of the peephole, you couldn’t see her any longer, but you knew she was still there by the faint sniffling that’d begun —crawled inward. That , and you could practically taste the desperation that oozed from her heap, in great, quivering waves.

“My son…”

And, foolishly, with that and an easy lick, a sort of silent surrender — an indulgence — you swallowed it whole.

“...Where is he…your son?”

Her breath hitched. “I-In his room. They’d snuck in and... afterwards I told him to stay put.”

“They left?”

She nodded. “Took some jewellery and money before stomping out the door like they owned the place. Fucking pigs.”

You nodded, a gesture unseen, as alarms sounded in your head, blaring even louder as your hand wrapped around your door handle, and her own slowly rotated it too, in return. How you two synched like a pair, almost in tandem, was a wonder (or a fright). (Her, now the mime, and you, the willing puppet, pulled along by another string of your making, and obliged to dance to the tune of another’s.)

Nothing good could come from this, would come from this, you didn’t even know if she truly had a son — if it was truly blood that clung to her body. But just the thought of him bleeding out alone, paralysed with fear, squandered all doubts. You saw a piece of yourself in him — a piece that you’d long buried, that’d burrowed beneath dry soil as your father’s blood followed closely behind — perhaps to your detriment.

(The worst thing was your empathy. The worst thing was your empathy. The worst thing was your empathy.)

Like an ouroboros, you began. Biting your tail, you began. An endless cycle of giving when you had no room to, until you were wrung out of all and everything. (You were a fool, a fool, a fool.) With a shaky breath, you slid the deadbolt and unlatched the chain.

And so easily, as though waiting on you, the door swung open.

Immediately, a rush of cold, rank, stifling air greeted you with a soured welcome, its rancid scent strong enough that you were almost tempted to shut the door once more (better safe than sorry, than dead and sorry, better safe and sorry). The red, all the red, slathered across the walls and floor, the grime and guts that trailed and decorated the corridor, was enough to send a foot backwards, inching towards your apartment — towards safety.

But the woman, the mother, with her motherly instinct and motherly resolve and motherly desperation, grabbed your arm, nails digging into the flesh and nearly tearing, the redness from her skin staining your own as she dragged you with an animalistic grip — with no grace, no hesitance, or awareness of her forcefulness. Only pulling — yanking.

Her clipped, gasping breaths rushed hot past your ear, urging you to hurry, to move — and move you did. To the rhythm of her desperation, and the thrumming of your heartbeat as the cold permeated deep to your core, to the muscle, until it turned rigid in a stiffened panic. Past the red, the grime and guts.

“This way,” she rushed, and you nearly tripped over your heavy feet, her fingers pulling and curling around your own before her other hand grasped your elbow, like she was guiding you through a throng of people as you moved onward.

She didn’t seem fazed at all. Or to even notice. Instead, she walked with long, striding steps, pulling you behind her until you finally righted yourself and followed in her bloodied wake. She only stopped when she reached a door with ‘901’ on its front, a trio of numbers that were rusted and dull.

The door was ajar a crack, just wide enough for a small, narrow sliver of darkness to slip through. A glimpse of the horrors within. But when you stared forward, for longer than you should have, you could hear the faint, lilting shushing sound, barely perceptible — like a rush of wind in the quiet, a rush of wings past ears. Until her panicked breaths filled your eardrums once more; a bird call of her own.

“His room is to the right,” she murmured, pushing on the door until it was wide enough for you both to fit past its threshold. You followed her finger to a closed door, the quiet darkness peeking past the crack inviting you. Comforting. She said something else, but you were beyond listening at that point. And far beyond listening, as a string was tugged and pulled, and you entered the hallway without a second glance.

Once you stepped inside, the air was oppressive. Stifling. Dense. Musty.

In the distance there was a long, deep cry; guttural, and forced. Caught somewhere between a shudder, a cough, a wail — a gasp. The further you stepped into the moon-lit room, you realised the sound was coming from beneath a bundle of sheets and blankets, where they pulsed and shook, as the wheezing grew softer, more hesitant. Almost on the cusp of ceasing.

You quickened your steps, coming to a stop by the foot of the bed — of a green dinosaur — placing a hand atop the mass of fabric. “Johnny?” you cooed, sang in some sort of way. You knew that he’d need coaxing to reveal himself, that, no doubt, he was more frightened than you. So, as he quivered and convulsed, you pulled up the corner of the sheet, and, very slowly, began to tug.

But as the sheet began to slip away, an arm jerked out — or a leg — and swept it right back into place.

You frowned. “Johnny, I won’t hurt you. I’m a friend of your mommy, I just want to see if you’re alright.”

Silence.

Then a groan, low and wretched and throaty, was stifled beneath the fabric. The mass spasmed in turn.

Your shoulders tightened at his refusal to speak, and so your words came faster, tinged with a neediness which should’ve been absent in your voice. And so was the subtle command: “If you can just show me, it’ll be over in an instant, and I’ll leave.” Your lips quirked. “Pinky promise.”

And, when he made no effort to reply, you persisted. Pulling down the sheets slowly, carefully, inch by inch, a sort of sick amusement in it all. A curiosity, which was eclipsed only by your underlying urge to run.

But as the sheets began to fall, your heart thumped with some sort of triumph. A light lock of hair revealed itself, before another, and then another and another until a patch of skin and a forehead became visible.

“Good,” you cooed again, breathing heavily through your nose as your heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings. “Just a little bit more and I’ll leave you. Okay?”

A jaw came into view, then the curve of a cheekbone. As more and more were revealed, a pang of nausea coiled and wound itself up your chest like barbed wire. Tightly. Despite yourself, you leaned in closer, brows tightening as you gripped the edge of the blanket, preparing yourself to tear the fabric away completely. To tear and yank and see all and everything that you wished to and—

“Johnny…”

(The worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy.)

Something in you froze as a beady eye peeked up at you, regarding you coldly with a lash-coated glare, crow’s feet prominent and pulled taut in a derisive look that had you frozen on the spot.

“J-Johnny?”

(The worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy.)

Teeth revealed themselves next, pearlescent yet decayed, rotting and black in places, yellowed in others, canines pointed like the stab of daggers. Rows and rows and rows.

As you gasped and jerked away, he leaped, soaring right towards you, giggling all the while.

“Gotcha!”

The man ensnared you in his arms, cradling you to him, clutching so tightly that your breath hitched at the sheer force of his embrace.

“Mama’s boy!” He shrieked. And again: “Mama’s Boy!” And, as though that was the cue, two more men jumped out from the corners, leaping towards you with crooked grins.

You scrambled backwards, yelping in turn. But instead of escaping, you fell. Like a ball. Fast. Freely. Hurtling with no direction, no guide, no reason, into the depths of nothing, nothing, nothing, dragging the man with you, and—

Down below, a red rug laid. Plush. Thick. Quivering. It stretched infinitely, an impossible length, unnatural.

Even more so, as it curled and warped into a creature: a thing of myth and fantasy, as your head slammed against its leathery skin. You lurched forward with the impact, catching yourself as you dived face first onto the rippling crimson scales, and scrambled to right yourself and escape.

“Nuh uh, not so fast sweetheart.” The one with the emetic grin leered at you, smile still plastered across his face as he tightened his grip around your leg and pinned you to the ground. “We worked hard to get ya’. Waited so long for one of yous.” He brought his face close to your hair and inhaled deeply, sniffed like a hound – a beast. “A beaut. ”

From your left, one with a rotted face, mottled and grey like a half-eaten maggot-ridden fruit, grabbed your shoulders and wrenched them down, forcing you flat against the rug. They both hovered above you now, two pairs of eyes trained on you as you squirmed about atop your fleshy cushion,

(which rippled and thrived with your every movement)

as the third — with his ashen skin and long nose, like a snout or a hook — perched himself between them with a cheshire-like smile, thin-lipped and crudely forced. It curled into his eyes, crinkling them until it became nearly too wide — too inhuman.

It went on like that for a terrifying minute: the staring, the breathing, the thumping of your heart and the trembling of your limbs (The horror, the horror.) It was only when you gasped at the hands on your shoulders, that began to move in a circular motion — as if to soothe — that the quietness severed.

“We’d never let ya’ go so quickly.” It was the rotten one that spoke, that rubbed. “Yer our lil’ prize after all. Can ya’ believe tha’ good fortune? That we get a taste a’one of yer kind? Pretty little things, damn near perfect . Nothin’ like the ones out in th’ country… a sour lot, all of ‘em.”

The hooked-nose man snickered at that. Cackled really, like a hyena. Like a madman. Clutching his ribs as though he’d never heard anything funnier — and soon enough, everyone had joined in on the chuckling. Everyone but you.

(The scales beneath you bunched and juddered and squirmed, moved along with their jerking motions as they shook with mirth.)

“Bonnie!” Mama’s Boy called out, amusement still rippling through him. “C’mere.”

You heard a faint shuffling, shoes against the hardwood floor, and before long, the red woman appeared in the doorway. Her eyes widened as they flitted from Mama’s Boy to you, and her face screwed with a mixture of distaste and sorrow, like she’d just bitten into a fruit long past its ripeness, the rot souring her tongue. “I’m so sorry—” she began, before Mama’s Boy cut her off.

“—Fuck a’ ya’ sorry for, Bonnie? You done good. Got us a real treat, didn’t ‘spect that from ya’.”

“H-he threatened to kill my Johnny if I didn’t bring someone to him!” She wildly gestured to her side, and it was then that you noticed the little boy clinging to her leg. He couldn’t have been more than seven, face pudgy and round, a tell-tale sign of youth — of innocence . And yet, your lip curled at them both, twisting into an ugly thing as you noticed he hid further behind his mother when your gaze settled on him. His red, red mother. “I couldn’t let him do that — couldn’t let anyone hurt my Johnny. I’m a good mother, I told you that. A good , good mother. I…”

“So it’s okay if I’m hurt?” You nearly growled, and the men that restricted your limbs began to whoop.

“Feisty one too, ain’ she?”

“Love the ones that have a lil’ spunk to ‘em.”

You ignored them, despite their nearness. Their intrusion.

“It doesn’t bother you that I’ll die in order for your son to live? That you dragged me out my home, to save your son that is perfectly fucking fine?!” By now you were shouting. Shouting and trembling and livid.

“Hey hey hey now,” the one on the right — Maggot Face — growled, slapping a dirty, bony hand across your cheek. You flinched. The sting had you seething. Teeth baring in a display you were sure looked pathetic. “She did what she had ta’ in order ta’ protect ‘er offspring. Yous a smart girlie, got no right gettin’ upset ‘bout somethin’ like this.”

“No — no right ?!” you sputtered, disbelief forcing a mirthless laugh from you. “I— You...I never agreed to being a fucking kill!”

In response to your outrage, he placed a dirty knuckle beneath your chin and lifted, forcing your face near his rotten one. “Aye, I got it. She’s all feisty ‘cause she don’ know what’s gonna’ happen to ‘er. Guess I’d be mad too, if I were a mere sow like ‘erself. Innit right, boys? Clueless bitch wouldn’t get it any other way.”

Hooknose nodded as Mama’s Boy stroked a hand through his oily hair, murmuring a “They never do I ‘spose. S’only their nature.”

Maggot Face leaned in closer to you, and this close, you could practically see insects crawling. Smell the decay — the death — and all the sourness it brought with it. “I’ll tell ya’ then, yer fate, since yous so damn upset over it.” He grinned, and it’s then you realised the difference between him and the others:

He truly was a rotten thing, no semblance of life in him. When he smiled, you saw that all his teeth were brown and had been sawed down to nubs. As if they too, had endured his wrath.

“Ya’ ain’t just a kill to us, girly. Yous a…” He turned his head, looked to the others. “What’s the word again?”

Hooknose simply shrugged his shoulders, but Mama’s Boy chuckled. “Release.”

Maggot Face digested the word. Chewed it between what little teeth he had in that big, burly maw of his, one of a beast, and nodded. “Aye, a release. Yous a release to us. Much more important than just some kill…kills we don’ care for. S’all ‘bout the fun, then. With you,” his knuckle moved up up up, pressing against the fat of your lip. “S’all about… savouring your taste. The perfect meal takes time don’ it? Even the Last Supper was built upon anticipation an’ longing. And I want to make sure all o’ ya’ has ta’ be ingested thoroughly and with relish.”

Your lip quivered as you wrangled to move out of his grasp, but oh-so-quickly — so terrifyingly — like a switch in him had been wrenched upwards, his grip grew harsh, fingers biting your skin enough to bruise.

“So don’ be difficult , you spoilt lil’ city bitch. Yer special…ain’ that whatchya ’ want? To die a meanin’ful death?”

You understood all that he left unsaid, it translated itself through the hunger in his gaze — the greed : Tonight, you were dying regardless.

And so, you screamed. Screamed and screamed until a greasy hand moved to cover your mouth, muffle your wails, and you shook and sobbed.

“I’m sorry. I-I’m so, so sorry.” Your eyes shot up to the red woman, chin lifting just a little. You’d nearly forgotten her, presence closely akin to a coat rack; in your remembrance you screamed louder. Her trembling reached a near violent degree. “J-Johnny let’s go. Let’s go. Mama’s tired, let’s go.”

You watched as she ushered the little boy out the room in a tight grip, prying his curious, wide eyes from your form with the twist of his head. Her apologies continued, reverberating throughout the apartment long after she’d exited.

“Oh, don’ fuckin’ scream now. Shut yer fuckin’ trap or I’ll do it for ya’,” Mama’s Boy snarled, grip so cruel that he forced your skin to fold and lift, pushed your features together like you were nothing more than something for him to break.

But you only screamed louder, blood rushing to your ears. It sounded warped — distorted and deep. Nothing like your voice, but more a macabre mix between a deep gargle and an elongated squawk. You looked like an animal — were being treated as one, so why not behave as such? You’d scream. Yelp and hiss and bite and lash out if it meant giving them something other than a docile and obedient kill. You wanted to be the last meal they ate, the one that ruined the fun.

“Get the rope.” Mama’s Boy ordered over his shoulder, before turning back to you, teeth razor sharp and glinting in the moonlight. “You enjoy bein’ a stupid, bad girl, dontcha? Fuckin’ city cunt wants to behave like a bitch, well she’ll get treated like one. Won’t ya’? Now gon’ look what you done.”

Your head lolled to the side as you watched Hooknose trek to the corner where he’d hid. There was a faint rustling, of fabric against fabric and a zipper being yanked before he shuffled back over, rope coiled in one hand and —

Your eyes bulged from your skull as a whimper escaped your lips, muffled by the palm of his hand, still pressed so tightly to your mouth.

— a ball gag in the other.

“See, this is what ya’ made us do. This is what bein’ bad gets ya’,” Mama’s Boy cooed, but even with his gentler tone his grasp grew tighter. It had you whimpering more, body convulsing. The corners of your vision grew spotty and blackened — frothing darkness encroaching inwards and outwards at an alarming rate until it was nearly all you could see. Until nearly all of you had turned black and bruised. “Open wide now, pretty. ‘Fore I really gotta hurt ya’.”

You shook your head violently, defiantly, from side to side — to which his face morphed into something even more grotesque (if even possible), lips peeled back, expression almost savage, near rabid. You were so focused on the vulgarity of it, ensnared by the sheer ugliness, that you didn’t register his hand drawing back, so far behind his head, until it connected with the tender flesh of your cheek and you let out a muffled screech, pain blossoming and leaving a dull throb in its wake. A pulse. Punctured by a “stupid girl.”

Your head snapped to the side, copper filling your mouth and causing it to part around a gasp. He took advantage of that, fingers crawling towards your jaw and tugging its hinges wide, stretching and straining and ripping without remorse until you were sore. Aching. Sourness welling inside your mouth — upon your tongue.

“Go on. Shove it in der.” Hooknose moved closer to you at the command, eyes watery and quivering and eager and fixed on your mouth, gaze roaming as if just now he saw for the first time.

He offered you a pitying smile. Or perhaps, he intended it to be. But it was stiff — as though something in him found it difficult to contradict his nature, and fought against his feeble attempt at benevolence.

He held your gaze as his fat, stubby fingers pressed against the seam of your lips, ghosting your tongue as he wedged the plastic ball into your mouth. He rubbed it gently across the wet muscle, and it grew firmer the wider he stretched your cheeks to make room for the intrusion; until eventually, he clicked the device into place and brought his thumb to wipe along your tears, soiling the salty fluid with grease.

At the sound of the click, Mama’s Boy grunted with contentment. “Good. Good, she knows now. Learned . Learned we can make it all hurt, all nasty an’ painful, so she’ll do wha’ she’s ‘spose ta’, right?”

You blinked owlishly. He chortled.

“Get ‘er feet, boy. Don’t bind ‘em too tight, don’t wanna ruin tha’ soft skin of ‘er’s...then ya’d miss out on the finer parts, eh?”

Hooknose grunted. Moved around to grasp your legs, held onto them like prongs of a ladder as he uncoiled the rope in his hand, once, twice, three times. Three full rotations.

You noticed that his hands, coated in grime and black dirt, shook and trembled, and if the trembling weren’t so apparent and grossly prominent — so entirely aberrant and incongruous — you would have said that the hands on you were almost delicate.

Before you could think about it further, Mama’s Boy sighed. Almost wistfully. “M’boys ‘nd I… we ‘aven’t eaten in months. ‘Aven’t had a proper, satisfying fill in a real long while either. Course, none a’ the meat down at tha’ slaughterhouse tastes nothin’ like yer kind does, it won’t ever hold a candle to it neither. City pigs taste different, breed better than the ones we get out there. Small and lean and nice an’ tender. Just like you are right now. So fresh…so damned fresh.”

“Aye,” Maggot Face chimed in, tone equally drenched that you tensed , bile flooding into your mouth as your limbs went rigid.“Ah’m nearly giddy. Haven’t tasted yer kind for so long. Missed it, missed it a lot. Ah bet yer meat ain’t hard t’eat none.”

“Bet it slides right off th’ bone.”

Maggot Face hummed. “An’d pair real nice with sum’ whiskey. Ain’t that right?”

Hooknose said nothing, just began to twine the rope about your ankles. Slowly, too slow, as though the languorous motion would cause his fingers not to tremble or waver, would make the shame dissipate from him and prevent his neck from reddening with his guilt.

(It would never do. It never did.)

As the other men busied themselves with fantasies of all you had to offer, all the pleasure your tender corpse would soon give, he shakily bound your ankles, began to crawl his hands up your calves and squeezed, encased.

(Did he see how your flesh bunched beneath his fingertips? The swell, the way the tendon protruded beneath his touch — because of his touch — like a mountain range, birthed?)

You squeezed out a whimper, one filled with all the helplessness and agony you could muster,

(A storm, a deluge.)

and slowly — agonisingly so — he peered up at you with drooping eyes, eyelashes fanning his sockets like paper fans.

His mouth parted, grip slackened, and you knew you had a sliver of a second to act quickly. You drew your feet back, poised taut like a bowstring, before ramming the pointed edges of your heels right into his soft, fleshy abdomen. The impact drew a choked yelp from him, spit flying to land on your thighs, and he fell to the ground with a loud crash, gurgling wails ripping from him as he cried out the first word you’d heard from him all night:

“Fuck!”

All attention then shifted towards you, gazes accusing.

Angry.

From then on, it was all a whirlwind.

Screams atop of screams and filthy curses spat with their drool,

(Lips forming around the vulgar words — city bitch — again and again and again,

until the syllables lost their meaning and their sound turned to that of a skipping record)

and bony hands scuffling your hair, turning you onto your stomach

slamming your skull against the floorboards,

nails scraping your scalp as you fought their every attempt at restraining your arms.

If anything, the struggle spurred them on, snowballed their ever-growing lust for violence — and the thought frightened you to the point where you were nearly deaf to the scathing words whispered in your ear:

“Yous just prolonging yer inevitable end. No more ai’ght? We gonna be gentle no more.” You heard a click. It was only when a cool metal pressed against your forehead that you registered just exactly what it was. “Thought a city bitch like ya’ would have a bit more manners. Coulda’ been a smooth, nice night for ya, really coulda’.”

(He was wrong; a lie that slipped from his tongue so easily he nearly fooled himself. You knew they meant every bit of the torture, were planning it in the seedy, gutters of their minds with relish.)

With a snarl, Mama’s boy clicked off the safety of the revolver. “Guess the only thing gonna get through yer thick fuckin’ skull is a bullet.”

You closed your eyes. He shook you.

“But don’t go an’ take yerself off to dreamland, girl. Ther’s a slow death comin’ to ya, no mercy for sows like yerself. Yer gonna feel everythin’. Every. Fucking. Thing. An yer gonna scream, scream real good, scream fer us. Ya hear me? Hear me, cunt? Open yer eyes an listen, goddamnit , or I swea r— I fuckin’ swear, I’ll put a bullet right between yer pretty lil’ eyes right now, an’ leave yer body to the maggots. I’ll let ‘em feast on yer rotten flesh, eat their way through yer bones ‘till yer nothin’.”

You wanted to laugh — hysterically, manically, deliriously, and tell him you wished he would. Wished he were to finish you off already, if only to put a stop to the gnawing emptiness swelling in the pits of your chest, the festering soreness in your jaw.

But you only kept your eyes closed.

There was a low growl, a series of them, a harmony. And then —

(Your heart beat and beat, wild and untamed and ferocious.)

— gunshots. Three. In quick succession.

Bang, bang, bang!

(Your ears began to ring.)

Before you could even draw a breath, gasp around the gag or bring your palms to clutch the scarlet drops above your lashes, a choked gurgle met your ears. It sounded of something gutted, eviscerated; or something drained of all life and then filled with water. And then so suddenly, without warning, a heavy weight slammed into your back, knocking the wind from your chest and causing your eyes to bulge.

Warmth spread through your hoodie, seeped and clung as something viscous splattered against your forehead, thick, almost clumped, in the shape of droplets. They rolled down your forehead and curved over your brow, down your cheek and tickled your chin,

(a trail of kisses — odious and slow and inching and —)

and they hung from the precipice before severing their tether and dropping to the scales beneath you, undoubtedly marring the rug with red blotches, blossoming before you in uneven spatters.

(Petals unfurling at their own leisure, gory and fresh.)

You lifted a trembling hand to your forehead, intercepting a few drops that clung to your flesh, warm and syrupy like molasses, yet so different in nature, not nearly as enticing. The tremor in your hand caused them to smear beneath your touch — spread, fan out — and bile rose in your throat as you caught a whiff of their coppery stench. Pungent and stifling and intruding and not yours, not yours, not yours.

You gagged, dry-heaved, retched until your throat was just as sore as your jaw, your head just as strained as your legs, your sense gone, gone, gone — as you didn’t register just how this had happened. How , why, Mama’s Boy ended atop you, stiff and losing warmth, coating you in blood, limbs splayed and a hole probably the size of your finger in his skull.

Your hysteria didn’t cease until you heard heavy footsteps, boots clomping through a red sea, and then a gravelly voice. Coarse and abrasive, rock against rock.

“You okay? Can ya’ move?”

(Thousands of palms were on you. Or two. You couldn’t tell as they began to peel away the darkness — the death.)

Your lungs seized, an odd choking, croaking sound — not of death, not of the gunshot — as the ball gag was swiftly unclipped and fell from your skull.

The only sounds after were heavy panting, grunts, and groans — of the human kind, and they were nearly indecipherable to you, enveloped within the throbbing pulses that spread throughout your body. A stuttering of breath. Pain finally swept you away.

You fought against the encroaching darkness.

— you saw a scarred lip, torn flesh like crinkled linen.

And to the darkness you lost.

No longer did your façade of sleep work on the man.

“How much longer are ya’ gonna lay there? S’been hours.”

You ignored him. Kept your eyes shut as you tried to regulate your breaths, slow and deep. In and out.

“Fuck, don’t ya’ gotta piss or somethin’?”

In and out.

“Never met someone s’eager to be around a bunch o’ bodies before.” He tried again, and you could imagine his lips pulling into a smirk. “Must be a real fucked up fetish.”

At the mention of bodies, your breath hitched; you heard a scoff.

“Knew you were awake.” He stomped from wherever he was, around the corpses and meaty chunks of flesh and brain matter, to make his way to your side. A leather boot gently nudged at your shoulder. “Ain’t gonna hurt you none, if that’s why your tail’s between your legs. They ain’t gonna hurt you none either.”

You peered up at him with a narrowed eye, and it strained against the swollen bruise around it, pulsated and quivered and fought to close. The mammoth of a man motioned a hand outwards, and your gaze followed his lazy gesture around the room, over the corpses that littered it, the gore that wasn’t there before (The teeth, the hair, the innards. Everything that belonged inside, outside.), and then back to him. The broadness, the solidity, of him.

His lip twitched. The linen ruffled.

“This…” you croaked, voice hoarse and throat dry, so you swallowed. Tried again. “This was all…you?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

His dark brows knitted together. “Why?”

“Why’d you help me?”

The man shrugged, broad shoulders rising just briefly before falling. “You were screamin’ like a banshee. It was loud and it was pissin’ me off a bit. Didn’ expect to see a group of men tryna kill a girl, though. Thought it was some kinky shit or somethin’. A bit disappointed, really.”

You blinked. Slowly, as not to bring too much pain upon yourself.

And then, you laughed.

It was a raspy, broken sound, and it sounded more like a wheeze than anything else. But it was laughter, and it was genuine, and it was the first time in a long while you had felt something so human. So real.

You smiled, and the skin on your cheek pulled and stung. “You’re an asshole.”

He smirked. “So I’ve heard.”

You pushed yourself upright, and the man took a step back, allowed you the space. Your hands shook, trembled, and your fingers were numb, and you brought them up to the sides of your face, covered your eyes and pressed hard, until white spots danced across the backs of your eyelids.

The man eyed you carefully, and then he turned his attention to the bodies.

They were strewn about the room, some in pieces, some still intact, and they were all dead. Their blood pooled and stained the floors, and their innards had spilled out, and their faces had been blown apart, and their limbs were bent and twisted and—

You dropped your hands, and you looked up at him.

He was watching you.

And then, he offered a gloved hand.

You stared at it.

It was large, and the leather was worn and torn and stained, and it was a nice contrast against the muted, olive brown of his skin. Skin littered with cuts and scars and bruises yet so inviting.

You stared at his hand, and you wondered what kind of person could kill three men, gut them and tear them apart without flinching, yet offer a hand so gently.

So kindly.

You stared at his hand, and slowly, you reached for it.

His fingers were warm when they wrapped around yours, despite the fabric that covered them, and he helped you stand, careful not to touch your bruises, brush against the cuts.

“You live on this floor?”

You nodded.

He hummed and gripped your hand a little tighter. “You gonna show me where it is?”

Your brow furrowed and you winced, heart picking up if only slightly. “What?”

“You need help. You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“But I can manage.”

“You can’t.”

“I’ve managed for this long.”

He snorted. “Not well.”

You frowned, the cut on your lip stung.

“C’mon.”

“I-I don’t even know your name.”

He paused, and the corners of his lips tugged upwards. The linen ruffled again. “Toji.”

@madaqueue (●'◡'●)

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call-me-strega · 5 months ago

Text

How to Become a Step-Dad in 5 Easy Steps: ch.3/5 of p.2

First, prev, next, lore, ao3

OK SO- I’ve been working on this for months and I was actually supposed to have it done like a month ago but my parents took me on the last minute vacation to another country to visit family and I didn’t have access to my laptop most of the time. But it’s okay bc the timing worked out! I wrote most of this on my phone actually and I’m posting it from there too so I hope the formatting isn’t weird. Our flight back is tonight and we’re in a different time zone so I really hope this is going up at the correct time. Anyways I tried to make this chapter longer so I hope it’s worth it. Thanks for sticking around to read this and I’ll let you start now.

-Strega p.s Happy 4th of July!

~~~

Chapter description:

Danny and Jason comfort each other after a rough night, Jason teams up with Duke to stop a villain, and Jason spends the 4th of July with the Nightingales.

~~~

Everything was hot. Someone was laughing. Someone was crying. It's all too loud but he can't hear a thing. It was so hot. He could taste the bitterness in the air. His face ached. It's too much. All the textures overwhelm him but he can’t feel a thing. It was too hot. All he can see is rows of black upon gray, but he can't really see anything at all. He couldn’t- he couldn’t breathe. His forehead was wet and sticky. Why was it wet and sticky? Why was it so goddamn hot?!

With a desperate gasp for air, Jason launched up into a sitting position on his bed. He supported his body with one hand and the other pushing back his white, sweat-soaked fringes out of his eyes. He sat there for a few moments, just panting, trying to regain some semblance of control over his breathing. He felt a warm sweat drip down his face and back. It made his skin crawl.

He looked around his dark room and then down at his messy sheets for a moment, before pulling off the blanket and flinging himself off the bed. He couldn't stand the idea of staying there a minute longer. Not right now.

He stalked out of his bedroom and into his living area. He didn't want to stay inside. The thought of being in an enclosed space right now gave him the hives, no matter how spacious the apartment might be. Even if it's bigger than a coffin. Even if it's smaller than a warehouse. He can't see the sky. He's closed in.

Instead, he pushes open his window and pulls himself out onto the fire escape. It's not particularly open, facing into an alley, but it offers privacy and is heaps better than being inside. He slumps down against the brick wall of the building, feet planted and knees bent. He looks up and takes a breath trying to calm himself. Even with all the smog and Gotham's perpetual cloud cover, Jason is grateful to see the sky. He half-wished it was a clear night so he could see the stars. The other half didn't. It didn't think he could handle seeing the stars peeking out through the smog. It would look too much like a night sky tainted with smoke and bad memories.

His mouth felt dry as he clenched and stretched his hands. He almost wished for a cigarette or a joint, (no he didn't, he didn't want to see the smoke, to feel the heat of the slow burn) but the thought made his lungs constrict and he felt bile rise in his throat. Instead, he alternated between closing his eyes and taking several deep breaths, and gazing at the lights and laundry lines. Even in the sticky city heat of a Gotham summer Jason shuddered from the cool night air.

Suddenly, he heard metal creaking and his eyes snapped open. His head jerked to the side where the sound had come from. A few feet away, on the adjacent fire escape, stood a figure slumped over the rail. They must have also sensed his presence because they turned to meet Jason's gaze.

Before him stood a haggard Danny Nightingale with dark circles under his eyes and a head of bed hair. He wore an old worn-out shirt for a band called Dumpty Humpty, and a pair of basketball shorts that came down to his knees. Faintly, Jason could make out a faded scar on his calf. (Not that Jason had been staring at his legs or anything!) Jason soon became aware of Danny's own eyes assessing him as well. He felt his face heat up and was grateful that he slept in sweats and a white tank tonight.

And the two of them stayed there for a while, on their fire escapes. Two souls in the haunted hours before morning, looking worse for wear, just staring at each other as the world continued on around them.

Then, Danny weakly gave Jason a wry grin and in a rough voice he said,

" Hey, neighbor."

" Hey," Jason replied hoarsely, with a small grin forming on his face. "Funny running into you here, huh?"

There was a brief pause where the two continued to stare at each other, suppressing the quickly growing urge to laugh.

Danny broke first.

" Pffffffft, you dork!"

The two of them burst out laughing and the atmosphere grew lighter. The ever-present smog and darkness seemed to lift and the shadows haunting them seemed to fade.

Danny bubbled up with giggles that rang in Jason’s ear like a familiar song coming on on the radio. Jason looked at him softly in quiet wonderment. Well, I guess that’s where Ellie got her laugh from.

Jason heaved himself off the ground and walked over to the railing closest to Danny, who was just coming down from his high. He leaned over, one arm on the railing and the other coming up to support his jaw. He gave Danny a tired smile.

“Hey,” he said once more.

“Hey yourself,” came Danny’s soft reply.

Then the two, now standing closer, took a moment to examine each other once more. Danny took note of Jason’s sweat and unsteadiness. Jason could now see that Danny’s hands shook lightly and were covered in faded, barely-there scars. They met each other’s eyes and both just felt like the other understood.

Tonight hadn’t been a good night for either of them. But they didn’t need to talk about it right now. No, for now the two could just bask in each others presence The air filling with a certain solidarity and what felt like a near-tangible sense of mutual comfort.

Jason turned away first, observing the way light and shadow danced across alley walls and how the clothes on clotheslines fluttered in the night breeze. Danny followed his gaze in suit, trying to identify what Jason saw out in the city.

“ Ya know for being such a hell-hole Gotham really does have a subtle beauty to it.”

Jason turned to look a Danny with mock offense.

“Hey! Gotham may be a hell-hole but it’s our hell-hole! Just ask any true Gothamite, the city has a way sinking itself into ya.”

Danny looked almost amused by this statement, but nodded in understanding.

“Yeah, I think I kinda get it. It really sucked back home, but it was still home, ya know? And I agree, Gotham does have her ways of making you feel like she’s a part of you. We’ve only been here bout a month or so but I already feel like Ell and I are well on our way to become city slickers through and through.”

Jason chuckled, shaking his head and bringing his arm down to stand up straight. He decide to pursue the opening Danny had left.

“Speaking of Ell, she the reason your up so late?”

“Naw,” Danny’s smile grew a bit strained. “My little spitfire may have a lotta energy but the girl sleeps like the dead.” He grew a more subdued, looking down at his hands.

“Nah, this was something else.”

“Nightmare?” He probed gently.

Danny nodded.

Taking a breath, Jason said “Me too,” in a show of vulnerability that he found came surprisingly easy. Danny glanced at him sympathetically.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Kinda, but at the same time not really?”

Danny nodded as if he understood perfectly. Once more a comfortable silence overtook they began to shift closer. Even with the space between their fire escapes they felt impossibly close.

Danny interrupted the quiet with a light chuckle and Jason returned him a questioning glance. Danny shook his head,

“ Nothing I just think it’s kinda ironic we both came out to our fire escapes to escape our bad dreams.” He paused as his face clouded with confusion. “ Or at least I think it’s irony? Would you call it irony?”

“I think it might actually be symbolism but fuck if I know. I don’t have the mental capacity to figure which literary devices apply to our situation right now but remind me to come back to it later.”

Danny hummed in amusement before taking a deep breath.

“ I think I wanna talk about it.”

“Hmm?” Jason raised an eyebrow

“ I think I wanna talk about my dream.”

In a split second Jason makes a impulsive decision.

“Hold on,” he says, before climbing over the railing and extending his foot over to reach Danny’s fire escape.

“ What are you doing, ya maniac?!” Danny asked incredulously at Jason’s actions.

Jason stepped over onto the fire escape and shrugged as he walked over to Danny, “This felt like something I should be close for.”

The startled man seemed to loosen up and sunk to sit on the platform with his back to the railing. Jason joined him on the floor. They sat shoulder to shoulder, Danny staring at his trembling hand, and Jason, staring at him. Jason hand crept towards Danny’s, gentle taking it and interlacing the fingers.

Danny’s head swiveled to look at him and Jason returned him a gentle look and a squeezed his hand reassuringly. Faintly, the young man smiled and squeezed back. He took a deep breath and began.

" So you remember how you found my groceries in an alley the other day?”

Jason nodded.

“ Yeah well, the reason I left them there was because some mugger tried to kidnap Ellie. I ditched the groceries to grab her and get home.”

“ You did a smart thing,” Jason continued to nod as if he didn’t already know exactly what happened that day.

“ Mm I don’t doubt that, Ellie’s safety will always be my first priority. But the whole thing kinda brought up old fear. Some old … memories.”

A distant look grew on his face and Jason’s heart burned with sadness and anger for his friend.

“ The dream started out back in that alley. I had just pulled Ellie back into my arms but when I turned around it wasn’t the mugger standing there. It was Vlad.” Danny’s breath staggered before he continued.

“He started saying stuff about taking Ellie back since he’s the one who made her. The one who had wanted her originally, never mind that he’d lost interest after realizing she was a girl and not his perfect son. But he kept saying things about how he had more life experience and was better equipped to raise her. How he’d be able to do better than me and provide more for her. And for me, if I let him. I hated it. I hated him for leveraging his age and wealth to try to get into our lives again. I didn’t have many reservations about punching him in the face about it either.”

Danny tightened his grip around Jason’s hand. He squeezed back in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

“I turned to leave but at the mouth the alley was a van. And not one of those stereotypical white vans they warn you kidnappers use. No. No, it was my parents’ van. They slid open the door and and I felt like I couldn’t move. I looked down and Ellie was gone. They-” the words started getting choked up in his throat. His eyes becoming glassy as he fought with his next words.

“ They wanted to take her too. They said they still loved me even though I was different and that they could fix me.” His voice grew frantic and shaky. “They thought they could ‘fix me’ but that Ellie’s existence was unnatural. That it’d be better if they took her and tried to raise in a ‘normal’ environment, especially if she showed signs of being unnatural too!”

Danny turned his face into Jason’s shoulder, trying to fight back tears.

“ And I know they don’t actually think like that- that I need to be fixed, at least not anymore. But, the idea that they’d try to take her from me? Raise her better than I could? It tore me up inside. How could they want to raise her when the barely raised me and my sister? When my sister raised me more than they did? How could I trust them not to get her involved in experiments when they still store chemical samples the same fridge as our food? How could I trust them when I told them I didn’t want to be around Vlad and they still let him into our house? Because ‘We’ve know good ol’ Vladdie since college! Nothing to worry about with him!’ even though I told them I-!”

He paused trying to catch his breath. Jason lifted his other arm to wrap around the crying young man, tucking him under his chin. Danny shifted, now shuddering into his chest. Jason could feel the Pits ignite a fire in soul. His blood boiled and a voice cried out for blood in recompense for his friend’s pain.

‘What type of shitty parents-! No. Later’ he tried to reign in the voice. ‘Being here for him now is more important.’ He held the other even closer.

Finally, Danny calmed himself enough to continue, “ I know they don’t think that now. I know that they love me and, and Ellie too- and I still love them too and I know that they want to be better. But they just don’t get it. That there’s a lot of reasons I don’t want to be around them anymore. Reasons I don’t bring Ellie around if I can help it. Even though it was just a dream I couldn’t handle the idea that they- that anyone might try to take Ellie from me.”

Jason tilted his head slightly to press a soft, comforting, kiss on the top of Danny’s head. He rubbed small circles on his back and murmured gently in his ear,

“It’s okay Danny. It’s okay to be mad and upset and scared. From the sounds of it you have ever right to be. It’s okay for you to worry. I have a friend ya know. He’s a recovered addict, started getting extra serious about staying sober when his ex dropped a daughter off on his doorstep because he was worried at every turn that if he slipped up or relapsed someone would take her away. I know that it’s not the same but I think every parent is entitled to worrying over losing their kid. And it sounds like your own parents haven’t done you too many favors in minimizing the worry. But you don’t have to hold yourself back from being afraid. You’re allowed to be afraid, or upset or whatever else you might be feeling.”

He finally let go of Danny’s hand in order to hold him properly, once again shifting their positions. Now, they sat perpendicularly, with Danny partway into his lap, pressed against his chest. After a while Danny wiped his tears, whispering out a thanks to Jason and allowed himself to be comforted.

They sat in delicate silence until Jason finally worked up the nerve to speak.

“So you probably know who I am right?”

Danny lifted his head from Jason’s chest to give him a confused eyebrow raise. “Yeah I think I’d know whose lap I’m on right now?”

“Not like that,” Jason blushed. “ I mean since you asked about volunteering you must know who I am in a larger context right?”

“ You mean do I know you’re beloved Gotham celebrity and non-profit worker: Jason Todd-Wayne? Because I do. I did research this city before moving here, believe it or not. Actually I remember seeing a bunch of articles about how one of Gotham’s beloved sons had returned home with your picture around that time?”

Jason touched the back of his neck, glancing away in embarrassment.

“Uh yeah that, so you’ve probably hear about my- uuh, ‘resurrection’, huh?”

Danny’s expression sobered up. His eyes darkened and his voice got all quiet, likely due to the serious nature of the discussion.

“Yeah, I did. The media claimed you had been in a kidnapping turned terrorist attack slash hostage situation? And that you had managed to survive and were taken in by family who help you recover and reconnect with your dad once you were ready?” Danny recounted the cover story they’d given to the public. There was something in his tone that made Jason think there was more he wasn’t mentioning but it was likely all speculation or more sensitive details.

“Was-… was that what your dream was about?”

Jason bowed his head into Danny’s shoulder, not having it in him to say it to his face.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “It was.”

“Oh.”

Now it was Danny’s turn to hold Jason tight, one arm one his back and the other coming up to pet his hair, gently pressing the larger man further into his shoulder. It felt like something cracked open inside him. Suddenly, words came tumbling out before he could even think about them.

“ I was back in that warehouse. Laying on the ground, injured. I could hear someone crying. And- *gulp* -and his laughter before the explosion. It was … so hot. And when I woke up I couldn’t stand the thought of being trapped inside. The same way I was trapped … during some of the worst moments of my life. And I know I’m not there anymore but I’m still terrified by the memory! Sometimes I still get scared the man who took me the first time will find me again and I just-!”

He choked on a sob as Danny held him even tighter, as if trying to melt him into his skin.

“I just hated feeling that way so much!” He whimpered.

“It’s okay Jay, I’m here big guy. You can let it out.”

And for the first time in a long while Jason allowed himself to cry freely, sobbing into his neighbor’s shoulder. Danny continued to stroke his hair, rocking gentle as one would when comforting a child. But maybe that sort of gentleness was what Jason needed.

Once he heard Jason’s sobs subside Danny took a deep breath and spoke.

“You know what?”

“What?” Jason asked lifting his head to gaze into Danny’s icy blue eyes.

“I’m kinda glad I ended up out here tonight. I mean the nightmare sucked but at least I got to be here for you.” He smiled softly, “I’m in your corner if you ever need me.”

Jason couldn’t help the soft smile that worked it’s way onto his face.

“Yeah, me too. I’ll be there if you ever need help, with anything: Ellie, Vlad, your parents, your groceries.”

Danny giggled at that last part, knowing Jason was sincere. With a sigh he rested his cheek on Jason’s chest. Jason reach down to hold his hand again and the two enjoyed the feeling of holding someone who held them back.

With a sigh, Danny lifted his gaze from their hands to Jason’s face. Jason gave him a closed-mouth smile, his eyes asking if something was wrong.

“It’s the 4th of July in a few days.” He stated.

“Yes, it is.” Jason said back.

“If it’s not too short notice, Ellie and I would love to have you over again. We were gonna have barbecue and ice cream and then come out here and see if we could catch the fireworks. She’d love it if you could join us, and … and, well I would too.”

Jason swore Danny was looking at him with the biggest, roundest, most earnest eyes he’d ever seen, save for his daughter’s.

“ I’ll be there.”

Danny flushed at his quick response.

“Don’t wanna check your schedule first?”

“Doesn’t matter. I didn’t have anything else planned so I’ll do my best to be there.” He made sure the shorter man’s eyes met his as he said his next words. “Besides, I like spending time with the two of you too.”

‘His ears are pink, he’s just adorable.’ He thought to himself as Danny seemed brighten in a shy glow. He shifted in Jason’s lap, probably getting ready to get up when he did something that cause Jason to blue screen.

Danny tilted his head up planting a quick peck on his cheek before squeaking out a “see you then” and fleeing back into his apartment, leaving a wide-eyed Jason on the floor of his fire escape.

Jason sat there stunned, before a furious blush over took his face and decided to hurry back into his own apartment. The voice in his head came back to give its routine comments: ‘His lips are so soft, the stuff of dreams’

He somehow managed to blush even more violently. ‘Damn it’ he thought, shoving his head under his pillow, unable to tell whether he actually wanted to dream about Danny’s lips or not. ‘It’s actually embarrassing how worked I’m getting over a fleeting kiss on the cheek from a friend.’

~Bzzt~ “Calling for back up! Firefly decided to start his annual firework show early this year!” ~Bzzt~ Signal called through the emergency comms.

Jason cursed his luck, of course Firefly would attack just as he got off work! Now he might be late to dinner! He sighed and tried to look on the bright-side: If they dealt with this now that meant it was less likely for any of the other rouges to try anything later. Then, the comm crackled back to life.

~Bzzt~ “I could have got him by now but he keeps lightin’ more shit on fire! By the time I get the first fires under control and punch him in the face, he’s started 20 more! Normally I’d be able to handle it, but there’s a lot of civilians around right now and fires take priority. I just need someone to help me keep the guy down long enough to make the arrest.” ~Bzzt~

Jason started ducking through alleys trying to get to his near safe house in order to grab his gear. Hey called back to Duke over the comms.

“Signal, heard! I just got off work. See if you can herd him towards the Alley. It’ll give the Red Hood an excuse to show up and beat the shit outa him while you make sure nothing actually gets damaged. I’m heading to the safe house near the Catherine Johnson Rec Center. Try to get him at least two blocks away!”

~Bzzt~ “Heard!” ~Bzzt~

Jason tossed the comm to the side and started strapping into his body armor. He started fastening his helmet when felt something in the air change. Then the comms buzzed to life once more.

~Bzzt~ “Hood, I’ve got Firefly coming your way! He’s heading up Delancy Ave.!” ~Bzzt~

Hood readied his grapple on shot.

“Good, keep him there! I’ll see you in 5, Narrows!”

~Bzzt~ “On it! I’ll be waiting Alley!” ~Bzzt~

Jason swung through the rooftops, heading in the direction of the fires that kept spontaneously appearing and subsequently being extinguished.

When he arrived Hood found Signal split between stopping fires and engaging Firefly in combat. The madman was so absorbed in antagonizing Signal that he hadn’t noticed Hood’s approach. Signal was handling him pretty well but being unable to focus solely on the villain lowered his efficiency. Jason’s mind wandered back to his friend, who had wanted to see him tonight, and decided he’d end this quickly.

You see for all his bulk and bullheadedness Jason was still a highly trained and intelligent individual. Maintaining the element of surprise he approached in the shadows silently looking down from his perch on an adjacent building. He made subtle gestures for Signal to move the guy into place, which he returned with the slightest of nods. Signal moved Firefly over to the side of the building closest to Jason’s position. Jason got ready took make use of his high ground, tapping into what he learned from Dick.

With a deep breath Jason runs up and launches himself into a triple forward somersault, building up power and momentum. In midair he took account of his bearings, aiming his feet at Firefly’s back.

Firefly goes down like he’s been hit by a semi.

“AND THATS WHY YOU STAY OUTA THE ALLEY FUCKER!” Jason shouts, crouching over the rouge who was quickly losing consciousness. Even though it’d been his plan to lure him here Jason was still protective of what was his. And Crime Alley? Crime Alley was his territory.

He stands up and gives Signal a celebratory high five.

“Nice going, ya tank! I thought he’d never go down!”

“No problem, Dayshift! Nice work handling him, you’d have gotten him eventually. I just sped up the process.”

“Thanks Hood, I ‘preciate it.”

“Soooo, you good here oorrr…?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it. Get outa here before the cops show up and arrest you,” Signal dismissed him.

Jason gave him a quick, two-finger salute before running off to change before he was late to dinner.

Jason arrives at the Nightingales’ red faced and out of breath. His hair is a windswept mess and his clothes slightly messy from his quick change. He knocks on the door desperately trying to tame his hair and adjust his t-shirt and jeans.

Jason feels a burst of cool air as the door opens and he’s greeted by a smiling Danny and a surprised Ellie. He smiles at the two but Danny speaks before he’s got the chance.

“ Surprise! It’s Jason!” He says with some mild jazz hands.

To which seem to Ellie explode in glee. Jason swears she’s vibrating with how fast she’s bouncing.

“The secret surprise guest was Mr. Jason! Awesome!”

And just like that there is small child attached to his leg. He looks down at her, then up at Danny, who’s holding in laughter, then back at Ellie. Then he bursts out laughing. He bends down down to scoop the young girl up into his arms and she lets out a small “whoa!” Jason follows Danny into the apartment, Ellie resting on his hip.

“It’s nice to see you to princess!”

“Mr. Jason! You’re not wearing any red!”

“Huh?”

He looks down to see the young girl scrutinizing his plain white shirt and blue jeans and looks questioningly at Danny. The young man takes pity on him and explains.

“Ellie really wanted to wear red, white and blue for the 4th of July,” gesturing to his own outfit: a pair of blue jeans, a white shirt with a logo for a band called Fifth World Raga, and a lightweight red flannel wit the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“That’s right! I have a white skirt and socks, and a blue top and tiara, and my cardigan, my sneakers and beanie are all red!” She showed off. Then she pointed at Jason.

“You’ve gotta white shirt and blue jeans but no red!” Then she gasped, “Oooooh! I have an idea! Wait here!” She said, scrambling off to her room.

Jason looked at Danny who smiled and shrugged helplessly in a “eh, whadda ya gonna do” sort a fashion. To which Jason just huffed in amusement.

That’s when Ellie rushed back in, holding something behind her back. She patted Jason’s thigh indicating for him to bend down, to which he obliged by crouching down to her level.

“Close your eyes!”

Jason shut his eyes. He felt something being placed around his neck and on his head.

“Open them!”

Jason found himself looking into a small purple hand held mirror. Ellie had placed a cheap red-beaded party necklace around his neck and a silver tiara with red gems on his head, one to match her own silver and blue one.

“I have lotsa tiaras so you can borrow this one so that you can have red! And you can even keep the necklace!”

Jason’s internal monologue nearly burst into tears. ‘She’s an angel! She’s bestowed such a wonderful gift Must. Protect. At All Costs!’

He heard Danny burst into laughter but focused his attention on the grinning girl in front of him.

“Thank you so much Princess! I love it! Just what I needed! I’m honored to receive such a thoughtful gift!

“Yeah Ellie, it looks great on him!” Danny chimed in between chuckles.

“That’s great daddy b’cause I found a white one for you! Now we can all match!”

Danny stopped laughing and Jason returned him a wicked grin.

“Yeah, your highness! We can all match! Besides, what’s a king without his crown!”

Danny sighed, placing the tiara on his head.

“Thanks Ell, I love it.”

“Your welcome daddy!”

“Alright, now go wash your hands for dinner!”

“Okay!”

And the girl scurried off to wash her hands. Jason grinned at the interaction. He waited till the girl was gone before turning to Danny.

“Looking good your highness,” he teased.

“Oh, hush you!” Danny flushed. “Come help me set the table. It’s not a traditional barbecue but I made some chili, hotdogs, veggie skewers, and some coleslaw. We’ve also got fruit salad and some soda pop in the fridge. Ellie wanted to do a homemade version of chili dogs and I had to insist on some fruits and veggies in there. Ancients knows she needs her nutrients! If you could be a dear and grab some plates off the drying rack that’d be great!”

“Of course, your highness! You had me at chili,” Jason said following Danny into the kitchen.

Later that evening after finishing up with dinner. Danny herded them all onto the fire escape with some frozen treats. Ellie had drumstick ice cream cone, Jason an ice cream bar, and Danny an orange popsicle.

“I don’t know if we’ll be able to see the fireworks from here but fingers crossed we do. Just don’t be too disappointed if you can’t see them alright Ell?” Danny told his daughter.

“It’s okay daddy! Even if I don’t see the fireworks I still have you and Mr. Jason and my ice cream!”

Jason and Danny looked at each other sharing the same thoughts: ‘She’s so precious!!!!’

Then the tell tale boom of fireworks started and the trio turned their attention to the sky. A streak of red danced across the sky before it burst into a shower of ruby colored sparks. Then came gold, and green and blue and white. One after another in a barrage of sound and color. And they were just able to see it above the end of the alley.

Ellie let out an awed “Whooooaaaa” as she watched the colors dance across the sky. She turned back to her dad tugging on his sleeve and point up at the sky. He chuckled, picking her up to give her a better view pointing at the sky with her saying, “Look at that one!”

It was near enough to make Jason’s own heart burst.

“Beautiful.”

“I know right!” Danny said, glancing back at him, talking about the fireworks. Silently, Jason thought about the way both of the Nightingales’ glossy black hair reflected the fireworks colors in their sheen.

Then Danny turned to hand his phone to Jason.

“Would you mind taking a picture of us?” He asked. “I never had many growing up and I want this to be something she’ll remember.” Looking back down at the child on his hip.

“Of course I can,” he said, taking the phone in his hand. “Smile!”

Jason looked down at the photo he snapped when he saw something that made his heart stall. It was a good photo, both Danny and Ellie smiling at the camera while the remains of a fireworks fell behind them in a shower of fading light. What stopped him in his tracks was the soft look on his own reflection in the window of the apartment staring at Danny and Ellie.

And he realized, ‘Oh. I like Danny’

And he doesn’t know when he zoned out and missed Danny taking his phone back, but he zones right back in when two arms are thrown over his shoulders and suddenly he’s in a selfie sandwich. Both Nightingales press close, Ellie throwing up a peace sign while Danny snaps the photo.

The two laugh at his startled face and he can’t help the laugh that bursts out of him.

“Hey! I wanna redo!”

That night Jason tosses and turns in bed while his brain replays images of Danny: his smile, his lips, his laugh, the way he licks an ice pop. If he hadn’t realized earlier then he definitely knows now.

Jason Todd has an undeniable, unequivocal crush on Daniel Nightingale.

~~~ I tried with that fight scene but I don’t have a lotta experience there. I know this is a fluff fic so sorry to angst you but it’s necessary for hurt/comfort. Have some “Jason accepts his feelings” to make up for it. Sorry if it’s too clunky or dialogue heavy. I’m open to constructive criticism so let me know what you think.

Fifth World Raga is a real band in the DCU their a rock band and their music is described as quote “spiritual in nature” so I feel like it fit Danny’s vibe.

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shaylogic · 5 months ago

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Transcription of the "Layers of Hell" from Edwin's notebook:

Title: Layers of Hell

Illustration of descending levels, to be described with each level transcribed.

Right side of page divides "Upper Hell" and "Lower Hell" (both roughly 4-5 floors)

Left side of page labeling the levels:

Vestibule: Endless(?) Staircase [illustration: spiralling stairs as the top level]

I. Limbo [stick figures stuck in hotel lobby]

II. Lust [stick figures writhing together in a butchershop, hooks and blood dripping down walls shown]

III. Gluttony [stick figures binging and purging food]

IV. Avarice [stick figures seemingly pushing boulders back and forth] Notes to the right: "heavy [workers/laborers(?)], everyone in your way"

V. Wrath [stick figures swept up in what look like currents] Personal note of transcriber: I looked up notes on Dante's version to get a better idea of this, and I quote "Note how the two groups suffer different punishments appropriate to their type of anger--the wrathful ruthlessly attacking one another and the sullen stewing below the surface of the muddy swamp (Inf. 7.109-26)". Link to source.

VI. Heresy [stick figures that appear to be seated around office tables, or perhaps are laying on sacrificial tables? Possibly graves/tombs. I'm afraid this one seems unclear to me.] Personal note of transcriber: I looked up more notes from the same source website as before, and I quote "Dante opts for the most generic conception of heresy--the denial of the soul's immortality (Inf. 10.15)--perhaps in deference to spiritual and philosophical positions of specific characters he wishes to feature here, or perhaps for the opportunity to present an especially effective form of contrapasso: heretical souls eternally tormented in fiery tombs." Link to new source page.

VII. Violence (8-10 subsections are listed for this level, but they are small and illegible) [figures in a flood of blood or being impaled on the sides of the level illustration] Edwin's notes to the right: "trapped, impaled, submerged in blood"

VIII. Fraud [large level depicting giant snakes, dripping blood that reflects Lust's illustration, figures, and something else I can't make out (jutting outcroppings of stone, wings, hands? I am unsure.)] Edwin's notes to the right: "snake pit, gain human form by biting other humans"

IX. Treachery [figures submerged with only head above surface] Edwin's notes to the right: "frozen + stuck + chewed on"

At the very bottom of the page and levels of hell is an enormous creature that appears to be something like a dragon emerging from a dark pit.

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leiascully · 4 months ago

Text

Fic: adoration, contrition, thanksgiving, supplication (R, MSR)

2050 words; M for intimate situations; sex is easy (sometimes); trigger warnings for mentions of canon-typical violence, trauma, and guns

She is drawn up slowly from the caliginous depths of sleep by sensation. It speaks to years of therapy and her body’s subliminal connection to Mulder’s that she doesn’t reach for her gun. It is her instinct now, trained into her bones. The textured handle of her pistol is as familiar as a teddy bear. It wasn’t her dream to go from somnolent to armed in less than two seconds, but she’s made the acquaintance of too many nightmares.

Tonight, or this morning - she has woken into ambiguous, crepuscular light - she recognizes Mulder’s specific bulk behind her, the particular texture of his fingertips as they skim up her thigh. They have rules: the first touches are firm, reassuring, familiar. They begin with less vulnerable areas. She flinched from his hands, once or twice, involuntarily. He hissed between his teeth when she touched his head from behind. Fight or flight, fawn or freeze: they are both a little feral these days, peering out from the underbrush of their memories. There are hollow places inside them where an echo sounds like a scream.

This moment is very nearly normal, or what she can remember of normal. She doesn’t have to consciously unclench each muscle. She doesn’t count her quickening breaths. When he kisses the back of her neck, she leans into him. His fingers trace the lean line of her thigh, dipping teasingly between them before his palm flattens over her hip, her belly, her ribs. He cups her breast, thumbing the tight bud of her nipple. His lips are warm against the curve of her shoulder.

Sex is easy for them, after all the years of lofty intellectual foreplay. He was inside her psyche long before he was inside her body. She’d explored every coiled passage of his thoughts. There was a shocking intimacy about it, their minds meeting like an open-mouthed kiss. Each conversation stroked along her nerves. Each argument was a shared breath. The devoutly wished consummation, when it happened, had a rhythm so familiar she wondered for a moment if it wasn’t the first time, if she’d forgotten somehow, but it was just the push and pull that had always been between them, translated from air to flesh.

Sex is difficult for them, too. Arousal and fear walk the same paths: adrenaline spikes, hearts race. Gooseflesh ripples her skin and she forgets to breathe, and it feels like love, and it feels like terror. They both have their too-tender places where the nerves are laid bare. There are times he starts to move against her and then shies like a skittish horse. They are gentle with each other even when they abandon civility. Each time is a first time, still, strangers exploring strange lands, even though she’s mapped him on her own skin.

In this liminal moment, she craves him like salt. She turns her face to his, captures his mouth. He squeezes her breast and she groans into the space between his teeth. She likes to feel him swallow the sound, hungry for her. Mulder consumes her like a forest fire. There’s a heat between them that’s necessary for her survival. They go up together, sparks against the night sky, and find themselves unharmed, renewed.

She slides her tongue into his mouth, tasting his need. She tugs at his lower lip, plush as a carnival prize. Her back is still pressed to his belly. She spreads her legs, hooking her foot behind his calf, and reaches between her legs to find his cock. Now he’s groaning as she licks the sound out of his mouth. She reaches down again, pushes two fingers deliberately between her folds. She’s so, so wet for him, and so grateful that her body can do this, after everything. Whatever she’s lost, she still has this: the slickness of her against the unyielding heat of him. His cock rests in the groove of her like they were made for each other. When she moves, just a little, his head grazes her clit and she gasps.

“Fuck,” he says into her mouth, and she swallows that too, unwitting inarticulate ejaculation. This is what she does to him: she’s a bull in the china shop of his mind, rendering his fine thoughts into shards. But he does the same to her. She can name the bones of the wrist until he’s wrist-deep inside her; the only insertions she remembers are the way he pushes into her. College and grad school and med school and the Academy and all of it gone. She takes God’s name in vain. She forgets her own.

He growls, just a little, and slides his other hand under her, caressing her other breast and urging her over at the same time. She straddles him, leaving a wet spot on his belly. They like it when she’s on top. She’s in control when she wants to be, along for the ride when she doesn’t, and she knows he likes the view. He pulls her down to suck at her breasts. She leans in, guiding his hand to the nipple that isn’t in his mouth. Together they roll it between their fingers. She doesn’t stifle her cries. She feels them spike through him like electricity. His hips jolt behind hers.

His free hand is on her back, caressing the long muscles. It’s sweet, soothing; it doesn’t satisfy her. She guides his hand between her hips and his belly instead. His fingers find her clit unerringly. X marks the spot, she thinks. She sits up, gazes down at him with half-lidded eyes. He loves to see her like this. Scully, victorious, he calls her sometimes. She touches her own tits and lets him watch. He’s so fucking beautiful like this. She is cognizant, every time, of the gift of himself that he offers her.

His fingers underneath her slide further, the tips dipping inside her. She lets him see how it feels, how she loves it, how warmth blooms inside her. He watches her parted lips with ravenous avidity. She reaches behind her and wraps her fingers around his cock. If he can’t have her mouth at the moment, at least he can have the cup of her palm. His fingers sink deeper into her until she’s riding his palm. His cock throbs in her hand.

“Please,” she whispers. He smiles at her, dazed but wry. They’re both pleasure-drunk, dizzy with needy delight. She pushes up on her knees until his fingers slip out of her. It’s simple to angle her hips to take his cock instead, just the tip straining against her entrance. She dips her head to tease his nipples with her teeth. His chest hair tickles her face. She rubs the tip of her nose over his pecs, enthralled by the texture and the scent of him. And then she eases back onto him, inch by agonizingly slow inch until he’s panting.

There’s always an exquisite triumph in this moment of joining. They’ve conquered Everest; they’ve saved the world. Closer to say they’ve discovered the truth, she thinks. All along, the alchemical reaction was simple physics, or biology, or chemistry. All along, they had the pieces of the alembic, if they’d thought to assemble them.

Her hips ache but she sinks down further. She can never take him deep enough to satisfy her, though he’s buried to the hilt, her mound flush against his curls. She rises, sinks, grinds. He heaves up into her and she rides him like a rough sea. She rakes her nails lightly over his chest. He reaches up for her tits. Every place he touches her is illuminated, she’d swear. Light dances across her vision and through her body.

She’s close, God, she’s so fucking close to losing herself, but he’s so far away down there on the mattress. She needs to see him, to know him, to feel his arms around her. There have been other Mulders, imposters and replicas. She needs to recalibrate, reassuring herself that he’s the genuine article. Besides, she loves the drowsy glint of his dilated eyes, the sharp edge of his desire striking sparks off her own.

She tugs at him, her words lost in the maelstrom of pleasure, and he manages to sit up without dislodging her. Their frantic movements slow as they gaze into each other’s eyes. She slides slowly down from the precipitous edge of pleasure into something softer but no less rapturous. They rock together, equal partners. She shifts again to take him deeper and he tilts his hips to give her what she needs. She kisses him and he opens his mouth to her. There’s a profound reciprocity in the way his tongue yields under hers.

Each movement is mutual. Each sigh and moan is echoed, amplified. Their hands skim over each other. They hold each other close. She loves the urgency when they fuck, but this is something achingly sweeter. His eyes gleam in the dim. She thinks she might cry - maybe out of relief, maybe just a release.

“I love you,” she tells him. She’s never said it out loud before, somehow.

“Scully,” he says in a voice of infinite tenderness. She thought she’d mind that he doesn’t use her first name, even now, but it’s a shibboleth between them. He has passed her checkpoints; he can enter at her gates.

“Mulder?” She might be crying now. She might be laughing. But he’s there with her: half a gasp, half a chuckle.

“I’ve always loved you,” he says. “Since the rain and the mud in Oregon. Since you stripped out of that bathrobe. I would have done this then if I’d thought you wanted to.”

“You should have asked,” she says, though she knows that’s in flagrant disregard of their history. They weren’t ready for each other then, not like this. They might have had sex, but it wouldn’t have been this discursive inception: her moving in him moving in her, souls grafted together, blooming, fruiting.

She can tell by the crinkle of his eyes that he knows it. There were moments in Oregon in the rain and the forest and the hotel that every possibility felt open to them. She feels it still: wistful for what might have been if they had touched each other before the world had reshaped them, grateful for the relative safety and joy they’ve found in the life they’re living now. Sex is almost the least of their intimacies now. Still, when she touches him, when he touches her, she feels transformed.

After all they’ve endured, she is poignantly aware of the precious fragility of this peace, this pleasure. Whatever price they have paid, they have redeemed the investment. The rising light of dawn brings out gold flecks in his eyes. Under his hands, she feels the steel of her own spine. She kisses him, murmuring his name like a benediction. Blessed is she among women. She wouldn’t take back any step on the path that has brought them here.

There are no words after that. They don’t need them. Their bodies talk the way their bodies have always talked, a communication beyond language. She moves over him and he moves in her until they’re both quivering. They have sanctified this space. She is washed clean in the waters of his love. And she’s rising, rising, rising on the crest of a wave of pleasure. She whispers his name into his neck and he holds her close and there’s a moment of apogee that stretches out and then the wave crashes and she’s submerged in sensation, gasping for breath. And Mulder’s coming too, crying out as he shivers into her. She clenches her inner muscles around him as his cock throbs, relishing the feeling.

Sometimes after he comes, he’ll lick her clean, his arm braced over her shaking hips as she comes and comes and comes. She loves it, but it’s not the kind of night where he leaves her too weak to walk. Instead, they slide slowly onto the bed together. He wraps her in his arms. They’ll get up in a minute, clean up, find a washcloth for the wet spot. For now, she melts into him and whispers a prayer of gratitude. When she opens her eyes, he is haloed in light: holy, holy, whole.

#leiascully fic #my fic #msr fanfic #the x-files fanfic #i had just that image of fingers on thigh in my docs for so long #and it's nice to finally have the energy and brainspace to write more #you will take smut as a technique for character study out of my cold dead hands

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aelinfireheartgalathynius · 5 months ago

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I finally finished my four-volume ATYD layout!

The body text is larger than any formatted version I have found before, which is why it's four volumes instead of three. (The images I added to this post are just thumbnail previews, not meant to illustrate the relative size of the text.) I designed covers, front matter, chapter accents, and gave each character their own handwriting style for their letters!

I put a huge amount of work into this (for myself!) and I'm excited to share with anyone who is interested. The fanart and fonts I used are all credited (fanart in the front matter, fonts in the back) in case anyone wants to look them up.

These PDFs were specifically designed for printing as perfect-bound paperbacks, which is why the margins are larger on the sides toward the spine. There are all sorts of print-on-demand book sites out there that you can use to order your own copies. If you're handy with InDesign I can send you the .indd files if you'd like to modify them.

If anyone is super interested in having these in EPUB format (for e-readers), I can also share those versions, but they won't have the custom fonts because EPUB formats don't play well with those.

These are hosted on my Google Drive and I have no immediate plans to delete them, but I do recommend downloading them if you think you'll want them in the future, in case I need to delete them down the road.

Here are the files: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1t1ZKdmkDDDUAYqY3Lp6EUilchX5UErlQ?usp=sharing

Tags for those who requested them: @likehephaestionwhodied, @lady-stardust-incarnate, @mxed-salad-greens, @cherryberry1403

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tumblerislovetumblerislife · 18 days ago

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dead Boy Detectives (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland Characters: Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, Charles Rowland (DCU) Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Kissing, Charles Rowland Has Long Hair (DCU), tiny couch makes its triumphant return, charles hears edwin say one (1) romantic thing and has to lie down immediately, there’s one dirty joke. maybe two. sorry (i’m not sorry), no beta we fall to the floor like charles Series: Part 4 of give charles rowland long hair 2k24 Summary:

In mere hours, Charles would tie his hair back, out of the way of their work. Sometimes he missed a strand, which would then frame his face most fetchingly. Terribly tempting, that one curl, not to mention the fantasy of tucking it behind his ear and then ravishing him beyond what his poor hair tie could contain. For now, there was no such restriction, and so it was yet another thing Edwin planned to take full advantage of. He took hold of Charles’ hair and simultaneously set his teeth against Charles’ neck. Charles’ grip on him tightened. With a barely perceptible pop, Edwin’s shirt vanished.

Or: The first time Charles vanished Edwin’s clothes.

#dbda #payneland #tltl fic #my fic #dead boy detectives #charles rowland #edwin x charles #these bitches are back and gayer than ever (good for them good for them)#dead boy detective agency #dbdshow #edwin payne #painland #paineland #paynland #edwin paine #dbda fic #dbda fanfic #give charles rowland long hair 2k24 #take the ribbon from your hair (shake it loose let it fall)

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sukunasbow · 1 year ago

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avoiding reality, daryl dixon.

summary: in which you avoid your boyfriend when you find out you’re pregnant, unsure of what to do with a baby in the middle of the apocalypse!

warnings: pregnant!reader, fem!reader, and not yet proof read because it’s late atm sorry!

notes: once again i wanna give fair warning that i am not the best at the pregnancy or children trope so please be patient!

Two days ago, you went on a run with your boyfriend to get food supplies from a rundown store, secretly stealing a cheap box of tests after you noticed you were late on your period. You’ve been good at keeping track of it so far, so you knew something was off. Your suspicions were obviously right, as you took the test later that night and it came back positive. Unsure of what to do and how Daryl would react, you chose the path of avoiding him, skipping out on the last few supply runs, as well as even keeping more distance between you and the man. He’s obviously taken notice to it, trying to start conversation with you and asking around if anyone knows what’s up with you. You couldn’t tell him, you were scared.

Now, you’re sitting up in the guard tower, staring out into the distance, ignoring the sound of Judith’s cries from inside the prison. It’s just another reminder of your predicament, causing you to close your eyes, your stomach squirming nervously.

“Ay!” The voice causes you to open your eyes, scaring you senseless. It’s Daryl. You shuffle closer to the fencing on the platform of the tower, looking down to see Glenn and your boyfriend standing together, weapons in hand. “We’re going on a run, come with us!” Daryl calls out again, moving his hand to shield his face from the sun and get a better look at you, hoping you’ll finally join him and get out of the prison for a bit.

“I’m gonna stay here and keep watch.” You yell back, instantly feeling bad when you notice his expression fall, clearly feeling upset.

“Maggie can take over.” Glenn adds. You let out an annoyed sigh. Obviously Glenn doesn’t know why you’re skipping the runs, but seriously, you wish he had stayed quiet. “Ya!” Daryl nods, confirming that Glenn’s wife would be willing to take over for the day.

“I don’t really feel like going.” You stay firm on your decision, despite the weird looks between Glenn and your boyfriend.

“Hold up.” Daryl says to Glenn, putting down his crossbow and walking towards the tower, opening the door and making his way up the stairs to talk to you.

Your eyes widen when he opens the second door, making his way out onto the balcony you’re sitting on. “Daryl, it’s fine, I’m just tired.” You insist. “Ya, bullshit, girl. I know ya, ya never miss runs, something’s up.” He scoffs, his southern tone harsh. He sits down next to you, waiting for your explanation. “I’m not lying.” You whisper. “Did I do something?” He questions you. “Daryl, I already told you, nothing’s wrong.” You shake your head. The stubborn man starts ranting about how he knows you, again. You let out a sigh, before opening your mouth.

“You really wanna know why I’m skipping all the runs and avoiding you?!” You huff, interrupting him, deciding you’ve had enough.

Your boyfriend nods.

“I’m pregnant, okay?!” You snap. Obviously, you were loud, as you hear Glenn audibly gasp, then the sound of gravel getting kicked around as he walks away and decides to wait in the truck.

You turn your attention back to Daryl, biting your lip, anxiously waiting for a response. His eyes are slightly wide, but the rest of his face remains serious.

Suddenly, he reaches his arms out and holds your hands. “Your really pregnant? You took a test?” He smiles. The smile is instantly relieving, causing you to nod, a small smile appearing on your face as well. “We’re gonna be good parents, hm?” Daryl pulls you in for a hug. “You’re going to be the best dad.” You reassure him. “And you’ll be a great mom, ya know that?” He pulls away from the hug and looks into your eyes. You hold back your tears, nodding repeatedly, letting yourself and him that it’s going to be alright.

Moments later, when reality sets in for the two of you, Glenn breaks the silence. “Should I ask Maggie to go on the run?!” He yells. “It’s fine, I’ll go now!” You reply. Daryl shakes his head, “Wait, you should stop going on runs now.” He says. “I can go on runs for a bit longer, besides, I wanna get out of here, I’ve been skipping runs for way too long.” You roll your eyes. “Okay, but I’m still coming with you.” Your boyfriend stands up, offering you a hand to help you up.

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allmyhomieshatelawns · 20 days ago

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Heyo I was seized by plot bunnies, so have a little DCXDP! Note, this IS heavily inspired by @phantomfen 's ao3 work https://archiveofourown.org/works/57152017

I highly recommend reading that, but this isn't connected, just inspired. This snippet is also inspired by the song "The Tale of The Shadow" by Sail North. I hope you enjoy!

This is Dead on Main because they're my favorite~

The Shadow:

The wooden boards groaned underneath my weight, as I paced in front of the boat I had purchased. I had finally done it. Bruce wasn't going to be happy, but when was he ever happy with what I did? I shook my head, straightening up as I heard several pairs of booted feet. Turning, I saw a gaggle of hardened sailors making their way down the docks towards me.

My own boat bobbed happily in the water next to me. It was smaller than anything that would normally carry cargo. I just hoped we weren't seen as a new rival pirate company. Bruce already dealt with the majority of them, but they always kept breaking out of jail and reclaiming their territory. The idea to claim it for myself was tempting, but that could come after I had found my prize.

For as long as I could remember, Alfred had put me to bed with a variety of stories. Above and beyond my favorite, besides anything set in the regency era, was the tale of The Shadow. A spectral ship, empty of any Captain or crew, but supposedly full of treasure, waiting for the right Captain to claim her. The only person said to be on the ship was some deck boy strung up to be thrown overboard. It wasn't known what the boy could have done to earn eternity on a damned ship, but I hoped I wouldn't find out.

Alfred couldn't tell me where the treasure had come from, but he did tell me of the many times someone tried to claim The Shadow for themselves, but each time, something would go wrong. The weather would turn, the crew would mutiny, a kraken would come and swallow their ship, the ship would come alive and kill the crew, the story would change but stay the same. No one was able to claim her.

The very idea sent me swooning. Tim and Dick both told me not to bother trying to look. Damian thought I was an idiot for believing the ship existed at all. With our nighttime activities of defending Gotham from gangs, pirates, and worse, I didn't know where they got the audacity to be such blatant hypocrites. If someone like Deadman could exist, then so too could The Shadow.

"Ready to go, Captain Jason?" A man I had hired on as First Mate stepped up beside me, a grin twisting his rugged features. He was unshaven, wearing sturdy clothing meant for hard labor. His hair was short and rusty brown, his eyes were a dull green, watering a bit. He slouched, turning to glance back at the men as they loaded themselves on, and began the process of getting the ship ready to sail.

My grin was sharper than his, and I hopped across the gap, landing on the top deck of the ship. Turning back to him, I gestured the man to follow. We toured the ship, and I made sure everything was flowing as it should. I had made sure to do my research on how ships ran, especially old ones, since the legend of The Shadow was as old as seafaring itself, maybe older. I knew how to sail a modern ship as well as, as many of the older versions of ships as I could sink my teeth into. I was ass at canoe, though I had no idea why. Kayaking was fine, and so was a little speed boat, but not a canoe. I kept getting flipped.

…

We cast out to sea, radio on and scanning for any unusual traffic. We were equipped to fish, and that's technically what we would be doing the most of. There was no telling how long it would take to find The Shadow, but I had made a map of where it had been sighted, color-coded by decade. We would find that ship, and I would… I would shove it in Bruce's face to stop doubting me. I would have finally proven myself to him, and he wouldn't have any choice but to pay attention!

Weeks passed, slowly sailing to each spot The Shadow had been spotted. We would occasionally put to port to speak with the ones whom had made the report. The crew was a little irritated with how long that method would take, so currently we were sailing out for our next destination, a series of sightings in the middle of the Atlantic.

"Captain! A storm's on the horizon!" One of the crew called from the crow's nest, sounding really worried.

"Size of the clouds?" I called back, already striding to the back deck to pull out my spyglass and get a better look. We had yet to see a storm yet, but it was sometimes said The Shadow would use them to travel, seemingly popping up once the storm passed and scaring the shit out of people.

"Too big! This storm'll tear us apart!" He called back, the nervous strings of his voice ringing out and alerting the rest of the crew that something wasn't right.

"Captain?" First Mate stepped up, hand reaching out for the spyglass. I handed it over easily, watching him as he held it up to his eye and looked through carefully. Pulling the lens from his eye, he glanced at me, giving a sharp nod.

"This is the best sign we've gotten so far." He announced, getting cheers from the crew. Shouldn't I be the one making that kind of announcement? Oh well. "With any luck, The Shadow is amongst those clouds! The treasure is close!"

The crew crowed in excitement, pumping their fists in the air. I dismissed them back to work, not liking some of the looks they would throw me when they thought I wouldn't notice. This crew wasn't my best idea, but it was almost over, I could almost taste the treasure on the air. We would split our shares, and be on our way.

…

Ocean spray blew into the air, flung across achingly familiar wooden planks. I glided across the damp wood, watching the ocean thrown around by my storm. The Shadow slipped across the water, my awareness brushing across something new. The souls wrapped around my throat like pearls shuddered at the foreign feeling, their rest disturbed. Interest piqued my mind however, the beauty of the ocean was unending, but then, so was the loneliness.

It had been a while since someone and tried to take what wasn't their's. My treasure had been safe for generations at this point. It had been so long, I thought the last person to know of my existence had finally died. I shouldn't have been so hopeful though, humans are too tenacious. They think they can just come aboard my ship, and hurt my charges. Maybe this can be the last time I have to defend. Maybe I can leave them with a lesson so harsh, no one else comes looking for me and mine. Maybe I could even keep a few of them for myself.

The wind I had been using to propel myself forward, ceased. I watched, flitting between portholes, flickering behind rigging, swarming the sails, as a boat drew closer. It teemed with people. They so badly wish to join my collection. I fingered my pearls, body clacking whenever I moved. The strings dangled across the ground, creating an eerie symphony.

Orders were shouted across the deck of the nearing ship. One voice stuck out from the rest. A young man with black hair stood at the helm, calling orders. A wild grin was on his face. Despite the distance I could see every detail. This young man looked as if he had found the thing he had been searching his entire life for. The way that emotion lit up his face was almost enough to make me blush.

This young man wanted me this badly? No one had come to purposefully seek me out in so long. Where maybe my heart was at one point, fluttered with emotion. Maybe this one. Maybe I could keep this one.

The boat was now close enough for them to clearly see my deck. Silence reigned as they all stared. Activity exploded, the Captain bursting forward. He stared at The Shadow, my ship, eyes sparkling and wide, his mouth hung open and everything. Tears sparked in the corners of his eyes, and he scrubbed them away quickly.

"This is it boys!" The Captain called, grabbing a rope and swinging over to me. His feet thunked on the wood, the first step made on this ship since…

Thunder filled the air as every boot landed on the deck. I flinched, hiding beneath the deck and staring up at them from between the floorboards. It had been so long since the souls around me were in a body. I fingered my string of pearls, the sound of the clattering drawing the attention of several of the sailors. They crossed themselves, glancing around nervously. I had to stifle a giggle. They had sealed their fate by coming after my charges, no amount of prayer could save them now.

My attention moved to the Captain, appearing in his shadow, watching him.

"At last… I've heard more stories about this magnificent beast than I can remember. The captaincy is within my grasp. It's right here." He murmured to himself, inspecting different areas of The Shadow. He opened doors, peaking in at empty rooms, followed closely by a few members of the crew. One of them had a knife in his hand, unsheathed, like he was going to kill the captain.

I frowned at the idea. That wouldn't be ideal. I could speak to a soul I had collected sure, but it was much easier if they had a body to move with. I tossed my head in exasperation, holding back a giggle as more of the vile sailors crossed themselves at the rattling clack that accompanied my every motion.

Pearls dripped down my body, strung across like a tight net. Each pearl was a soul I had collected on the seven seas. I kept them safe from those who might wish them harm. Here, with me, they could sail until time expired, feeling nothing but joy at the freedom bestowed to them. Being able to wander the earth, one with the oceans they had so loved? What more could a sailor want? They felt no hunger, no thirst, nor heat nor cold. I would take them around the world, even beneath the waves sometimes, to see magnificent wrecks.

I hadn't caused all of them.

The captain was stroking the wood of the bannister he leaned against. His thumb was gentle.

"I can't believe it. The Shadow is real, and looks as beautiful as if she had just come off the lot." He grinned, head tilting back to expose his neck. His eyes closed, and he sucked in a sharp breath. "I don't need anything else. I can die happy now, just having found The Shadow." He pulled away from the wood, hands going into his pockets.

"Captain! We've searched most of the hold already, it's just full of moldy rocks and bad water!" One of the sailors stomped up to the Captain, a scowl on his face.

The Captain raised an eyebrow, looking the slightly shorter man up and down. "And? We've definitely found the right ship. What do I care about treasure? You'll still get paid what I promised." The Captain waved away the sailor, running his hands over another section of railing. He was approaching the helm, staring at it like it could answer every question he had ever had.

I wasn't sure how to react to him not caring about the treasure though. No one who sought out my ship knew that I was guarding it. Everyone wanted to find and take the treasure for themselves. The crew didn't seem to like that the captain didn't care about the treasure.

My mind whirled with possibilities as the crew began to tear through the ship, trying to find me. This Captain might really be someone worth keeping around. At least for a little while. I could always collect him after I finished with the crew. It would be nice to have a soul here independent of me. Then I would know his decisions were his own. Not to mention, I can't just let him leave after finding me, and I don’t think his crew will let him leave either. I grinned at the idea that these sailors were now all mine.

The Captain touched the helm, awe on his face.

I plunged into the woodwork of the ship, stretching my senses out through every piece of rigging. Snapping out, I grabbed every throat, wringing them like so much laundry. The crew were dead before a sound could be uttered. Another string of pearls clacked into being, wrapped around my body.

The captain was staring at me, his eyes a startling blue. I hadn't seen a person with such blue eyes before. They were almost as beautifully blue as the ocean in all her moods. They would be perfect to add to my collection of the most precious objects I could find.

In a flash, I revealed myself, watching as the Captain's beautiful eyes widened, showing even more shades of blue within their depths. There was nothing for it, I was utterly besotted. I had to have them. My hand reached out, cupping his face. The man was taller than me, but it didn't mean much when my feet didn't have to touch the floor.

"You–! You're not tangled in rigging! You're the treasure!" The Captain gasped, one hand covering his mouth, while the other carefully reached forward. It was if I hadn't just killed his entire crew before his eyes.

My own hands reached out, I cupped his face, feeling the strong jawline beneath my palms. It was so strange to be touching living flesh. The Shadow had already absorbed the bodies and nutrients of the men, their bodies no longer hanging from the rigging. I hadn't touched skin in so long…

The Captain began to scream, reaching up to try and shove me away. His eyes were so pretty, they would look better as the centerpiece for my favorite necklace. The pearls on that necklace had long gone dormant, but the souls inside had been important. Probably. How long since they last spoke to me? I pushed the thought away, wiping my hand across the empty sockets of my new Captain.

The wounds healed, and the man stopped screaming, his hands slowly lowering.

"Much better. Ahhhh, these are so pretty!" I exclaimed, wanting him to know I hadn't just thrown them out. "It's been so long since someone sought me out. Even longer since I had a Captain… it seems like that was what you were hoping for?" I asked, floating around my Captain, giggling as he spun around to my clacking.

"I…" He wet his bottom lip, head tilting this way and that, probably trying to follow me. "I've dreamt about being the captain of this ship for as long as I can remember." He was even telling the truth, rare that. The emotions bleeding from him were a desperate yearning I hadn't felt in ages. Usually I would only feel them from the terrified sailors that would flee before my storm.

My grin stretched too wide, but that was okay. He couldn't see it anyway. I looped my arms around his shoulders, pressing my flat chest to his own. The sound of the pearls rang across the ship.

"Welcome then, my Captain. Where are we going?" I asked, eager to find the first place I hadn't decided on.

Captain looked like I had dangled something precious in front of his face, only to snatch it away again. He scowled, trying to shove me off. I just clung tighter, phasing through his scrabbling hands so I didn't go anywhere. My grin turned to a bit of a snarl.

"You wanted to be my Captain, didn't you? Did you think there would be no price to pay? Now tell me. Where are we going?" I nuzzled into my Captain's throat, not wanting to scare him too much. It had been millennia since I had been human myself (was I ever actually human? Or did I imagine that?), so I would have to be patient with my Captain. Maybe I wasn't speaking his language?

Captain choked on air, but had stopped trying to push me away. His heart rate had spiked, rushing faster through his body as I stayed snuggled up to him.

This was going to be the start of a beautiful partnership.

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