#how many months have i been bleeding off and on but mostly on

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-one —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.5k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: I'm sorry lmaooo nine months... hopefully we can finish this thing!

The last bed you laid in smelled like lemon mint detergent. It was the full bed in your sister's guest room. Everything was crisp and white. They rarely had guests besides you. Some of your clothes stayed in that closet, one of your toothbrushes stayed in the connected bathroom, waiting for your visits. You'd awaken that last morning not thinking you'd never sleep in bed for another five years. You left it unmade.

This bed smells like pine and warmth.

Ghost's room is small and dimly lit. The ceiling slants so that one end is not tall enough for him to fully stand. There's a dresser and a nightstand, leaving only a sliver of floorspace.

After the metal latch on the door clicks shut, Ghost lays the blanket down and grabs a pillow for himself. That leaves the bed to you. Springs creak beneath your weight as you silently slip under a heavy, rustic quilt. The years-embedded scent of him wraps around you like a drug-induced fog. You hesitate to move, frozen as he flicks off the light. You wonder if he always locks the door or did it for you, to make you feel safer.

Only when his moving about ceases do you allow yourself to get comfortable. You cocoon your body under the quilt and turn to your side, closing your eyes.

A thought reopens them minutes later. You roll onto your back and speak into the darkness. "Have you known about this Switzerland place?"

For a moment, you think he's already asleep. Then, from below the bed by your feet, he says, "Heard of it."

"That is what you guys talked about, isn't it?" you ask absentmindedly.

"Among other things."

You sit up so you can see him, but all that you can make out is a dark shadow. "Care to share?"

"Some things are on a need-to-know basis," is all he gives.

"And I don't need to know?"

"Precisely."

It stings; you don't know why. "Some team we make, huh? Or I guess we're only a team when you need me to do something for you."

You quickly realize how petulant you must sound. The shadow sits upright. "They asked me to go with them. I said no. Too far. Too many variables that are hard to predict, and she's not ready for them. Happy?"

Happy—no, but relief replaces the slight uncertainty in your gut since your conversation with Nereida. Joining them was shut down. You wouldn't tell her, but their idea sounds asinine, whether or not that commune exists. The trip will be risky at best, fatal at worst. You're tempted to ask him how many days he thinks they'll recoup here before continuing their journey, but opt for sleep instead. He seems done with the conversation, too, lying back down. Then, you have the best sleep you've had in years in his bed.

When the sun turns pink, you awaken to a room void of Ghost. He's gone. It should be expected, but you'd thought he might wake you up to train like normal. Though, the past twenty-four hours haven't been normal. You look around, the details of his room more visible now. On the nightstand, there is a stack of books and you scan the titled spines. Mostly classics. One Hemingway. All tattered and read frequently. Beside them lays a silver chain attached to a dog tag. You gently finger the engraved metal so as not to move it out of place: Simon Riley. 

Snooping through his things is more tempting than you're willing to admit. You slip out of bed, socked feet padding over to the dresser. There are mostly papers. His map with the marked circle around what you now realize is Switzerland, a notepad with scribbled half-cursive on it, and then a faded photo beneath it. You freeze, breath hitching, as if you've done something dangerous just by stumbling upon it. Curiosity is thick in your chest, difficult to ignore. Gentle fingers reach to shift it out, revealing a picture that you know right away is of Blue and her mom. Blue is a baby. Maybe one year old. A woman with light brown hair holds her up, sitting on a bench in front of a playground. She's pretty and young. There is a sadness when you wonder if this is the only picture he has of them—before her death. Then, there is another feeling. You swallow it. 

You quickly slip the photo back just the way you found it and leave the room. The living room is quiet, people still sleeping. Price and Kyle's blankets are empty, but Kyle is the only one you spot outside. He sits on a tree stump, using a knife and some soap to shave his beard. He looks at you the moment you step outside.

"Good morning." He splashes a scoop of water on his smoothed jaw. 

You tuck your hands in your pockets. "Morning."

Without the facial hair, he looks even younger. Maybe in his early thirties. He pushes to his feet and you are reminded of his above-average height, though he is not as monstrous as Ghost. His form is lean, all muscle, with much less ink on his exposed skin. It is now you notice a scar across his jaw. Thick but faded. It trails halfway down his neck.

"Do you know where Ghost went?" you ask.

"Working on that truck of his. With Price."

A glance over your shoulder confirms it; you spot some movement behind the cabin where you know his truck sits. Guess that means no training. You nod. "So, um, you were in the military together, right?"

He takes a moment to look at you before answering. "Yeah. Same unit. Price was our captain."

"I kind of figured. He is... captain-y."

"'Captain-y.' Good way of putting it."

You're ready to turn away when he asks, "I hate to pry, but I admit I'm curious how you ended up here with him."

You force a smile. "It's not a very interesting story, sorry."

"I'm not looking for entertainment."

"What are you looking for, then?" You sound more defensive than you mean to. 

He shrugs. "Just curious, is all. You're a bit young."

"I'm not fucking him if that's what you're getting at." His brows lift to his hairline, and you're almost embarrassed for assuming that is what he was thinking, but before he can speak you add, "And you're young, too. I can handle myself just as you can."

"Of course." He shakes his head, moving his hand over his chest in earnest. "I apologize if I insinuated otherwise. Though, I am older than you."

"How old?"

"Let's see. Thirty-one last November. Or maybe it's just thirty. Hard to keep track, innit?" His smile is more genuine than yours, flashing white teeth. Then, his face turns more serious and he sighs through his nose, head tilting. "Look, I understand."

"Understand what?"

"I don't know your story, but I'm sure it is a gruesome one, and you have every right to feel uncomfortable. We'll be out of your hair soon enough. I appreciate you having us, though."

You want to tell him it's not like you have a choice; you're not the host here. But he already knows that. He's trying to be nice. "Thank you," you tell him honestly. 

Kyle bends to pick up his knife, wiping it off on his shirt. "So what did you need Ghost for?"

"Oh, nothing really."

"Care to accompany me for some breakfast, then?"

You consider saying no, but you need to hunt, anyway. Besides, you don't think he'd try anything in broad daylight. In another life, you may have looked at him with a more appreciative eye. But as you wade in silence through the woods, bow cinched to your back, you study him like an opponent. He's more agile than Ghost, likely quicker. When he crests the hill, it's hard to match his strides. 

Small conversation picks up by the pond and you find yourself easing up. You learn he's from London, too.

"What part?"

"Islington. I shared an apartment with my girlfriend. The rent was shit but it was worth it. Top floor loft with a good view and this insane Turkish bakery just below us." His tone is so casual you forget where you are for a second, until he suddenly throws his knife. It pins a squirrel to one of the trees. He bends to dislodge it and carries the dead animal, blood on his fingers. 

You keep walking. "What happened to her?"

"I had to make a choice. Go to London and find her, or go with Price and get my nephew, niece, and sister-in-law."

The understanding hits with the force of a fallen tree, and you pale. 

He notices your expression and continues. "I don't regret my decision. I've come to terms with it. There was no chance of me finding her in London, not with how quickly the infection spread there and the phone lines went out. I didn't even know where to look for her. At work? Home? Up north, things weren't as bad yet. I got in contact with my sister-in-law, Ameena, and told her to meet us at the small college up there where Nereida worked."

You recall what Nereida said, about Ari's mom and sister dying, so you don't pry about them. "What about your brother? Ari's dad?"

"He died before shit happened. He was in the military, too. Different unit. Multiple gun wounds while in Afghanistan a few years back."

"I think your story is more gruesome than mine," you admit.

His lips twitch ruefully. "Not a competition. Gruesome world, gruesome stories."

A more comfortable quiet settles. He is not so different than you, you realize. Only difference is he still has his nephew to look after.

The sun is already high, enough to make a collar of sweat appear on your shirt. There is a small dirt ridge you have to climb and the effort reminds you of the still-healing bruises on your body. A skirt of movement catches your eye and this time, you act quick. You use your bow to kill a squirrel up on a branch. It falls to the ground.

"Damn." Kyle whistles, low and long, as you wriggle the arrow free. "Hell of an aim you got."

"I'm... alright."

"No need to be modest."

You straighten and wipe your bloodied hand on your shirt. The movement lifts it, and you hear him suck in a breath behind you. A hand touches your shoulder, gentle than firm, as he spins you around. You're confused, then follow his gaze to the sliver of exposed skin on your hip. It's a gross yellow. 

"Twix." His voice lowers, and his friendly eyes are confused. 

Shit. "It's not whatever you're thinking."

"I'm thinking someone has put their hands on you." He frowns and shifts closer. "I know you have no reason to tell me things, but I can tell you I am not okay with that shit, no matter who it is."

You inwardly cringe. "Ghost is not... hitting me. Well, he is—"

"Fucking hell—"

"No, no. I asked him to." The bewildered look on his face makes you palm your forehead. "Not like that. Jesus. We train together, okay?"

"Train together," he repeats, shoulders loosening. 

"Yeah, like to help me get stronger." The embarrassment remains on your cheeks. "It's silly, really."

Kyle shakes his head and grins, clearly amused now that he knows you're not being abused against your will. "Not silly. Thought you two were into some kinky shit for a second there." He continues walking over a patch of dryer land, stepping onto a small rock and chuffing a breath under his nose. "Wouldn't have been surprised."

Your fingers absentmindedly tighten around the squirrel's limp neck. Your feet are frozen for a moment as you shake off a deep blush, then call out behind him. "Did you miss the part where I said I'm not fucking him!"

He simply laughs. 

---

The rest of the day passes in languid warmth. 

It's weird having so many people here, but you try to continue your day like usual, skinning the kill and washing your clothes. You learn more about Nereida as you eat together. You haven't had a female friend in... a long time. Save Blue. She used to be an arts professor at a private school. Sculpting, mainly. That is how she came to meet John Price, when he attended one of her galleries, buying a piece from her for far more than the listing price. He was just looking for a way to take me out to dinner. The way she speaks of him is that of a doting wife, despite everything they've been through. She tells you they were engaged before the infection. A makeshift ceremony at their old camp was the best they could do. 

"No wedding ring, but we do both have this." She pulls up her sleeve to show you a small scar carved on her shoulder—a faint letter 'J'. Price has the 'N'.

You're not sure what Ghost needed to fix on his truck that morning, or why it was important to do it with Price, but when you returned with Kyle, something felt off. Ghost's tension was palpable. He usually seems in thought, but even more-so. When Ari takes Blue for a quick ride on the horse—apparently Cherry used to be owned by his parents on their family ranch in Newcastle—he watches for only a minute before disappearing somewhere with Price. You pretend to need something from the cabin. You sneak around the back way, finding them again by his truck, muttering in low voices. Only pieces reach your ears.

"...through the rural parts. Not a straight path..."

"...could take months..."

"Got quite a bit of those."

Then, he's showing Price something under the tuck bed's tarp where you catch sight of that kayak once again. 

"Find it?"

A low voice in your ear. You startle and turn around.

"Huh?"

Kyle raises a brow. "You said you needed something."

Your hand flattens against the side of the cabin. "Right. Um, I just—"

Boots scuffle behind you. You don't need to turn to know Ghost and Price have detected your presence, making their way over. Kyle's gaze flicks to them and you feel like a child who's been caught by her parents—embarrassment laced over your irritation. You wouldn't have been eavesdropping if they weren't so secretive.

"Everything alright?" Price's timbre is calm. Your neck prickles where you feel Ghost's stare.

You find yourself nodding. "Yes. Just fine. Sorry."

It gets cooler by nightfall. Your knee bounces slightly under the table during dinner. You listen to Blue explain the rules of battleship to Ari. You don't eat much more of the meat you caught with Kyle. With a mostly empty stomach, you enter Ghost's room after everyone else has gone to bed. His broad form hovers over his dresser. For a moment, you fear he's somehow noticed that you looked at his things earlier. But then you realize his eyes are glued to the map, and he's penciling some things on the margins.

He looks up when you close the door behind you. His brows are deeply knotted. 

"Figured you would be sleeping out there for tonight."

"What?"

"Seems like you feel just fine around them now." 

He looks away from you as if you're not even there. He places the map down and opens the top drawer. Without warning, he pulls out a clean shirt and changes, revealing his bare chest. His shoulders flex as he slips it over his head by the collar. Then, he moves toward you, eyes dully expectant.

"Being asleep near them is different than hanging out during the day," you finally respond. Mouth feeling dry, you swallow. "What's going on? I can tell that you... you've been thinking about something."

"You mean you've been listening." His brow lifts. He shakes his head before you can defend yourself. "I am always thinking about something."

"Would it kill you to not be cryptic for once? I thought that we were..."

"That we were what?"

"Being honest with each other now."

A dark, slightly amused breath leaves his nose. He contemplates your words for a moment. "It is my plan to go there," he then says. "I'm not stupid. I know she needs more than what I can offer her here. It has always been my plan. Just not now."

"Because she's not ready," you breathe.

"Because she's not ready," he repeats, chin tilting. His eyes darken, veering to the left. "Price seems to disagree."

Your nails curl in your palms. "And?"

He looks back at you. "And I am thinking of your camp. What happened to you. I can't grow complacent."

The mention unsettles your stomach. Of course, he needn't elaborate, not when the memory is more fresh than you'd like. "But going to Switzerland would take days, weeks. And they have no idea what they might run into out there. It's not like we have inside info on the state of France and—and wherever the hell else we'd have to cross through to get there. They could be worse than London."

"I'm aware."

"So what, then? You're considering it now? I thought you told them no," your hushed voice edges a bit harsher, and the pulse in your neck quickens.

You hate what you think he's saying, even if you understand it. He has his daughter's future to think of. Even if he were to try finding some safe community when she's older, the opportunity of traveling with two other military-experienced men would be gone, along with whatever weapons and supplies they bring to the table.

The contemplation is vivid in his eyes as you study them. Ghost's head lowers, dipping down at the same time that he emits a harsh breath, and you realize how close the two of you have become in this quiet exchange, keeping your voices safe from any awakened ears. So close, in fact, that his exhalation hits the space between your neck and collarbones, where a small patch of skin tingles with alertness. 

His voice emerges low and thoughtful after a drawn moment. "I haven't fully decided."

You nod with deep breath to steady yourself, taking in his answer. "Will you tell me when you do?" 

"I can do that."

And that's all he offers—four words that give a minuscule amount of comfort, because now bitter uncertainty has snuck upon you once again. Your fate lays in his decision. You can't survive on your own, not even here, so if he leaves you have to go with him. The impending doom fogs your brain. You fail to notice his hand has moved, pinching the hem of your shirt between thumb and forefinger, and beginning to carefully lift it up. A breath hitches at the top of your throat and your eyes unfurl, only to find that he is pensively looking down at your exposed stomach.

"What the fuck are you—"

You're cut off when his bent knuckles gently brush over your mottled abdomen, sweeping down the sore midline, leaving you frozen. It's a thoughtful, slow touch—calloused skin against smooth softness. His thumb traces a particularly bad one by your hip, causing your muscles to flutter as a pleasant heat blossoms. For the second time today, your bruises are under scrutiny, and you curse yourself for not applying more of that paste on them.

"They're healing well," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, and lowers the shirt back down. He steps back. Eyes find yours. "Don't get too comfortable."

You blink dazedly, then stiffen. "Um, what?"

"Sleeping in my bed. My room isn't a hotel."

The change of topic gives you whiplash. "You're the one who made me sleep here," you remind him pointedly. "I'll just take the floor tonight, and you have the bed."

"You're a woman. Take it."

"As if you give a fuck about being a gentleman."

"You're right, I don't." A dismissive shoulder shrugs, then his back turns to you. He lays in the bed before you have the chance to even move, which leaves the blanket on the floor for you.

You should've just accepted the bed.

Once the room is shrouded in darkness, you bury your head in the pillow. 

"Comfortable?" he says sarcastically above you.

"Fuck off."

Then it's silent. You don't sleep nearly as well.

[zorosdimples]

i’m bleeding a concerning amount

[cuubism]

Dreamling Olympic Equestrian AU, the Sequel (less Olympics, more Equestrian)

-

Hob wished he could say he took a ‘reasonable’ approach to dating Dream after the Olympics. In actuality he basically just went home with Dream and never left. He helped him get Jessamy settled in, and then Dream wanted him to stay over, and then Hob made him breakfast the next morning, and then—

He did eventually have to go take care of his own horses, and generally get back to his real responsibilities, but it was done with reluctance. Damn him, but he’d immediately started missing Dream. Too attached, too quickly, that was always his way.

And then not a week later Dream had invited him to bring his horse and go on a hack, and, well. Maybe Hob wasn’t the only one being unreasonable about it.

Safe to say they had never really gotten rid of each other after that.

By the end of the year Hob did very much the opposite of getting rid of Dream. Which was to say, marrying him. He was now the proud owner of some very cliche wedding photos of them leaning over to kiss each other while on horseback. He wouldn’t change a thing.

Afterwards, they’d both sold their respective properties, pooled their resources—mostly Dream’s resources if Hob was being totally honest—and bought a place together.

Hob still remembers finding the farm on the market and taking Dream to see it for the first time. He’d been so excited for Dream to see it. Dream had such high standards and Hob had been sure they were going to have to compromise on something, but this property had everything Dream had ever expressed wanting in a farm and other things besides. Rolling fields and connections to nearby bridle paths. A massive indoor arena for riding in inclement weather. Three-sided shelters in all of the paddocks. Automatic waterers. Heated wash stalls. The damn floors were heated too, not that they used the stalls much, but Dream’s geriatric ponies would surely appreciate it come wintertime.

(Hob had been extremely charmed to learn, upon first visiting Dream's farm, that Dream still owned the incredibly fancy ponies Hob had correctly assumed he'd grown up riding as a child. They were now ancient and feral and tended to bite anyone other than Dream. It was delightful.)

Hob’s favorite part of the property was the house. It was set a bit off from the main barn, close enough to be an easy walk but out of the way of the traffic if one was to operate the place as a full-service livery. Dream had loved the cottage at Hob’s previous farm, and this house was much the same, quaint and cozy with its own pond and meandering garden path. It even had a screened-in patio for Dream’s persnickety cats to sunbathe.

It was all perfect. Dream had actually squealed when Hob brought him to see it. It was lucky Dream had money otherwise Hob would have probably done something illegal to afford the place just to see that look on his face every day.

Six months and an amount of money Hob didn’t want to think about later, they had their own farm and had started taking on clients. It should have been idyllic. In many ways it was. Jessamy and Hob’s retired event horse, Ellie, were getting along swimmingly in their big field. Dream’s feral old ponies were rampaging about the place. The amount of space was a bit dangerous, as Dream kept sending Hob photos of pretty horses for sale, saying we have the space for it, Hob. He didn’t seem to care that the prices of said horses were upwards of one hundred thousand pounds.

It was both a blessing and a curse to have married someone who came from money.

All the better to get clients in so the stable was actually making some money instead of just bleeding cash in exchange for more horses. And this was where the trouble began. Because Dream may have been disagreeable around people but he had a soft spot for troubled horses. And when troubled horses intersected with the clients that made them that way, well. That was how they got this.

“I was led to believe I’d be getting results,” Roderick Burgess was saying as Hob stepped into the arena, leaning against the wall to watch Dream ride. “Surely an Olympian should be able to do better.”

Hob grit his teeth, but didn’t say anything, yet. Dream could handle himself.

“If you don’t like my methods, you’re free to take your horse elsewhere,” Dream said. He was trotting the horse—its name was Ruby—in a big circle at the far end of the ring, riding on a long rein, just trying to get it to bend and loosen up its neck. It didn’t seem to be particularly easy for the horse, which was troubling considering a horse that had had ‘a few years’ of training—according to Roderick—should be able to at least do basic flatwork. And should be less stiff about it besides.

“We both know that won’t happen,” said Roderick. He was probably right—now that Dream was starting to get a sense of the horse’s poor prior training, he wouldn’t want to send it elsewhere—but Hob nevertheless wanted to walk over to Roderick and toss him out of the ring. Wasn’t the point of owning your own place that you could kick out clients you didn’t like?

“Perhaps if you’d been honest about his issues, we’d have better results,” Dream said, turning across the middle of the circle to change the bend. Ruby tossed his head, struggling with the change in direction, but Dream persisted in asking him to bend and eventually got him to drop his head again, now stepping up into a canter. “I was promised a horse at at least third level yet you’ve brought me one that struggles with basic self-carriage.”

Hob thought expecting any results yet was unreasonable considering it was only the first time Dream had even gotten on the horse. He’d only gotten it in last week, and just lunged it yesterday.

“You have to be more aggressive with him,” said Roderick dismissively. “Just make him do it.”

“Am I paying you, or are you paying me?”

And on it went like that, Dream working through his usual regimen, slowly building up the difficulty, Roderick nitpicking and criticizing all the while. Hob didn’t know what he really wanted. Maybe he just got a kick out of being an asshole.

Hob did love watching Dream ride, though. Watching him work with an inexperienced horse wasn’t nearly as seamless as it was when he rode Jessamy, but his patience and light touch were always a delight to behold.

Dream eventually took up his reins, gauging the horse’s ability to go around in a more collected frame. That ability was dubious at best, but Dream kept at it, working in circles of various sizes, transitioning up and down the gaits. He would get the horse where it needed to be eventually, Hob knew. If Roderick didn’t keep interrupting with unreasonable demands.

“Are you going to do any lateral work at all?” asked Roderick with annoyance, predictably interrupting again, and Hob could almost hear Dream’s jaw clench.

“Yes, I am getting to it. It’s a horse, not a racecar.” He turned the horse down the quarter line, lightly brushing the end of his whip, which Hob hadn’t seen him use yet, against its flank to ask it to step sideways and under.

And at the first touch of the whip Ruby exploded.

If Hob had looked down for even a second he would not have seen it move, it was so fast—the horse bolted sideways away from the whip, head thrown up, legs scrambling. Dream pulled back hard on the left rein, trying to stop through a turn, but Ruby just plowed right through it, tossing its head. Hob heard the bang as they—or more likely Dream’s knee—hit the arena wall, and then Dream yanked harder and managed to turn, spinning the horse into a circle until it was forced by the tight angle to slow to a nervy walk.

Hob had automatically lurched forward to try to help, but realized fast enough that rushing over would only make things worse. He watched, tense, as Dream finally brought Ruby to a halt. A lesser rider would have been thrown; Hob was glad Dream’s seat was better than that.

“Ah, yes,” said Roderick nonchalantly from where he was still sitting, ankle crossed over his knee. “He does not enjoy the whip.”

“Were you planning to inform me of that,” said Dream, out of breath, “before or after we went through a wall?”

“I would have thought you could handle it,” Roderick said.

Hob kind of wanted to punch him in the face. Instead he went over to Dream.

Ruby was standing stock still now, breathing hard, and let out a loud huff, nostrils flaring, as Hob stopped at Dream’s side. Dream scratched the horse’s neck.

“Are you alright?” Hob asked quietly.

Dream nodded, handing the whip to Hob, though his expression was pinched, and Hob worried for his knee. “Once more and then we’ll be done. I don’t want to end on that note.”

“You cannot let him get away with that,” said Roderick sternly, seeing Hob take Dream’s whip. “He must tolerate the whip.”

“And I’m sure persisting now will teach that effectively,” Dream bit back. “Do you want an explosive horse, Roderick? Because that is what you have handed me, and if you insist upon pushing the matter like this, you will only make it worse.”

“I hired you to fix it,” Roderick snapped.

“Then let me.”

Dream brought the horse back up to a trot, did a lap around the ring and then came down the quarter line again, this time asking him to leg yield over just by bending him around his leg. Ruby was tense now, jiggling the bit in his mouth and fighting Dream’s hand, but he did move over, and once they’d reached the wall Dream let him drop back down to a walk, letting his grip on the reins slide down to the buckle. Ruby snorted loudly, dropping his head to the floor as he walked anxiously on the long rein.

“You do not have to beat him to get what you want,” Dream said, turning to Roderick.

“You care too much about their feelings,” said Roderick dismissively.

“Not caring about their feelings has gotten you very far indeed,” Dream said back.

He halted the horse by Hob and hopped down, stumbling on the landing and leaning hard on his left leg. Shit. Hob knew he’d hit the wall. Goddammit, Dream.

Before Hob could take the horse from him, Roderick’s kid, Alex, crept into the arena and came over, eyeing his father as he did. Normally Hob considered Alex kind of a liability to have around the farm—he was convinced the kid was going to get himself kicked in the head at some point—but now he handed him the reins. It was Roderick’s horse, the two of them could deal with it right now.

“Make sure to walk him out,” Hob told Alex, and then, ignoring Roderick, who’d already focused on Alex, presumably to berate him for something, he wrapped an arm around Dream’s waist and led him out of the ring.

By the time they made it into the lounge, Dream was leaning heavily against Hob’s side, limping on his right leg. God, Hob hoped he hadn’t broken something. He could only imagine how long that sort of knee injury would take Dream out.

Hob sat him down on the couch. “Can I take a look at your knee?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Dream said, even as the corners of his lips were still pressed tight in pain.

“Dream, I heard you hit the wall from the other side of the arena.”

Dream sighed, but finally started unzipping his boots.

“Breeches, too,” Hob said.

Dream gave him a look but, having removed his boots, started stripping off his socks and black riding pants as well. He looked small like that, perched on the couch in just his black boxer briefs and short-sleeve polo. Hob winced at the sight of his knee. It had already turned horribly purple from his impact with the wall. Hob crouched by him to look closer, taking Dream’s ankle in his hands, turning his leg this way and that, carefully testing the motion. “How much does it hurt?”

“Tolerable,” Dream said, watching Hob intently. Hob mentally increased all of Dream’s descriptions by several degrees of pain. “I don’t think anything is broken, or sprained.”

Having looked closer, Hob didn’t think so either; he was pretty sure it was just bruised. A nasty bruise, though. “Should keep off it for a few days, though.”

Dream sighed, put upon, but didn’t contradict him.

“I’ll get you some ice.” He had ice wraps in the freezer, and pulled one out, laying it over Dream’s knee.

Dream’s lips twitched up in a small smile. “That is for horses.”

“Well, now it’s for humans, too.” He sat beside Dream on the couch as he iced his poor knee. “We should get it checked out if it’s not any better by tomorrow. Don’t want to risk permanent damage.”

Dream touched Hob’s shoulder with light fingers. Hob was, unfortunately, speaking from experience on this matter. Though in his case it had been less ‘deciding not to get it checked out’ and more ‘completely obliterating the joint to the point that it was kind of moot.’ Hob had shown Dream the video of that fall a while back. It was not a pleasant video.

He still had a mostly functional shoulder, though.

Fortunately, Hob didn’t usually have to worry about that happening with Dream. Having a horse flip on top of you was the kind of thing that was more likely to happen when you decided it was a good idea to gallop at solid objects. Which Hob had done. Frequently.

He was kind of glad he hadn’t married a fellow adrenaline junkie.

“I can’t believe Roderick put you on that horse knowing it was going to react like that,” Hob said. He really should kick the guy out. Prick.  

“Roderick created that reaction,” said Dream. “He hardly cares if it gets someone thrown, so long as that someone is not him.”

“I care!” Hob exclaimed. “It’s our fucking stable. He can’t just use you as a crash-test dummy.”

Dream raised an eyebrow. “I am not easy to crash.”

“That’s not the point, Dream. I’ll kick him out, I swear to God.”

“I can handle Roderick Burgess. And the horse. You needn’t protect me.”

“Maybe I want to,” said Hob. He took the ice off Dream’s knee and took another look at it. The bruise only looked more hideous. “Maybe part of being your husband is that I get to protect you.”

Dream touched his cheek fondly, but said, “If we send him away, he will only take the horse to someone else, and nothing will improve.”

Hob knew it was true. He would have just bought the horse and given it to Dream just to get Roderick off the property, but he was pretty sure Roderick would just take the money and go buy another one so that wouldn’t really accomplish anything in the end.

Hob was always going to end up doing what made Dream happy anyway.

“Just…” he rubbed Dream’s thigh, careful of the bruise. “Be careful. God only knows what else he’s taught that horse to do.”

“We will find out, I suppose. Roderick will not be happy with me, though. I intend to take the horse back down to basics. He will doubtless be furious.” He did sound somewhat satisfied by the thought of it.

“Roderick can get on the damn thing himself if he’s so upset,” Hob said.

“That would be entertaining to watch, though less so for the horse,” Dream said. “Perhaps he will make Alex ride it.”

Hob rubbed his forehead in despair. “God help us all.”

“Indeed.”

“You should go back to the house and rest a while,” Hob told him.

“First I want to make sure they haven’t managed to kill Ruby,” Dream said. He levered himself to his feet, handing Hob back the ice wrap. “Besides, I am fine.”

The way he limped about while pulling on his breeches and paddock boots belied that, but Hob knew better than to argue further. At least he wasn’t getting back on the horse.

He went with Dream—only limping a little bit now—out to the barn, where Alex was getting Ruby settled in his stall. Alex looked distinctly nervous brushing the horse down, but hadn’t managed to get it—or, more surprisingly, himself—killed yet, which Hob counted as a win. Roderick was nowhere to be seen, which was probably for the best.

“Did you walk him out?” Dream asked.

Alex nodded anxiously. He seemed intimidated by Dream—which, to be fair, was a common experience for most people. Hob frequently had to remind himself that the version of Dream he saw every day—curled up in the kitchen alcove with his tea and a cat on his lap, chasing his ponies around the barn, resting his head in Hob’s lap for Hob to play with his hair—was not the version most people saw.

Ruby seemed little worse for wear for his ordeal. Dream pet the horse’s nose fondly, and it tried to nibble at his palm.

“We’ll try again tomorrow,” he said, to the horse, now ignoring Alex. “We’ll sort it out, won’t we?”

Ruby just tried to nibble on his fingers again.

With another pat to the horse’s nose, but no more words for Alex, Dream strode away again. Hob followed. Once they were out of the barn, he caught up to Dream and scooped him up in his arms, Dream clutching at his neck with a squeak.

“I’m carrying you home,” Hob said, starting off for the house. “You’re not walking.”

“I am not an invalid,” Dream protested.

“Oh, I should put you down, then?”

Dream clutched at him tighter. “You would not dare.”

“Thought so.”

And so he carried Dream down the short walk back to the house. After all, Hob thought, this was the whole point. He couldn’t necessarily prevent Dream from getting on insane horses or dealing with insane clients. But he could be there at the end of the day to carry him home.

[arget-star]

By Any Other Name

Sakura Haruka x F!Reader

A/N: Alright SO. I know I am primarily a Fire Emblem blog. however, Wind Breaker took over my life in the span of like a week and I could not get this thought out of my head and well. here we are. Not beta read, this is my first xreader fic i've ever posted. i hope you enjoy!

tags: fluff, a tiny bit of blood, feelings

wc: 2k

about: You met Sakura about six months ago, and have essentially wormed your way into his little walled off heart. He comes home to your now (mostly) shared little apartment, battered and bloody after saving a girl who looked like you

You’re not living together.

That’s what Sakura says, despite the fact you stay over four nights out of the week, and somewhere in the six months you’ve been dating, half your stuff has ended up in his ramshackle little apartment. “You deserve better than a leaky faucet”, he’d said, cheeks red and nose scrunched in a scowl. You’d merely laughed, kissing his forehead before replying, “It adds to the charm.” And that was that.

You’re not living together. So why does he hope you’ll be there, curled up on that cheap little couch you’d insisted on bringing over, that lovely smile on your face as you greet him?

Those assholes must’ve hit his head harder than he realized. Sakura grits his teeth, an arm banded around his throbbing torso as he wobbles along the sidewalk. Weaklings, all of them. Acting tough solely because they have nothing better to do with their time. Seriously, it’s just plain pathetic.

He spits out a glob of blood into the nearby bushes. He doesn’t remember biting his cheek; maybe he’d ground his teeth against it after taking a particularly nasty kick while dodging someone else’s punch. Wasn’t he past his body locking up, his muscles moving with all the speed of a turtle?

The girl had been clutching the long strap of her purse with all her meager might while surrounded by leering thugs. The type of guys who coast by on looks rather than action. Intimidation instead of respect. At least now he’s able to articulate—better yet, understand—what pisses him off so badly about guys like that. Sakura would’ve leapt in regardless, but then he caught sight of her underneath the lamplight, and her shade of hair matched yours. The purse even had a keychain dangling from it, the charms jingling in faint alarm.

She wasn’t you, obviously. You were already home, had probably cooked something simple yet delicious and were keeping it warm until he arrived.

So he froze, mismatched eyes wide as a new type of fear unfurled within his chest, and then all hell broke loose. He knew how to protect someone in a fight, finally, and while the poor girl flattened herself against the side of a nearby building as he sent the idiots flying, his attention still kept flicking to her. He kept thinking what he’d do if it was you, and on one such slip of his concentration, that bastard’s boot came out of nowhere.

He’ll have to report this to Umemiya in the morning, and tell you all about it tonight, and—

Sakura looks up. He’s nearly there; the derelict building doesn’t seem so foreboding, especially once he catches sight of the warm yellow light on in his apartment. Maybe, just maybe, things won’t be so bad after all.

The doorknob wiggles. You carefully place your bookmark inside your book,  sitting up properly in your seat. Sakura’s home a bit later than usual—he probably got stuck eating at Café Pothos with everyone else. Good. You’re grateful he has so many friends, even if he acts like a cat who fell into a puddle of water about it.

“Welco—Sakura!” Your book tumbles from your hands in your haste to stand up. He stands in the doorway while you catalogue his injuries as if in slow motion. Blood drips down the left side of his face from a cut above his eyebrow. His nose is bleeding, too, running down his chin and staining his white shirt red. His knuckles are raw. It’s subtle; yet he sways, quickly placing his right hand against the wall to brace himself. The motion is enough to jolt you from your surprise.

You’re at his side in a blink. His reaction is sluggish; lips parting in belated surprise when you loop his right arm around your shoulders. Normally, he reads your movements almost before you make them, bracing himself for whatever contact you’re about to subject him to so he’s never caught off guard. But slowly, like water eroding rock, he’d learned that he can let his guard down around you, even at his most vulnerable.

Especially then.

“‘M fine,” he mutters out of reflex. You only scoff, walking him over to the couch with a small huff of effort. “Just a small fight.”

Carefully, you help ease him down onto the cushions, releasing your hold only once he’s settled. “A small fight?” You echo, disbelief in your tone. There’s no reprimand or ridicule, just a healthy doubt. He doesn’t know exactly when he stopped looking for the irritation he’s so used to hearing. Leaning his head back, he sighs. “Some guys were causin’ trouble. A new gang, I think. Trying to rob a girl—” he cuts off abruptly, and you watch his cheeks turn a brilliant shade of red, nearly blending in with the dried blood caking his skin. Sakura immediately looks away; he misses the knowing glint entering your expression.

Spinning on your heel, you head for the kitchen. The faucet doesn’t leak as badly now, after you’d finagled a temporary fix with determination and a healthy amount of internet research. He deserves more than a crappy sink, even if he won’t admit it. “You were by yourself?” You ask, opening the drawer and removing a towel. (Yet another item that had miraculously wound up in his space one day. When Sakura confronted you, you’d shrugged, then asked what he wanted for dinner.)

Sakura watches you for a moment, ignoring how something deep within his chest settles as you run the towel under cool water. It’s a familiar scene, enough that he no longer feels the urge to yell and raise his fists in defense. “Yeah. Nothin’ I couldn’t handle on my own.”

Strange. Suo-chan and Nirei-chan always shadow Sakura. Unless Sakura is going home—they haven’t invaded his space since the day they’d discovered him sick on the floor. Now, especially, Sakura would rip their heads off if they came snooping around while you were home. The faucet shuts off. You wring out the towel once, twice, then pad back over to the couch.

“I never doubted that, Grade Captain,” you tease, arranging yourself so you’re sitting on your knees. Drops of water drip down your wrist and onto the cushions below. His blush deepens, and you don’t bother hiding your smile. “Now hold still.”

“Shaddup,” he mumbles without heat. Instinct makes him shift back an inch; he’s always taken care of himself, alone. Sick, bruised, bloodied—he proved time and again he didn’t need anyone else. Then you breezed into his life, upending his entire world with your musical laughter and patient touch.

This is far from the first time you’ve patched him up. He no longer hisses and rages and scowls, a teenage version of a toddler’s temper tantrum, yet neither can he completely disregard a lifetime of gut reactions to others extending a hand in his direction.

You never minded when his hackles rose. You understood him, remaining endlessly understanding while he let his fear run its course. The damp rag hovers in the space between you and him. Sakura zeros in on the blue material instead of your face.

“Ready?”

That’s another thing. You ask him about things. Wait for his brain to catch up with non-dangerous situations. It’s weird, and scary, and wonderful.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

“You always are.”

The smile you give him is radiant. Your free hand cups his less bloody cheek, keeping him steady, while you tenderly press the rag to his chin. He hisses out a breath through clenched teeth.

It’s quiet, as you slowly clean him up, beyond the soft scrap of material against skin. There’s a rhythm to your movements. Sakura finds it soothing, despite the circumstances. You both study each other; Sakura, like you’re a puzzle he’s still trying to solve, and you, like he’s something precious.

His golden eye truly is beautiful. He told you others have compared it to twilight, but you think it’s more akin to burnished gold. Rare, and infinitely treasured. He closes it, keeping it safe from harm as you run the now pink-tinged cloth over his browbone. A shame, you think, he keeps himself so locked away.

The slight pressure leaves his face. You move back, giving him room to breathe, holding the rag loosely in your hand. His eye opens again, a coin glinting in a riverbank.

“There,” you say, unfolding yourself from the couch, brushing your thumb across his cheek before you release him completely. “I’ll be back with the first aid supplies.”

Sakura just nods. He never says the words thank you; but you hear it in the way he lets you take care of him, how he takes your hands so reverently in his once your all finished, cradling you like he’s afraid you’ll snap in half if he squeezes too hard.

You’re opening the cabinet underneath the sink when he speaks again. “She looked like you.”

He says it so quietly, you nearly miss it. You freeze, half-bent down to reach for the ridiculous amounts of bandages and antiseptic bottles stashed neatly in their respective baskets. (Another thing you’d changed one day, much to Sakura’s initial chagrin, until he’d stumbled home covered in half a dozen cuts on the rare day you weren’t waiting for him, and found everything he needed without cursing his lack of organization.)

Mechanically, you grab the necessary materials. You’d assumed as much, based on his reaction when you told you the cause of his current state. A shudder runs down your spine as you imagine what the other guys must look like, lying defeated in the street. Sakura doesn’t fight just on behalf of someone else—at least, that what helps him sleep at night, though you know his tune has changed after all his experiences with Bofurin. For him to fight on your behalf, however tangentially related, makes your heart flutter.

Kotoha will practically jump for joy when you tell her.

For now, you let this newfound knowledge settle into your skin, your fluttering heart, smiling to yourself as you exit the bathroom, arms loaded with supplies. “Did she, now?”

Sakura’s sitting upright, head down, once again avoiding your gaze. His fingernails dig into the fabric of his school pants. Beneath the curtain of two-toned hair, you can see the blush sitting high on his cheeks. It’s a miracle they’re not permanently stained pink.

“Y-yeah. I knew she wasn’t you, but for a moment…I need to teach you how to defend yourself. I can’t patrol everywhere, and I’m not the strongest yet. Anyone from Furin will keep you safe, but if we’re not around—”

This is new. You swallow, setting the first aid supplies down on the tatami, sitting down with your legs crisscrossed. (One day, you’ll convince him to buy a table, but there’s only so much furniture you can squeeze in such a tiny place.)

“Sakura,” you say, but he doesn’t hear you.

“—I need to know you can take care of yourself until I get there—”

“Sakura.”

“—and send them all flyin’—”

“Haruka.”

That shocks him into silence. He inhales, then looks up sharply, lips curling into the angry snarl you know so well. It’s his only defense mechanism, beyond his fists, and he’d never raise those at you. (That thing lodged within his chest stirs again. No one’s called him by his given name in years. It feels right, that here, in this space you two have created together, you should use it.)

He’s quite the sight, half patched-up and spluttering mad. One eye darkens like a storm at sea; the other kindles into molten gold, ready to burn any who get in his way.

You’re surprised, too. But you didn’t know what else to do. He’s never spiraled like this before, and it hits you that for perhaps the first time, he was genuinely scared for someone else. You shake your head, breaking eye contact, and reach for the gauze. “I’m sorry, Sakura. I should have asked before using your first name.”

Your fingers shake only a little when you grab the nearest antiseptic, flipping open the cap with your thumb. He watches it all, struck dumb. He doesn’t want an apology. He wants you to say it again, but he doesn’t know how to ask.

All of the fight leaks out of him. His shoulders slump forward. Haruka. Haruka. You hadn’t said it in disgust, or fear, or hatred. If he had to guess, you sounded concerned. Haruka. “I liked hearin’ you say it,” he replies.

A laugh bubbles out of you, born from nervous relief. You nearly spill antiseptic all over you instead of the gauze. “Really? May I call you Haruka, then? Not all the time…just here.” Rising to your knees, you crawl over to him, taking one battered hand in your soft one.

His throat tightens. An odd pressure builds behind his eyes. “Fine.”

“This’ll sting,” you murmur in warning, almost like an afterthought. “You can use mine, too. If you want.”

Sakura’s about to respond, tell you he’ll do it if it’ll make you happy (and make his own heart beat a little faster), but then the gauze descends onto his split knuckles. It’s not like eating a kick to the face; it barely registers in comparison.

Maybe it’s the emotions he’s kept bottled up since the fight. Maybe it’s the fact you called him Haruka and the world didn’t explode. Both things, he assumes, and that’s why your healing touch hurts worse than a dozen roundhouse kicks.

It fades, after that first bright burst.

Neither of you say anything again while you continue your ministrations. Once his knuckles are taken care of, you move on to his face, tenderly smoothing his bi-colored bangs off his forehead to ensure no strands get caught underneath the small bandage you apply to the cut above his eyebrow.

The entire time, he replays this strange evening over and over again in his head. It all leads back to you, caring for him, using his first name like it’s nothing when it in fact means everything. He hates himself, a little bit, for not being better at this.

For your part, your focus on him turns clinical. You can deal with the emotional part of it later. When you’ve finished with the last bandage, you stare at him a moment. Take in this boy who pushed away the entire world when it wrote him off, the very same boy who harbors no malice in his heart, just kindness hidden by anger.

You press a soft kiss to his lips, then slide away before he can reciprocate. He splutters again, blush back in place, and it’s such a Sak—Haruka thing to do, you bite back a laugh.

“Are you ready to eat, Haruka? You get hungry after a good fight.”

He offers you a rare smile in return.

[cloudyskydreams]

SO on period UT,UF,US,HT!

Ive had this sitting in my notes for awhile wasn't super proud of it still ain't but I wanted to post something, I just had to slap the HT brothers on and boom new post.

Also I've been wanting to write swapfell but I don't know the difference between that and fellswap or really their personalities cause it's so different for each fanfic so if someone could pls explain 🙏

Anyways here y'all go hope you enjoy!

Undertale:

Sans: I feel like sans is pretty knowledgeable so you didn't have to explain it to him. He takes it pretty maturely it's a natural part of life. The puns the horrible puns. He has so many specifically for this time of the month. He's always got your comfort snack on hand in his jacket pockets. He doesn't really change much he'll get off his ass if you ask him to but he sticks by your side mostly and lazes out cuddled with you while watching shows. Pretty good at getting products and snacks you might like he likes to get you some new snacks to try with him and he's good at guessing what you might like.

Papyrus: This man is prepared. After you tell him what it is he researches it and WOWIE he wishes he just asked you to explain but now he's over prepared with knowledge! He has hot water bottles and weighted blankets at the ready. Any snacks you want, heck you want a whole meal? He's on it and it's prepared with extra love. He carries around your products for you and always has pain medicine in his bags. Pretty good at picking them up from the store too and has no shame getting them.

Underfell:

Red: You gotta explain it to him and this man is bewildered for a bit. ya bleed from there for how long??? every month?! He's a little impressed?? Last he checked humans weren't supposed to lose huge amounts of blood but you're treating it like it's a normal thing. After he gets over his initial shock he'll try and help the best he can which is a little awkwardly. He makes a little nest for you out of blankets and pillows and makes sure you're comfortable. He and his magic run warm so he'll lay on your stomach and cuddle to help with cramps, pet his head and he might purr. He's pretty confused about products def one to send Babe what's your pussy size.

Edge: He's aware, he's done his research on his own when you were ovulating about the human "mating cycle". Not a fun experience but he takes it in stride. He listens to what you need and trys to deliver. Massages for sore muscles and heating pads for cramps. He'll make you comfort food while you relax watching a show and join you afterwards for some cuddles. He's pretty good at getting products for you and takes the ones you like into consideration but he's always looking for better healthier alternatives for you.

Underswap:

Stretch: Knows about it (blue taught him when he found out and Stretch showed interest in humans)and is a little awkward(traumatized from the talk with Blue). Hate to say it Stretch doesn't really know what to do he's not grossed out he just doesn't know how to handle it. He tries his best to be comforting giving snacks, heating pads, and cuddles. He's so awkward going to the store to get products plays it cool but has no idea what he's doing and definitely gets the wrong thing after his mind blanks while staring at all the products for too long. You just gotta train him he'll get better.

Blue: Also knows and he's handling it alot better. He takes it in stride and understands the biggest part is you're uncomfortable and he's going to do his best to help with that. He takes care of chores you don't want to do, makes you comfort meals, and always has a heating pad ready. Has so many two player comfort games lined up for you guys, he has stuff to do but most of his work stuff can be done at home! Which means he'll just be a shout away if you need anything . Pretty good at getting products and is one to carry some around in his bag just in case when you guys go out.

HorrorTale:

Axe: You have to explain it to him… Multiple times. He's confused as to why you smell like blood, he likes the smell but he's confused for a bit until he writes a note about it. He will not remember which products to get unfortunately. He's so confused staring at them you'll have to instruct him very clearly over a call and he still probably grabs the wrong one. Cuddles are supreme he's a giant so he'll engulf you in his form and his purrs practically shake your whole body. It's like a free massage chair whenever you want. He sticks closer by your side during this time of month knowing blood means your wounded and his protective urges flare up.

Willow: You'll also have to explain it to him and he's extremely worried when he smells blood. Even more so when he learns how long you bleed, he knows how much blood a human can loose and it worries him you're losing so much. After you explain it's a normal thing and a part of life he calms down slightly. He cleans and cooks a lot when stressed or worried so you constantly have something to munch on and you don't have to worry about any chores. He stays over stocked up on supplies, he doesn't like going out in public very often but for this he will because he deems it important enough. It's why he stocks up so much when he goes out. Mother hens over you hard and you might have to pull him into cuddles to get him to relax for a bit.

[see-arcane]

Blood of My Blood: Never Loved

One more Blood of My Blood cinderblock for you @ibrithir-was-here and @animate-mush. Put on your most dramatic breakup song playlist.

Summary: Castle Dracula is abandoned. By son, by subjects, by its Master. The latter finds himself dwelling in the dirt and dark as he waits to strike the English shore once again. Thinking on traitors and thieves. And on his dear friend, who makes him bleed still into the grave earth.

Warnings for: Violence, coercion with and without hypnotism, and domestic abuse.

He woke with a draining ache behind his eyes. A worse one in his chest.

The surprise had gone out of this nights ago. Anger rushed over the sensation like a balm. More, he rushed toward anger. Spurred it, stretched it, wrapped it around himself like a gossamer membrane. It would thicken as the night wore on and his mind roamed its new gamut of bile and rage, snapping at itself until the sky overhead should have roiled in time with his internal tempest. But no. Only favorable winds here. Not that such winds were wholly necessary now. He and his grave earth rode a ship without sails. How fast the mortal mites and their innovations worked in this age.

Jonathan had spoken of traveling by one. An idle comment in their talks of England. One of many. The travel, the choice of estate, the precautions needed to counter the possibility of a second attempt to thwart the setting down of roots. Always in that measured way. Always with the mien of one laying out itinerary rather than laying the foundations of an invasion. Always looking his Master in the eye. Always with that sad grey shade in his pallor, the face of a man who hates his work and knows the alternative is worse.

Poor villain against his will. Poor martyr. Poor Jonathan.

Thunder grumbled high overhead. He heard voices through his box, warm bodies exclaiming and jumping. One of them was close. There was a spiced whiff of cigar smoke. A cheap odor.

Not like the ones you gave him. He dropped so many vices after the boy was born. Smoke and drink vanished from his lips overnight. Just in case they might have tainted him somehow. Spoiled the blood. You told him it was nonsense. Even she did. But he would not have it. Not until this year. He used his allowance for one single box of cigars; cheap, like the ones he’d had back in his shriveled nothing-life in Exeter. You caught him at it in January. Within the month he found the little box gone, replaced by a pack of Romeo y Julietas. One, maybe two a month since then. And what did he say when you asked him why? Why return to the habit now?

“Almost time,” he’d said. That’s all. “Almost time.”

He had pressed Jonathan on it. Oh, gently, gently. Barely a nudge of the mesmer; because he’d thought he already knew.

Jonathan had looked at him through the coiling smoke with those dead starlit eyes. The same glowing shade of the ghost-light on St. George’s Eve. And he had simply raised his hand to his chest, rubbing the place over his heart as if there were still a crucifix to wear there. Worry and sorrow had rolled off him like cologne.

“I may as well, Sir. I think I am saying good-bye to it this year. In whatever way.”

And oh! Oh, what an idiot child he had been in that instant! Later that night he had laughed aloud at himself. He had actually felt a pang of fear. Had even strained his ears to be sure of his friend’s heartbeat. It had drummed steadily enough, he thought. Mostly. Steady, but thin. Always thin, for the tide of his blood was necessarily fickle by his exsanguinations, but…

But you did not know for certain if there was some threshold near to being crossed. You’d never had a case like Jonathan Harker before you. Not even to experiment with. Why bother? You never thought in terms of keeping a single body as your reservoir when you were content to either starve or glut yourself at random. No one like Jonathan existed to you until he offered himself up as the living meal to you and two other hungry mouths for twenty years. And, childish thought, you’d wondered if he could do thirty. Longer. However long the charade could last before the inevitable came and you bled yourself back into him, feeding him from your heart’s blood to end the game of humanity and lock him in your thrall. And then, finally, you would get to see him drink. Master’s orders, my friend. Gorge yourself.

But that presupposed there would be no issue come the time of turning.

That this state, the ghoulish and gauntly haunting form that existed on the line between life and death, was not itself a spoiling factor in the process. Would the rules change if he died as this creature? Would he rise at all? If he did, would he be a Vampire or something else? Something still beholden to his Master only because he was chained by love and not the unshakable tether of being sired into undeath?

He did not know.

Having acknowledged that he did not know, he had almost ripped the cigar from his friend’s mouth so that he might force the man to drink from his veins that second.

Jonathan had seemed to read this in him. He tapped his ash into the tray with something very nearly like a smile.

“No, Sir. Not now. There is every chance I could be wrong. Perhaps it’s age alone whispering to me. Many men start to dwell on these things once they reach the 40-year mark. So I was always led to assume. For myself, I remain shocked that I have lived this long in the first place. I only feel as if there is now a clock ticking somewhere in all this. That it will end before the year is out because…”

He had paused to puff and shrug.

“…because it must end. Either because this state is finally preparing to collapse or because, with three adults to feed, I have begun to deplete too much to sustain the meals and myself.”

It was true. The boy was now a boy only in feeling. Somehow the calendars had piled up and the child was now a young man. Careful with his Papa—and no, even now he did not envy the boy learning his Lesson from his mother the night his adolescent hunger had slipped too far and left the man as pallid as his hair—but still taking more than he ever had in his boyhood. He and his mother had agreed in silence to feed a little less, alternating on their meals each feeding. Even he had stopped short of a full draught more than once. And it was not enough.

Still, Jonathan had been unperturbed. His Master had thought little of that calm. Time had not broken so much as smoothed him. An unfinished stone sanded and shined by a waterfall’s endless pressure until what had been his nightmare was reduced to mundanity. Ah, he woke to the New Year feeling that death was imminent? Hmm. A shame. May as well enjoy a smoke first.

Months passed since that scene. Though his blood did not change, his mien did. Each turn of the calendar’s pages brought some unknown weight down heavier and heavier on him. Distraction drew his attention away, his ghost-light eyes blazed like warning flares in the dark sockets, he lost himself for minutes or hours at a time at the desk, and once, in the far end of March, his Master had caught him weeping silently while eating. A tear would roll every few bites. Savoring and saying farewell at once.

Whether this unknown mortal clock really was ticking or not, his friend believed in it. Felt it was real enough to say his good-byes to human sensation. Such a fuss, his Master had thought. Tried to think.

You did try. Truly, painfully, you tried to make yourself laugh. Jeer. Hold to certainty and joy at the approaching finality. Humanity shed to give your friend his stalled eternity. Still, you caught yourself worrying. Wondering. What if something went wrong? What if something was wrong already? What if, ha, he was making plans to short you at the last? What if he had made plans with some conspirator in the towns to pierce his heart and take his head? What if the turning somehow did not take at all? What if, what if, what if?

What if indeed. You fretted so much over those months, old devil. You worried about every little thing that might go wrong before you made your move. Before you ended the game and took your prize and burned the nuisance of mortality on the pyre it deserved two decades ago. 

The prize you never thought was waiting at the end of someone else’s long game.

He made a noise into the soil. A coughing bark of a laugh. Out in the cargo hold, the smoker stirred.

“Hello? You down here, Mikhail?” He leaked himself out of the box. Fog to flesh. The smoker squinted in the half-gloom, coming closer. “Hello?”

“Hello,” he echoed. The smoker swung around to face him. There was not much to face, as he stood still in shadow. He watched the man’s brow furrow. Trying to squint his way toward recognition.

“Who are you? One of Arnold’s new boys?”

“No,” he answered, stepping into the glow of the man’s lighter. The squint turned to a gawking mask of horror bordering on disgust.

“Jesus,” came out in a gasp that reeked of cheap smoke. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Trouble at home,” he admitted with a flash of teeth. Within a blink, he was tearing into the man’s throat. He inhaled blood and cigar fumes until he was iron-grey, until he was at his prime, until he was a youth. Hating the taste with every gulp. Unable to glut himself further, he sighed and twisted the man’s head off. The heart he tore out with more relish than he preferred to admit. He crushed all three pieces of the body as if crumpling paper and did not rise to the deck until he sensed it was unoccupied. Up he went, tossing the balled up remains into the waves. “My thanks,” he whispered after it.

The corpse had provided him with something like a lackluster disguise. A jacket to match the rest of the seafarers.’ He hoped the sight of it might let him go unbothered on deck. Though it was an easier thing to simply slip back down to the cargo’s shade, he wanted the openness of the night and the sympathetic frown of the moon peeking through the clearing clouds. He looked up to it now the way a drunken man sulked up to his barman. A barman who had waned a few phases since he was last seen.

The moon had been so full the last time he saw Jonathan. Rather, times.

Once while alive. The other…

“Which one are you, then?” Swallowing a curse, he slid his gaze to his right. A man with a flask stood there, pausing mid-sip to scrutinize him. His lip curled as he gestured with the liquor. “Who said you could have hair like that and work a vessel, eh?” He did not pause for an answer before shaking his head and taking a full drink. “Arnold’s getting sloppy if he’s hiring from…from…” A cloud of hazy concentration came and went on the ruddy face. “What? The Nordics? The Slavs? One of those lots with hair to their knees.”

He did not answer. Only looked again to the moon. He imagined the wedge of it gazed back at him with apology. The man blundered forward a step, reaching to take him by the shoulder.

“I’m talking to you, boy—,” A callused hand passed through his shoulder like mist. For it was. The flask made a tinny sloshing sound as it struck the deck. “Oh.” It was a small sound. The frightened moan of a child in a rancid dream. Feeling the moment warranted it, he turned his young man’s head to fully face the man. Letting him see the maimed display of the left eye. The dried maroon crust that streaked his cheeks. The man made another noise, even reedier. “Oh, Christ. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Arnold never said anyone died on this one. It’s too new, he said.” His throat worked like a thin tangle of pulleys. Bloodshot eyes bulged. “The Persephone’s only been on the water three years and no one’s ever…”

“Newness is no guarantee against death any more than age is a guarantee against foolishness,” he grated out.

“Right. Right, of course, apologies. I’ll just—I’ll just—,” the man didn’t seem to know what he’d ‘just’ for several tediously agonized seconds. But, between the drink and the rarity of the moment—How often did one cross paths with a spirit, after all?—his feet remained anchored. Then, “…How did you die?”

Of idiocy. Here and now. Requiescat in pace.

“I was betrayed. Over a woman.” Sour needles pricked along his throat. “Over a child. The years made me blind. Soft. Comfortable. So certain that all was in order, that I held everything in my hands. But I lived among thieves without knowing it. I woke one night to find all that was mine was gone, stolen, and the one I had handed my heart threw it away as though it were the sole piece of filth that could not be bothered with. And then…” He gestured to the mark upon his face. His eye now a ball of blazing arterial red set in a spray of wild scarring from the lightning bolt. Even after a deep meal, he felt that the damage had scarcely receded. Had he not twisted in time, the blast would have struck him square through his skull.

The wretched woman had fine aim.

And that’s not all she has, is it?

“Sorry to hear it, son,” came from his right. The man had retrieved his flask again. It winked like tarnished silver in the moonlight. Though his face showed a bleary bafflement as to what exactly the manner of death could have been, he went on, “And here I figured the worst that could happen to a man at sea was drowning.”

“Terrible ends can happen anywhere. But if it saves you worry, I will not remain on this ship forever. I will disappear once it docks in England.”

“Reckon you’re off to haunt the bastard who did this to you?”

“Not yet. First I must go to my son, who they sent away all oblivious to their work. Then,” his hand drifted of its own accord to his chest, dipping under the hanging coat to feel at the lump in a high pocket. It sat cold and out of place there, like an elaborate little tumor. Touching it brought back the pain to his chest and eyes. “Then I shall see to the traitors.”

“Cannot say I envy them.” Another sip, nearing the bottom.

“Few would. They thought me a monster to slay together. But they have yet to meet the worst of me. For they grew comfortable too, seeing me docile, hospitable, giving them my home and my love and a thousand allowances that no other in my life has ever wrung from me. Yes, I will haunt them. I will hunt them. And I will deliver to them a recompense so much worse than death.” The man was trying again to drink from his flask and finding himself thwarted. “Empty?”

“Afraid so. Do you ever miss that, being dead? Getting to drink?”

“No. I still drink. But I am full for the evening.” He bared his teeth in a gleaming crescent. Some of the man’s crewmate still stained his fangs. He watched the man’s face abruptly lose all its tint. “I am glad you got to enjoy your own. It is a rarity not to face this part sober.”

So saying, he plunged his hand into the man’s chest. He twisted out the heart with the ease of one plucking a ripe apple from its bough. The man croaked out only a small noise at this. Nothing more than a damp little bleat, smothered by the steady roll of the waves. He was still gawking at his heart in one clawed hand while the other snared him and hurled him overboard. The sound of the splash was nothing. Sighing, he shrugged off the apparently useless jacket and cradled the heart in it to prevent a drip. Back to the cargo hold it was. Down to the dark and the dirt and—

He left it waiting for you. Even in the midst of all the confusion, the haste needed to get out, to be gone, he made sure to leave it right there in the sow’s coffin.

The cold lump shifted in its pocket.

He bit down a curse as his eyes stung, burned, boiled.

A roost was made in the furthest corner of the hold. The heart sat in his hands. Huge and dense with old smoke and liquor and fatty seaside meals. He’d lied to Jonathan before, about how certain consumed vices changed the blood’s quality. There was no alteration in what it fed, but the taste shifted. Between the crewmate he’d siphoned and the swollen muscle in his fingers, he realized he was indulging in the nearest thing he had to slovenly eating after a hard day. He took an experimental taste of a ventricle.

Immediately acrid. A rich and awful tang that ran to the back of his throat.

Nothing like the spigot that had flowed for him like careful clockwork for two decades. So meticulously tended by diet, by caution, by the vessel it sprang from. Twenty years of ambrosia meted out in scheduled mouthfuls and the occasional drop snuck between meals, as was his right.

“No, my friend, not the wrist. The boy would know someone was taking extra. And from his own plate! So to speak. Undo your collar, you know she will not complain…”

And Jonathan had. The brilliant eyes sliding away from his Master as he stole one, two, three, four or more little tastes from neck and shoulder, collarbone and breast. A single sip from each bite. He had not even winced. Not until Jonathan’s Master brought his mouth up to his face. Printing the blood there like a girl with her kiss’ lacquer. It had taken his Master’s hand around his jaw to make Jonathan turn and face the second one, pressed into his own lips. Eyes shut against the threat of a trance, mind fluttering frantically out and away.

He had let him then, back in those early nights. Always so shy, his Jonathan. Even after the whirlwind of that long-ago summer, the thresholds crossed and barriers erased for the sake of playing his Scheherazade, still he quailed from the gentler edges of his better. Hiding up in his head or in his Master’s teeth or under the flimsy shelter of his duties whether they were self-assigned or not. Anything to not accept what lurked and grew under the veneer of mere surrender to an enemy.

Had that too been a trick? Laying bait the way his Master had once drawn the hunting dogs back to his genius loci with the woman already tainted?

A Wolf did not chase if the prey did not run. And he did love to chase. To play. Up to a point. He had tried more than once to smother the overgrowing feeling in him as the years marched and his friend continued to drop his eyes and tense away from tenderness. When that failed, he told himself it did not matter. He owned his friend through the woman and their son, and whatever performance he sought—the rent owed to many a charitable landlord, really—could be ordered from him.

And he had ordered it.

In specific, he had, on a particularly maudlin night, ordered his friend to kiss him as he would her. He would know the difference. He’d leeched through her senses on occasion when they were, quote, ‘alone’ together. Sometimes he thought Jonathan even saw him staring out of her eyes. Or else the woman simply gave him away by some private sign or other. Whatever the case, Jonathan had never once withheld his love with her.

So, the order. Out of curiosity. Out of boredom. An order given without even a trance to smooth the act, just to see how he would muscle past the walls of indignity and a lover’s loyalty as he had back when he thought he had been charming for his life in their supple sabbatical once upon a time.

Instead, a magic trick.

Between one blink and the next, Jonathan had been the self he reserved for the woman. Even the smile kept for her had been there. A necessary prelude to the hands that bookended his Master’s face and pulled him level. Just like that, there were their mouths together. Not the press of a patient doll’s lips as its owner mashed themselves there in pantomime of intimacy. If he had not known better—

But Jonathan made sure he did. As soon as the kiss elapsed, he’d receded into himself. Less a tortoise into his shell than a closing fist praying not to be pried open lest the treasure in it be snatched away again.

“Was there anything else, Sir?” asked in the rug’s direction. Shame and a miserable whiff of apology yet-to-be had stamped him. He would throw himself into making amends to the woman, of course. Whether or not he wounded her with tattling on this little service, he would meet her with whatever kindnesses he could muster that were not already given. It was one of many moments in which he was convinced that his friend would give of himself until he was down to bones and then try with his last breath to gift someone his ribs. “Sir? Am I dismissed?”

He was not. All at once, his Master had a list of tasks for him to perform over the course of days. Weeks. Months. A year and more. And was that not where the mistake of it all had begun? The willing leap at addiction? Commanding his friend, his immaculate actor, his Scheherazade, into a hundred little indulgences. And not just in matters of sampling each other. Sometimes he would wring whole nights out of the man, without even the boy to perform for, trapping him by the fire or in a moonlit room or down in that half-secret glade by the stream where they played hunter and hunted and hid together from the walls of domesticity, spurring his friend into the easy and smiling talk of companions, of intimates, of…

Go on, old devil. You can admit it. Why not? What point is there in pretending he did not perform so well as to leave you reduced to this?

Fine.

Talk of those in love.

Yes, he had used the exact word. More than once.

Do this, do that, do any and all these things as if you loved me. Just as you do her.

And Jonathan had. Always with the bracing misery before and the shuddering withdrawal after. But he served his Master’s wants. He did so with such an ease that his Master had invented half the trap himself; he had convinced himself somewhere that he was giving his friend permission to do what he truly wished to do, freed from the yoke of duty and fealty to the woman, to his morals, to his sanity. Yes, that was it. He was giving his friend release. Lifting away the leaden weight of his beloved martyrdom and letting him know, yes, it was alright, he could want something other than what was ‘right’ or ‘good.’ What had such scruples brought him besides pain? God and humanity no longer had a place for him or his family or his love; that bottomless fount that had more to give than his veins ever would.

Here, my friend, I will take it. I will catch it all as it spills. Love me. Love and be happy. It’s alright.

The cold lump in his pocket felt heavy and frigid as a glacier on his chest. Scrubbing his hand clean on the jacket, he fished the hateful treasure out of its home and glared at it in his fingers.

A brooch the size of a dove’s egg. Antique gold ringing a garnet of such brilliance it might have been frozen claret. Splitting it was an ornate dragon, rampant, seeming to cling to the stone like the mythic hoards of legend. One of few mementos kept in his bedchamber from mortal days and nascent immortal nights that had gone sour in recalling their joy. He had taken it from its hiding place of velvet, shined it until it glowed, and, at the end of another race through their wilds, another capture, another victory drunk from the won throat…

“You have been here five years. Yet still I get word that you are not always recognized as being in my service.” This was fractionally true. At least in the sense that he knew there was a certain level of laxness that existed between Jonathan and a handful of those he did business with in the towns. Little mistakes or a dragging of feet on assorted exchanges and services that his friend would try to paper over with excuses on their behalf.

Once, only once, he had even tried to get away with hiding a newcomer’s attempt to swindle him outright. He had only seen a tourist of means with an Englishman’s lilt and tried to rob him over a new toy for the child and a novel for the woman. Jonathan had not pushed back, only gutted his allowance while the seller’s neighbors threw their shocked and silent looks. Perhaps that would have been the end of it but for Jonathan idly mentioning the encounter to the woman as they shared his bed post-feeding, thinking little of it. His Master, listening through her, had thought otherwise. Enough to find and inform the seller of his misstep personally. The next time Jonathan went to town he came back somewhat shamefaced with a burden of extra wares given ‘as a courtesy.’ The peasants were careful to point him out to new citizens ever-after.

All this in mind, Jonathan had looked at him oddly over the excuse.

“If that is the case, it has not hindered me in any way. The people have been nothing but gracious when I come through.” Gracious and afraid, he knew not to say. His Master had shooed the words away like flies.

“You remain ever lenient, my friend. You would apologize to the wheels of a carriage as they ran you over. It is for your own good that you must wear this, lest you and your goodwill are trampled by the opportunists among the chattel.” Out had come the brooch. “You will have this visible at all times. Be it to clasp on your coat or wear at your throat. Do you understand?”

“Yes, S—,” A look was caught. No, no. He knew the rule out here. Away from mother and child. “Yes, balaurul meu, I understand.”

Not well enough, of course. Not even when he was made to sit still, his chin up so that his Master could pin the thing in place. No, he had not understood then. Not until the next night when he took his place in bed for the family meal. There he had sat, undoing his shirt collar—with the brooch nowhere in sight. Not before the feeding. Not after he buttoned himself up with strengthless fingers. Not even on his nightstand.

The boy and the woman had looked up with curiosity and ire respectively when Father hadn’t taken his usual leave for the saccharine post-bleeding period with Papa. Papa himself had looked concerned and lost. No one had made a mistake, had they?

“Father? Did you want to stay too?” from the boy. A thread of worry in his voice, as was natural whenever Father deviated from his routine, but far more of eagerness. Father so rarely lingered overlong with the entire family in the room. And, he would admit it, it stung to deflate the child’s hope.

“I am staying,” he’d said, “But you and your mother must go for a time. There is something important I must speak with Papa about.” There had been some bristling at that. But he had yanked the woman’s leash and the woman had taken the boy away by the hand, thinking soft assurances and lies at him until they were out of the tower. Jonathan, dear oblivious Jonathan, had peered at him with genuine confusion.

“What is it? Has something happen—,”

His Master had flung the full weight of the trance into him like a boulder. A boulder that became a crushing fist around the flailing mote that was Jonathan’s ostensibly free will. Having hold of it, he wrenched his friend up to his feet and prodded sharply at his mind until he turned to where he’d stored the brooch. There, the wardrobe. Go. Fetch.

Jonathan had managed two steps before the weakness of his emptied veins dropped him to hands and knees. He crawled the rest of the way. Staggered back upright. Worked the doors open and shuffled with trembling hands through the hanging clothes. Here was the coat. There, fastened at the chest, was the brooch. He fumbled at it with twice the difficulty of fastening his shirt. So much so that it pricked his thumb bloody and slipped through his fingers. He made a small despairing sound before falling back down on his knees, searching in the shadows and shoes for it. When his hand finally closed on it, his Master tugged again at his mind, ordering him back the way he’d come. Across the floor, up into the bed. Holding the brooch.

His Master tugged again. Jonathan held the brooch out on his palm. The one now striped and smeared from the bleeding thumb.

“What did I tell you to do with that, Jonathan Harker?”

“To—to wear it in town—,”

“No.” He’d paused to watch Jonathan’s face. The shift of expression that sketched such a perfect epitome of dread, especially in a bloodless face. “I said, You will have this visible at all times. And where was it instead? Thrown away, out of sight, out of mind. Is it not so?”

“N-No. No, I did not mean to—,”

“Must I make it simpler for you? The boy still has the collar he never bequeathed to the trapped wolf. I am certain it would fit you. The emblem would never be misplaced again.”

“Sir—,”

“Do you think I gave it to you as a whim? Another token to cast aside, to ignore like all the rest you are showered with all unconscious to, stewing in your precious stringency, self-deprived as a monk?”

“Please, I swear, I only thought—,”

“What? What did you think? Do tell.”

“I thought,” his voice caught and rasped, trying not to be a cough. “I thought it was meant for strangers. As something official, part of a uniform. I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t know it was…” But here the words dried and his face showed again that crumpled confusion. The pain of a kicked dog unsure of what mistake he’d made, only knowing he had erred. Jonathan’s eyes had found his Master’s, as much plea as fear.

What? the look begged. What is this? What did I do wrong? I cannot act without my lines.

There was no questioning of his Master’s anger. Such storms were known to pass and one could only brace and weather them. This was all he knew.

But you knew better, didn’t you, old devil? It took you a moment to catch up to yourself. To truly admit it to your own mind, even knowing from what happy old era’s dust you fetched the thing from. You made no ceremony of it. You buried the giving of it in a disguise. But the meaning was there even as you fastened it to him without fanfare, without warning. All you did was stitch an importance to the ornament that was invisible to him. And look where it led.

Jonathan hadn’t blood enough in him to hold rigid as he usually did before his Master’s moods. He shuddered even as he fought to be still. Afraid. Cold. Eyes of pale blue glass pinned to his Master, searching desperately for a reason to it all, for the thing he must make amends for.

Still with his hand outstretched. The brooch in a bloodied palm.

Just as it is now. Here in the brine-scented shadows. It looked more precious in his.

It had.

Jonathan had kept the hand out even as his Master joined him on the bed. As his Master plucked the brooch up, tasting it clean of the red stain, then kissing away the same from the bleeding thumb. As his Master gently tilted the quivering chin up and fastened the emblem in its proper place. As his Master did not move except to close the last of the gap between them, stroking the white curtain of hair from his brow.

“I am sorry, draga mea. You did not know because I did not explain. It is too easy to forget you are the only one here who does not go walking into others’ minds. So often you fool us all into believing otherwise.” The stroking hand traveled down to trace Jonathan’s jaw. No longer shaking. Not as badly, anyway. “You did not recognize that it had a mate, did you?” Jonathan turned his head an inch, frowning. His Master tilted up his own chin. For a moment, more confusion. Then realization.

The stone worn at his Master’s throat had no beast stretched across the stone. His was a coil that encircled it entirely, an ouroboros of a dragon.

“I know that rings are the tradition. But you are a creature of loyalty and I did not wish to test my Harkers’ ire in demanding you remove the gold band for something of mine, be it a signet or a stone. This is as close as we can come the way we are. At least until the night of consummation. Baptism. Whatever you prefer.” He trapped Jonathan’s eyes with his. “When that time comes, we can talk of more classic rites, insofar as our arrangement allows for such things.”

Jonathan had nodded at this. Perhaps tried to speak. A ‘yes, Sir’ seemed to snag on his tongue. The shock was too much to work around on his own, so his Master hoisted him over it with a final hook of the mesmer and gave him words to say:

“Of course, balaurul meu. I look forward to it.” His mouth had snapped shut around the last word, pallid eyes huge and almost teetering in their sockets. He was shaking again. Ah, it was too much as he was, poor thing. His Master had left him swaddled in another blanket, asking if he was prepared to see mother and child now. Jonathan could only nod, his hand rising and falling away from the space before the brooch. As though he feared the thing would bite him.

Good.

Good enough, you reasoned. He would grow into it. He would accept it. He had accepted it already. Enough that you had to deal with a particularly entertaining round of aftermath from the woman’s mind. For all her collaring of herself when she had to grovel for something—and was her own peasant’s past not fine training there?—the Vampire of her could not be smothered when it came to theft. Not even sharing! This, when you could have ordered the ring off him. Could have had him write up divorce papers for the dead, if only as a prop to hang in the office. But then the boy would have questions. Perhaps even tears. Was Papa not allowed to love more than one parent? It would not do. To think you offered to let her be Maid of Honor.

Amusing fireworks had ensued.

They had cooled, he thought, as the years continued to stack. On and on until the end of their second decade made its way to them. Jonathan never misplaced the brooch again. The woman appeared resigned to joint custody of both her Loves in her sullen way. And the boy, his little diavol, barred from full knowledge and unhappiness, had grown to manhood under their care.

A fine excuse the latter had made.

He thought back to it now. That last scene with the grey and ghastly shape of his friend in his surreal mortality. Another cigar lit, the smoke curling out the library’s window. What a strange image he’d made. He had looked like…

A month or so ago he had found his friend thumbing through an American magazine of all things. Some publication or other that had made its way across the Atlantic and the Channel to join its English siblings. It had been one of his few vices over those latter years, catching up on the newsworthy pulses that beat outside their mountains. The American one had shown an advertisement at the back. A rather charming illustration of a man in what had to be a modern eveningwear suit. Arrow Collar and Shirts for Every Occasion the image declared.

Jonathan had seemed to be a macabre translation of the man posed in the picture.

Seeing this, an abrupt needle of mourning had pierced his heart. Twenty years of feeding had made his friend into this wasting enigma. Twenty years of allowing the arrangement to unspool on and on without end, simply for the fact of Jonathan continuing to breathe and bleed unimpeded, as if his will alone were enough to hold his half-life existence together. Twenty years of letting his friend’s incessant need to give of himself down to the marrow get in the way of sense. Of what was right. Of what was long past due.

How did you allow this? How did you agree to let this carry on so long? Look at him, look at the calendar. So many years lost in which he could have already been what he was meant to be. Why? For your agreement? For the charade of the bitter conqueror taking his consolation trophy? It made sense at the start, perhaps. Those early years of gloating. It was your due. But once the sting was gone, once it became clear what he was to you under the vitriol of old, what excuse was there to drag this on, to make a living ghost of him? What excuse is there now? Look at him, old devil. Look at him and think of what he could have been, should have been, for the last quarter of a century.

And he had. He’d stood in the doorway, staring, overlaying the haggard reality with what should have been. Here was Jonathan Harker, forever young, the flesh back on his bones, his eyes free of shadows and crimson as an opened throat. Jonathan Harker, still and strong, a beautiful killing thing like a spider waiting in its silk.

Instead, he was this. A ghoul waiting to find out the when and how of his death before the year concluded, seeming far deader than the thirsty revenants he called his family. The unfairness of it wrenched in his Master’s chest. Worse still was the hindsight of its pointlessness. As if this arrangement of the household had done anything but ruin his friend and cripple their son against the reality of the wider world waiting for them. He had even felt a twitch of pity for the woman, if briefly. She had lost her Love to the needs of their hunger and their Master’s whim, watching every year as that Love was shriveled and shifted into a wretched grotesquerie of what he ought to be. Her prized possession spoiled by mishandling and a refusal to simply tear their Jonathan free of his scruples and do what needed doing.

“Was there something you needed, Sir?” Jonathan had asked without turning. His eyes were on the moon. Full as a pearl.

“There was. Is.” His friend did not jump upon seeing him abruptly at his side. Nor did he turn his head. “You are almost replenished.” It wasn’t a question.

“I am.” A tap of ash. Still not taking his attention from the sky. “Did you wish to steal a drink ahead?”

“It is not stealing. Only taking what’s owed.” There was a soft sound of fabric pulling away. Jonathan had turned and froze. His Master had removed his own clasp and the cravat under it. Vest and shirt hung open. The skin above his heart was already cut open. “And giving what is long overdue.”

“Sir, that’s not necessary. Not already.”

“When, then? How much longer will you reduce yourself like this? They are beginning to go hungry even with your sacrifice, my friend. Mother and child both. But he is not a child anymore, is he? He is grown. He must feed as such. Yet he tries to feed only as a boy, just as his mother feeds in her little halved tastings. Even I have taken less than my share. All to bow to your craving for self-destruction. No more of it.”

“This seems somewhat—,” Jonathan first tried to sidle away from the sill, only to have himself caged back against the stonework by his Master’s arms, “—abrupt.”

“You have until you finish the cigar.”

“Case in point.” Another drag was taken, neither rushed nor prolonged. Jonathan blew his stream of smoke out into the breeze. Then, “Was that why you had so many of these on hand before? The food and drink and assorted sensory comforts?”

“Before?” Jonathan looked at him. Waiting for him to—, “Ah. Then. No, not precisely. There was an act to perform. Had it been Peter Hawkins there in your place, he would have had the same to consume before his…dismissal.”

“That’s what I mean. You were always planning to either ‘dismiss’ or ‘retain’ your solicitor of choice. You went out of your way to provide the equivalent cuisine and indulgences of a noble’s home, even when the reality of things had set in. I might have had, say, a week’s worth of fine dining and then bread and water from then on. But you kept at the kitchen regardless. Why was that?”

“To drop the quality would be to ruin the masquerade,” his Master said, wondering at the turned subject. Knowing not to be swayed. “Had you proven to be a lowly churl not worth my time beyond the completing of paperwork, you would not have eaten at all. The wolves would have had your bones for toys in the same week.”

“Mm,” another puff. Jonathan was halfway through. “My mistake, then. I had assumed you were interested in giving your pawn a long last meal before his life ended, permanently or otherwise. That or fattening the metaphorical calf. It was hard to imagine you enjoyed playing the role of host and staff without it being part of some standard habit.”

“So it might have been when you returned home.” Oh, only twenty short and endless years ago. Still with their enemies’ blood under his nails. Begging sanctuary for his Loves, bartering his own throat. Memories, memories. “For some reason, you seemed hesitant to trust my culinary skill a second time.”

“Yes, well. Blame that on a joke too many made about the wine and red meat on the menu. I’d not expected you to throw aside pretense to the point of…” Jonathan nodded at his Master’s bleeding chest. “…this.” More ash tapped over the stone sill. A third of the cigar was left. Jonathan’s eyes floated from the oozing cut to the moon. The effect erased all but the furthest edges of blue from his irises and made them into coins of silver. His brooch glowed like fire. “Do you know what I ate on my wedding night?”

Stop. Plug your ears. A trick. A trap. Laying bait again, old devil, do not listen, do not let him talk, do not hesitate, this is how he works, how he has always worked, how he has been the only one in all the infinite hell of your unlife able to steer the storm of you. In pain, in suffering, in servility or supplication, the silver of his tongue did more to tame you than any holy relic, and you knew it and you did not care, did not think to care, because he made himself satisfied with crumbs, with vapor, even when you tried to force bounty into his hands and down his throat, do not listen, do not wait, take him, own him, seize his mind and soul and senses now now now before it is too late—

But this was the bellowing of the present into the past.

All he could do in the ship’s dark was muffle his curses by biting into the bloated heart as the memory unfolded in all its hopeless reality.

“No,” he’d half-whispered to his friend. “You never said.”

“I had what I’d been having since I was taken in by the nuns. Broth and bread. Small simple soft things. I was half-dead then too, albeit in a different direction. Mina and I married and made love on my sickbed, in a rush of joy and tears and illness. I left our wedding venue with one hand in hers and another on a cane. Now I am here, twenty years on, with another marriage to begin in haste. The marriage that will also be my death knell. Lenore again, but without any hope of resting in peace.”

Jonathan watched his Master through his lashes.

“When I am drunk from a last time and I drink in turn, it will be the moment I say farewell to what is left of the good man who existed before I turned the kukri on those I trusted with my life and who I would have died to shield, had it not been for God putting my Loves on the same altar He set before Abraham. The last of that good man will die to the blood baptism, to an unbreakable chain of connection with what is reviled by the divine. Fickle thing that it is. But before I was a Christian, before I was taught the lie that God is absolute love, I already held Love as holy. I held kindness unto others as a mission. It hurt me then as it hurts me now to envision pain wrought on another without cause but profit or cruelty.

“But that feeling will be sunk into a spiritual chasm once I turn. Already I dropped a piece of it into the dark when I bloodied my hands. The rest will follow and I shall become a Judas not only to a select few, but to the whole of humanity. While I can see the logic in throwing myself into consummation for fear of turning back at the last second, I do not think I can stomach yet another threshold where I do not get to walk, but must hurl my way across. Another sprint, another crash into one world out of the last. I would ask—,” his throat had caught, eyes gleaming, “—I would like to have the day.” He cracked a sad smile. “St. George’s Day. A fitting hour to say good-bye to the good of me. And for our son’s birthnight, we shall have our last family meal. No meager shares. No restraint. I shall be too weak by then to hold off. And it will not be done behind closed doors. Behind my Loves’ backs, like another secret. Please.”

The eyes, the eyes, no power in them but what his Master put there, but they held and they drowned and pleaded for this, this last meal, this final allowance, and—

And you swallowed it. Inhaled it. Drank it from him like he’d slit himself open over your mouth. You did, old devil.

He had.

He’d looked his friend in the eye—eyes still vulnerable, still susceptible, still able to be hooked and pinned like the rest of him, ready to be stolen away into his thrall without another puff of the cigar left between them—and said, “Very well. But know that I will accept no hesitation tomorrow. No rescinding, no stalling, no last-minute dawdling. You make your good-byes to yourself tomorrow. Make your peace and apologies to the world if you must. But then I will eat the martyr out of your blood and fill the space with something better. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.” This he said before taking his handkerchief from its pocket and wiping the dark smear from his Master’s heart. For almost a minute said Master held still enough to pass for a waxwork as Jonathan righted the shirt, the vest, the cravat. He took his Master’s brooch from a clawed hand that had turned suddenly feeble before pinning it to the silk. It wasn’t until Jonathan tried to pull his hands away that they were caught.  “Was there something else?”

“Yes. You finished,” he’d nodded to the smoldering nub of the Romeo y Julieta, “and I will not go without something for my patience.”

“I need my hands if I’m to open my collar.”

“Everything I want is above the neck.”

“As myself? Or is this a commission, balaurul meu?”

“Surprise me.”

“Only if you do not bite your tongue.”

He’d not understood. Not until his face was brought down and he had seen the flash of parting lips and teeth and then—

You should have bitten your tongue. Should have trapped his head in your hands as he played at catching yours, should have bitten and fed yourself into him while he was snared. If he would dare lie to your face your deserved to bleed yours into his. Bastard. Delilah.

He thought these and a thousand curses even as he warred with the recollection of that taste, that consumption in two directions. What he had thought was a mere prelude to all the ages yet to come for them. Never thinking for an instant that it was only the last helping of honeyed poison. Even the sheepish fraction of a laugh that had left his friend was another dose of venom to numb him with.

“Forgive me. I just now imagined how we must look. An old man preying on the youth.”

“Indeed. You are still all but a gamin, draga mea. In any case, this is hardly novel for us, is it? Merely a change of position. A slow dance.”

“We must all be cautious about said dancing in England, you know. The laws are still—,”

“I am aware. Just as I know what lawmaking parties are at the top of my list to be invited to dinner once we secure the new estates…”

And they had talked. And talked. On and on toward the sunrise. Jonathan had insisted on taking himself to sleep lest he spend his grand farewell to humanity passed out the whole day. Away, Master, away. Shoo.

Off he had gone. Dense and careless.

Did you smell coffee on the way down? Did you? If so, did you think it only imagination or just shrug it away? Your friend, ever disdainful of wasting an hour. Fine, fine, let him wring St. George’s out in his way. What did you care? Fool.

The boy had still been up with his books and, he saw, some his Papa’s magazines. Odd. No less odd than seeing him return to the coffin rather than exercise his ability to doze where he liked; his miracle of a child, born alive and undead at once, able to sleep without a grave earth as bedding. Odd, odd. But he had not cared, had he? What reason was there to care when he had tomorrow night already dangling before his eyes?

The woman was already in her coffin, either sleeping or feigning sleep. He had not bothered to check. Had not cared whether she knew of her husband activity or not. If she now mulled the vision of her Master tasting what was hers, his, theirs, making plans for the future while she gathered dust in the chapel. How pleased he’d been. How sure.

“Father? Are you alright?”

The boy, the child, the son. His son. A young man who’d looked now so agonizingly like his fathers it sent a shamefully fond dart through his chest. Bless the fluke of the woman’s own features, kin of his kin, blood of his blood, by design or accident. He had smiled. Not grinned, not leered, but smiled with an ease he had forgotten he was capable of for so long. The look had made the boy’s face go even slacker with wonder.

“Yes, I am. Why do you ask?”

“You look different.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. You look…I don’t know. Not younger, but,” the boy had fumbled for a word, “lighter, I guess. Did something happen?”

“No. But something will. Ah-ah, no prying,” when the boy perked up in his coffin, “Go back to your books. You will know more tomorrow.”

“Alright,” came the half-false sulk. “Good-day, Father.”

“Good-day, diavol.”

And he had gone to bed in his tomb fattened on bliss and craving more.

And then.

And then.

Bastard. Delilah. Thieving scheming viper of a traitor.

So much accomplished and destroyed within a day and night. Oh, his treacherous Harkers. Had they only been loyal, been wholly his in mind as much as will, he would have drowned them in praise and prizes for such work against a foe. The patience of it all. The skill. The performance. It surpassed the immaculate and made him ponder for one dumbstruck instant in the midst of his rage whether they had ever been human and not some stealthy pair of incubi come to prey on him.

Such a theory was only an excuse, he knew. It would not do to whittle down their ability to that of mere imps. No, they were but a man and a woman, however altered now, and they had proved themselves to be of such sterling cores of concentrated resolve that their Master had laid barely a scuff mark upon their joint machinations all these years. Their labors had born an unthinkable fruit; one it would have doubly shamed him to behold had he been victim to anyone less canny. But no, no. He had harbored his Harkers for a reason. They were uncommon creatures. Singular. Rare pets he’d thought he could tame. And given another century, perhaps he’d have managed it.

But like the fool who mistakes a tiger for a housecat, he had let his guard down too soon. Too quick. A mere two decades. And now his beasts had bitten and torn and robbed him.

His boy, his son, gone inside a day. Shipped away and on toward the teeming masses of England. This alone had been enough to spur him on. Or would have been.

If not for the impetus that the clever sow and her stolen Lessons from the Mountain had brought down on his head. He had fled before the next bolt could strike. Running, running. Just as he had been running since missing the boy’s departure, since realizing he was the only one left in the castle.

What had actually come first? His mind still spun when he tried to concentrate things into a clear order. The entirety of that period was still a swimming blur in the way the events of a nightmare will reach the waking mind as disjointed pieces.

He had awoken to the nettling pressure of the wild rose upon his coffin lid. The annoyance, the struggle, the hard toss and soul-deep agony that had come with booting the thing off. The blossom crushed. A resignation letter crumpled under the cracked ebony of the lid.

He had known his son was missing.

He had thrust his mind throughout the castle and known he was abandoned in full even before he tore away the lid of the woman’s box.

He had seen the glint of Jonathan’s brooch left on her pillow.

He remembered a vision. Sent from her. Brief. Teasing. Baiting.

Jonathan looking upon her with exhaustion and exultation, with relief, with want, with Love. Drinking from her like a man in the desert finding his oasis. Just the two of them in that boxed dark of her coffin. Mere hours before he found them gone. Eloped. So to speak.

She had left a message for him too, though it had come later. The one that came firing out of the roiling sky he’d thought was solely his. Once again the bait had been too much to ignore, even in his hunt.

It had been him.

How long had it been since he’d first tried to claw his way back into the woman’s mind, into her senses? He could not say. Only that he had been shocked to find himself barred except when the moon was high. She had been hardening herself up from within. There was more of a fortress around her will within two decades than his first trio of Loves had built up in centuries. She had been playing lame all this time. Preparing. Working in the shadows cast by her the distraction of her husband. Sharpening herself all along.

What irony, that they had left Jonathan’s old toy behind. The forgotten memento left in its hiding place in favor of being out and away before their Master fell upon them. Before he thought to whip them into the chase after their child. He’d had the kukri on his hip when he came upon the mist. A tell-tale wisp made visible only by the flash of lightning.

You recognized the essence in it. You knew it and you knew what it would lead to. And still, old devil. Still you threw yourself after him, maddened as a Wolf outran too long by his prey.

Only now it was not a Wolf and a hare, a Wolf and a hart. This was the bitch’s dog, her hunting hound, made to race and tear and follow commands—but not his. Not directly. No lashing of his will into Jonathan Harker’s mind would slow him. No order, no threat, no curse found traction upon the spectral rush of him. Cloud and man and spirit and beast flitting away, away, away, a parody of the hunts of old down their hill. It seemed his friend had been playing lame too.

He knew the speed of the Vampire, as was natural. Man or woman, fit or ill before their change, would have roughly the same gait.

But where he and the woman held that equal speed, Jonathan Harker was lightning on the ground. What had he truly been before he was turned? What blight or miracle had he kept hidden under a guise of constant frailness? He had not cared enough to mull it then. It was simply another frustration for the pile. Another nettle, another spur. The whole of it grated to the point of torture as, idle as a child at play, Jonathan had slowed long enough to throw a look back over his shoulder.

Grinning. Mocking. And there, at last, his own internal voice flying back into his ex-Master’s face:

Have you truly grown so slow, Count?

Through trees, over hills, onward, away, steering him off course, away from where the coast waited. The ships. The boy on the other side of the Channel.

Again, you did not care. Once in bliss, now in wrath. You went blindly after. Never learning your Lesson, old devil.

I see you wear my knife. Is it for my head? Or is it just to let you pretend something of me will still hold you against my will?

His own mind had leapt out after the fleeting shape, all champing teeth and thunder. Not in words. There was too much anger to fashion into coherence. Only the intent made its way out. Hate-fury-hate-fury-hunt-catch-punish—

Mine!

It had slipped from him. Flown. Bright and cutting and horribly naked in what was both a craving and a declaration. Had his eyes stung? It did not matter. The thought-snarl came again.

Mine mine mine mine mine mine you are Mine as the boy is Mine as the woman is Mine and you You YOU were Mine first by right by claim MINE and I will not be robbed by her by you thief traitor bastard Delilah—

Here came an echo from the deepness of the past, that cruel Lesson that Jonathan had once taught them all as his preying family warred over the greater claim to him, tugging at his mind like spoiled children over the same plaything, and Jonathan had thought those horrid sharp thoughts, the woman think-scream-ordering…

You can't, Darling, no, no, no, never. Don't you take yourself away, no one can steal my Jonathan, not even you.

But now here he was. Jonathan stealing himself out of reach. Just out of reach. His claws had scraped the back of his shirt, a lock of his hair. Close. So close.

Never yours, Jonathan had thought back. Never. You knew it then, you know it now. If you were ever so oblivious as to think otherwise, my Darling would have been slain the moment the Conqueror became the Coveter. When it stopped amusing you to see us huddled together and instead began to fester. Red eyes turning green. Because you knew. For all you made us do, all you ordered from me, it was only possible because I belonged to my Love. First, foremost, always. While you were only ever the thief stealing from her bed.

A thunderclap above. A pounce upon the quarry below. Just slow enough. Just as they made it to the clearing.

They had tumbled and Jonathan had thrashed until he was pinned in the grass. His grin had curdled then, deforming into an expression barely an inch removed from that of a bat’s grimace. He did not look at his captor, but bared his teeth in feral loathing at the hands locked around his wrists. There was a hiss as the grips tightened; enough to have broken bones had he been human. Jonathan’s face contorted into a horror of twitching muscle, his fangs crowding with the spires of sharp neighbors that jutted out and snapped so close they might have torn a swatch of flesh from his ex-Master’s face.

“Off me,” came a glottal excuse for a voice. The quintessence of revulsion.“Off me get off me off OFF—,”

“No,” he’d grated back, daring the nearness of the rabid jaws simply to press himself nearer. The closeness itself seemed to repel another bite as Jonathan twisted under him. “I am Master of your Mistress, thief. I am lord of your lady. If she is above the Son, I am above All, and the moment I loop my thrall through her blighted skull, I shall make a noose of the collar your soul donned for her and drag you screaming by it.”

Thunder had rolled again. Louder, louder, until it had irritated. He could not hear himself aloud and was barely better in his mind.

Why so coy now, draga mea? You have missed the wedding night and your funeral! Not to worry. I have what you left for me. It will stick so prettily in your throat.

The sky roared. And its Master, its Weathermaker for over four-hundred years, puzzled at that. He was not ordering the tempest to make such a din. Under him, another change. Jonathan was still. The monstrous face smoothed. Still unhappy, but abruptly devoid of any emotion greater than disdain. Perhaps with a hint of disbelief.

“Even now you insist upon the act. I had thought you would finally drop your mask entirely for the sake of rage, but no. Still you insist on pretense as though sincerity were as great an anathema to you as Him.” The grimace shifted briefly to an upturned rictus. In a lilting voice, brittle and musical as tinkling glass, “You yourself never loved. You never love! Ha. Twenty years of playacting fooled me no more than it did them after half a millennium.” Jonathan’s face hardened again, the grin turned to a razor. “I will never return to your stage again, Dracula. No more acts. No more charades. No more using me and the imitation of affection as another thing to steal from her. We are all but finished with you.” His fangs bared to the gums with a smile. “Now comes the denouement, balaurul meu.”

Then, fired into his head:

This is the last time you will touch me.

And like that, Jonathan Harker was gone. Dissolved and slithered away with such speed he might have been a puff of smoke blown away by the storm. The thunder boomed again. Not by his will.

There was a sound almost lost under the noise. An animal’s cry. A bird?

He looked up, feeling the skim of something familiar—

Her, her, the woman, thief, wretched bi—

—and had only a heartbeat in which to notice first the silhouette of a great owl outlined against the clouds, then the bolt of lightning racing down to find him.

He had dodged. Not quite fast enough.

Not before the pain landed and made its home from face to neck to arm to everywhere, everything, every possible niche of being that could feel agony. A blast that would have killed a mortal man. Had it taken both eyes, the second bolt may have landed too. But he was not blind and so outpaced that one. And the next. The woman was trying to track his motion once again, the old reverse turned on her Master, but he threw up the wall of fire between them and shot away toward the waiting coast. Running from his own sky. His own creatures.

Now here he sat in the present. In the gloom and the sea-salt air, crammed hastily away with a bed of thin earth in a stolen crate, hunting after his own son while his subjects herded and hounded him, dancing through the gaps they had found in his grip upon them. The old tricks of his perished Loves who had known that his hold was not as complete upon a mass as he would have wished. Animal minds were simple to coerce. The Vampire was its wants before all else and that very nature could war with a Master or Mistress if the focus was split enough.

And his focus was in splinters now. 

You would have laughed to see another suffer it, wouldn’t you, old devil? You took all that was hers once upon a time. Now she takes away all that is yours. Even your storm. Even the shapes of the animals. And him, of course. But then, he gave himself away. Is it not so?

“Silence,” he hissed to the cold mound of the heart. The blood was already starting to congeal within it. “Silence, damn you.”

If you have resorted to talking to yourself, you may do well to keep a diary of your own. Record your last nights for posterity.

He sat up quick enough to crack his neck.

I do apologize for the interruption, Jonathan hummed on. I can only assume you are terribly preoccupied. Either trying to pry into her head or trying to keep her out of yours. Even now, I remain banished to the outskirts of the conversation.

He felt himself smile for the first time in too many nights.

Oh, dear. His poor unschooled friend, who had not had needs or means to build up the walls as his wife had. Well. Let this be a Lesson for him then.

His own mind sprang upon Jonathan’s like jaws snapping shut. He felt the younger psyche spasm and raise phantom hackles at the intrusion. Scrabbling with an unpracticed grip at the Presence that bulled its way in, clawing, breaking, crushing his way across the waters that he could not pass in flesh, and then they were—

How do you like flying now, my friend? Everything you hoped it would be?

In the theatre of the mindscape he was launching himself and his catch back across water and shore and hill and mountaintop, wind whistling around false bodies. He was the Bat, Jonathan pierced a dozen times in his teeth. They were—

This is enough for me.

In the snow, the sun frozen an inch from setting, dead men watching as Jonathan brought down the kukri. Head, heart, limbs, over and over, carving and splitting. There was no collapse into elemental dust here. Only the mincing of a carcass. Even here, even wearing the skin of the living man he’d been, his eyes ran red. They were—

Ah, for a thief, still you go after too little. Let us at least be comfortable.

In Jonathan’s bed, each bite into his throat another night, and all those nights were his ex-Master’s. Kissing, mauling, drinking, sinking teeth to the gums. Only now his friend fought in his jaws. Jonathan’s teeth and claws tore at him as if he meant to shred him out of existence. To no avail. He was the practiced mind, the greater mind, greater will, and in mind and flesh his will was Law. But now he heard the whistle of air overhead, metal and timber swinging down. They were—

You still feel this one, don’t you? Mina feels the one in her throat on the same day it cut her. Does yours come like a blow at the end of each June? Again, Count, my apologies. You’ll not suffer the headache of me once your head is gone.

In the morning of departure. The shovel was in Jonathan’s hands, the edge bloody. No basilisk gaze pinned him now and his ex-Master’s brow was not merely scratched, but cracked like a grisly egg. The spade came down again. His ex-Master’s hand came up. They were—

But my friend, you know from experience how much I love to suffer you. To suffer for you. Saving—

In the ladies’ chamber, Jonathan torn out of three different suckling jaws as the dead Loves of old shrilled and grasped at him—

and sheltering—

In the grim first night, the woman in a deathly Limbo in Jonathan’s arms, the boy barely more than a twitching thought in her belly, on his knees, knife cast aside, bartering and pleading for the safety of his Loves, thankless and ungrateful already in his traitor heart—

 and supporting you all this time. Even now! Do you think me angry for your little trick? Your theft? Your lies? Why, it is nothing but heartening! To think I ever worried you were too soft for the eternity ahead of you! You, so cunning and patient, laying your tripwire over twenty years’ worth of convincing me—me!—that you were a thing worth trusting. Once we clear up this mess with the boy and your pending penance, I could see you eating holes through whole countries with your sweet venom.

Jonathan was in his hand now. A cursing, struggling mote trapped in a fist the size of a small house. The hand tightened. Jonathan howled. Not with pain, for there was no real sensation here. But the revulsion was true enough. He fought and pried at the knuckles of his ex-Master’s grip as if trying to break free of a cesspit.

The fist broke into other hands. A hundred thousand flashes of as many memories, cold clawed touches finding him wherever they felt like landing. Not injuring, of course. Would he hurt his dear friend? No! Only come closer, draga mea, the better to see you, feel you, count your pulses, that is all.

Jonathan bayed and swung and shuddered in the flurry. Every forced turn of the head with a hand on his jaw. Every talon of a nail tickling along chin and throat. Every idle raking of hair or stroke of his shoulder. Every seized arm, caught hand, grabbed hip, rubbed back. All of these blasted Jonathan’s unvarnished hate and disgust through the shared plane of their mind. And the worst of them all had been—

There.

The window in the library.

Their last night as man and monster. When he had spoken his last lying promise and slipped it into his ex-Master’s mouth like candy. Only hate had been there. Hate, disgust, shame. The weight of it staggered.

He staggered.

Jonathan broke free, but did not run, pausing to bare psychic teeth.

I can feel your scandal from here, Count. Even had you been short all the hundred other evils I had to ignore, I think your hypocrisy alone would have nauseated me. How do you sit there stunned at the obvious? Did you seriously believe my mind so pliant a thing that it would ignore the cruelty you held over our heads at every hour and fool myself into think you capable of love? This, when we both know you only consented to the terms for the sake of my payment in pain. Another performance, meant to last all of eternity, as you reveled over how I sunk to nightly agony behind every measured word, every smile, every taste of me ‘freely given.’ Our precious little summer together made infinite.

Here was the crackling fireside, a client and his solicitor beside it, white hair and dark switched around again. One of the early nights to judge by the healing cut on Jonathan’s cheek, the newness of the shadows under his eyes. Eyes whose fear had been so carefully reined in as he’d goaded his host into talk of the land, of its history, of himself in the guise of ancestors. Rapt young thing. After, he had sat then as he sat now, trapped against the arm of the couch, his host almost crushing him into the tufting as the old devil purred incessant questions about what there was waiting for him in England. Were there others like Jonathan there? Ah, he should not build up his hopes too much, souls such as his young friend were a rarity in any place…

Now the pleasant-pleading eyes flamed. Running red again.

This here. Even before the Weird Sisters laughed the truth in your face and you insisted on a lie of a rebuttal. This game was the core of all the years to follow. And now you complain because I played it too well and ran away while you were having fun? Over four-hundred years old and still a petulant child throwing tantrums over a lost toy.

The castle fell away into the heart of a storm. Veins of lightning wound through the black of it as the ex-Master loomed over his subject, his vassal, his traitor, his—

A toy? This alone?

Jonathan was seized in thunderbolts. Marionette strings that burned scarlet.

This is what you think would earn my interest? My protection?

Jonathan bowed and danced and split his face with grinning as the strings pulled.

I could have that from anyone, Jonathan Harker. I could have had that from you for twenty years, no longer leaving the sword hanging above your head, but walking and talking you through every night while your mind sat bound and mute behind your eyes. I could have laughed in your face that November night after I had twisted your head off your shoulders and burned what was left of your wife on my fire. I would have too. If you were anyone other than yourself.

The strings were a net were a web. Jonathan strangled in it, unable to die, to move, to look away as the parade of that prelude to his life in Castle Dracula came and went before him. The deaths and undeaths, the pains and the promises. Mother and child, Master and vassal with the blood never clean from their hands.

 All of this, my friend. All of this is because of you. You, who came to make the sale of Carfax. You, who refused to stay in your proper place among my lost Loves, waiting for my return and all the future I would bring. You, who set the hunting dogs upon me and so forced my hand with the woman. You, who faced the consequences of going among good men, pretending you were a mere hound instead of a jackal, striking them down for a Love you put above their mandates and their cherished divinity. You, who brought that Love to my door, groveling for the sake of your selfish heart.

You, Jonathan Harker. You are my equal in this ‘game’ you say I played. It is one impossible to play alone. If you had not baited me, not teased and strung me along, not made yourself into a vital thing to my heart rather than a mere curiosity, all would have ended swiftly.

 Something shifted. He couldn’t say what. A tipping, a sliding. The fraying of some final tether left straining in his friend’s mind. Jonathan had despised his touch and shown it well enough. Jonathan had raged on behalf of his Loves and the slain and their life that would never be. Jonathan had even managed to offer wrath on his own behalf.

This was not that.

This was an incandescent, a righteous, a Holy conflagration of fury that turned the clinging threads to ash and boiled away the storm into a flaming void. For a moment, Jonathan was not Jonathan at all. He was only a blistering red light. The fire trailing behind him spread like wings, either those of Eros or one of the Fallen. Whichever he was, he seared in his ex-Master’s mind like a torch.

Your heart? YOUR HEART?

A hand of flame pierced him, cooking the centuries-old heart before it was torn out as a cinder.

Even now! Even in your own skull! Even with the stage forsaken and the audience of our son finally free, still you must shroud yourself in this act!? STILL YOU FEIGN KNOWLEDGE OF LOVE BEYOND USING IT AS COLLAR AND CUDGEL!?

Jonathan fractured then, an inferno of indignation and devotion, flaring with the memory of all he had cherished and loathed in his life. Mother and child for the former. His ex-Master for the latter. All smiled for, all made happy as he could endeavor. Yet only mother and child were given all of himself in earnest, their own love reflected back into him, keeping filaments of joy alive even as he brutalized himself with the conviction of his being a worse monster than they could ever be in potentia, deserving of nothing, of worse than nothing, of—

Flashes of his ex-Master, of his voice and embrace and the steady grinding away of his sanity and will and soul under the lord of the castle’s heel, crushed by the weight of self-loathing, dragged up and eaten again and again by the bottomless pit of his ex-Master’s want, of the threat that he must play the game or leave his family to suffer, of a conviction that all of this, every minute of every night, was no more than entertainment, a distraction to grow bored of and smash to pieces should he fail to cozen and serve and be a good Scheherazade ever-after. His penance for the dead men. For his wife. For their son.

That was all it was. All it ever was to Jonathan Harker.

The shock of it came on too quick and too heavy for its owner to catch before it tumbled into the mindscape. It shattered open as it fell and showed all that had been true behind its owner’s eyes. Twenty years’ worth of truth. What he had taken for truth.

The woman, no longer even dreamt of as a companion, but a brittle-bitter comfort. A sibling he had never asked for, but could not deny for her use in keeping his own barbs sharp and for the guarantee of what she anchored to him.

The boy, so suddenly grown, his love uncomplicated and real and awed, an experiment fostered and festering, burrowing into his Father’s heart as blithely as an insect left to gratefully build its nest in the home of a welcoming corpse.

Jonathan Harker.

Jonathan Harker.

Jonathan Harker.

The keystone against which the sheltering of mother and child, the performance played for the boy, the willingness even to entertain the farce in the first place, all leaned. Why? Why, when he would not have suffered any other victim, any other enemy, any other dear friend to wring such a feat from him like blood from a stone? Why, unless..?

He could not hide it. Could not bury it. Could not raze or deny or shred it into dust. It was too loud, too vivid, too strong. Too starved.

It lunged at Jonathan like its own living thing, an excited Wolf gone mad with hunger, seeing the only thing it wished to eat. Raced, leapt, pounced, dissolved into a frantically grasping wraith of red tears and a heart, unburned but hanging open and raw in its cleaved chest, coiling around Jonathan’s mind and forcing the reality of itself down his throat. Choking on it, the fire of Jonathan Harker went out. Only the man—what had been a man—was left. Staring.

Now would come the laughter. The insult. The dismay. The sour-mocking questions. Oh dear, old devil. Had he really tripped and fallen so? Had he really dared to think that the feeling was returned?

Jonathan, no longer flame or fury, only stood in the black of their shared mind. Still staring. Still…

The shock was not just his ex-Master’s.

The void cracked and splintered. Now. Now the laughter would come. Now another act. Now a sardonic bat of lashes, a false swoon, a coo of cloying flattery, or else the woman herself would dare to graze his mind with her own, the better to jeer alongside her Love, yes, yes, any moment now. Now. Now.

Count. I did not know.

The laughter did not come. No act. No sneer. Not even a ripple of disgust. Nothing. Nothing but—

I’m sorry.

The sentiment was attacked with a thousand tearing teeth. Shredded down to psychic atoms in the hunt for the disingenuous core, the hidden chuckle, the lie, the trick. But Jonathan was no less bare than himself in this space. There was no more to find in the sensation than the feeling itself. It repeated:

I’m sorry. And, just as sincere: I never intended to break your heart. Only to impale it.

The whole of it saturated with an honesty and apology that cut deeper than any bludgeoning of hate.

Sorry is not good enough, my friend. There is no taking it back.

Jonathan, a pillar against the abyss, nodded.

I know. Not for either side. I did tell you. This will end before the year is out. We shall kill you or you shall kill us. It is all that’s left.

Now came a laugh; a familiar hideous sound that unfolded into a trail of chuckling. Giddy, almost.

No, Jonathan Harker. You misunderstand once again. Yes, you and the woman mean to slay me at last. But I remain nothing but loving in my design. All that is left is that you kill me, or—

The void was gone.

They stood in the castle’s chapel. With the certainty of a dream, they knew that the boy was returned. Their only witness as he clung and wept over his mother’s coffin. She had been willed into paralysis by her Master, moving only to maim herself in the box or to gorge herself. Her meals’ dried carrion lay piled and broken around the coffin. The infants’ heads lined in rows while the tiny hearts were left to shrivel.

‘Please, Papa, you have to, please…’

And Papa was, of course. The woman’s Master had slipped the noose of himself through her at last, and now her orders were his orders, and the order was being carried smilingly out by their dear Jonathan. Pardon, his dear Jonathan. The picture of bliss despite his running eyes. Under his chin, the brooch shined. On his knuckle, the gold band had been replaced with a matching stone and clutching dragon. His vows, leaked through the permanent stamp of his grin:

‘I will never look at her again. I will never respond to any word from her. I will speak of her only as if she were dead. And I will love you as you are owed. I will be yours alone. Always. This I will do, or she shall never leave the box or know a moment without pain again. Te iubesc, balaurul meu.’

‘Te iubesc, draga mea.’

And then they were together, in the snug gloom of the great coffin that had been built and delivered in secret months before, undetected in the same chamber as the kukri. Two Grooms lay within it, one joyous and one merely smiling as he wept a stain into his Master’s breast and eternity finally began.

This is how our game ends and the next begins, draga mea. There are consequences to becoming what a monster loves, by accident or intention. He crushed Jonathan to him in their box, hissing. You stole our son. You stole my heart. You stole yourself. I will have all back in time. And you will never slip free again.

 For just a moment, he felt it. Fear breaking through Jonathan’s miasma of shocked anger and distaste. But it was not the whole of him. Horribly, cruelly, crawling up and out from the center of his friend, was that unbroken condolence.

Again. I am sorry, Dracula. This will not come to pass. And even in the dreams where you paint this future as reality, you will still have my sympathy in this single thing. Your love is only a chain. Never an embrace. Only a noose, not a held hand. Our son is perhaps the first and only soul to love you without coercion, and he does so only because we spent his life hiding the worst of you from him. You will shatter that illusion if you think to steal him back. And then what will be left? Only this?

Jonathan’s hand was on his cheek, sweeping away something damp.

I had thought your pretenses only another knife to twist in us. But the performance was for you as well, wasn’t it? It was as close as you could get.

Jonathan was crushed again. Tighter, closer. Enough to snap an ordinary man in half. The arms, illusory though they were, trembled.

 Do not dwell like this. You have your conquest to think of, don’t you? Your march on the Living? Return to that, if it helps. You are four centuries deep in this existence. Twenty years should be nothing to scrape aside. We were a distraction, all of us. Let us go. Let us be enemies. It will hurt less.

There was no need for breath here. No more than there had been a need for breath for anything but speech since the day he ceased to live as a man. Despite this, he buried his face in Jonathan’s neck, his mouth opened to bite, but releasing only a choked and shaking sound. It was followed by more. Then:

I will—I will conquer. I will slaughter. I will rule. But I will not be alone. If I must have you all on tethers, so it will have to be. You should not have made me happy, draga mea.

There was no true contact in the mindscape. No touch, no sense. He shivered just the same as Jonathan’s arms slipped around him.

I promise to make you very unhappy once we cross paths in person. My hate is rivaled only by my Love’s and her endings for you are as imaginative or worse than my own. In the interim, I shall do my best to gain your hate, Count. But that shall be another time.

There was a change. A softening in the phantasmagoria of the dark as the characters in it began to lose their edges. He grasped at Jonathan all the tighter.

I have not dismissed you. It is a long way to England yet. I hope the woman is satisfied with riding the rest of the way with you in a coma.

The thoughts leered, but the intent begged. It wound around Jonathan in a serpent’s coils, holding, clutching, trapping—

Let me go, Count.

No.

Tighter and tighter on the disintegrating form, becoming a cage, a coffin, a clutching fist, a dragon winding around and around its treasure, no no no, mine mine mine—

Before it’s too late.

No!

Within the mind and above the Persephone, thunder cracked and lightning struck. A great, blinding, devastating bolt. It had her voice and a single message to share.

MINE.

And with that, he was back in the cargo hold. The sailor’s heart had been crushed to pulp in his hands. His fingers and eyes ran with the same scarlet runnels. Above deck, he felt the riot of a storm that was not his battering the ship. He cursed and threw himself out to it, wrestling until dawn to hammer the weather smooth again.

In another patch of water, under the same voyeur moon, the Aurora cruised on under a starlit sky. A girl and her young man stood on the deck, her hand over his as he gripped the railing so hard it bent to the shape of his fingers. The young man’s eyes snapped open, lungs jerkily refilling with a gasp they’d not yet learned was reflex more than need.

 Jonathan?

“I’m fine. …How long was that?”

Less than two minutes.

“It felt longer.”

It’s like that. Even when conscious, it will try to drag things into dreaming. Ever a showman.

“Did you trace him? Do you know which ship?”

Yes. The Persephone. Our ports won’t be far apart.

Her smile curved, red as rose petals, thorn-sharp.

And I believe their vessel has hit some stormy weather just now. Though it is endeavoring to ease the worst of it.

“Do you need..?”

No, Darling. I only press when I feel it slacking. It will be wrung out by the time it reaches shore. I will merely be peckish. 

Her smile dimmed a shade as she searched her husband’s face.

Are you certain you’re alright?

“I am, Mina. Even if I weren’t, we could not risk it being you. Not while he’s still scrabbling to take your reins again.”

It showed you, didn’t it?

“Showed what?” Mina looked at him. Read him. Turned over the stone that her husband had freshly laid over the revelations bled out into his mind. “Ah. That.”

That. Was this what hurt you in there?

“I am not—,” Her hand went to his cheek. A rust-colored drop was swept away. “Oh. I thought I felt lightheaded.”

Do not distract. Was learning it what hurt you?

“It did not hurt. Only shamed me, somewhat. It casts a different light on his pending demise.”

A slaying made into euthanasia?

“…That is certainly a word for it.”

There are few others to choose from. Extermination. Justice. Recompense. Safety. But, in its thinnest terms, yes, euthanasia. I would not be surprised if he welcomed it in the end. I think I would.

His hand seized around hers.

“Why?”

She smiled back. The ghost of the living girl made its edges soft.

You would not understand. You do not know what it is to love and be loved by you, Jonathan. To imagine the latter was a lie? Worse, a lie you assumed was known by the one who loved you? I do not know if I could suffer it. More, you remain Love himself. Coveted and giving and, even for the Thing we hunt, pitying. For you champion the feeling in its own right, even as you did not guess that you were more to the Thing than a trophy.

They were silent for a time. Feeling the creep of dawn coming for the horizon. Jonathan looked to her again. Searching.

“Mina. Did you know?”

The possibility occurred to me. It did not mourn the Weird Sisters for more than a year, despite their time with it. Lucy it was bitter for losing only because she was the first conquest of a new land, slain before she could be enjoyed. I, the supposed new companion, was relegated within months to an afterthought. No more or less than a necessary evil in its mind—the hostage there to keep you there. With it. And it speaks volumes that it kept even a fraction of its word to you at all.

It could have taken you at any time, Jonathan. Pounced and bit and fed and turned, all with no one to stop it. But it didn’t. Not merely to see you suffer through the performance as you had before, but because it wanted to hide in the fact that you had free will. That you were immune to all but the most superficial pulls of the mesmer rather than the permanent leash upon my mind. It wanted you free and human and in its company, ‘of your own choosing.’ Or near enough. I can think of no reason for it beyond the Thing hoping for the act to become real.

“I cannot tell if that’s a mark of insanity or sadness.”

Perhaps both. And you do not have to cover yourself in barbs here, my Love. There are things we do not wish on enemies, even if they are deserved. That being said—,

“My plans have not changed, Darling.” He leaned his face into her palm, smiling. “We will dance on his ashes for what he’s done. For what he means to do.”

When we finish, we can pour what’s left of him upon a garden of wild roses. Perhaps it will carry some peace after him.

The rest of their conversation was not in words. It carried on even as they pressed their lips into the perfect mold of each other’s, the tableau of them spied only by another couple who thought they must be their elders as they went along to their own room.

“Now when was the last time you kissed me like that?”

“Oh, hush. I’m sure it was only yesterday I did. Sometime after the banquet, wasn’t it?”

“Mm.”

“And anyway, it’s not the sort of thing for our age, dear. These young people are growing ever brasher out in the open.”

“Yes, in public, on a boat. Most brazen. Lord knows there’s scads of witnesses…”

Daybreak came and the storm departed with it. The one in the sky, at least.

Down below, in the dark, in the dirt inside a box, a smaller tempest raged. Tried to rage. Tried to hold to thunder and lightning and hail. But the death-sleep melted it down into its truer shape, freed from the whipping of desperation in the guise of anger. The grave earth became rosy mud as new tears rolled. Between this and the toll of keeping back the storm, even nursing from the crushed heart had barely helped in stalling the change. Black hair had turned to iron, iron to ancient white.

Dreaming dragged him down and away from his own will. Through the foam of futures yet unborn, through the penalties and precautions yet to be inflicted, all the way to a moonlit window in the library. His friend stood before him. Alive and undead. Wasted and hale. Blue-eyed and red. Cold lips smiling and pressing into his. Joy frozen in place.

In the world outside his mind, the cadaver of an old man moved just enough in his bed of soil to hold the brooch tighter. Enough so that the clasp split his skin and poured ichor over the golden dragon and its treasure. He did not feel it.

But wept just the same. 

[lucabyte]

ppl saying they look to my comics for inspiration and pointers on how to format things is WILDDDD to me (and delightful don't get me wrong!! i am overjoyed) because like. none of you are privvy to the absolute WAHHH I DONT WANNNAAA bitchfits i was *CONSISTANTLY* throwing every time i forced myself to make a comic before i got into isat. like no joke. i considered comics such a fucking difficult medium they always drained my drawing energy so hard because they always felt like they took sooo long and had so many moving parts and were so much harder than storyboards (WHICH I ALREADY STRUGGLED WITH) because you had to account for panel shape and speech bubbles and-- like you get it. but genuinely for real. the sheer amount that i complained whenever i clawed my way through drawing a comic (which thus! was not very fucking much!!) compounded by the fact that i *genuinely have trouble reading comics*. as in, i really struggle to parse the flow of contiguous movement or action between panels (possibly connected to the fact ive got mad aphantasia?) of even really well done best-of-the-best professional comics...

... BUT. basically. what im trying to get at is. if you wanna learn to draw comics, evidently you super can?! I genuinely *didnt* draw comics before drawing isat fanart! I have no idea what it was about ISAT fanart that made it finally click for me? (I think it was... not having to think about colour? Removing a step from the process really helped. Plus, it being fanwork meant I could just start en-medias-res and not have to think about setup... Trying to cram too much explanation and setup into my oc stuff was always a big hurdle too...)

I find them fast to do now! and damn if i dont value speed in art (<- impatient little fucker). its still going slowly on my oc comics.. mostly due to the colour again, i think. but it's not extremely, ecruciatingly difficult anymore. is what im saying. and im genuinely baffled by it every time i put pen to page. its fucked up. did you guys know that practice makes things easier? . fucking perverted if you ask me.

As for looking at other people's things for inspiration. if you want to know where I was looking when I was piecing together the first couple fancomics I did for ISAT i want to specifically point at . well besides everything rebecca sugar has ever done (for hands and facial expressions *especially*), the main person i really dug into the work of was Leo Fox (Website link). I feel like i wanna point people to the source of a lot of the inspiration for my more off-kilter panel choices so you all can get the full experience rather than through my regurgitated mimesis. I'm now at the point where i can wing panel layout so i wasn't in there for longgg but. everyone go add it to your knowledge banks as for SUBJECT MATTER aka why i am i so deranged. those are squarely the 2019 postcanon homestuck golden era bleeding through my CLENCHED BITTEN DOWN JAW. A BULL TERRIER ON YOUR BRACHIAL ARTERY. namely that @/floralmarsupial and @/tomatograter's works (no i am not tagging them . im shy) are things i go back to frequently and floralmarsupials pure black/white inktober comics were *especially* an inspiration. if you've been following me a few months you may remember me reblogging a bunch of their stuff from 2019~2021 for seemingly no reason. this was why. The narratively divorced reality of jade strider & Liminal Space are big in my mind here. I balk to call myself anywhere near as good as these but these are what i'm aiming for, tonally and quality-ways with it. also detective pony but ive mentioned that already and thats farrrr too inside baseball for this post.

BUT YEAH TL;DR: I DIDNT DRAW LIKE ANY COMICS UNTIL UHHHH LIKE, WHAT, LIKE 8 MONTHS AGO? JESUS. ANYWAY. THIS MEANS YOU 🫵🫵🫵 CAN DO IT TOO. BELIEVE IN YOURSELF. DATTEBAYO!!!!

[tunafishy333]

It's 2am and I was struck by inspiration

MBJ X og SQH, anyone?

~~

Shang Qinghua was young and stupid, when he met Mobei Jun. At that time, his parents couldn't care less about him. Sure, they were well off, coming from a merchant family, and they did more or less pay for his education, but they never actually cared.

His older brother was the genius inventer, the golden goose, the one that actually brought in the money with his creative mind. Compared to him, Shang Qinghua was always a disappointment. Never mind the logistics and calculations necessary to even bring those ideas to fruition. Never mind all of the hard work that he put in to make sure his brother remains the top merchant in their city, to make sure his family is always drowning in indulgence.

All they saw, was an obstacle, someone constantly shooting down ideas, poking holes, and yapping about budgets. He lacked filial piety to boot.

So, of course, as soon as he was of age, they had kicked him out of the house with this or that excuse - the youngest son wishing to strike out on his own, with grandours and dreams that he too would become a renowned merchant.

He spits.

Pei! What bullshit.

Everybody knows that it was nearly impossible to strike out as a lone merchant. What can I even do, without a family or a name to back me up? I might as well go and try to become an immortal at this point!

Shang Qinghua knows that to make money, you first have to have money; and they definetly did not throw him out with enough money to last a month, never mind establishing a business.

So, betrayed and spiteful, Shang Qinghua did something incredibly stupid when he came across the ice demon. He almost tripped over him, too busy cursing his brother's name under his breath.

Dishonor on your cow!

Turning to see what was under the brush, he saw the prone form of the ice demon, young looking, but bleeding with an ice spear sticking out of it's stomach.

He crouches down next to it, nothing to lose, except maybe for his life. Which, at least his life would've been worth something to someone if the demon kills him, even if it was simply prey for a predator.

Well, you don't look much like a predator like this huh? Betrayed and left to die.

"Huh. Just like me," he muses.

The demon does not stir. Cautiously, he reaches a hand out and closes around the wrist of the hand he just tripped over, checking for a pulse.

Still alive, but probably not for long, considering this heat.

It was mid-day on a summer's day, cicadas chirping loudly as the sun beams down brutally. To Shang Qinghua, it was an incredibly hot morning that was only going to get hotter as the day goes on. Surely, for what looks like an ice demon, swaddled in furs and blue leather, it would be lethal.

I wonder, If I helped you...

Sucking in a breath, Shang Qinghua, reaches out, a stupid idea forming in his head, and hauls the demon over his shoulder, half piggy backing him, half dragging him. He can't go to the city, but he remembered passing an abandoned temple down the road that could serve as a shelter.

...how would you repay me?

~~

Notes:

inspired by that one scene from pennydaniels' fic "we should stick together" where og SQH goes to greet the newly engaged SJ and upon noticing the servants and cushy life that marriage to a himbo granted SJ, goes: hmmm, this could be me...

but obviously I didn't write that because I didn't know how to do that yet, so you get og moshang meeting instead

I've read so many fanfics that it all kinda blends together at this point but SQH backstory and family dynamic is head cannon that is mostly inspired by Feynite

[dickarchivist]

Hello, dear Archivist! I'm sliding into your asks with a fic request. Having read your NSFW Alphabet for Grave Squad (and nearly perished of thirst), I would love to request a fic for Banshee x reader, using this prompt: “I had this dream and - fuck - you couldn’t keep your hands off me.”

No pressure, and no rush! Thank you so much for creating such a simp-worthy batch of OCs 🖤🖤🖤

Thanks for the ask @dystopicjumpsuit! And for Banshee too, I am honored 🥺

"In The Palm of His Hand"

Clone OC Banshee × fem!Reader (civilian medic)

Word count: 2175

🔞Minors DNI🔞

Prompt: “I had this dream and - fuck - you couldn’t keep your hands off me.”

Summary: After a very provocative dream about Grave Squad's silent member, you can't get it out of your head. You wonder, what would happen if you told him?

Contents and Warnings: brief mention of a battle and some ear trauma, brief mention of blood, fantasizing, sex dreams, fingerings, hand job, oral (reader recieving), biting/marking, the hint of a skirt kink, Banshee taking his time with you

Author Notes: Banshee doesn't speak very often, and uses hand signs. All his hand signs will be in italics without quotation marks to show the difference between spoken word. He is selectively mute, and portrayed as hard of hearing.

"Ban..." your breathing hitches, whining as you cling to Banshee's broad shoulders, feeling his big hands all over your body. Curious fingers lifting the hem of your shirt, touching your bare tummy. His sleepy eyes lock to yours, he cups your breast in one hand, rolling his thumb around your nipple, "Ban... please." His other roams lower, gliding over your panties with slight pressure. Banshee sits you down on his knee and you rut against the plastoid armor, trembling at the cold against your thighs.

You're up against his chest, you can feel his breath on your lips as he leans his head down to-- your alarm blares in your ear and you sit up with a jolt, your own hands where Banshee's hand been. "Oh for kriff's sake..."

This wasn't the first dream you'd had with Banshee being the star. Ever since you'd met him, there was a pull between you. In his silence, you'd never felt more seen or heard. Seeing him with his brothers, he was more lively than on his own, and the first time you heard him speak was to a child. One simple word, and it made you melt. "Vod'ika!" Said with such enthusiasm as he lifted the young padawan and gave her a bone crushing hug. You wondered then, for the first time, how it would feel to be in his arms.

The second time you heard him speak was after a nasty battle had rendered much of his Squad incapacitated. His ears were bleeding, eyes closed, looking almost peaceful if it hadn't of been for the injuries. There was another cut along his throat, no doubt it would become a new scar, another story.

When you removed his ear phones, he screamed in pain at a decibel so inhuman it made you cover your own ears. It frightened you. Not because of the blood, but because you'd never heard him so loud before. His eyes opened, and in a stark contrast from the scream he'd just delivered, the feather light whisper of "Help..." made you want to take care of him for as long as you could.

He hasn't spoken since then, not with words. After fending off a rather terrible pick up line from his brother, Phantom, you learned that Banshee spoke mostly in sign. You knew a bit already, so it wasn't hard to get your hands on the material and start to work on it. Banshee smiled at you when you signed to him the first time, his hands moving enthusiastically to try and carry the conversation.

You apologized, signing that you don't know many fish yet, but you are turning the speeder. His laugh, soft as velvet, made your knees knock together. He thanked you for trying, and signed to you, much slower, that you can speak to him instead. It's been months since then, and you're comfortable with doing both simultaneously now, just in case you make a mistake with your hands.

But now, with last night's fantasy running through your mind, you find your hands fidgety for very different reasons. Banshee's in a quiet room in the GAR library when you finally find him. He's seated with his back to the door, books and data pads stacked in front of him. You notice there's nothing new written or drawn on his head today, leaving it a clean slate for others to write or draw on. You once snuck a heart next to the tattooed one near his temple, and quickly drawing a flower to say that was all you had added.

You stare at Banshee's back, toying with the hem of your top, wondering if telling him your feelings is the right thing to do. You figure he can't hear you anyhow, so you start to speak...

“I had this dream and - kriff - you couldn’t keep your hands off me," when he doesn't turn around, you keep going, "We were in my flat, I'd just gotten home, and you were there. You kissed my neck, and started feeling me up..." still without response from Banshee, you continue, "You played with my breasts, rolling your thumb over my nipple as you put me over your knee... I wish you'd touch me like that, I wish we could be more than just... whatever this is. But I'm too anxious to even say it to your face so you can read my lips, so that's for nothing, I guess."

You're about to high tail and leave when he straightens up from his seated position. There's the flutter of a page, then the soft thud of a book being closed. Banshee turns around in his chair, a sleepy eyed smirk on his face. Blush blooms across your face as his hands move.

I can hear you.

"Oh kriff..."

That quiet chuckle makes you weak in the knees, and you feel yourself braced against the door for support as he stands and walks closer to you. It's hard to take your eyes off his face, but his hands are moving again, and you look down to watch him speak.

Do you want me to touch you like that now?

"N-now?" Granted, you were in a private room, but that boldness wasn't something you expected from Banshee who always seemed to keep to himself. You nod, biting your lip and looking at his hands... he was even in his armor, just like in your dreams.

Banshee chuckles again, sinking you further down the door. He catches you before you hit the floor and helps guide you to the chair he'd been in moments before. Kneeling in front of you, Banshee cups your cheek before pulling back to sign.

Maybe you're not ready for this right now. This is a library, can you keep quiet?

You bite your lip, squeezing your thighs together. Kriff, he's serious about this... with another nod, you scoot to the edge of the chair, "I'll be quiet, I promise."

He smirks, then handles you with his large hands, having you rise only to place you back on his knee. Your skirt flairs over his thigh, and you feel the cool plastoid against your bare skin. You know you're wet already, but hearing yourself squish against his armor makes you shudder and hold his arm for support. Banshee sighs softly, looking down at you with a dreamlike look on his face. He uses one hand to sign, you know this one, and you giggle as his hand goes over his face to collect under his chin.

Pretty.

You rut against him, blush spreading across your cheeks and shoulders further. Banshee's hands start to work you, thumbs pressing into your hips and pulling a light moan from your lips. Goosebumps cover your skin, and you feel your nipples hardening against your top. Banshee moves one hand up from your waist to knead your breast. His gloved hand rolls your pebbled nipple between his index and thumb, and you stifle a cry of pleasure. It was much more, being in his hands, than you thought it would be.

"Shhh," a soft hush hisses from his lips before they close on your neck. You gasp and roll your hips into him, a hand rubbing across his short hair. Your thighs clenched around his again, "Ban, please keep going..."

He sucks a dark hickey into your skin while his hands continue to explore your body. He squeezes your ass in one hand, the other still toying with your breast as his mouth leaved marks across your neck. You pull your shirt off yourself, and immediately his mouth moves to your other breast. You moan again, feeling your slick arousal down your thighs, knowing your panties as soaked through. Your voice comes in a desperate whisper, heart thudding in your chest as you grind on his leg, "Ban, please, more... I need more..."

His eyes meet yours, and you feel yourself throb for him. He ghosts his lips across yours, not quite a kiss, more to share in your breathing. The hand on your ass slinks further down and you feel his thick fingers press against your entrance. As a cry threatens to come, Banshee collects your lips in a kiss to silence you.

His tongue slides across your bottom lip, and you invite him in, deepening the kiss as fingers rub your entrance with delicious pressure. You try to press his fingers into you, angling backward and rolling your hips, but Banshee doesn't want to give you what you want just yet. His breathy laugh warms the skin of your neck as his hand slips away from your entrance. You whine slightly, "Tease, not fair..."

As you pout, continuing to rock yourself on his thigh, he signs to you again.

Says the woman who gave her desires to my back.

His grin is was even more teasing than his hand had been.

Get up. Lean over the table.

You swallow thickly and do as you're told. You flip your skirt up, exposing your backside to him and swaying slightly. After he takes off his gloves, he grabs you again, fingers running through your folds, spreading slick through them. You cover your mouth when he stays playing with your clit, legs trembling already. "Ban..."

You heard the clatter of plastoid on the floor behind you, but not how you had expected. Banshee had gotten under the table, his face close to your folds. You can feel his breath on your slick thighs, and as two fingers begin to stroke and tease your entrance again, his mouth is upon you.

You bite down on your bottom lip as he takes long flat tongued licks through your wet folds, slow and deliberate. Savoring your taste. You could hear the satisfaction in the quiet hum that rumbled through your clit as he sucked at you. It took a lot of control to keep from getting too loud, but you'd had a little practice in not being heard. Stifling yourself, just as you are now, when the thoughts of Banshee overwhelmed you and you had to touch yourself before you could make it home.

You're snapped back as new pleasure burns through you. The slow play at your clit finally being accompanied by two thick fingers stretching your entrance. Your voice rises just a bit, but you slap a hand over your mouth before he can pull away to make you quiet down. It works, for now, a brief pause in his work, but Banshee doesn't leave you wanting for long. His fingers course in and out of your warm walls, you clench around them rocking yourself into his mouth and hand.

His other hand has been absent from you, and you wonder if he's stroking himself while pleasing you... you decide the thought isn't enough. "Banshee... I-- ah-- I want you..."

"Hm?" His hum vibrates your clit and you gasp again. You know he heard you, and that he's trying to tease you. Clever man he is.

"I want you, please, f-fill me up and--" you grip the edge of the table, a silent cry coming from you as Banshee pushes his fingers deeper inside. You feel your own slick dripping down your thighs at the sudden depth of his hand.

You lay your head on the table, feeling his pace quicken inside you, his mouth on your clit near torturous how he swirled it around his tongue, sucking and flicking as his fingers pumped in and out of you. As quiet as you had managed to be, Banshee still got a scream from you as you came around his fingers.

Banshee moves swiftly, turning you around to face him as he leans over you on the table. His armor hadn't been removed, much to your dismay and fantasy. In his hand, fingers still so deep within, you pant and clench around him again. He kisses you, and you taste yourself on his tongue, sweet and tangy. When Banshee slowly slides his hand from you, he parts his lips from yours with a smile, allowing you the moan at full volume.

You watch him, waiting for him to sign to you, trying to catch your breath as you come down from your climax. Banshee holds your gaze as he licks his hand clean of your slick, then pulls his gloves back on.

Next time.

You swallow thick as he helps you back into your top, hands ghosting your body. You pull him to you for a kiss, lingering on his lips, "Next time what?"

That velvet laugh of his, kriff you swear you could go again this second if he'd let you. He guides your hand up to his face, kissing your palm before setting it against his cheek. Banshee leans close to you, whispering in your ear, "I'll give you all of me, but not now."

You feel yourself tighten at the thought, a moan and shiver escaping you, "Banshee..."

He's off you again, retrieving your panties and then kneeling before you to help you back into them. Just to tease you, he licks your thigh with a cocky smirk, then stands.

Next time, Cyare. But not at work.

[peterparkersnose]

Matchmaker

part: 2 part 1

pairing: Javier Pena x fem!reader

word count: 2.1k

warnings: slut shaming, jealousy, snitches, angst, mentions and use of weapons, blood, near death experience, hospitals, regret, fluff at the end :)

a/n i hope you enjoy! i hope its not too sappy, i know javier pena would never realistically say/do any of these things unless he was p whipped but... you never know. that gif is so sexy dude fuck i want him so bad fr fr 

summary Y/N and Javi go check out the abandoned building and run into some trouble

masterlist

join the tag list

read time: 7 mins 44 seconds

The old warehouse that your team had raided the past month came into view. Javi drove along the dirt road and hummed to a tune on the radio.

The closest you were ever going to get to driving with a boyfriend and singing songs in the car. Right?

The car pulling up and the slams of the car doors should have been enough to run anyone out of that building. It was swept by security every night and made sure it was abandoned.

“What do you think your going to find in here?” Javier asked, pulling up the do not enter tape around the entrance. You shrugged. “I dunno. It just feels wrong.”

The empty building echoed from your heels. You and Javi walked around the first floor.

“This is just a big empty box of concrete,” he sighed, walking over to a pile of scrap wood and kicking it ever so slightly. The sound from that bounced off the walls, startling a few stray birds.

This sudden noise scared you. You turned around to reach for your gun and tripped on your heels. Javi saw this and reached out his arms, catching you in his embrace. You were breathing heavy as he held you in his arms.

“Just some birds, mi amor.” he chuckled, helping you re gain your balance.

Following him upstairs, you couldn’t get his strong grip on you off your mind.

Upstairs was more complicated. There were still abandoned work benches and offices that weren’t swept out in the demolition. Any homeless person or one of Escobar’s men could have snuck in easily and stayed here for a while. You were sure the guards didn’t check every single office, as there were too many.

You searched the various papers left on the benches and ground, nothing interesting stood out to you.

“Are you gonna help?” you asked Javi, bent down going through a stack of files about grain sale statistics in Spanish. “Shh,” Javi said, silencing your hands filing through papers. You hadn’t noticed how quiet he got and how far ahead of you he was.

“What’s the matter?” you asked, standing up into full view and shrugging your hands.

The door to one of the offices swung open. A man was talking very loudly into a phone in one hand, a gun in the other.

You turned to grab for your gun. He was standing mostly in your view, and saw you first. He mumbled something in Spanish and didn’t hesitate to aim at you. He shot his gun as you recognized what was happening. You moved fast enough for him to shoot your shoulder.

Javier panicked at how quickly the scene happened. Without a second thought, he aimed his gun at the man and shot him in the chest a few times.

“Y/N!” he yelled, rushing around the tables to find you. He found you flat on your back, eyes wide open in shock. “Shit, shit.” he whispered, falling to the ground and taking off his suit jacket to wrap around your shoulder.

“We’re going to need to walk, can you walk?” he asked. You stared up at him in unimaginable shock, unable to answer. “Y/N! Shit. Have you ever been shot before?” he asked, his right hand moving for his walkie talkie strapped to his belt. “A-28 we need medical at 748 Carerra 48,” he said urgently, repeating the message into the box until he got a dispatch response.

You were bleeding and you were bleeding a lot. Your breathes became choppy as Javier held you in his arms. He kept wondering if he shot an artery or not. “Stay with me, please.” he whimpered, moving your hair out of your face. He had accidentally wiped blood on your face. He looked at his hands, and then his shirt. All were deeply painted with crimson. “Please, no, please don’t do this.” he pleaded, holding your body close to his.

“Javi…” you whispered in his ear. “Everything is going to be okay.” he assured you. Shouting came from downstairs.

“Up here!” Javier yelled. Paramedics filed into the office space and spotted you two quickly. He helped them lift your body onto a stretcher. Your wide eyes stayed locked on him. “I-I have to go.” he said to you, holding your hand and following you down the stairs. “No,” you muttered, tightening your grip on him. The shallowness of your voice tore him apart.

The caution tape had been cut by the paramedics. When he reached outside, the majority of your squadron was out watching the scene unfold. The ambulance was small, big enough only to fit you and some paramedics. “No,” you begged, reaching your good arm towards him. “Don’t-” you sighed quietly, only enough for Javier to hear.

“Leave.” you finished. His last view of you was your longing eyes locked with his and his suit coat wrapped around your wound. The dark blue had become soaked with a purple/red. The back doors to the ambulance slammed shut. Javier was left in the dust from the now screeching vehicle making its way as carefully as it could down a dirt road.

Javier broke down on his knees. His bloodied hands cradled his face. He publicly cried for the first time since he was a child. The whole squad watched him break down in front of the scene.

“Javi,” Steve said, carefully approaching him and placing his hand on his shoulder. Javi shrugged off his hand. He returned to his feet, used his wrists to clear off any tears on his face, and rolled up his sleeves. Steve walked back to the police car with him.

The view of the man who had shot you came into place. He was being carried out by other paramedics. Javier recognized him as one of Escobar’s men. His heart sank.

Your feeling about this warehouse was right.

-

Steve stood with Javi on one side, Connie on the other. They watched you through the glass of your bedroom. Javier was leaning on the wall, resting his head against it. His eyes kept fluttering shut until he was reminded of his surroundings and was flung back into this horrible reality.

“Maybe you should get some sleep,” Connie suggested, tucking her clipboard under her arm. “Nah,” Javi said, opening his eyes once again to look at you. “I got her, you don’t have to worry.” she re assured Javi. “She’s the best in Colombia,” Steve said smugly, swinging an arm around his wife. He was happy to have a reason to spend time with his wife during work hours, but upset over the circumstances.

His eyes moved to the hospital couch next to your bed. Then back to you.

They removed the bullet successfully. It didn’t hit an artery, but a major vein going towards it. After a two hour long surgery, you came out with a wrapped shoulder extending down to your elbow, and a recovery note from the doctor. You were going to be fine. They put you in a medicated sleep for a while, just to let the shoulder get used to the placement and to heal before you were awake and moving around. You were expected to make a full recovery.

“It’s getting late, man.” Steve said, checking his watch. A little after nine. “You should go home.”

Javi scoffed at the suggestion. “Not until she’s awake.”

Steve sighed. “She’s going to be fine, you need to-”

“I can’t. I almost lost her. The thought of her dying and never coming back scares the absolute shit out of me.” he hissed at Steve. Steve’s eyes widened as he stepped back. “You good?” he asked. “No. I-I…”

“You like her, don’t you.”

Javi didn’t answer, instead just crossed his arms and looked at you. He closed his eyes and took a deep breathe. “I don’t think I could live without her,”

“Then do something about it!” Steve exclaimed, smiling. “She cares about you, man. She cares a lot about you. So do something, please. I’m begging you!” he laughed, his hand slapping Javier’s back.

“Have a good night, my friend.” he smiled, trailing off into the hallway.

He made his way quietly into your room. He slowly shut the door behind him. He took off his watch, his belt, his shoes, and removed his badge and gun holster from his waist and set them down at the table next to the couch.

He made his way over to you. His thumb brushed over your forehead as his hand caressed your cheek. The blood had returned to your face, you weren’t so deathly pale anymore. “Good night, mi amor.” he whispered, giving you the softest kiss on your forehead.

He unbuttoned a few buttons on his shirt and pulled up his sleeves. He attempted to get comfortable on the hospital couch and shut his eyes.

-

Your eyes fluttered open just a bit before dawn. Putting the pieces together, you reached over to touch your wound. You seered at the touch, wiping your eyes instead and taking in your surroundings.

Hospital. You were well aware of what happened and remembered it so clearly. You thought you were going to die, die without holding Javier Peña at least once.

You blinked and turned your head to look at the sunrise. To your surprise, there he was. Javier Peña asleep on a couch. How long had he been there?

He looked exhausted. His hair was disheveled, his freshly new outfit was already wrinkled. You remembered how he took off his suit jacket and draped it over your arm. He was always such a gentleman, even when he didn’t try.

The beautiful Colombian sunrise began. The deep pinks, yellows, and oranges never failed. Your arm hurt horribly, but you weren’t concerned at that moment. Javi was there, everything was okay. Letting your mind wander, you lay waiting for him to wake up or a nurse to wander in.

-

“And everything is feeling alright?” the nurse asked. “Mhm, yes. Thank you,”

Javi shot up straight out of his slumber at the sound of your voice.

“Well good morning to you,” you chuckled, smiling at his sudden awakening. “Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked, checking his watch. Seven thirty.

“You looked so tired, I couldn’t.”

Javi got up and went to your side. He grasped your hand, and knelt down. “I’m so happy your okay,” he sighed, kissing your knuckles.

“You alright?” you asked, eyebrows raised with a suspicious tone. “Better than alright,” he smiled, looking down at your hands. He wanted to slap a ring on there as soon as he could.

Connie bursted through the door holding your breakfast tray.

“Ah, so you finally told her Javi. Congrats, the two of you.” she smiled, setting the food down in front of you. Swiftly turning to leave, Connie didn’t realize she spoiled his whole plan.

Javi had the look of defeat on his place, wishing this could have gone so much differently.

“What is she talking about?” you asked. Javi sighed. “I wish this could have been under better circumstances,” he sighed, getting up and rubbing the back of his neck anxiously.

“And?” you asked, nervous to what he was about to say.

He took a deep breathe.

“Seeing you on the brink of death scared the shit out of me Y/N. I thought I lost you.”

“What?”

“Steve told me something a few days ago in the break room-”

“Oh?” you asked, already knowing what Steve said. What a fucking snitch.

“And I really thought to myself. What am I looking for? I spent all my time with these other women, searching for something to fill the void. Nothing ever seemed good enough from them. It was never enough. But what Steve said made me think. Why was I seeing other women when the one I truly wanted was in front of me the whole time?”

Your jaw was dropped.

“I’m stupid, okay? I-I… watching you grab for me in the ambulance broke my heart. It made me realize things I never thought I wanted before.”

“And what’s that?” you asked, a smirk appearing on your lips.

“You.”

“Really?” you smiled.

“Yes!” he exclaimed, returning to his knees. “If you would have me…” “Of course I’ll have you,” “Please, Y/N L/N, be mine.”

He wrapped his arms around you, cautious of your wound. His cologne reeked off of him along with sweat, but you didn’t care. You felt his mustache tickle your shoulder.

“I won’t ever let this happen again. I won’t ever let you go.” he whispered in your ear.

“Like I’m ever going to let you leave,” you chuckled.

Who would have known Javier Peña’s street days would end with a single bullet.

tag list: : @dani5216 @uwiuwi @alohastyles-x @samanthacookieone @maddieinnit0 @alexxavicry

(my queue didn’t post for some reason yesterday, just caught it now)

[rxnn]

Bleeding Heart [two]

warnings! workplace harassment? (lemme know if i missed anything)

one

❥❥❥

…a month later

"You hit the call button, Ms. Fischer?" Leia greeted the woman who'd been on their floor for the past few days.

"Hello," the kind woman smiled. Ms. Fischer had been put in Leia's part of the crowded ICU after she'd been hit by a car that had been set off track by Mr. Freeze coating the street in ice for some reason or another.

He failed (obviously) and was eventually apprehended according to the news this morning.

Leia helped Ms. Fischer with that she needed and waved her goodbyes, telling her that she would be handing her off to the night shift's nurse. She assured her that the next would know everything and she'd be in good hands. The woman merely smiled and nodded, thanking her for taking care of her.

It made pride bloom in Leia's chest. It wasn't often that she was praised for her efforts seeing at patients were often in pain, comatose, or just not nice for whatever reason.

"Have a good evening, Ms. Fischer."

"You too, dear."

Leia chuckled as she shut the door behind her and walked toward the desk where she could see her replacement talking to Susan, most likely getting an update on the patients she would be caring for.

"Just the girl I was looking for!"

Shit.

"Dr. Carr," Leia greeted stiffly, folding her fingers in front of her as if it would create some sort of shield between her and the handsy doctor. He was attractive, yes, and close to her age, but he was an asshole who got a chuckle out of harassing the nurses.

His latest victim?

Leia herself seeing as he'd apparently heard from another nurse that she'd said he wasn't her type. He wasn't, but he'd made it his personal mission to woo her no matter how many times she brushed him off.

"How's my favorite girl?" He slung an arm over her shoulder, flashing her a too-white grin.

"Fine," she pushed his arm off her. "My shift is over so I've got to go," she made a beeline for the desk and caught Susan's eye and the elderly woman nodded, glaring at the man she knew was following her, most likely staring at her ass.

"You alright, Barnett?" Susan asked, eyeing Dr. Carr for a moment as he leaned against the nursing station.

The night nurse glanced at Dr. Carr, unimpressed. She was defiantly new, but it seemed she caught onto the situation quickly. She smiled at Leia and introduced herself as June.

"Oh, like the month?" Carr grinned over his shoulder.

"No, like the salad," June retorted, not even looking over at the Doctor.

Leia snorted and gave June her report of the patients she'd been caring for.

Eventually, Carr got bored and put his hand a little too low on Leia's back and whispered in her hear that he would see her on her next shift. Leia had to resist punching him. He was protected by someone at the top parts of the hospital. A friend of a friend apparently. Which meant any complaint to HR didn't do shit.

"What an ass," June scrunched her nose up as Carr walked toward one of the other doctors.

"Indeed," Susan grumbled, her signature red nails typing away. "Go home, Barnett."

"Yes ma'am," Leia saluted the elderly woman who rolled her eyes, but the small smile gave her away. "Nice to meet you, June."

June nodded and pat her shoulder before they went their separate ways.

❥

"I should be home in about 15 minutes, okay?"

"Okay, Mama! Did you get the cookie batter?" Callum's excited voice rang through the speaker pressed against Leia's ear.

"Of course I did, baby," Leia adjusted the heavy bag full of groceries on her shoulder as she left the small grocery store. Only one bag since she didn't get much. "Now, you stay with Ms. Houseman till I come get you okay?"

"Gotcha!" He cheered and Leia laughed, the sound filling the mostly empty streets of Gotham. She could almost imagine him holding up a thumbs up. The faint laughter of Mrs. Houseman told her she was probably right.

It took her mind off the fact she was walking home…in the dark…in Gotham…paying little attention to her surroundings.

There was shuffling behind her and she sped up, not daring to look behind her as she was suddenly hyper aware of everyone who passed her on the sidewalk. The distant sound of thunder accompanied the sound of footsteps so it was hard to tell if she was being followed.

"Alright, I'll see you soon. Be good!"

Callum's giggle made her laugh softly.

"Love you, Mama!"

"I love you too," she replied before the boy hung up and tucked she her phone away.

Despite the ache in her shoulder from the bag, Leia didn't pause to adjust it or move it, her paranoia getting the best of her. She held her keys in her free hand, gripping them tightly between her knuckles as the sound of footsteps grew nearer. When she finally made it to the door, she stupidly glanced over her shoulder to see a large figure in a dark hoodie heading straight for her. Her heart caught in her throat, and she went to push open the door, but it opened on its own and she ran into a someone — more like a wall — and stumbled back.

Leia would've fallen if it weren't for a hand grabbing her arm and steadying her. Sadly, her groceries weren't as lucky as they dropped from her shoulder and spilled out right there in the doorway.

"Crap," she cursed, bending down and gathering the fallen items before they could be stepped on.

She watched the person walk past swiftly out of the corner of her eye and she paused, trying to get a good look at their face with no luck.

"This yours?"

Leia turned, facing a man around her age, with dark hair and pretty blue-green eyes holding out some of the chocolate chip batter she'd bought at the cornerstore.

"Oh! Thank you," she smiled up at him as he silently handed her a few other things she'd dropped. "I'm so sorry for bumping into you, I thought…" she trailed off.

"No worries." He shrugged, helping her up and handing her the bag. He glanced at the bag, raising a brow as she took it from him. "That's pretty heavy."

"I'm a big girl, I can handle it," she smiled softly, and he chuckled. "I'm Leia by the way," she held out her free hand for him to shake. He hesitated for a moment before his much larger hand took her own. She was surprised at how calloused it was, but she tried not to let it show on her face.

"Jason." He nodded then his phone rang, but he silenced it immediately.

"Well, I'm sorry about that Jason and thank you of helping me pick up my mess."

He chuckled, rustling his hair which she just noticed had a bit of white in it.

Cool, she thought to herself. She'd heard of people being born with it.

"It's practically my job," he replied, before stepping aside and holding open the door wide enough for her to get through.

"Thanks," she muttered and then gave him a soft smile. "Have a good night, Jason."

He chuckled. "You too, Leia."

She nodded once before heading up the stairs, her anxiety dimming as her home came into view. She dropped her things off in her apartment before going upstairs to gather Callum.

❥

"Fucking stupid family dinner," Jason muttered under his breath as he walked down the stairs, texting Alfred that he'd be there despite already being late. He barely went, but Dick wouldn't leave him alone on patrols (on Alfred's behest) until he promised he would come. Plus, he knew if he didn't, his apartment would suddenly be missing random things for at least a month.

He opened the door to leave his apartment complex and was met with a woman bumping into him. On instinct, he reached out and grabbed her wrist catching her before she fell. Sadly, he wasn't fast enough to grab her groceries that spilled at their feet.

Jason recognized her immediately. She had moved in next door months ago with a young boy who he assumed was her son. He hadn't bothered to introduce himself seeing as his last neighbor had quite frankly been a bitch.

When she was standing straight up, he noticed her frazzled gaze flickering behind her and he followed her gaze to see a random person, face hidden under a dark hoodie pause. He glared at them and they quickly scampered off, making him scoff under his breath.

The woman's soft muttering brought him from his thoughts, and he began to help her collect her fallen items, subconsciously glancing around for anyone else who could jump at her.

"This yours?" He held out a can of cookie batter toward her and it seemed to snap her out of her thoughts.

"Oh! Thank you." She said with a bright smile that made his mouth twitch up in a small smile as he handed her a few of her things. "I'm so sorry for bumping into you, I thought…" she trailed off, glancing in the direction the creep had wandered off again.

"No worries." He shrugged and let her use his forearm to stand before picking up her overflowing grocery bag. It was much heavier than he expected and he rose a brow at the woman before she took it from him. She wasn't small, probably around 5'9" with a fair amount of muscle on her. It seemed like the bag didn't bother her much, so he guessed she was strong enough to handle herself. "That's pretty heavy."

Jason wanted to slap himself for such a stupid comment, but instead of making fun of him, she smiled. It was a pretty smile.

"I'm a big girl, I can handle it."

He chuckled, finding himself forgetting about his promise to Alfred.

"I'm Leia by the way," she said, holding out her free hand.

Jason glanced at it, hesitating. Her friendliness was odd, something he wasn't used to. In the end, he took her hand in his and he saw her face flicker for a moment before her smile widened. Her hands weren't calloused like his, but they had a few small scars here and there, but most were faded.

"Jason." He introduced himself.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, a swift reminder of his annoying older brother, but he quickly silenced it. They could wait.

"Well, I'm sorry about that Jason and thank you for helping me pick up my mess." She fidgeted with her necklace, a locket by the looks of it; a little worn, but taken care of, before tucking some hair behind her that had fallen from her braid when she'd stumbled.

Jason chuckled. "It's practically my job," he replied without really thinking about it and almost winced. To save himself, he stepped aside and opened the door for her to come inside, realizing he'd been standing in her way.

"Thanks," she said softly and gave him another pretty smile. "Have a good night, Jason."

He chuckled dryly, knowing he'd get scolded by Alfred and/or Dick when he eventually got to the manor. Not that he cared. They were lucky he was even showing. "You too, Leia."

She nodded once, that piece of hair falling from its place behind her ear. She didn't bother moving it this time as she ascended the stairs.

Jason watched her go, making sure she made it up the first set of stairs before the obnoxious ringing of his phone brought him from his trance. He blinked and shook his head, glancing at the now empty staircase. He faintly heard her continuing up the stairs but didn't bother listening anymore as he brought his phone up to his ear, scowling as he walked out and toward his bike.

"Where are you? You're late then you don't pick up your phone!" Dick's familiar scolding flooded his eardrums.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm leaving now," he rolled his eyes and hung up on his senior. He glanced back up at the complex, seeing a light flick on and through a window, he saw Leia lift up a little boy and kiss his cheek while the boy giggled.

The distant sound of thunder made him curse quietly and he started his bike, fighting the urge to glance back up at the window.

❥

When Jason finally made it back to his apartment that night, he was exhausted (as always). He rolled his shoulder, a faint pain followed by a pop made some of the tense muscles release.

Despite how tired he was after the nagging from Dick for his late arrival and following patrol, he couldn't take his mind off his too nice neighbor. Something about her was…off. He couldn't put his finger on it and that unsettled him.

He blamed it on his paranoia at first. Then again, one could never be too careful in Gotham, could they?

Jason shrugged off his persona, Red Hood and traded it for an old t-shirt and gray sweatpants. He made his way through the apartment, turning on lights as he went, grabbing an ice pack for his shoulder before walking over to his computer. Even if the Lazarus Pit allowed him to heal a little faster than your regular vigilante, he wasn't without the soreness that followed.

He could've just asked Tim to do it seeing as the guy had x10 more equipment and strings to pull, but Jason was stubborn and didn't want to bother with the strange looks he would definitely get for it.

So, he put his detective skills to the test and spent the next hour researching, deciding to skim the surface and come back to it with a fresh mind after he took a nap.

He found the basics, but not much seeing as she had a social media account, but it was barely used. The last post was from a year prior, a simple picture of her and a slightly younger version of the boy he'd seen with her.

Leia Barnett ICU nurse at Gotham General Hospital. Moved to Gotham about two months ago with her adopted son, Callum Barnett. No one else seems to be in the picture.

He scribbled the small notes on a piece of paper he had handy. As far as he could tell, she was clean. Just a normal person trying to make it in the world.

Jason heaved a sigh, running his hand down his face and turned off his computer, kicking himself for thinking anything bad about his new neighbor. Leia was a sweet woman — that much was obvious — trying to do good by her son which was enough to tug on his sheltered heart. He decided enough was enough and got up and collapsed against the couch, too tired to make it to his bed, hoping he'd wake in a few hours.

Sadly, that wasn't the case as a loud knocking startled him awake. The sun was barely peeking over the building across from them, scattered rays of light hitting the ceiling. He groaned, sitting up slowly and listening for another knock. With any hope, it was just a dream, and he could go back to sleep.

The sound of a boy's voice followed by soft muttering told him the opposite.

He stared at the door and stood, grabbing one of the many guns he had hidden around the apartment. He approached the door, listening for anything else, but there was no other noise, so he glanced out the peephole and was surprised to see a small bag of cookies with a note attached.

Jason would've left it, but he recognized the name on the note and snorted, picking up the small bag. It was decorated in red, blue, and green drawn stars. A sticky note taped to the side read: 'Sorry again for bumping into you, neighbor — Leia and Callum' with Callum's name written in wobbly letters.

He stared at the note then the cookies. He didn't know how long he stood there before he scoffed and tossed them on the counter with the note and walking off to take a shower. He didn't have time for a single mother and a little boy trying to befriend him.

Yet, even as he left his apartment later that day, glancing at them once before he closed the door, he couldn't bring himself to throw them away.

❥❥❥

three, four

[rustboxstarr]

ANGSTY blurb but happy ending.

Eddie x bsf!Reader

Cw: love confession 🥰, talk of porn haha, character death, weed, Eddie being rly fragile physically from the upside down.

When you deliver Wayne the news that Eddie passed, not telling him about the upside down you both clear out his room.

When you show up with heavy shoulders and tears prickling your eyes you find Wayne nursing a beer on the couch, multiple cans littering the coffee table. Wayne looks up at you with sad eyes and greets you.

For about an hour you sit and talk about Eddie, grazing the surface of how deeply his death hit you both finally you slap your knees and stand up taking a deep breath ready to tackle Eddies room.

“Alright kid” Wayne looks up at you, making no attempt to stand himself “this is what we’re gonna do, you’re gonna take that duffel bag, and you’re gonna go in first and take out all the weird shit you know he wouldn’t want me to see and then we’ll get started” Wayne manages a timid smile and a chuckle as you nod your head.

He can hear your broken sniffles and dampened sobs but smiles everytime he hears simple laughs at the stupid things you find.

Jesus Eddie how many pornos does a man need?? You think to yourself as you check under his bed to find two stacks, mostly featuring heavy metal.

You frown confused as you open his bedside table to find lube, tissues, some more magazines and.. pictures of you?? Pictures you knew he’d taken but never seen before.

Quite a few taken in particularly loose and small clothing, some you didn’t even realise he had taken with your back to him. Then it hit you no fuckin way was he like jerking off to these Jesus Christ. But as you continue to ponder over the photos the possibility of him maybe having a little crush on you crosses your mind. I mean you wouldn’t be jerking of to pictures of your best friend unless you liked them right? Normal porn would suffice otherwise wouldn’t it??

All this time you had been harbouring a bit so small crush on him and he felt the same way? You consider telling him, confronting him and maybe both admit your feelings untill you realise you can’t. Because he’s dead.

Occupying yourself with rooting through the rest of his stuff you distract yourself from thinking further on what could have been or the fact that Eddie wasn’t around anymore.

20 minutes later you walk out with the duffel bag filled with porn, weed, a ridiculous amount of bongs and some other things that were hidden from view that you thought might be embarrassing for Wayne to find.

Wayne tells you to take anything you want but obviously leave some for him so you end up walking with about half of Eddies room to your car, listening to a mixtape he’d labeled feeling the blues like some wimp, the name making you laugh but the music making you wallow in sadness as you drive home.

(Skipping ahead lolz sorry)

You had been told by Owens that Eddie had passed, everybody had mourned him, there was a funeral and everything, until suddenly almost two months after the whole endeavour a military van slowed outside of Steve’s house in the middle of the night to drop off a beaten, bruised, still slightly bleeding and limping Eddie.

Steve called you that night shouting at you to come over and by morning you were crying and laughing with a fragile Eddie in your arms.

It was 3 am and you were sprawled out on the couch, sat comfortably against the pillows while Eddies head rested in your lap, Steve asleep on the recliner next to the tv.

“So Munson” Eddie looked up at you as you whispered his name “you know me and Wayne went through your room” his eyes widened slightly as you spoke “don’t worry he didn’t see anything, he sent me in first” you chuckled as he relaxed “but dude! What normal human being needs that much spank bank material?!” You whisper shouted.

He chuckled embarrassed “hey you can’t say shit you have like so many sexy books on your self” you sneered at him “and under your bed” he grinned. “That’s normal, what isn’t however is the amount of pictures of your best friend hidden under dirty magazines” you raised your eyebrows.

Eddie sputtered “wha- I, I hadn’t- I didn’t get a chance to put them up” he explained “Mm sure” you couldn’t fight the smirk pulling at your lips “you’re such a wimp dude, should have just told me you liked me” you said proudly “what so I could embarrass myself and walk off with my tail between my legs?” “Hah! So you admit you’re the devil” you grin widely. Eddie only rolls his eyes “and no, if you would have just told me you would have gotten to hear it back you idiot”

“Yeah sure so funny” he rolled his eyes again turning to look away from you “omg you shithead I’m serious” you bring his attention back to you “also you’re like an actual moron, Robin screaming at how I had a crush on you while she was drunk wasn’t a tip off?”

“She was drunk! And hey you didn’t tell me, you’re a wimp too!” He whisper shouts “this is not about me” you turn away faking being nonchalant.

[pool-floatie]

Dead by Twilight- Pt 5

Thirsty for a sadistic bastard and a pathetic Lil guy?!? Well have I got just the story for you! (after like 4 months of waiting but shhhhhh)

Here well discover what it's like to have fucking anxiety ! (Wait you already do??) Well go ahead and cope with the horrors by reading about, you guessed it, worse horrors!

I Luh u guys sm for putting up with me, please enjoy:

Wren sat, silent for a while, still shuddering and disdraught as they tried to think of anything they could do to help themself.

Escape was impossible, this trap was made to hold much stronger animals, they 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 want to talk to the vampire, but perhaps if they did, they could gain some kind of trust... Definitely not sympathy, thats for sure, but they could build a rapport and maybe convince him to .... Well it seemed for now he wasnt going to kill them, would they be fed? Perhaps they could ask for food, but, fuck, maybe he was just going to torture them, use anything they said against them in some sick, cruel way, maybe they would only be given enough food to survive watching them wither as they slowly starved- maybe he would cut them open more, forcing them to bleed so he could fucking- 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 - they almost heaved at the thought-

Then- he- he would heal them over and over again forever, testing the limits until he 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮-

Wren felt a hot tear hit their arm. they hadn't even noticed that they'd started crying again-

The vampire had left, Wren didnt want to wonder where to, only that for now, he wasnt there to torment them.. They cried openly, their pathetic sobs dying in the air as their breath hitched. They tumbled forward, trying to lay down so the tears wouldnt soak their face or clothes, and continued the pitiable display.

After a minute, Wren felt a little better, being able to let out their frustrations had helped and their mind was less clouded

They took shaky breaths, attempting to regain their composure, when they heard dreaded, clomping steps coming up the stairwell.

God no....

Lazarus entered the room quietly, unlike before.

Walking over to wrens enclosure he silently placed a ceramic dish filled with what wren supposed was water right outside it.

He scrutinized the cage, his sight lingering on the shaking borrower.

He walked over to his own bed, selected a small blanket and folded it up

"...... you probably aren't in the mood for this, but I'm going to have to remove you from your.... confinement.. momentarily to make your space more comfortable"

Wren whimpered quietly, looking away from Lazarus.

The vampire took their lack of screaming as consent and opened the enclosure

He again wrapped his clawed digits around wrens shaking form, they didnt struggle this time, understanding that this was inevitable and they would probably be removed eventually for one reason or another.

Soon enough it was over and the borrower found themself on a soft plush material, and oh, oh god water.

They leaned themself over the ceramic dish, drinking in heavy gulps, god the day had been so long they hadnt realised how much moisture they had lost.

When they finished they sheepishly looked around, a bit embarrassed at the desperate display.

"Hm, I didn't realise you would need so much water..." the vampire observed, mostly talking to himself.

".... thank you..." Wren muttered quietly.

Lazarus quirked an eyebrow at them.

"For what, Dear?"

"The... water?" Wren answered

Lazarus seemed a bit taken aback

" well of course, don't want you dying on me."

Wren jolted slightly

" you d-dont?"

Lazarus chuckled

"I certainly don't think so, little one.

You did catch me in quite a percarious position, and, seeing as you are quite close to humans, I can't risk my... habits...being revealed. But still, you are quite valuable, I know many who would pay high prices for something like you, such a potent source of magic just to keep you alive...." he trailed " not that id particularly want to pawn you off right away, no, there are plenty of reasons to keep you around, Darling."

He sure does like to talk.. Wren thought. Though they were still concerned at what he meant by 'valuable', being sold to another being could be even more dangerous than this one since he didn't seem to want to kill them... wait ... magic? They weren't magical?!

"What magic??"

" Ah, right. It's in your nature, little one, you can't tap into it because it's what keeps you alive, though it's also what makes borrower blood so valuable, according to my research book here." He tapped the book resting on the table.

Wren paled hearing the mention of their blood.... God, was that what he wanted with them?! To drain them until they were a dry husk?

Their heart began to pound again..

" a-re you going t-to... " Wren gulped "take my b-blood?" They questioned shakily.

"Mmmm..." lazarus hummed in thought.

" I'm not sure just yet.... I'll have to consult a friend on that. I'm afraid you'll have to wait for that answer till tomorrow~"

That was... not the answer Wren wanted to hear.. their chest felt tight again and they winced, staring terrified up at the malicious creature before them.

Lazarus leans in closer to the cage, causing welren to stumble back on the blanket, He chuckles at them.

" You are just too precious..."

With that, he turns back to his bed, drawing the curtains closed as hints of the sunrise peek through the trees.

As Lazarus settles himself in bed, Wren shakily stands and, after a while to ensure lazarus was asleep, they undress, they wash their torn up clothes in the ceramic basin, hoping to scrub away the saliva residue, though most of it had dried.

Wren rinses their hair and uses their wet clothes to scrub their skin, not wanting to climb into the basin and topple it over. They wring out their clothes and hair the best they can into the water before laying everything out to dry.

Feeling far less disgusting, they take a corner of the plush blanket and pull it completely over themself, making a little cave to sleep in.

Feeling more secure now that they are hidden away, Wren grabs up a chunk of blanket, cuddling it close to them. They try and sleep, knowing they would need it, but their eyes refuse to close... still anxious and terrified of their undecided fate...

They squeeze the blanket mound closer to them, evening out their shaky breaths, they slowly tumble into sweet unconciousness.

[ticklishraspberries]

As someone who can turn their ticklishness on-and-off, I totally relate to/understand that recent headcanon post you made! This community is so enthusiastic about characters who are extremely ticklish, the kind that giggle and squirm at the smallest touch, and it sucks when you really aren't like that. If I don't feel 100% comfortable, my body just turns off being ticklish, and it sucks! Sorry to vent, but all of this to say, do you have any characters you headcanon to be like this? Thanks! :)

anon, i completely agree with you!! this happens to me all the time and it's so frustrating, i have gone like months without being ticklish and as someone whose relationship is so full of tickling, it was genuinely a hard time for me. i'm sorry this happens to you as well, but know you aren't alone!! here are some characters that i think probably have the ability to "turn-off" being ticklish, whether they would see it as a blessing or not (also, if i've ever headcanoned these characters as super ticklish, shhh that never happened, there are two wolves inside me)

tw: mentions of canon-typical trauma for the specific characters, not detailed or graphic though!!

aaron hotchner, derek morgan, and emily prentiss (criminal minds) - i think that just...being trained to endure the physical and mental toll of their job, specifically these 3 members of the b.a.u. have the ability to just...shut things out, physically. i think each of their unique traumas and backstories can support the idea and i could be more detailed about this in the future if anyone cares, lol.

ash lynx (banana fish) - it's very clear in canon that ash is very familiar with the concept of just...completely dissociating from your body as a coping mechanism, and i think tickling is something that blends with other unwanted touch. i think that if he is around someone he feels safe and comfortable with (cough eiji cough) he would be capable of letting his guard down, but it's mostly just instinct.

astarion (baldur's gate 3) - this man has learned to use his body as a weapon, and having physical weaknesses just doesn't mesh well with that. no one really ever...tried, not in hundreds of years, but when people touch him, it feels numb, detached, rehearsed. just like how he canonically doesn't know how to accept hugs, i think he would be so surprised if someone tried to tickle him, he'd just go rigid.

finnick odair, katniss everdeen, johanna mason, peeta mellark (the hunger games) - i think you could make this argument for any survivor of the games, because...they are all so traumatized, i can't imagine that they experience physical sensation the same was as other people, after all of the pain and discomfort they've been put through, the injuries they've sustained. realistically, i think all of them would either be completely not ticklish, or their instinct when tickled would be to freak out.

inej ghafa and kaz brekker (six of crows) - this one hurts to admit and i will never stop writing about them both being ticklish, but...let's be real here. both of them are so traumatized when it comes to the specific concept of physical touch, kaz literally has a phobia of skin-to-skin contanct, if you tried to tickle him, i think he would probably throw up and then murder you. inej shuts down at unwanted touch, she "disappears" as i believe she calls it in the books (aka dissociates) and i think that it would take a lot of trust and healing for either of them to even realize they were ticklish let alone allow it to happen.

levi ackerman (attack on titan) - this man has literally suffered so many injuries, i have to imagine his nervous system is just completely shot. i will still write about him being super ticklish, because it's my party and i'll do what i want to, but like...let's be real. i can't imagine him even reacting to a minor injury, like he's bleeding profusely and everyone is like "omg captain are you ok!?!?!" and he didn't even notice he was hurt and just starts stitching it up. like, he doesn't feel things. it would take a loooot to get him to relax enough to react to tickling, i think, lol. probably liquor.

[moonslesbology]

The Lucky One I

prologue - next chapter

YEARS HAD PASSED AND NOTHING ABOUT FINNICK ODAIR REALLY CHANGED, ALWAYS REMAINING THE KID WITH CUTS ON HIS HANDS AND HIS HEART ON HIS SLEEVE. Though, he was always annoyed at Eleanor for taking longer shifts than necessary at St Magdalene Rossetti  and exhausting herself to an unneeded extent. That was his only complain, though Eleanor didn't care though. She preferred the serenity of a doctor's office over the dead silence of a house. Yes, she was only seventeen, but doctors in District 4 were a rarity, not to mention the teenager had been learning all you can about anatomy since she was eight.

She had decided that her potential future as a doctor was much more plausible than becoming a career, fully leaving the academy after Finnick's games just two years prior. Though both Annie and Finnick were annoyed at Eleanor, they both understood why she made her choice.

So, instead she traded her knives and spears for needles and a pair of surgical gloves, content with a life of service to her community. Every year she watched as innocent children were saved in reapings, and while she couldn't save them from the games, she could save them from the grief and guilt.

Eleanor Eves, District 4's local sweetheart, was nothing short than a gentle being with a softness for children, flowers, and her best friends, Finnick Odair and Annie Cresta. If she wasn't working in St Magdalene Rossetti, she was always seen with them, mostly her and Annie tackling Finnick whenever they had a chance.

There wasn't a single bone in her body that allowed Eleanor the ability to take a life.

Breathing in heavily, Eleanor rubbed her eyes as she opened the door for Mr Ives, an older man with greying hair but warm eyes. Everyone knew of his unlucky streak down at the docks, always managing to cut his hands with the knives he weaved through the scales of fish caught at sea. 

Mr Ives, a man who seemed to have a streak for always cutting his hand whenever he cut the fish, seemed overtly fond of the brunette for her sweetness. Men from The Quay had brought him in just fifteen minutes before and he had adamantly insisted only Eleanor stitch up his cut. He had known her since she began working properly and trusted her to work on his wounds after she had expertly patched him up after a nasty cut on his hand, something her mother's unsteady hands struggled to do. At the time, the thirteen year old was figuring out the busy environment of a doctor's office, and watched as her mother struggled to steady her hand over Mr Ives' bleeding wound. Eleanor had logically gone and took the instruments off her mother, patching him up quickly and without many words. Ever since then, it was always Eleanor who helped him.

"You know Sweetheart, you have a real talent," Mr Ives had remarked, wincing as Eleanor injected the Morphling into his arm. She unwrapped the cloth that had been tied over the cut, immediately wiping away any of the excess blood. She grabbed onto the thread, tying it to the needle, before exhaling as she began sewing up the cut.

Eleanor gave him a small smile. "Believe me I wouldn't be this good if you didn't get injured this much, Mr Ives." She laughed apologising as she saw him wince slightly from the sight of the needle. "How's Martha and the baby?"

He gave a laugh. "The little lady's getting proper done with the kid, I'll tell you that." Mr Ives was a sweet man, Eleanor always thought so. He had always given her family extra fish whenever he could spare some. He was eternally grateful for her mother helping his wife get through a nasty case of the flu two winters prior and by association, was in debt to Eleanor. "She keeps demanding I wash in the garden since she pukes whenever I'm near her after my shifts."

Eleanor shook her head. "She is seven months along now and fish does smell bad when it's on you." Eleanor ignored the playful glare Mr Ives gave her. She decided on changing the topic. "Do you guys have any name ideas?"

"None Sweetheart." He shook his head with a laugh. "Wanted to call her Eleri and Martha nearly throttled me. She said that name made her feel sick as a fish." She laughed as he rolled his eyes, mimicking Martha's thick District 4 accent with a shake of his head. Martha Ives had come from The Cove, a region seemingly alienated from the rest of District 4. Their accents stood out like sore thumbs and Martha's was thick and rich, something Mr Ives adored. 

Eleanor grinned, finally finishing off the stitches. She finally cut away at the thread, patting down on the stitches before pulling out a bandage. She wrapped it carefully around the hand, finally nodding up at him as she finished.  "There, you better go home now." She told the man with an authoritative tone. There was a hint of playfulness in her voice as she instructed him.  "No fishing for at least a week. Keep the stitches dry and come back in about a week. Mary'll remove them then." She pulled Mr Ives into a hug, laughing as he pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"Sweetheart you are an absolute gem!" He laughed. He reached into his pocket, trying to pull out any spare change he had, only for Eleanor to shake her head at him. "Oh come off it, it's the least I can do."

She shook her head adamantly. "Policy is policy, Mr Ives. We don't care about money here, we aren't struggling for it at all. Now go, I don't want to see you until Martha has the baby."

He kissed her on the cheek once more, getting up and leaving the room. Eleanor sighed heavily, grabbing the cup of water which sat on the desk and taking a sip. She yawned, rubbing her eyes slightly. Then, she finally heard his voice and sobered up, blinking quickly to wash away any feelings of exhaustion.

Finnick Odair despised the days where Eleanor worked longer than necessary. Sometimes, his hatred took the literal form of him storming into St Magdalene Rossetti, just like today.  As much as he tried convincing her otherwise, often using the excuse that he misses her way too much, Eleanor always found herself spending most her days cooped up with foolish men who injured themselves down on the docks. It wasn't a bad job per say, just tedious with how frequently the same men came back constantly. 

As Finnick walked in, Eleanor exhaled heavily.

There were several ways in which Finnick Odair could be here:

A. He's injured.

B. He helped someone get here injured.

or

C. He simply wanted to annoy her.

Most the time, well at least nowadays, C was always the most logical and most likely explanation. "I swear to god, Finnick, you better not be injured again!" Eleanor raged as she walked around the room, pulling out bandaids and gauzes. She could already hear his choked laughs, rolling her eyes as she finally got off the ground. Finnick was stood in the centre of the room, holding a bouquet of tulips, scratching his head with a bashful smile. Her eyes softened, a blush already brewing on her cheeks. "Flowers?"

"Tulips," He grinned as she finally stood next to him, Finnick moving to smell the tulips and sighing breathlessly. He watched with fond eyes as she grinned at the bouquet, clearly not expecting the gesture. "My favourite which should be your favourite."

Eleanor grinned, a small blush already coating her cheeks. She couldn't help the way her heart fluttered as she took the tulips, holding them up to her nose and smelling them with a sigh. She wondered if flowers meant anything to Finnick, and if so, did they mean anything because he was giving them to her?

"Flirt with me when I'm not working, Odair." She rolled her eyes as he audibly groaned, quickly moving to grab a vase from the window. She gave the flowers one last smell, placing them in the empty vase and turning to see Finnick simply grinning at her. She gave an exhausted smile, hoping her cheeks weren't obviously red. She hoped she could just pass them off as a small sunburn if they were. "Seriously, why are you here?"

"Can't a guy miss his best girl?" He gave a lopsided grin, bouncing from one foot to the other.

Eleanor rolled her eyes. "Bother Annie, I'm sure she's not busy." She sighed, placing the bandaids down on the desk. She could feel Finnick's eyes on her, those stupid sea green eyes fixed on her figure as she finally took off her scrubs. "Don't tell me, you can't find her."

He nodded. "She's a good hider." Finnick scratched the back of his head with a bashful grin, watching Eleanor with a warm gaze.

"We always did beat you at hide and seek."

Finnick's eyebrows furrowed at Eleanor. "You mean, Annie, always beat me. You just followed her." He gave a laugh as Eleanor pushed him a way, scoffing in offence. Finally though, he held his hand out to her, looking at the clock momentarily before deciding for the both of them what they'd do next. "Come on, you're taking a break. Tell Ida and Margaret you're clocking out. You need a break."

Eleanor shook her head. "No, I've only got," she paused, looking at the clock before counting in her head. "four more hours." But it seemed as though Finnick wasn't having it, grabbing onto Eleanor and dragging her out, much to her protests. It seemed as though both Ida and Margaret were elated seeing the pair, waving Eleanor off with grins. "Finnick!"

Finnick grinned back at her, practically skipping alongside her. "You've been working all day! Have some fun!"

[broken-clover]

Solaxl Week- Day 4

Haha get befuddled, you assumed I was gonna do hurt/comfort, didn't you? Well, I'm doing something different!...mostly bc I couldn't think of any ideas I hadn't already done before.

It was fun to give these two a slightly different dynamic, because a lot of the gruff op solitary behavior of Sol couldn't happen back when he was a kid, and his knowledge of music and inclination for the sciences indicates that as a young'un he was probably a massive nerd. Axl, meanwhile, seems like he was always a little scrappy brat. Don't need an education to be a delinquent. It's fun having Sol be the one out of his league and awkward for once.

4- Band AU, Hurt/Comfort, Snowball Fight

-

It didn’t matter how much college prep bit into his schedule, he still wasn’t giving up on band. Frederick refused to give up on one of the few things that still made him happy.

With how studying had begun bleeding into any snippets of free time he had left, some corners still had to be cut. Study hall had been the most recent casualty, following in the footsteps of lunch period. Sure, he still brought food, but as soon as the bell rang, he’d tuck his books under one arm and head for the band storage closet. It had been his routine for a couple months now. He knew how it was supposed to go. Drop his stuff at the door, flick the switch, head for the guitar rack. Maybe a bite or two of lunch could get squeezed in. It depended on how he felt.

Frederick halted, staring. For the first time, he’d arrived in a storage closet that was occupied by more than just inert instruments.

“You can’t be in here.”

“Eh?”

The guy was perched on the chair’s two back legs- his chair, the same one he used every single time. That alone was enough to veer his confusion into annoyance. Frederick didn’t recognize him, but in fairness, it was a big school. The more he looked, the guy looked less and less familiar and more and more greasy.

Perhaps he didn’t want to sit in that chair after all.

“Was just chillin.’” The stranger replied, shrugging.

Frederick shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot, unsure of what to do with his routine interrupted. “Band isn’t until sixth block, nobody’s supposed to be in here.”

“Yeah? So why’re you, then?”

It felt rather ass-backward to have his own motives questioned, but he chose not to say it, or to start a shouting match. He still had a bit of a reputation for being asocial, but not a total delinquent (in part because if he ever tried that, his parents would never let him live it down)

“I just came down for practice,” he replied. “Are you in study hall? I had all my work finished, so they let me go.”

The other boy snorted. “Heh! Nah, supposed to be in calc. Boo-ring. Hopped out the window, just gonna hang out here until lunch.”

Frederick was definitely sure he hadn’t met this person before. The rough edge to his voice and the thick accent was hard to mistake for someone else.

It suddenly struck him that there were only so many more minutes before the next class started, and he’d already wasted too many talking. Trying to regain some semblance of normalcy, Frederick left his books at the door and dragged a chair off of the pile by the wall. The rhythm of routine almost let him forget the intrusive stranger until he’d sat down again. The guitar’s weight was familiar in his lap, as was the music stand placed before him, but beyond the top of his sheet music, he could still see the guy staring at him with an oddly curved smile.

“Can’t you do that somewhere else? I don’t want someone to walk in and think I’m associated with you.”

“Why not? I’m awesome!”

“You’re a pain.” Frederick strummed the strings and felt along the instrument’s neck to tune one of them. “And I don’t want to get in trouble because of you.”

The other boy leaned forward in his seat, expression halfway between amused and angered. “Bloody hell, are you forreal? You’re one of those guys?”

Frederick paused his tuning. “What do you mean, ‘one of those guys?’”

“One of those little whiny crybabies that gets all bent out of shape just thinkin’ about getting told off. Lemme guess, you’re a straight-A student? Can’t even think about getting anything less than a hundred on everything?”

B-plus, and his parents wouldn’t let him hear the end of it. “M’not taking life criticism from someone who can’t sit through simple math for half an hour. What, does playing delinquent make you feel special?”

“I do it ‘cause I feel like it, you can’t tell me what to do!” Though his voice stayed steady, Frederick could see how the stranger was starting to go red. “And I’m not takin’ this kinda flak from someone who’s probably too much of a teacher’s pet to even swea-”

“Shut the fuck up.”

To his credit, he automatically did, too startled to speak. Frederick kept his scowl for a few moments more, then gave the guitar another strum. It sounded a lot better. He looked back to his sheets and tentatively repeated the first couple of notes…all the while he could still see himself being watched. He sighed in annoyance. “Like I told you already, I don’t want people to think we have anything to do with each other. Can you just hang out somewhere else?”

“Tch.”

Not much of an answer. The proper answer seemed to come in the form of the stranger sliding off his chair and cracking his neck. Instead of heading for the door, though, Frederick watched him approach the instruments. For a moment, he wondered if he’d start smashing things just to cause trouble.

“Well, then we will have something to do with each other, then!” He swiped another guitar off of the next hanger over. The chair he’d just been sitting in was hip-checked over closer to Frederick’s, and sat down far too close for his personal taste. “Whattaya playing? Got a second copy?”

Frederick jerked back. “You trying to breathe down my neck? Dammit, and be careful with that, don’t break anything! Do you know what you’re doing in the slightest?”

“Oh, you shut the fuck up, bloody poindexter.”

Before Frederick could think of sending a jab back, he was interrupted as the stranger started to play. The first few notes were rough, but…he hadn’t seen anyone else in band handle a guitar so carefully. Personal appearances were one thing, but Frederick had enough experience to recognize someone familiar with a guitar. And even if it wasn’t his favorite band, he’d recognize the iconic twangs of Cream’s ‘Sunshine of Your Love’ in his sleep.

He couldn’t hold back an impressed whistle. “Wow. Not bad, dirtbag. Surprised it wasn’t grunge.”

“Grunge’s fine, but I didn’t wanna scare ya~” Though he still had a smugness about him, Frederick could feel a little more warmth in the stranger’s tone. “So whatta you play?”

I like the classics.” He replied with pride. “Queen’s the best.”

“Nice, same boat. Folks tell me I like ‘dad music’ ‘n I tell ‘em their taste’s shit.” Frederick was offered a hand. “Guess you ain’t all bad. ‘m Axl, Axl Low.”

He took what was offered and shook. “Frederick Bulsara.”

Axl started to laugh. “Of course yer name’s Frederick.”

“H-hey, stuff it. I don’t believe for a second ‘Axl’ is your real name, either.”

“Okay, okay, I get it, Freddie. So, you said you came down fer practice, this a hobby?”

Frederick adjusted himself in his chair, settling the guitar across his lap. “Kinda. I like doing it for fun, but band class gives it a little more structure. And I’ve been doing it long enough that Professor Ringo lets me submit songs for us to do. Don’t think I’ve seen you in the orchestra, have I?”

“Don’t do band.” Said Axl. “Don’t like ‘em tellin’ me what to play. But I guess if you’re doing good shit this semester…”

“Yeah, here, lemme show you the stuff I got- “

The moment he tried to reach for his sheet music, the bell began to ring. Frederick looked down at his watch. “Shit, how’s it been that long?! I didn’t even get any practice in!”

Axl snickered, taking both of their guitars and putting them back on the rack. “Careful, Freddie, people are gonna think you’re some kinda delinquent, late for class and using dirty words like that.”

“Oh yeah, you’d know all about that-” He frantically gathered his things, shoving the music stand back with the others. In his haste, he’d forgotten to take the sheet music off first, and the motion sent them flying “Dammit!”

“Got it, I got it,” Axl knelt down and started gathering them up. From his pocket came a cracked pen. Frederick didn’t have a chance to say anything before he’d already started writing something on one of the papers.

“What are you doing? Don’t mess it up!”

“Chill, yeesh.” Once his self-appointed task was finished, Axl handed everything back to its owner. “Just giving you my contact info. Uh, hey, drop me a text later, got it? Dunno how to sign up for classes, maybe you could show me? Or heck, just send me some vids of the stuff you play, I wanna see your technique.”

He spoke too fast for Frederick to keep up. “Huh? What- “

“See ya, mate!”

Though he was still worried about next class, he was too bewildered to do anything but stare at the empty doorway where Axl had just been. Turning over the stack of sheet music, sure enough, there was a string of numbers and under the strange boy’s name.

What a peculiar encounter. He still wasn’t sure what to make of it. Though he did have a softer spot for someone who could appreciate the classics. Maybe it would be worth keeping in contact? When he had a moment between classes, Frederick would try to memorize Axl’s number and put it into his contacts…He’d have to ask why there had been a scratchy heart scribbled next to it, anyway…