#i feel like i ate a pack of stale cigarettes

[endlessfuckup]

dont you love it when your family gives you k2 instead of weed

knowing full well that its not fucking weed

[kishavo]

plagued by memories tonight so I’m going to spit them up and hopefully that brings me relief.

I was an EMT for about 5 years and I think these things are tattooed on my bones. trigger warning under the cut for…upsetting healthcare-related experiences? and the f-slur

I remember bringing a wheelchair-bound elderly man up to his shoebox apartment in the inner city, 12 floors up a derelict building in a tiny, shaky elevator, and being hit with the stink of smoke as soon as I opened the door - cigarette butts stubbed out on every surface, ashtrays overflowing, carpet that started out as brown matted down to black. I offered to help him into bed but he refused. he took off his vietnam veteran baseball cap and picked up a stale pack of cigarettes and told me to go

I remember the man who had been attacked by his neighbors’ dogs, two Rottweilers. his legs were mangled; huge scoops of flesh just gone. he was kind. he asked me how my day was going.

I remember the dead woman in the ER who I was told to bag up and bring down to the morgue. she looked familiar. I remember putting a tag on her thumb but I don’t remember her name. I remember making small talk with the ER tech who was helping me on the elevator ride down to the basement. that sounds like the start of a joke, doesn’t it? a girl, a man, and a dead body get in an elevator. if you think of a punchline let me know

I remember the frequent-flyer patient with a chronic mystery skin infection that caused his legs to leak so much fluid that we had to wrap them in plastic bags or else the gurney would get flooded and it would soak into his pants and spill over the edge onto the floor of the ambulance. the first time I got his call I thought we’d been sent to a haunted house. it was an old victorian in downtown, made of rotting wood and peeling paint. The knob in the front door had been ripped out so I bent down and looked through. There was no answer when I knocked so I yelled ‘hello’ through the hole until eventually someone came down the stairs and silently let us in. Our patient’s apartment was one room, it was dark, it smelled, the bed was as dirty as the floor, beer cans and cigarettes everywhere. There was a tiny, square, box TV playing static. There were spoiled diapers kicked under his desk. He lived alone and apparently had no family. I and every EMT who had ever been sent there reported the situation to social services but nothing was ever done.

there was the woman coming down from a meth binge who kept asking me if I was going to eat her brains. we dropped her off at a psych facility and a few days later I was back with another patient. I saw her again, sober now. when she saw me she averted her eyes and retreated into her room

there was another woman in the middle of a severe psychotic episode who, within 5 minutes of meeting me, looked me dead in the eye and said, “You’re a fat fucking faggot and I want you to die.” She had pissed on all her personal belongings and the back of the ambulance stank so bad of stale human urine that I had to kick the fan on and spray air freshener into my face mask. She spent most of the call insulting and trying to spit on me and my partner. My partner snapped at her but I just ate it. Later, when we were outside cleaning the gurney and waiting for the next call, a stray cat slipped out from behind a nearby dumpster and curled around my boots. he booped my knuckles and mewled when I pet him and the night was good again

I remember being in and out of psych facilities so often and feeling like a fucking imposter because I was burning out, depressed out of my mind and regularly experiencing suicidal ideation. I wondered when I would call 911 and end up there myself. I wondered if it would be my coworkers who would pick me up. the thought of it scared me enough that I never made the call, even when I should have. I started getting high instead

I remember the middle-aged woman having a panic attack. that was at my on-location job, at my city’s arena, where all the concerts and games were held. it was a slow night and too many of us responded. this woman was hyperventilating, the bass from the concert was everywhere, and a crowd of strangers was closing in on her. I got there first, so by default it became my call, which always made me nervous. I sat her down, I kneeled in front of her, she grabbed my hands reflexively and I let her grip on. I coached her breathing. I waved my coworkers back to give her space. I convinced her that everyone there just wanted to help her and that there was nothing to be embarrassed about. it worked. I was soothing, and sure, and strong. it worked.

when it was over she held my shoulder and thanked me. patients don’t usually thank us. when it was over I went to the bathroom and cried. I handled it so well because I had been talking my mom down from her panic attacks for years.

I talked about that call in group therapy the week after. I thought I was going to be proud, that it would be a positive share, but I cried again.

when people ask about what it's like being an EMT, I don’t think they want to hear any of this, they only want the cool stories. they want to hear about the lights and the sirens and to thank you for your service but please, please, don’t. There’s a quote by Anaïs Nin: “I was always ashamed to take. So I gave. It was not a virtue. It was a disguise.”

[nocturnal-milk-dud]

Man Made of Stone: Chapter Six

Previous    Next

Pairing: Horacio Carrillo x Reader

Summary: Sometimes waiting is worse

Rating: PG-13

Warnings/notes: mild depressive episode; there is a spider; alcohol; smoking; swearing; reference to death; reference to violence; once again, I know nothing about medicine; if you want to be on or off the taglist please let me know

Word count: ~1800

No one slept in the bed. Instead, you both stretched out on a couch, finding comfort in each other’s presence. You felt yourself slipping, your eyelids sliding shut.

“Javi?” you whispered. 

“Yeah?” 

“Thank you,” you said.

“What?” He’d heard you, but he wasn’t sure why you were saying it. Javier sat up on his elbow to try and see you, but you were fast asleep. 

It was three o’clock in the afternoon when you woke up. You had no idea what time the two of you had made it back to the apartment, but it had been around eleven when you’d made it to the hospital. Javier wasn’t there, but there was a note on the coffee table, clothes folded neatly next to it. Your mouth felt stale and dry, and a headache had taken root right above your eyes. Every part of your body felt heavy. The idea of moving was too much. You should shower, you should eat. You should drink water. All of those things would help, but they all seemed like too much work. Every little task was so overwhelming. Through the blinds you could see the bright warmth of the day beyond, the sounds of children playing filtering in from outside.

“Just sit up,” you whispered to yourself. “Just start there.” 

Eventually you did sit up and you read the note. Javier had gone to your apartment and gotten clean clothes for you and a few other things he thought you might need. Once you did that one thing, it was easier to do others. You got up and ate some food and you turned the water on in the shower, sitting in the tub. You had your knees pulled up to your chest, arms balanced on them, pillowing your head as scalding water poured over you. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched as a spider struggled in the tub, trying to work its way up the side, only to be knocked back by flecks of water. You reached out, scooping the creature up with your finger, and placed it higher up on the wall, away from the falling water. 

You were extremely grateful Javier had the presence of mind to bring you pajamas in addition to street clothes. You dressed and returned to your place on the couch, intent upon going back to sleep. Every moment, Carrillo’s fate was uncertain. You’d blink and you’d see him in his fevered state, you’d see the smoking shell of the truck sitting dead in the road, you’d see the man you killed. A grim slideshow played behind your eyes every minute you were awake, waiting to hear something, anything. It was too much. 

You felt a hand gently shaking your shoulder and you opened your eyes to see Javier perched on the edge of the coffee table, his lips and eyes pinched tight with concern.

“Have you been sleeping all day?” he asked, leaning back and shaking a cigarette free from the pack.

“More or less,” you grumbled, sitting up on your elbow. You grimaced at the tight muscles in your neck. “What time is it?”

“Ten o’clock,” Javier replied, getting to his feet and heading into the kitchen. “I brought you some food.”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered to yourself. You really had slept all day.

“Have you heard anything?” you asked tentatively. He shook his head and you sighed, settling onto your back.

“No, no, no,” Javier called and you yelped as something hard landed on your chest. You looked down to see an apple sitting in the folds of your blanket.

“What the fuck, Javi?” you demanded, rubbing the sore spot on your chest where the apple had hit.

“Get up,” he ordered, “eat.” You glared at him, but did as he said, afraid if you didn’t he’d throw something else at you. 

You ate everything Javier put in front of you, not realizing how hungry you were. 

“Am I allowed to lay back down now?” you asked after you finished eating, watching as Javier took your plate in the kitchen and placed it in the sink. He raised an eyebrow at you, but didn’t argue as you slowly shifted onto your side, pulling the blanket up over yourself. A moment later, a glass of whiskey was placed in front of you on the table and you watched as Javier took a seat on the other couch, throwing his feet up. 

“You really love him, don’t you?” Javier asked, relaxing into the leather seat. You stared down at your glass, swirling the alcohol inside it.

“I know it’s silly,” you said. “I haven’t even known him that long.”

“There’s nothing silly about it,” Javier said, placing another cigarette between his lips. “It’s Colombia in the 80’s. You gotta say what you feel when you feel it.” 

“Do you think what I’m feeling is really love? Or did I say it because I was too afraid I’d never get the chance to?” Javier brushed his finger across his lips and shrugged a shoulder, opening his mouth to speak, when the phone rang. You sat up, watching him reach for it, and you looked on in anticipation as he spoke in hushed tones, his face a mask. What would he say when he turned to you? Would his face break before he even had the chance to speak? You held your breath, biting down on your tongue so the pain would drown out everything else. Javier thanked the caller and hung up the phone. 

“They were able to treat the infection,” he said. “His white count is down, blood pressure is stable. They’re gonna move him into surgery.” You didn’t realize the amount of tension you were holding in your body until he finished speaking. Your shoulders slumped and your muscles relaxed, and you found yourself laughing, tears running down your face at the same time. Javier crossed the room and sat down next to you, taking your glass from you and setting it on the table. He pulled you into his arms until the shaking finally subsided and the exhaustion returned.

“We’ll go see him tomorrow,” Javier said gently as you dried your eyes. “Get some rest.” 

The next morning the two of you met with Trujillo at the hospital. You had a hard time focusing and found yourself pacing while the two men spoke. It was the first time you’d been out of the apartment since that night and every movement, every sound had your attention. Your eyes were constantly searching out sources, your head snapping from side to side, your body reacting to everything. You flinched when Javier’s hand touched your shoulder. 

“Sorry,” you said, trying to relax. “What’s going on? Can we see him?” Javier shook his head, and took you gently by the arm, leading you to an empty corner of the waiting room. 

“We can’t see him,” Javier said. “Trujillo says he’s on lockdown, no one but hospital staff is allowed in his room.” You felt all the air leave you and you sank into the nearest chair, hiding your face in your hands. Javier moved his hand in slow, reassuring circles on your back. 

“This is bullshit, Javi.” Your voice came out in a harsh whisper as you dropped your hands, finding the breath and the strength to stand. Panic clawed its way through you, driven by the thought that after everything you all had gone through, after everything he survived it could all be undone. In a place that was meant to heal. “What do they think, Escobar can’t get doctors and nurses on his payroll? They’re some kind of saints in lab coats? All it takes is one person with a syringe full of air. We have to be in there, we have to know what’s going on.” Javier placed his hands on your shoulders as you felt yourself unravel.

“Listen,” he said, his voice calm, steady, “they’ve had plenty of opportunities already, right? He got through the infection, he got through surgery, he’ll be back on his feet in no time. Trujillo’s solid, he’ll keep us updated, but there’s nothing we can do here.” Your eyes flashed unblinkingly around the waiting room and you could find a threat in everything. You had come into that hospital with the intent of sitting by Carrillo’s side until he was well, instead you were leaving it with gritted teeth and the persistent cloud of dread hovering over your shoulder.  

Gunshots shook the air that night. You didn’t sleep. Javier had stepped out, simply saying he would be back soon, leaving you alone in the empty apartment. You’d had him pick up an extra pack of cigarettes on the way home from the hospital and you sat smoking and unblinking when he returned an hour and a half later. You turned your head when he tossed a pair of your scrubs on the couch next to you.

“Get dressed,” Javier said. Your confused expression followed him as he stripped off his jacket and disappeared into his bedroom. 

“What is this?” you asked after you changed. “I’m not interested in saving some sicario’s life tonight.”

“It’s nothing like that,” Javier said, turning the lights off and leading you to the front door.

“Could you tell me what it is?” you said, more to yourself than to him, knowing that if he was going to tell you, he would have done it already.

“What are we doing here?” you asked when Javier pulled into the hospital’s parking lot, your heart jumping into your throat.

“Trujillo called. He said he was willing to look the other way, but he can only swing it once,” he said, the cigarette lighter casting an orange glow on his face. 

“He could get in a lotta trouble for that,” you said. “Why is he doing it?”

“Because you saved Carrillo’s life,” Javier said. You hesitated a moment, your hand on the door. “He’ll meet you at the door and he’ll have a badge for you. After that just...be a nurse.” 

It was easy getting past the two guards standing outside Carrillo’s room, all they did was look over the badge Trujillo had given you and ask you to state your business. It wasn’t exactly a comforting thought, knowing it was that simple. It was harder walking to the side of his bed, your feet like lead.

“Ten minutes,” you muttered. That was all you had. You decided to check the readouts on the equipment and his vitals first, making sure everything was in order. In your mind you were treating him like any other patient, your heart having no place, but that was harder than you thought. You avoided looking at Carrillo for as long as possible, remembering what he had looked like the last time your saw him. When you were finished, you closed your eyes and turned your head so when you opened them you would be looking at him. You let your breathing even out, your heart calm. If it weren’t for the hospital gown and the equipment it would look like he was simply resting. Carrillo’s face was so soft. Sleep soothed the worry and stoicism that ruled his life for years. The fact that it was hard to imagine this man knowing a life, even a moment of peace made your heart ache. You placed your hand over his, gently notching your fingers between his. 

“What do you dream about?” you wondered aloud. You glanced at your watch to see that your time was coming to a close. You brushed the tips of your fingers across his jaw and leaned down to kiss his forehead. 

“I will see you again,” you promised.

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[undeadsnorlax]

Alone at Midnight, Inside My Mind

@badthingshappenbingo

Ao3 Link

Bingo Card

using the prompt in a metaphorical sense, as opposed to the medical aid sense

Prompt: Crutches

Fandom: Yakuza/Ryu Ga Gotoku

Warnings: a lot of alcohol related issues, including addiction and withdrawal, some suicidal thoughts and body image issues, hurt/no comfort. set pre-Yakuza 2.

Wordcount: 5511

2pm. He could tell it was because his downstairs neighbour was home, attending to the array of plant pots she kept littered outside her door, and playing music on the radio that bled through the crack of the open window.

Daigo squinted in the afternoon light that managed to make its way through the blinds, groaning loudly.

“Fucking hell…”

Suppose now was as good a time as any to start the day. Especially when he felt his stomach rumble.

It took some effort to get to his feet, but soon he was dragging himself into the kitchen, yawning loudly. He needed something quick and tasty, now.

The fridge had nothing but convenience store sushi and days old leftover curry. The cupboards were also pretty bare, half a bag of rice and a ramen cup.

Daigo sighed heavily, setting his kettle to boil before grabbing the sushi. He stuffed a piece into his mouth, wrinkling his nose at the taste of stale rice but ate another without any complaint.

Head to the store. Get some more food, he thought, holding the ramen cup in place as he lifted up the kettle.

The water splashed on the counter a little, narrowly missing burning his fingers, making him forcefully slam the kettle back down once the cup was filled.

Daigo gripped the sides of the counter, closing his eyes as he felt a pulse of nausea rush through his body. If he forced the tension against the surface hard enough, he could stop his hands shaking for just a moment.

Eat noodles. Have a shower. Go to the store.

Opening his eyes again, he ate another piece of sushi, absolutely no taste on his tongue as he chewed it into mush, before taking his ramen into the living room.

He slumped down on the couch, turning the TV on and forced the food down him. He still felt nauseous, but he knew he wouldn’t actually vomit. He already had last night. Doubled over in a bush outside the train station and puked his guts out, despite not having much solids in him. Even now his throat felt sore from it. Classy.

He wasn’t even hungry, really. He was eating out of obligation, feeling his stomach gurgle happily at finally being filled with some kind of food.

As he ate, he noticed his cell phone on the table in front of him, discarded amongst the empty bottles and candy wrappers. It was flashing.

Daigo frowned, reaching over and flipping it open.

Three new answer machine messages.

Who the hell had tried calling him?

Message one - 9:25am

“Daigo, it’s your mother. Pick up.”

Message two - 9:43am

“Me again. Please answer your phone.”

Message three - 10:08am

“Daigo...it’s Mom-“

Daigo groaned, snapping his phone shut to end the messages. Nope! He was not dealing with this today.

He discarded the empty ramen cup and chopsticks with the rest of the trash on the table, storming towards the bathroom.

Shower on, clothes off. He used the toilet as the water heated up, catching the reflection of his upper half in the mirror as he finished.

“Hrmph.”

He ran a hand down his front, resting it on the middle of his stomach and huffed again.

His weight had been up and down the last ten years, though it had obviously settled during his stint in prison, with its shit food and no alcohol. Now that he was out, with all the freedom to indulge in every last inch of hedonism he could find though, he had developed a bit of a gut. Just a bump, but it was…noticeable, it was there. It stuck out.

No surprise really. How much did he drink last night again?

Enough I puked in a bush.

Daigo shifted on his feet, standing up a bit straighter and sucking his stomach in. It didn’t make much difference. He suddenly wondered how visible it was under his t-shirt, glad he usually wore a thick coat to hide himself in.

“Great,” he growled, stepping into the shower. Another thing to feel insecure about.

He stood there, forehead pressed against the wall as he let the water run down the Fudo Myoo on his back.

His hand started shaking again.

“Give me a break,” he said, clasping it to his chest, “A few hours, a day.”

He dried himself off, going back to his bedroom for a clean shirt and pair of jeans – both black, of course.

He also grabbed a heavy hoodie to wear to the store, a way to feel a little more comfortable in himself in a public place.

Wallet, keys, phone. Go to store. Buy supplies.

Daigo pulled his hood up as he jogged down the stairs, immediately blocked from leaving by the downstairs neighbour still gardening.

“Lovely afternoon, isn’t it Dojima-san?” Ito cried, beaming at him. She was older, always so chipper. How did she manage?

As much as he wanted to ignore her, Daigo had been raised with far too proper manners. He still remained casual, grunting a little and rubbing the back of his head.

“Yeah, suppose.”

“You came back late again last night,” she added, hands lifting a plant to move to another pot, “Ouma-san went off about it before going to work this morning.”

“Oh, did he now?”

Ouma was the guy around his age in the apartment next door. Always miserable, always bringing a new girl home every weekend that Daigo had to endure hearing fake horribly through his thin bedroom walls.

“I’ll try to be a bit quieter next time, Ito-san,” he mumbled. For her sake, not for that asshole Ouma.

“Or maybe you should stay in once in a while, hm?”

Daigo scowled, jerking his head and storming off toward the store. With any luck the old bag would have gone inside by the time he was back.

As he made his way down the street, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He went to answer but paused, clenching his fingers tight into his palm. Nope. He knew who it was, and what she wanted, and he didn’t care.

His supply run was basic. More noodles, packs of chips and cookies, some onigiri and bentos that could last a few days.

Whilst picking up a few bottles of Staminan and Tauriner, he stared blankly at the alcohol.

His hands still shook. There was such a quick fix to settle that.

He grabbed a six pack of beer and a bottle of scotch and vodka, unable to help a crooked little grin.

The cashier looked at him a little oddly as he set his basket down on the counter. And yeah, he’d admit he looked strange. Sweating and shaky from withdrawal, under his eyes dark and his brow pulled into a near permanent scowl, face otherwise obscured by the shadow of the hood.

“Get me some cigarettes too, huh?” he mumbled, taking out his wallet and avoiding eye contact.

He was a mess.

He stared at the glass case of baked goods, unable to resist the pull from his sweet tooth, and asked for two donuts as well.

He arrived back home rather pleased with his haul. He had enough in him to pack away most of it, before he stared down the booze he bought.

He could...not do this, actually. He could not drink. It was easy, in theory.

He wiped his damp brow, licked his dry lips. His head hurt, despite the slight gloom of the kitchen.

They could sit there as an ultimate temptation. He could ignore them. He could do all manner of things.

But he wanted to drink, that was the issue. That was the whole point. Drinking was the only thing he had that stayed consistent.

He grabbed the scotch and slugged back a long mouthful, feeling everything just melt away. He let out a relieved gasp, the taste strong on his tongue and warming his throat. Felt like a part of him was back. His mind became a little clearer, his mood a little more elevated. He took a shorter swig for luck, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Much better…”

He spent the rest of the afternoon lounging on the sofa, playing video games. There wasn’t much else for him to do during the day.

Evening was his time.

When seven rolled around, Daigo got ready. His jeans and t-shirt were fine already, so all he had to do was put on his usual cross necklace to complete the outfit. He spent a while staring down himself in the mirror as he applied a shaky dash of eyeliner around his lid.

Once upon a time he shied away from doing this publicly, but since leaving jail he stopped caring. Wore eyeliner and straightened his hair. Painted his nails black and picked at the polish when he was anxious. Who gave a shit? Anyone dumb enough to say anything soon regretted it.

Keys, wallet, phone. Same routine. He chose his white puffer jacket to wear instead of his hoodie, enjoying the barrier it gave him from the rest of the world.

One quick metro ride later, he was in Kamurocho, just as the town was coming alive in a burst of neon. Daigo lost himself in the crowds, thinking of which bar to hit up first.

He paused for a moment down Tenkaichi Street, staring at the sign for Serena. Place was closed, and had been for a little under a year now.

He knew what happened last year, of course. Heard about Rina through another barkeep. Not that he’d known her well, or spent much time at Serena, but something in his chest ached hearing she was gone in such circumstances.

He soon forgot about it with another glass.

With a weary huff, he decided the Champion District on the other side of town was the best place to start. The bar he chose was quiet, no other customers, and a barman who knew when to keep his mouth shut.

Perfect.

Instead of conversation, Daigo focused on the soft jazz music playing as he nursed his whiskey. He was into heavier tunes, but he needed a bit more of a buzz before going to his favourite rock bar.

He tapped his nails against the glass, tilting his head. Good idea, actually. They did cheap shots and a big array of imports.

He slammed some cash down on the counter before stumbling into the street, glad to feel the slight evening chill on his cheeks.

Down to Pink Street, and into the rock bar he enjoyed. Already feeling at home with the heavy guitar music blasting over the speakers, most of the other patrons dressed in a similar style to him. He’d missed out on a lot of stuff whilst locked away, the slight sways in fashion that happened in such a short amount of time, but he liked knowing he was still on trend within his scene, mostly.

He sat at the counter, giving a half-grin to the girl working there, and ordered himself five shots of vodka.

His earlier drinks had been a warmup, these were the first leg of the race. The second came in the form of a large scotch, some new brand they’d started selling.

Honestly, the start to a perfect night for him, until he heard a small gasp from behind him.

“Hey! Aniki!”

Daigo’s heart sank at the voice, glancing over his shoulder. Five of the guys he usually hung around with were there – or more accurately, they hung around him.

He rolled his eyes and groaned, turning in his seat and glaring them down. He should never had shown them this place.

“What do you want?” he muttered, already knowing the answer.

“We didn’t know you were out today!” Arita cried, leaning up next to him, with that sycophantic look he always had in his eyes. As if Daigo wasn’t out every night.

“Why don’t you join us aniki?” Kubo asked, which actually translated to wanna pay for all our drinks because we’re cheap scrounging bastards?

Daigo groaned again, knocking back his glass and waving the bartender over again.

“If you quit calling me aniki.”

They didn’t, of course. They gleefully accepted the drinks he bought them with more coos of thank you Dojima-aniki. Daigo rubbed the bridge of his nose and ordered himself two double scotches, slugging them back like they were water.

“I was thinkin’ we could go to Dazzle after this,” Arita said, having not left Daigo’s side. He always babbled and talked too much, like he felt he had to fill every silence with his own voice save people be left alone with their own thoughts.

“Why there?” Daigo asked, thinking of all the things he’d rather do more than go to a hostess club, including and not limited to slamming his face into a lit stovetop and drowning in a hot tub.

“I just think the girls there are really underrated, y’know? I like that they have some slightly older gals, I love a mature lady. How about you?”

Daigo shoved a shard of ice from his glass into his mouth and let it melt on his tongue. “Come on then.”

He was paying for two hours and that was that. At least he could get a bottle for himself and work through that, sitting at the edge whilst the others enjoyed the girls’ company.

Dazzle might have specialised in more mature women, but the decor was a nightmare like every other hostess club. Why’d they always insist on so many sparkles, it gave him a headache.

“Um...are you enjoying yourself?”

Daigo lowered his gaze to look at the girl. ‘Mature’ really meant ‘late twenties’, and she was running on the younger side of that.

“What do you think?” he said coldly, swirling his drink in its glass.

She seemed a little dazed at this, glancing back at her fellow hostesses, but kept going.

“M-my name is Nashi. Yours?”

“Daigo Dojima.”

He clicked his tongue, emptied his glass and went to refill it, his shoulders slouching slightly. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be so short, you’re only doing your job.”

“Oh, it’s fine, I’ve had far worse responses.”

Daigo just gritted his teeth. Another reason he hated hostess clubs was he knew how other men treated these girls, saw it himself the times his father brought him along as a teen.

The least he could do was give this lady a nice conversation.

“Well, I’ll try to be a bit better than them,” he said, gesturing with his head towards the others, so loud and obnoxious.

Nashi smiled a little. “They’re not so bad. Your friends are just a bit...out there.”

He scoffed. “They’re not my friends. I don’t really...do friendship anymore.”

“Oh? How come?”

Shit. Of course, when you say something like that, people have questions. Daigo licked his lips in thought, considering how he should phrase this.

“You...don’t recognise my name, do you?”

Nashi blushed a little, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Um, well, you do have a bit of notoriety around town, Dojima-san. I know girls in other clubs, and they always talk about you.”

Daigo did a slight double take at this. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah. You’re a rather…” She gestured at his coat and skinny jeans. “A striking figure, you know. A lot of girls like the edgy emo bad boy look. It’s popular right now.”

“Hm, figures.” A lot of men are also fans…

Daigo sat up a little straighter, gazing Nashi down. “Do you?”

“H-huh?”

“Find me attractive?”

It was a joke, said with a dry smirk, but she flustered, clearly uneasy. Daigo grimaced, sliding up a little closer and putting a hand to her knee.

“Hey, hey. I’m kidding.” He made his smirk a soft smile, broke down the facade for just a moment to put her at ease. “Don’t worry about it.”

Nashi’s eyes went wide, but nodded, brushing down the edges of her dress.

“A-anyway, I...I’ve heard you...were involved with the Tojo Clan. Is that why you don’t ‘do’ friends?”

“Mm. Essentially.”

Daigo gave up on the glass, swigging back from the bottle which got him a funny look from one of the other patrons across the way.

“My only friend murdered my father,” he said, so matter of fact. He hesitated a moment, letting out a short huff. “Well. He went to jail for the crime, at least. He was actually covering for someone else. Either way, I was left without his guidance for ten years, thinking he had betrayed me like that.”

He paused a second, swilling whiskey around his mouth, before continuing.

“I came back to town a few months ago and...he hasn’t bothered trying to find me. Which shows how little he cares.”

“Oh. That sounds...awful, Dojima-san.”

“It sure does, doesn’t it?”

Daigo shrugged, tilting the empty bottle back so he could savour just a few more drops as best he could. “That’s just how my life is now.”

He grumbled a little as he set the bottle down, belching into his cupped hand before draping himself back against the seat.

“Sometimes you gotta deal with the hand you're given,” he added, scratching lazily at his middle, “And unfortunately, I’ve had a poor deck from the start.”

He shut his eyes before letting out a laugh, forced and hollow. “Sorry. I’m not the best at keeping things light.”

How many hostesses had he paid to listen to him whine? Then he thought how they were probably all used to it, which made it even worse.

“Well, given your circumstances…”

Nashi glanced back at her co-workers, the barely hidden looks of disdain towards the rest of the crew and their boorish behaviour.

“I’d much rather talk to you though,” she said, reaching over to grab another one of the bottles along the table, gesturing toward his glass, “You’re nice.”

Daigo swallowed, nodding in approval as she filled it to the brim. His head pounded, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the music or the cravings.

“If you say so.”

The glass was empty in a flash, and filled just as quick.

“You’re good at this,” he purred.

The bottle was empty by the time the waiter came by. Daigo had just enough mental capacity to dig through his pockets and pay, giving Nashi a shaky smile and a pat on the knee.

“Thank you for tonight. You’re great.”

His friends, on the other hand, all started to whine as the waiter began to urge them into finishing their drinks.

“Aw, c’mon aniki, let’s hang around a bit longer!”

“If you want that, pay yourself, ya cheap fucks.”

Daigo stood up, a bit too quickly as he felt the room spin. He stumbled to the side slightly, wincing as he contained a belch that very much tasted of vomit. Nope! No puking tonight. Keep it all inside.

“I’m outta here,” he mumbled, resting a hand on any available solid surface to keep himself steady as he left.

He blanked out the cries of the others as he did. He’d wasted enough time with them tonight, and he was craving something else.

“Burger,” he mumbled, squinting as he glanced up and down the street, “Pffft...that way.”

This was always the worst part of the night. Trying to sober up enough so he could keep going, or at the very least get home in one piece. Stumbling through the streets and trying not to crack his skull open.

It wasn’t just food he craved though. He felt...itchy. That was the only way to really explain it. The desire to go wild, start a scuffle. Really earn that reputation he supposedly had.

To hell with staying in one piece.

But first, Smile Burger.

The fact that the poor worker even understood what he said through his slurred words was impressive and soon he was curled up against the window, feet pulled up on the chair beside him as he made his way through a burger that tasted like the finest wagyu steak right now.

All the while, he kept his eye out.

Yeah, it felt shitty to target people for a fight like this, but he made sure it was a fair fight. Usually a few guys, who looked like they could take a hit as well as throw one, maybe even have a chance if they weren’t facing someone running on adrenaline and too much booze.

He cocked his head as he focused on a table nearby. Four men, mid-twenties, definitely young yakuza from some family. He couldn’t see any lapel pin from where he was sat, but they were perfect.

Childishly, he picked up one of his fries and threw it in their direction. It hit the back of one guy’s head, and he looked around puzzled. Daigo just threw another, chuckling as it hit him again. A bit too obvious, as he was spotted this time.

“What the hell’s wrong with you dude?” one of the four cried.

“I dunno,” Daigo said, stuffing a bunch of fries in his mouth before flinging another their way, “Target practise.”

This one hit a guy in a striking red sports jacket right between the eyes, and Daigo could barely contain the full-on cackle he let out at the expression he pulled. It was almost too easy.

He grinned when one came over and jabbed him in the chest.

“Outside. Now.”

“My pleasure.”

He followed them into a nearby side street, hands in his pockets and head held high. He liked an audience sometimes, but a private fight was fine enough.

The biggest one of them threw the first punch. He was expecting it, crossing his arms over in front of his face to block it, before kicking out at the guy’s ankles.

The whole fight was messy. The little gang clearly had never been in a proper fight, had no form. They kept punching poorly, wincing with any that managed to hit as they stung their knuckles.

Not that Daigo was any better. He was still far too drunk, but that was half the fun. Stumbling about and getting in a rough hit that frightened these kids who’d never experienced this before. He just wanted the thrill, the rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins. Anything to feel something.

Daigo landed a punch on that guy in the sports jacket, right in the middle of his face. It sent him flat on his ass, skidding down the street slightly.

“Come on!” he groaned, “Grab him, idiots! We outnumber him!”

A moment of pause. Daigo tried to catch his breath, but ol’ sports jacket was right. He was outnumbered.

Two of them grabbed his coat and pushed him back against the wall, holding him there. The third punched at his gut, over and over. Daigo gritted his teeth, tensed his stomach for every punch.

He knew he could get out of this, easily. The guys holding him were hardly doing much, weren’t even gripping his actual arms, just the sleeves of his jacket. It wouldn’t take much to duck and slip down, then send them crying home to their mommies.

“Come on!” he hissed, baring his teeth.

But he wanted them to hit him.

“That all you got?”

He wanted them to hurt him.

Sports jacket guy had gotten back on his feet now, face already starting to bruise. His fist met the middle of Daigo’s face hard, harder than they’d been hitting before. It stung, a lot, which is exactly what he wanted.

Not that it solved anything.

It never did.

“Oi!” They all froze, turning toward the entrance of the street. Daigo, semi-dazed, managed to look too, and felt his stomach drop.

Kashiwagi's expression, initially a scowl, changed the moment he saw him, shaking his head and blinking a little. “Daigo?”

He sighed heavily, storming over and waving his hand at the little gang. “Shoo. Don’t let me catch you boys doing shit like this again, you hear?” “Y-yes Patriarch Kashiwagi.”

They scurried off further down the street, leaving Daigo to stand up straighter, rubbing his nose. He groaned a little as he saw the streaks of rusty red on the back of his hand, sniffling heavily. “Great.”

“Daigo…”

Kashiwagi sighed again, rubbing at his temple. “What are you doing?” “I’m just...I’m just out.” Daigo sniffed again, scrunching his nose. “Just finished dinner.”

“You know what I mean…”

Kashiwagi looked around, then grabbed Daigo by the shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s talk in the office.”

Daigo went to argue, but it only took one stern glare, the kind the older man had given him his whole life, for him to clench his jaw and follow.

Kashiwagi led the way toward the Millennium Tower, hand on Daigo’s shoulder the whole way. It felt so patronising, like that time he accidentally broke a window at the Dojima Family offices when he was ten, and Kashiwagi had done the exact same gesture, marching him to his mother.

“Nice upgrade,” he still said, gazing out the wide window of Kashiwagi’s office once they arrived, “From that little place on Tenkaichi.”

“Well, we make do. I’m second in command now.” Kashiwagi set down the plastic convenience store bag he’d been carrying on his desk, letting out a small, bemused exhale of air. “It’s not all bad. Now come on. Why were you fighting?”

Daigo clicked his tongue and shrugged, staring at the blinking lights below them.

“Daigo…” “I just was, okay?”

He gave a dismissive shrug, walking across the floor toward a cabinet, throwing the doors open. Kashiwagi watched him with tired eyes, slumping down in his chair. “I think you’ve had enough to drink tonight.”

“How did you know that’s what I was looking for?”

“Your breath reeks of it, kid. Your whole body does.” He took out a bento and can of coffee from the plastic bag, raising a brow. “And I know what you’re like, especially lately. How’s being a free man by the way? Haven’t seen you since you were released.”

“It sucks ass.”

Daigo slammed the cabinet door shut, opening another and grinning as he saw half a bottle of whiskey there, as well as some crystal glasses. He heard Kashiwagi tut loudly as he slammed both down on top of the cabinet.

“What did you expect?” he scoffed, pouring a very large measure, “Mom told me the news the moment I got out. What Nishikiyama did. That it wasn’t Kiryu. He hasn’t even come to see me, to apologise for it.”

He knocked the glass back, the sensation warm and familiar down his throat. “Hardly feel free. Just not in jail anymore.”

“What happened to the boy I knew?” Kashiwagi asked, walking over and placing a hand on Daigo’s shoulder once more. This time it was gentle, kind, attempting to be comforting. Not Kashiwagi-san, one of his father’s men, but Uncle Osamu, his mother’s best friend.

Daigo scrunched his nose up, taking another slug of whiskey. “You say that like I’ve ever been cheery.”

“Well, okay, you’ve always been a serious young man, but…”

He just shook his head, moving his hand away. He grabbed the whiskey bottle in the process, making Daigo let out a pathetic little whine.

“I’m not going to enable you any more than I have,” he said firmly, before adding, “I mean it though. You don’t need to throw your life away like this.”

Daigo didn’t reply, because he didn’t like the real answer. There wasn’t much of a life to throw away. He was doing everyone a favour with this.

“You bring me up here just to lecture me old man?” he growled, narrowing his eyes.

Still looking for someone to fight. Kashiwagi would wipe the floor with him, he knew that, but he didn’t care. He also knew he wouldn’t get that kind of satisfaction.

Didn’t mean Kashiwagi wasn’t frustrated with his attitude. He closed his eyes, clenching his fists and let out a deep exhale from his nose. “I saw your mother today. She’s been trying to call you all morning.”

“I know.” The empty glass was set down heavily, with a grunt. Daigo dug around for his phone, holding it out so Kashiwagi could see the countless missed calls and texts from her on the home screen. “I know what today is.”

“...and is that why you’re-”

“You know I’m like this anyway.” He stared at the texts, all similar in tone - Daigo, please call me. Daigo, it’s important. Are you okay? He got them most days from his mother. She was trying so hard. He didn’t want her to. He would rather she forget about him. She deserved that much.

Kashiwagi wasn’t looking at him, staring up at the ceiling as he thought of what to say next.

“I understand that...none of us could have predicted the extent of what your father was like.”

Daigo did a double take, noticing Kashiwagi immediately cringe. At least he knew what he said was stupid.

“Sorry, that was-”

“Yeah. It was.” Daigo looked up, head cocked to his shoulder. “Anyone could have guessed, really. We just pretended otherwise, because somehow he seemed to be the only thing keeping the Tojo Clan from completely falling apart.”

He was up in Kashiwagi’s face now, feeling his chest clench tight. He was working himself up over nothing, over that bastard. He hated it, but thinking of what his father did to get himself killed, the kind of man he was, it made his skin crawl.

“He deserves to spend every birthday after what he did having the most miserable time in hell,” he said with a hiss, noticing his voice wobbling, “I know it. You know it. But Mom refuses to let go-”

The slap felt cathartic, for both of them. Daigo shut his eyes and nodded as his cheek stung. He deserved that. He was trying to provoke that kind of reaction and got exactly that.

“I take back what I said. That boy you were is still there. An insolent brat,” Kashiwagi said, walking back to his desk, “Daigo, one day, you’re going to have to grow up. You can’t keep doing this until you die.”

He threw a semi-sympathetic look over his shoulder, but Daigo mostly felt it was piteous. That’s what he was. A pitiful, useless mess.

“Go home, Daigo. Call your mother. And for everyone’s sake, don’t have anything else to drink tonight.”

Daigo sucked in through his teeth and nodded again as he walked toward the door.

“...good night, Kashiwagi-san.”

No response. Yup. I deserve this.

He made his way home in a daze, everything working in automatic. Kashiwagi’s words kept echoing in his head, over and over.

You can’t keep doing this until you die.

Because that’s what he was trying to do, wasn’t it? Die. Suicide by hedonism. He was born already holding the worst hand life could deal, and he was never going to get anything better. After his father was killed, the one tiny scrap of potential good he could have in his life was gone, even if that prospect was a life of crime.

So why not? Why should he grow up when there was nothing to grow up for?

The moment he was inside his apartment, he slid down the door, staring blankly ahead. He’d needed that talking to, he needed a few really, from people who were currently pretending like he didn’t exist. That’s what he really needed. For Kiryu to talk to him, apologise for ruining his life, try and talk some sense into him. He always knew what to do.

But it was like he didn’t exist. Kiryu didn’t care. Kashiwagi tried to care, but knew he was a lost cause. Who did care?

Daigo opened up his phone again, staring at the missed calls and sighed. That’s who cared. Mom.

He should talk to her. He knew he should. He was an awful son who loved his mother very much, which is why he knew she deserved better. She was trying despite knowing she’d made mistakes, but he just couldn’t let that go.

He hovered on her number, ready to press the button to call...but instead he tossed his phone to land on the couch, walked to the kitchen and wrapped his fingers around the neck of the vodka bottle still on the counter.

He licked his lips, swallowed heavily...but let go, pushing it away.

“You win this time old man,” he grumbled, picking up an energy drink and the donuts he’d bought earlier in the day instead. Kashiwagi could never be allowed to know that though.

He knew this self-control wouldn’t last long. Come morning, he’d be shaking again, a hangover banging in his skull, and he’d be dragging himself towards that bottle like it was the source of life.

The same thing every day.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

He couldn’t have it any other way.

[agrinsosardonic]

Wicked Little Thing

A/U: CloudxReno 

Also on: A03 and Fanfiction.net

Reno wasn’t like the other boys. 

He solidified that when he showed up at Cloud’s window in the early morning hours on the first day of his 18th summer. He had something to show him. Of the utmost importance. Cloud, with half opened blue eyes stared at the boy smirking in the window. The heat of the sun already suffocating despite just breaking through the dark clouds of night. Cloud’s skin felt like rubber. Sticky wet. Like something was crawling through the little blonde hairs on his arms. 

But still, he dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, and snuck out of the sleeping house to join the other boy. Reno didn’t say much, but it’s rare for him to use any words. Follow me. Died in the humid air right as it grazed Cloud’s ears. And Reno already walking towards the forest. Cloud thought about arguing. Or bitchin’, as Reno called it. But arguing with Reno was as useful as fist fighting a brick wall. The brick wall always wins. Cloud laments this fact, silently of course, as he steps through mud and sticks towards an undisclosed location. 

The trees like statues as they provide minimal relief from the ball of flame in the sky. 

The air smelled stale and wet.

Like the mold that grows in the boys home, where Reno lives. 

The stench that sticks to their clothes; a tell-tale sign of the abandoned.

But Cloud noted, the one time Reno allowed him close enough he could take in his smell, the other boy reminded him of flames. 

They come upon a clearing. And Cloud gagged when death crept into the air. 

Rotting eggs and sulfur.  Cloud pulled his shirt over his nose to filter the smell, though even his mother’s soap proved to be a pathetic barrier. Nothing really prepared Cloud for the stench of a floating dead body baking in the hot sun. At the edge of the swamp, half of the blue flesh bobbed in the water. It’s clothes tattered and torn; button down and no pants. Bloated beyond recognition. Veins like a road map twisting along milky skin. 

Cloud darts blue eyes towards Reno. The other boy stared at the body; his face like stone never acknowledging the pungent stench. 

“Gotta get used to dead bodies if ya gonna be in SOLDIER,” he said in a thick accent that Cloud could never place, but was one more thing that separated him from the other boys. Reno’s lips tugged into a smirk. 

Cloud tried breathing through his mouth; but it tasted like spoiled meat. And he knew if he threw up, Reno would never let him live it down. He swallowed the bile that burned in his throat. And didn’t say another word. 

The sounds of summer embraced the scene. The animals that lurk in the swamp send ripples of waves crashing to the surface as they feed. Birds squawk overhead. Breaking twigs in the distance. Mosquitoes and flies buzzed too close. The hum pierced Cloud’s ear drum as he tried to swat them away. 

The heat had them both sweating through white shirts. Reno pulled his over his head, revealing the lean muscles and faded bruises. Like dying fireworks in a peach skyline. And Cloud couldn’t help but gaze along his body. Taking inventory every line and freckle until tattooed to his brain. Reno cast his two pearls of lake colored eyes upon the other boy, curious like a fox.

“Comeon,” he drawled, “we’re pullin’ it out.”

“Uuh,” Cloud stuttered, dropping his shirt from his mouth, “What?”

Reno walked closer to the body- Cloud impressed that the other boy could handle the smell- and grabbed a swollen ankle. “I wanna burn it.”

“W-what?” Cloud repeated.

“Fuckin’ what,” Reno snaps, “I ain’t speakin’ a different language.”

Reno hated speaking at all. This was the most string of words he’s spoken in a while. Cloud liked the sound of his voice. Rough like coal. Bitter like whiskey he pretended he didn’t drink when the sun went down. Not like the other boys with their clean grammar and smooth inflections uttered through pearly white teeth. Not like Clouds, who flumbles through words like he’s running through boulders. Getting caught up. Tongue too big for his mouth. Swollen. 

Cloud huffed. And followed the order. The smell only grew impossible to handle. The smaller of the two boys coughing and hacking as he tried fruitlessly to shield his nose with his shirt again. Reno watched him the whole time with hooded eyes that darkened under the mess of red hair. Cloud tried to focus on the task. And not how Reno scanned his body. Resting on the bit of skin exposed from pulling up his shirt. 

Cloud hesitated. The flesh that held together the foot to ankle looked diseased. Black. Putrid. He didn’t want to touch it, not at all. The amount of bacteria eating away at the stinking flesh was enough to make Cloud sick. But he could still feel Reno’s burning gaze. And he doesn’t want to look like a coward in front of him. He wrapped his fingers around the skin- and it feels like wet, slimy, clay. He pulled and the flesh peeled away from worn bone. Slipped from his hands like thick water. 

He yelled and jumped back, tripping over a rock. 

Reno’s laugh sounded like razor blades. He’s pacing around the clearing, holding his stomach. And if Cloud had an ounce of courage, he might swing at him. 

“Fuck you!” He shouted instead. 

“Poor lil bird.” Reno regained his composure. His toothy smile revealed two sharp canines.

Cloud scrambled back to his feet. “You’re sick, man.”

The red-head shrugs, wiping his hands on dirty blue jeans. He pulls out his crumbled pack of smokes and places a cigarette between his thin lips. 

“Can I bum one?” Cloud asked. 

Reno ignited the match, the flame orange and yellow casts haunting shadows across his face. “No.”

“Why?” 

He took a drag, “Waste.”

Cloud knew what he meant. “I heard everyone smokes in SOLDIER. I got to learn right?”

“Who told ya that? Zack?” Reno scrunched his face like the name tasted like poison on his tongue. Cloud nodded and Reno just shook his head. “Zack has half a brain and it ain’t in his head.”

Cloud doesn’t respond. Eyes wilted to the dirt ground; a large centipede crawled over his shoe and he kicked it into the lake where it can be a gators snack. 

“You can’t burn the body, by the way,” he said. “It’s too wet. It won’t catch.”

Reno grimaced in response. Cloud admired the scowl on the other boy’s face. How it compliments the rest of his rough edges. He watched him take slow drags of his cigarette. How the black smoke slowly escaped his lips, obstructing his features except for those two eyes that glow against smoke. Like the stars in the midnight sky. 

Reno was a house fire. 

And maybe Cloud felt that way because the first time he saw him Mrs. Fost house was engulfed. Glowing orange embers fell from the sky like rain. Hissed and singed when they landed on the cobble stoned street. Everyone watched. Some helped. The good  ol’ boys, like Zack, rallied each other and grabbed water from the well to put out the fire. 

Cloud stood hypnotized by the dancing reds that ate at the flimsy wood, which scorched the air. And he thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen up to that point. He wanted to feel as powerful as a fire. Eat away at the things weaker than him. But Cloud wasn’t a house fire. Cloud was the wood structure collapsing like a dying star. 

He heard the striking of a match. Turned towards the sound. 

Saw a boy, with hair the color of blood, bringing fire to the cigarette between his lips. 

He looked like danger. Cut from metal. Sharp like the switchblade in his pocket. 

And then, like now under the muted morning light, in a swamp that reeks of death, Cloud can’t stop staring at the boy. Who appeared a year ago like a phantom under the flames of destruction. Cloud gravitated to him like he was the sun. And found only darkness. A red dwarf. Two minutes from midnight and ready for armageddon. And that’s all he knew.

Reno’s past a mystery but everyone tried predicting his future.

Boys like that end up in the gutter.

The mothers whispered. 

Filthy monsters. Wicked little things. All end up dead before eighteen.

Zack and the rest of the boys warned him much the same.

You hang out with trash you start to smell.

But Reno smelled like burning wood, nicotine, and pomegranates. 

Reno was fire and Cloud wanted to burn.

Thunder cracked. Cloud looked into the darkening sky. “It’s going to rain.”

“So?” Reno grabbed a long stick and stomped back towards the body. “Afraid of gettin’ wet?” He winks, “Little birds can’t fly in rain?” 

He plunged the stick into the bloated stomach of cadaver. Black ooze pushed out. Cloud swore he heard a wheeze before another boom of thunder. He flinched as Reno dug the wood deeper until it stood on its own. 

“Wh-why did you do that?”

Reno snapped his eyes at Cloud. And shrugged, again. Cloud pursed his lips looking for words. But found vacant expressions. Reno didn’t need to explain himself; he’s red hot anger. And everything he does is a result of that. 

“You gotta learn to stab shit if you wanna be a SOLDIER.” Reno said and revealed a switchblade from his back pocket. “Comeon.”

Cloud hesitated. “W..Why?”

“I just said why, fuck.” 

The sky opened and cold rain cooled the hot earth. The drops slammed against the bloated body; singing through the dense forest and murky swamp. Tap tap tap. Rapid like bullets. 

“I won’t be stabbing something that’s already dead, right?” Cloud shifted. 

Reno removed the dead cigarette from his mouth, flicking it into the swamp and approached Cloud. His feet sunk into the mud with every step; but as if blessed, he doesn’t stumble. And the blonde can’t seem to move, even though Reno’s giving him this look; like an alligator lurking below the surface of the swamp, ready to bite his head off. He stopped too close. Cloud could see the gentle rise and fall of his chest. The bones of his rib cage that peek through the skin. The small cuts. The large black and blues. From one too many fights with those good boys. 

To Cloud’s surprise, they’re the same height. Blue green meets slate blue eyes. Reno always gave off the impression of being impossibly larger than life. Cloud crushed under his gaze. But in the pouring rain, in the morning light, with the smell of rotting flesh and still water, they were equals. 

Reno grabbed Cloud’s wrist, with a sudden movement that it stole the blonde’s heartbeat, and placed the hilt of the blade in his wet palm. 

“Stab me.”

“What!?” Cloud didn’t stutter this time. He blurted the words from his mouth with a frantic tone. He tried to move back but Reno held him firm. Rooted to the ground. “No w-way!”

“Gotta learn.” Reno grinned something vile. He closed Cloud’s fingers around the worn wood, and pressed the sharpened knife against his own side. Guiding the other boy. His skin tickling the blade like a dar. “Right here.”

“Y-y-you’re fucki-in nuts, Re.”

“You think this my first time bein’ stabbed?”

“No, bu-t-” Cloud could only shake his head, “I ain’t stabbing you. No w-way.”

Reno frowned, bringing Cloud and his wrist and the blade to his neck. “How ‘bout here?”

“That’s w-worse!” Cloud panted. “You’ll die.”

“You can’t kill me, lil bird.” And Reno laughed. A devastated laugh that sounded more like the lightning that flashed overhead. Blinding Cloud for a moment. But only a moment. And he saw electricity in the redhead eyes. And felt his skin rise towards the cement sky. And he didn’t know if the shock was from the angry god above or the boy before him, yanking him closer. Stumbling over feet. His collision with Reno- skin to skin- proceeded the thunder. 

“Hm,” Reno purrs, and Cloud felt his breath against his lips. “Ya never gonna make SOLDIER.”

Cloud growled, “F-Fuck you, Reno.”

Reno squeezed Cloud’s wrist. Tight. Until he was forced to drop the knife. “Ya finally gettin mad, huh?” 

But Cloud stared into Reno’s eyes- too busy to get mad. Trying to focus on anything else besides Reno. Not his lips and how they were slightly opened and just slightly inviting. And that he smells of smoldering flame that eats at an entire forest. And his hand feels rough around his wrist. And Cloud’s aware of the lack of blood traveling to his fingers that they are going numb. 

Reno relaxed his grip. Moving his hand up Cloud’s, over the scars that littered his calloused fingers. Burns. “I like it when ya mad,” he whispered, “ya more interestin’.”

And he’s giving Cloud the same look he flashed him at Mrs. Fost’s house fire. When the smoke around his face cleared. And Cloud saw the dramatic curves of his face. His slanted auburn eyebrows that clashed against the red hues of his hair. Mesmerized by the way his eyes glowed- literally glowed- brighter than the fire that consumed the wood house over the old women’s feverish cries. And Cloud was, himself, engulfed by Reno’s gaze that he didn’t acknowledge how the strange boy traveled from Cloud’s face, down his chest, to his bandaged right hand that blistered underneath the cloth. 

Not until the red-head curled his lips into a wicked little smirk. 

Under the rain, the hot rain that stuck to his body like grime, Reno had the same look, Curiosity mixed with bloodlust. 

Or…

Just regular lust. 

And Cloud couldn’t stand another minute not knowing if Reno tasted like he smelled-

Pressed his lips against the red-heads, snaking his fingers into his wet hair to pull him closer. Impossibly close.

He expected a fist in his face, rocking him from this earth. Instead, Reno returns the kiss twice as forceful and with more practice. Wrapping his lean arms around Cloud’s small frame. Gliding his nails through the white fabric. 

Cloud opened his mouth so their tongues can meet,

And he tasted like tar. And electricity. And sulfur. 

They managed to get off the shirt that clung to Cloud’s body like suction cups. And they were back to skin and mess of limbs and lips. 

And teeth that bit on Cloud’s lip; and he moaned from his throat a sound that rushed through Reno’s body like a shockwave. Then fall to the floor. Cushioned by the mud. 

They tarnished their bodies in dirt and filth. Rough hands digging into flesh. And Cloud couldn’t keep track of how many times Reno’s name left his bruised lips through harsh breathes. 

And he didn’t stutter. 

He memorized that name. Branded it in his brain. 

The only word he knew. 

The red-head sat up, straddling Cloud’s hips under him. Pressing his hand firm on his chest to keep him on the ground. And blue-green eyes stare at Reno. Flushed with pleading desire. But he’s preoccupied with the scars on Cloud’s chest. 

And if Reno was faded fireworks during the sun set.

Cloud was the scorched woods during sun rise.  

Old burns splashed over his pale skin. Some still pink and angry. Other’s that blended into his flesh.  

And Reno smiled.

His first real smile. 

And Cloud thought he looked like the devil. 

He dropped down, their torsos meeting. Lips just barely touching. “I knew it,” he whispers. 

And he figured it out the night they first met. That Cloud was a match that needed a spark. 

Their lips met again. Clothes torn off.

The rain and mud made their bodies slick. And Cloud dug his nails into Reno’s back while he hissed into the blonde's neck. Nipping and biting skin, adding crimson to muted colors. 

It was the tangled limbs- how Cloud didn’t know where he ended and Reno began- that had raw breathless gasps clawing at his throat. 

And they were gripped in euphoria that they forgot about the body decaying next to them. 

--------------------------

The rain stopped. The heat rose from the soil and the earth felt like an oven. Reno stood over the body; his jeans stained with mud and shirt over his shoulder. Cloud walked next to him, still trying to adjust his shorts, with his own shirt balled in his pocket- his mom will have a word with him when he gets home, for sure. But that would have to wait. Right now, he relished the tingles that touched every part of his body, while he watched the red-head. New scars painted his canvas. Long streaks of red that matched the ones on Cloud’s body. And the blonde felt the throb of the bite on his shoulder; and it burned like the fire that decorated his flesh. 

He didn’t even care that Reno had marked him-

Like the house fire, Reno was the most beautiful thing he had even seen in eighteen years on this dying planet. And Cloud wanted every bite, and burn, the red head could offer him. 

Reno grabbed his pack. Placed a cigarette in his mouth and lit it with his last match. 

He turned to Cloud, removed the stick and gently placed it between Cloud’s partial opened lips. The other boy blinked several times in confusion, as Reno replaced it with another one, and leaned into Cloud’s ember to light it. 

The sound of searing fire touched his ears.

His whole body twitched. 

Cloud smiled, couldn’t help it, and took a sharp inhale. Blowing the smoke right at Reno, who smirked. 

“Thought you said it would be a waste?” Cloud sing-songed.

“Heh, ya ain’t gettin’ into SOLDIER anymore. Don’t matter.”

“W-why do you say that?” Cloud cocked his head, and in mid-morning light, he looked like an innocent boy filled with naivety. 

But Reno knew better. “They don’t care for wicked little things like us.”

They shared a look under the heat of the sun that burned their skin. A look they shared against the warming flames. Where Cloud saw him for the first time and knew he needed to understand as much as he could about the mysterious boy who appeared from thin air. Who was filthy. Abandoned. A discarded trash.

But stunning. Like a god. 

He was right.

Reno wasn’t like the other boys.

And neither was Cloud. 

[typinggently]

4) an angel with a dark secret, a river, a clock for a/e :3

Thank you so much for this prompt!! I had so much fun writing it and I hope you’ll have fun reading it! I think it’s my longest drabble to date, ahhh!

-

Vampire Hunter Arthur & Vampire Eames

-

Arthur pulls out his pocket watch. Its gold-plated case is glowing in the rosy twilight and its smooth, warm weight is comfortingly familiar in his hand. It’s half past six, the air still fragrant with the scent of the sun-drenched blackberry bushes that cling to the walls of the mansion. The sun will set in two hours, which gives him more than enough time to find what he’s looking for. With that in mind, he snaps the watch shut again and slips it back into his pocket before taking a last drag of his cigarette. Exhaling smoke, he drops it on the gravel, grinds it under his boot, picks up his briefcase.

In this business, a professional exterior is important, especially in this day and age. Thus, his suits are fitted to emphasise his slim built, his cufflinks and hair gleam, his utensils are stored in an expensive briefcase. He looks, all in all, like a businessman. Well, he thinks to himself as he takes out the keys for the padlock chain wrapped around the gates. That won’t last.

-

The garden is overgrown with blackberries, but Arthur manages to get to the front steps without snagging his suit, which is an achievement. At the front doors he makes quick ork of another padlock, then slips into the dim interior. All windows have been nailed shut on this floor and by the looks of it, no one found their way in yet. Not on the ground floor, at least.

Arthur finds the dining room, the carpet saturated with dust, the air stale. The dining table, he notices, is not terribly dusty, especially not considering the state of the other furniture. There are some odd, flaky stains on the wood here and there, but Arthur doesn’t pay them much mind. He rests his case on the scratched wood, then opens the lid to get ready. First, he puts on his night vision goggles, then a pair of white cotton gloves. He’s already wearing a neck brace made of starched cotton, sprinkled with holy water and a silver cross. After sliding a lighter into his pocket, he selects a stake and hammer (unfortunately, the device that’ll allow him to shoot these things is still in the works. Another half-year, perhaps) and turns towards the door.

Now, he makes his way through the house, methodically checking the furniture of each room in the green-grey glow of his night vision goggles. It’s, as usual, the library where he finds what he was looking for. The carpet by the bookshelf is a little matted and ripped up in one place, worn down more than in other spots. Arthur hums and checks his watch again. Eight. Half an hour left. With that in mind, he starts to examine the bookshelf, trying to find the mechanism that’ll open the secret door he suspects to be the cause of the worn-down carpet.

What catches his eye in the end is a porcelain angel, the chubby one from the Raphael painting, who’s resting his chin on his hand and looks up. That much is obvious even with the way the head’s been smashed in. Were Arthur less of a professional, he’d make a pleased little sound now. As it is, he only reaches for the angel and tries to move it, as the person who smashed its head probably tried to do. It doesn’t budge. He tries to twist it.

A faint click.

Arthur grips one of the shelves and gives a hearty tug and voilà, the door slides open, over the frayed ends of the carpet. Beyond, three steps lead up into a quaint little study, very romantic. Arthur takes a deep breath and climbs the stairs.

As expected, the casket rests on the writing desk the first owner on the house put in there. Surprising is, however, that the room has rather big windows, stained glass and all. Well, maybe the last traces of light will be enough.

Arthur steps towards the casket and opens the lid with a practised move. A middle-aged woman stares back at him with wide, blood-shot eyes, her mouth open in a silent scream, exposing nightmarish fangs and her red gullet. Still as a wax-figure. Asleep. The stench of old blood and rot seeps into Arthur’s nose and he frowns a little, then he carefully extends his hand with the stake, repositions it a little to be sure, lifts his hammer with the other hand.

A sickening crunch, an ear-shattering howl. The body swells and bursts like a rotten fruit, blood turning to ash before it can stain Arthur’s gloves. He drops the stake into the casket and pulls out his matches. A hiss, then the ash catches fire. Green, sulphuric flames flicker in the dim room.

Arthur is about to step back when he feels a presence behind him. An icy claw wraps around his heart.

“Love, how terribly impolite.”

-

He turns on his heels to find Eames leaning against the doorway, arms crossed in front of his chest. He’s wearing another one of his awful silk shirts and his smile is bright. Teeth glittering in the dim light, pearly and nightmarish.

“What are you doing here?” Arthur frowns, his heart still hammering in his chest. He hopes Eames won’t be able to hear, knowing it’s in vain.

“Well, Dear, you left the door open for me. A glorious invitation, truly. And on top of that, I found the mail on your laptop.”

At that, Arthur rolls his eyes. “You certainly weren’t invited into my apartment.”

“You have a cat flap.”

“Yes.”

“You invite cats into your apartment.”

“Well, my cat.”

“Am I not your cat? Love, you wound me.” Eames lets a low purr seep into his voice and Arthur sniffs, turning his back to him.

“I’m packing up now.”

-

The moonlight glitters on the river behind the house, gleaming white on ink. Arthur brushes the last bit of ash off of his dustpan and squats down to put it back into his briefcase.

“You know, that’s how they spread germs back in the day.”

“Yes, when they burned sick people and then let their cows drink the water. Vampire ash is not going to harm anyone.” With that, he stands, turns and finds Eames standing eerily close, their noses almost brushing. Startling, but not exactly frightening. Arthur sighs.

Immediately, Eames makes a face and turns his head away. “Oh, love, don’t tell me you ate garlic!”

“Of course I ate garlic,” Arthur says, unimpressed. “Step aside.”

Eames frowns softly, but lets him pass to climb up the riverside. “I really wish you wouldn’t. You know how much I hate it.”

Arthur gives him a cool look. “You poor thing,” he deadpans, then slams his briefcase closed. “I’m going to leave now.”

“You know, I wouldn’t have to worry so terribly about you if you’d just, you know, let me have a tiny little taste. Just for your own safety.”

“A vampire hunting vampire, you mean. Brilliant idea.”

“Oh, I’m sure you could do it. Just do the stake through the heart, leave the rest.” Eames makes a little hammering gesture. “Or you could retire, Love. Hell knows you’re one of the last ones left.”

Arthur sighs as he unlocks his car. “We talked about this. Another two years. Here, come in.”

Eames sighs softly, but climbs into the van. “You know, after 184 years, one would think another two wouldn’t feel all that long...” In the dim light, his big eyes have a shimmer to them, his long lashes throwing delicate shadows on his pale cheeks. His mouth looks very soft, very alluring, teeth glittering like pearls.

Arthur feels a little warmer, all of a sudden, his blood turning into sweet wine, making him feel languid and soft. He huffs, turns to look at the road. “I can feel what you’re doing. I said what I said. Buckle up.”

Eames sighs, but he does as he’s told.

Arthur starts the car, and when a cold hand slips on his knee, he reaches down to squeeze it briefly.

-

-

Well, a clock is no watch but still…you know… Also this was such a random idea?? I hope you enjoyed it, I certainly had a TON of fun writing it!!! Again, thank you so much!!

Also yes. Arthur risks the Vampires waking up just so he can be sure Eames will be awake as well. He’s a sap, deep down.

-

The prompts

[pop-punklouis]

Landrew Drabble (The True Story Behind We Made It)

For our new kings:

It was half past midnight. the sky outside the frosted glass had taken a melancholy turn since Louis first bustled into the studio earlier, pieces of the day hugging tight to his outercoat in the shape of snow. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been in the small space until glancing over at the cigarette buds littering the ashtray, a perpetuate cloud of stale smoke cascading over the bright, yellow that kept the guys awake. On the table in front of him was a page scribbled over in countless inks, stanzas and titles crossed out one after the other, representing how jumbled his mind had gotten with finishing this song, let alone a full album. His back was stiff and his eyelids felt propped open. Hearing bustling and a murmured hiss in the kitchen, Louis’ remembered he wasn’t alone. He and Andrew had been bouncing ideas off each other for hours, each watching the other’s eyes become more bloodshot and their hair more disheveled. It had never taken Louis this long to put his stamp of approval on a song, but this track was more than just lyrics jammed into a melody. It was personal�� perhaps his most personal to date. And that thought alone ate him up from the inside both with nerves and excitement. It needed to be perfect.

Just then, Andrew rounded the corner, two steaming mugs being carried by his fingertips, a pained expression on his face.

“They’re hot be careful.” He grumbled before snaking his way past the castaway instruments and rolled up balls of paper on the floor. “Black for you.. and extra milk for me.”

He nodded to the swirling tea he placed in front of Louis’ nose before taking a tentive sip from his. The instant contortion of his mouth told Louis he had just burned the skin off his tongue. He smirked. So impatient.

“You know, tea sounded wonderful half an hour ago. Now, I feel like if you cut me open I’ll just bleed the entirety of a yorkshire pack, I believe.” Andrew coughed back a laugh, both of them knowing they’ve drank enough to challenge the Boston Tea Party.

Turning back to the table, they heaved a big sigh. This one sheet being their worst enemy, only growing the longer they looked desperately at it’s mess of words and ideas. Louis needed sleep. He needed to unplug his mind, take a hot bath, and forget that sheet existed until Monday morning. Pushing up from his chair, he walked over towards the futon couch, plopping down before stretching out across it, closing his eyes. His tea resting between his hands and his sternum.

“I think I’ll just lie here the entire weekend. You’ll be hard-pressed to get me to move.” He heard the creaking of the floor before feeling the warmth of Andrew’s body sit down near his.

“We’re so close, mate. If you fall asleep on me now, I’ll just write the song how I wanted to three hours ago—“

“I will not be singing about metaphors that compare foods you can find in the supermarket to love, Andrew. I have too much dignity.”

Louis heard Andrew stifle a chuckle through his nose. “Okay, but the music video. The ideas would be endless.”

He cracked open one of his eyes to see Andrew sat on top of the coffee table beside Louis. He glared at him before slipping his eyes shut again.

“What if we write it about tour...? Like, how crazy and chaotic tour was for everyone. But we make it sound like a love song?”

And, somehow, that one suggestion had both Louis and Andrew passing over stories, lapsing over memories, and leaving their mugs to grow cold. Who knows how long they had been discussing different antics and smile-inducing incidents from on the road. But, before they knew it, they were both piled atop the futon, legs entangled, and the red light of the clock blinked back 3 AM. Louis was WAY too warm and comfortable to move now, so maybe he would just snuggle up and drift off to sleep this time.

“Louis?” Andrew’s voice sounded soft in the midst of their two hour, rowdy ramble over the past few years. Louis almost didn’t hear it.

“Mm?”

“What if..” And then Louis felt the burning hot of Andrews palm cover his hand. “We named the song.. We Made It?”

With that, Louis popped his eyes open again only to see Andrew staring back at him. The energy in the room shifted, becoming heavier the longer the clock ticked from the corner of the room. He felt Andrew’s pulse quicken through his palm, and Louis managed a sleepy smile, clasping his fingers between his.

“We Made It...”

He murmured before curling up under Andrew’s arm. Falling asleep, almost instantly.

[vidkid20ssimblrlair]

Episode 17: More Than Meets The Eye

Narrated by Matthew

From afar I watched the proceedings. With Jones's full permission, we held a small funeral in the back yard for Grace. Her body to be buried amongst the flowers where she breathed her last breath. I couldn't bring myself to get any closer than the porch. The guilt was eating me alive. I was on watch. This was my fault.

I noticed Vince standing around the dugged out grave where Grace's body laid now. He held on to Audrey as he sadly looked on. He glanced back at me. I fully expected to get the evil eye from him, but he just looked somber and serious. I looked away almost feeling ashamed of myself. If I hadn't been interrogating him and harassing him I would have seen Grace. Possibly maybe even saved her. Hell, if I had just listened to him I could have prevented all of this.

Omar stood by in a black suit borrowed by Jones as Jones himself said a prayer during the makeshift service. DJ stood by with a shovel looking grim. Madison, Lin, and Wade also stood around in black garments fitting for a funeral. Everyone was pretty much dressed up. Aaron leaned on the railing beside me seemingly to be sober for once. Not for long I figured. Tao sat on the bench behind me quiet as a mouse. Unusual for him, but expected. Nathan joined me on the porch beside me suddenly. I smiled at him as he looked over at me and he turned away ignoring me. I was shocked. He seemed angry.

In fact, everyone seemed to be cold towards me. Wade, especially after calling me out over Grace's death. He was furious and cursed under his breath when we bumped into each other in the kitchen earlier. Madison, on the other hand, hadn't forgiven me for lying to her from before. She slept on the other side of the living room away from me after that night. This only topped it off I'm sure. I was pretty sure I was on the top of everyone's shit list.

When the funeral was over and everyone began to filter into the house, DJ picked up the shovel and began filling the grave. Omar had thrown the first piles of dirt into the grave, but the young man had taken over from the looks of it. I came over and grabbed the shovel nearby.

"I'll do it," I said as he glanced up at me. "Go back in the house."

Omar who stayed behind to talk to Madison on the porch looked over at me. A picture of grief. He dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief and said nothing entering the house. Madison followed cutting her eye at me before disappearing. Vince though stayed watching from the stairs as I shoveled in dirt. He looked conflicted looking at the house and back at me. He eventually walked over and grabbed the extra shovel DJ had left. He began helping me shoveling dirt in. Our eyes meeting for a brief moment, but nothing was said between us. We continued in silence saying nothing. Nothing needed to be said.

I spent most my evening in silence. Everyone mostly stayed to themselves while some just actively avoided me. There was no doubt that a dark cloud was hanging over the house now. Part of me wished I was anywhere, but here. I decided to spend the evening sitting on the front porch steps with a bottle of wine. The cool air tonight was soothing and the sound of crickets reminded me of home. I drink from the bottle and savored the bitter flavor. I wasn't even halfway into the bottle when I suddenly smelled cigarette smoke. I looked over to see Vince standing next to me now smoking. The cigarette hung out of his mouth and balanced on his lower lip. He appeared to be still dressed up just as I, but he had a backpack on.

I furrowed my brow. "Going somewhere?"

"Thinking about it," he said taking the cig out of his mouth and blowing out a cloud of smoke in my face.

"So you're going just leave with your tail between your legs?" I asked eyeing him. "Leave Audrey when she needs you the most?"

"Fuck off!"

"I'm just asking."

"I said I'm just thinking about it. Not actually doing it. I don't know. I just don't do well with this shit. It's unbearable," he muttered. "Weren't you the one who wanted me to go?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, but I changed my mind. I'm thinking maybe I was wrong about you. I sure as hell haven't been making the best decisions lately."

"No shit!"

I laughed. "Can I have a puff?"

He frowned and handed me the cigarette. I took a nice long drag from it. It was stale, but I had missed this taste. I blew the smoke out of my nose and mouth. I watched it float in the air marveling its intricate swirls. I handed it back to him and he held onto it flicking ashes onto the ground.

"Wine?" I said offering him the bottle. He took the bottle, studied it, read the label, and took a sip.

He chuckled. "It's a miracle you found alcohol in this house with Aaron around."

"It's a miracle you found a cigarette. You got any more?"

"Nah. If I did I wouldn't be saving this," he said puffing from it. He handed it back to me. "I lucked up and found this when we first discovered the gas station some weeks ago."

I happily took it and smirked. "Well, it's pretty stale but good. I had quit before when things were normal. Got back in the habit after I found a pack in a convenient store recently. Went through the pack pretty fast. Thought I might never see another cig. As bad as it is for your health, I sure I miss it."

He shrugged. "You'll be surprised at how much you miss nowadays."

"You know I haven't had the guts to face Omar. I can't imagine what's he's going through," I lamented. "I heard Grace might have woke up in the middle of the night looking for that damn cat. She might have thought it was outside terrorizing the chickens or something. She probably didn't even see the walker."

"Most people like that with Alzheimer's wander around at strange hours anyway. She probably had no idea what she was doing."

"Are you trying to make me feel better?"

"Maybe,...but you still fucked up majorly."

"I know that. Must you be so blunt?" I chuckled trying not to cringe. I slowly deflated feeling guilt wash me over again. "So, what makes you think there's more to me?"

He shrugged again seemingly mulling over his answer. He exhaled. "It's something about you. Sometimes you seem cold. Like you've seen some shit or been through some shit. Well before the corpses took over at least. I just don't think you were some ordinary privilege white boy with a cushy job is what I'm saying."

"Now you're making assumptions Mr. Martez," I said handing him what was left of his cigarette. I then laughed and looked him right in the eye. "I can see why you would say that, but I am what I say I am. Now, I wasn't always 'privileged'. I did grow up poor in a small town. As for being 'cold', you can blame my father for that I guess.

"Damn, you got old man problems too?"

I took the bottle from him and took a nice long drink. I sighed. "I guess so. Well, he wasn't a terrible father compared to some. He took care of us and was there at least, but he was strict and old fashion. You see our older sister, Rachel had it easy. She was his little princess. She was raised as daddy's little girl. Us boys, me and Nate, we were raised to be men. Men in the images of him or what he wanted us to be at least."

I took another sip. "He put guns in our hands before we could say my ABCs. We were raised to be cold, calculating, and tough. One of our first lessons was hunting. We would hunt deer mostly. I...I didn't like it. I never did. Shooting something that couldn't shoot back or defend itself seemed unfair. Even to me as a little kid, but there was no crying with him. Boys didn't cry in his presence and he didn't raise sissys. We would get whoopings if we did."

"Damn."

"Yeah," I chuckled again. "I remember he took me and my brother out in the forest one day. Told us we had to shoot our first deer. Each of us. We were only nine then. I remember hunting down one and then taking aim at the poor creature. I thought there was something beautiful about them. Majestic you know. I aimed at it and remember my hands shook as I began to squeeze the trigger, but I couldn't do it. I lowered my gun and told him I couldn't do it. Begged him not to make me, but he threatened to beat me and my brother till we couldn't stand. Then beat us again if he felt like it. So I took the shot."

"You took it?"

"Yeah. I was supposed to shoot the poor thing in the head. I shot it in the torso and it fell but it cried and cried. It was the most horrible sound I ever heard. He slapped me in the back of the head for not getting a clean shot. Then he dragged me and my brother over to it. I watched it squirm and scream in pain. It was horrible. That's when I began crying and my brother followed. We both cried and that only enraged my father. He cursed at us. Told us to stop crying and be men. Then he handed me a knife and told me to finish what I started. He wanted me to stab it in the head."

"Did you stab it?"

"Of course I did. I had no choice. He wasn't going put it out of its misery and I feared what might happen if I didn't, so I did. Now it would take me several minutes and I begged him to do it, but I did. Then we took it home. He made us watch him skin it. Then we ate it for dinner that night. Typical and pretty common for animals we raised too."

I grimaced. “It was one of the many lessons he would force on us. Practically beat into us. I can still hear his words. His lessons.”

“Well, how about your mom? Didn’t she do anything?”

“No, but I don’t blame her. Maybe I should, but I don’t. At the end of the day, she was a good mom.”

"So let me see here. You’re basically saying you got a bit of excuse to be an asshole. So what? We all had fucked up lives one way or another.”

"True. Very true.”

“But the point I was making is I’ve been like this all my life. It’s always been easier for me to assume the worse in people. Easier to mistrust. What I did last night. You didn’t deserve that. There’s no excuse for that. I’m sorry,” I said looking him in the eye now.

“It’s fine,” he said nodding flashing me an earnest smile. “So that’s all that makes you tick?”

“Well yeah. When I got older I made a point to move out to the city and make something for myself. Now that I that think about it, I got carried away with that too I guess. That cushy job became my life.  It became more important than anyone and anything. Not to mention I was a ruthless asshole. Maybe I did become my dad."

"I doubt that. Well, I barely know you, but these people seem to respect you. To like you."

"Yeah, but I couldn't blame them if they didn’t now. After what happened to Grace. I failed her and everyone."

I felt warm tears collect at my bottom lid but I kept my composure. Vince kept quiet as he appeared to be in deep in thought now. He threw the cigarette butt on the ground and stomped the embers still looking downward away from me.

"I don't know why I told you all this. You probably hate me yourself," I said rubbing my eyes and letting out a small laugh.

"I don't hate you," he said sitting down next me now with his eyes solely on me. "I pity you, but one thing. I guess I should pity Nate too. Sounds like you both had it rough."

"Well, he did. I mostly took the brunt of it. He may not look it, but he's always been the sensitive one. He used to faint at the sight of blood. My father considered him weak and I was the one with potential. I often resented my brother for that."

"So let me see you're a fucked up white kid who ran away from Mommy and Daddy, went to the city with your bro, became a fancy executive and now you're here slumming it up with an ex-convict in the apocalypse?

I laughed. "That's a pretty good summary."

"And part of me was hoping you were a spy."

We shared a chuckle and I downed the last of the wine. We then heard the door open and Madison appeared. She stepped out onto the porch staring at the both of us. 

She wore a very confused expression on her face as she did. "Um...am I missing something? You're not trying to kill each other?" she perplexed.

"No," we both said shrugging.

"Are you two feeling ok?" she asked still bewildered. She then looked down at the empty wine bottle now sitting on the ground. "You're drunk? Really drunk?"

I scoffed. "Madison. We buried the hatchet. Is it that hard to believe?"

"In each other? You buried a hatchet in each other?"

I grabbed her playfully and she fell onto my lap. She didn't try to struggle. She sat there looking back at me with a worried expression on her face. She seemed to be in a forgiving mood as well.

"Well, I'm going to leave you two love birds alone," Vince said slightly frowning at the two of us. He got up and headed towards the house.

"Oh, no you can stay," Madison pleaded.

"Nah. I'll catch y'all later."

"Vince," I said. He stopped in his tracks. "Thanks for listening to me."

He flashed me a small smile. "Um..sure. Anytime.."

He went back inside leaving me and Madison alone. She remained on my lap. Her eyes searching my face still looking concerned.

"You been crying?" she asked touching my face.

"No. It was something in my eye. I'm fine," I said wiping them.

"Well, I came to bury the hatchet too," she purred in my ear. She got up from my lap and sat down beside me. She placed her head on my shoulder and sighed. "I don't want to be mad anymore. I don't even want to think."

"Me either."

"I just want to forget today ever happened. Forget last night ever happened. I just want things to go back to normal. I want everything to be ok again. Is that stupid?"

I looked into her eyes. Her eyes so beautiful, but so sad. Something about her seemed so small at this moment. So vulnerable. I rubbed her back ensuring her. "No. Everything will be ok. I promise."

She then lifted up looking alarmed. She seemed to be staring at the bushes as if looking for something.

"What's wrong?" I asked straining to see anything.

"It's... it's nothing. I'm just being paranoid," she said forcing a smile on her face. She leaned her head back on my shoulder. "You're right. Everything's going to be alright."

Previous Episodes- Ep16: What About Grace Part 1 & Part 2

All Episodes

Sorry for the delay. >_<

P.S. This is my first time making poses on stairs b/w. xD

[rocket-roach]

Shadows We Know

request from everyone’s favorite fandom mom and queen of knowledge who i admire very much, @fuyunoakegata 

I wanted to write more of this and I think I definitely will at one point, because I love all the boys in this fic and I feel like there’s a lot more for me explore in this story.

ANYWAY. without further ado: here’s dick, jason, and tim dealing (and struggling) with their father and losing someone else very important

Word count: 2133

He’s always had nightmares. They just got worse after his parents were killed. Then they were catastrophic after Bruce died.

Tim running around the manor while he hunted for the ghost of their father didn’t help any.

Patrol had been quiet. Damian didn’t complain as much as he used to, even with Tim’s return to the manor. It had been months since Dick had fired Tim and started the youngest as Robin. But it was nice to have Tim back. Even if he was quickly and drastically reducing the amount of espresso in the house.

His mind was flying. Tim was back, but Jason had been spending nearly every waking hour in Crime Alley. Dick had gone there to bring him home. But the sight of Jay leaving sacks of Big Belly Burger on the fire escapes and at the entrances of the cardboard lean-tos, he left him alone. It didn’t feel right to ask him to come home then. Jason was still healing, and he didn’t want to force open those wounds.

He laid in his bed, aching to go across the hall and ask Bruce for help.

But that was what crazy people didn’t, wasn’t it? Ask the dead for advice. He wasn’t crazy, he rationalized as he slid his feet into the Superman slippers on the side of his bed. He was just out of options. Dick padded across the hall. Bruce’s door opened with its usual soft groan.

Lit only by the full moon outside, the massive master suite was spotless. There wasn’t a speck of dust on the desk, the bedside table, the dresser, or even in the bathroom. Finding the room to his liking, he sat on the bed and laid down. Bruce’s grey comforter was just as fluffy as the day he left it. The former acrobat wiggled underneath it after a beat, wrapping it around himself in a cocoon of warmth.

Dick fell asleep moments later.

He was standing under the big top, the spotlights aimed at the platforms above. His parents stood on the far right one, waving their hands as an invisible crowd cheered loudly. On the left, stood Bruce. He was shouting, Dick could tell from the way that one vein was straining on his forehead and how the tendons on his neck were taught. But he was making no sound.

He was trying to stop the Dick’s parents from leaping. He finally caught sight of Dick in the ring, and Bruce’s glacial eyes pinned him to that spot.

 Over the roar of the crowd, Dick heard Bruce say four words.

“Crime Alley devours children.”

John and Mary’s bodies hit the ground with two wet thuds.

Dick shot awake in his father’s bed, his hair soaked with sweat and tears and snot covering his face. Songbirds were heralding the new day outside of the bay windows, and bile rose in his throat. Dick charged to the bathroom; his hands gripping the porcelain bowl as he vomited. Alfred had started knocking on the door. Dick was too busy dry-heaving over the puke to answer. Then he felt a gentle hand smoothing his hair away from his face.

“Master Dick,” Alfred said softly. “It’s alright, sir. You’re okay.”

“I saw him, Al,” Dick finally said. “in my dream.”

Alfred tried to muffle his groan as he joined Dick on the floor, but from the worried look Dick shot him, he hadn’t been successful.

“Should we move to the bed?”

“I’m old, Master Dick. Not an invalid. Do you want to tell me about the dream?”

“He said something really weird. He said, god, what was it?” Dick bit his lip as he thought. “Oh, that’s right. ‘Crime Alley devours children.’ That’s pretty off the wall, even for him.”

“He might be onto something,” a deep, smoke ruined voice said from the doorway. “Three of the kids under my protection have gone missing within the past three weeks.”

“I came to tell you Master Jason was home,” Alfred spoke.

 They were in the cave after breakfast, with Damian sticking close to Dick’s side. Tim was in the evidence corner, muttering to himself as he putzed with various spoils of intergalactic battle. Jason’s hands kept going to the front right pocket where a pack of Camel blue cigarettes sat, his lighter just barely visible.

“A lot them move down there because they know it’s a favorite spot of ours. I tried scarin’ em off at first, didn’t want them running into any of the usual assholes who hang there. But that only encouraged them. Three weeks ago, 17 kids were living in that alley. As of this morning, there’s only 14. At first, I just thought they’d moved to a better place in the city. But there’s this one kid, Jules Adams. Told me all about how she saw a shadow with fangs take Colton Taylor. He was the first kid who vanished. Then told me that she heard Hank Giaccione yelling about fangs. She told me that, and when I brought her a coffee this morning--”

“You gave a kid coffee?” Tim asked.

“Quiet, Tim. The adults are talking,” Jason waved him off. “Anyway, I brought her coffee and donuts, but Jerome said she vanished just before sunrise. Jerome said he saw giant sharp teeth dragging her down the alley.”

“You’re like four years older than me,” Tim griped.

“We’re supposed to believe that shadows that have teeth are stealing street rats, Todd?”

“I came back from the dead, in case you forgot. I basically raised you.”

“You did not!” Damian shouted.

“Then who wiped your ass when the other ninjas wouldn’t?”

“The ninjas didn’t want to wipe his ass?” Tim asked as he emerged from the evidence corner with a time gun. “Jesus, how much did you poop?”

Dick intervened as Damian began turning beet red. “We’re getting off topic,” He wrapped an arm around Damian, drawing him fully against his side. “What do you think it is, Jay?”

“Sounds like some witchcraft stuff to me,” Tim interjected as a yellow blast of energy blew out of the barrel of the gun. A bat who had been unlucky enough to be downrange suddenly exploded into a giant bat, to which Tim noted: “Huh, guess they really are evolved from Megachiroptera. How ‘bout that.”

The next round fired was neon green, and a very startled and confused bat crashed into the nearest cave wall.

“Tim, stop shooting the bats.”

“I need to figure out how this thing works,” Tim muttered as he wandered back to the evidence corner.

Jason watched as Tim’s mop of messy hair vanished around the wall.

“Is he still looking for Bruce?” Jason asked once it was just the three of him.

“He’s still convinced that he’s not dead.”

“I mean, the boss man thought I was dead. So, did you, Dick. If there’s anything this family is really bad at, it’s staying dead. Anyway, I thought it was witchcraft like Tim did. I talked to Swamp Thing while I was down in Florida vising Roy and he said it didn’t sound like any magical being he’d ever heard of. Then I was thinking about it; the shadow only comes out at night. There’s no report of a shadow with fangs appearing during daylight. I don’t think it’s witchcraft. I think it’s just some psychopath.”

 Dick’s dreams were worse that evening. He was back in the big top. His parents and Bruce were standing in the same spots they were the night before. But the crowd was a writhing mass of black, twisted shadows roaring for a jump. A whip of the black shadows rocketed from the nosebleeds, connecting with Bruce’s back. He was shoved off the platform, his face as stoic as ever as he plummeted down. Feet away from the dirt, he turned his head and looked Dick in the eyes.

“The shadow knows,” He said before his neck broke.

 The next night found Red Hood, Robin, and Batman perched on the various run-down buildings that guarded Crime Alley. Beneath them, kids dressed in ratty old clothes both too large and too small for them scrounged about in the alley for scraps of food. They were all quiet as they watched. If the kids knew they were there, they didn’t acknowledge them. For that, the assembled bats were grateful. It helped them in their hunt. Hours passed. They switched buildings. Ate some Jokerized burgers. Damian beat Jason in four games of rock, paper, scissors. Jason gave Damian a noogie. Dick had to remove a shuriken from Jason’s side.

They did this for 6 days straight.

It had been a week since Jules disappeared. Jason was becoming frantic. The shadow would strike again tonight, he was sure of it. He could taste it like he could taste the staleness of the cigarette he was currently plowing through.

And Dick was nowhere to be found. He’d been trying to hail him all night on the comms, even going so far at one point as to send one of the kids to the police station to turn on the signal. There had been no response.

“Hood to cave,” he murmured. “Tonight’s the night. I could really use some backup. Or, whatever.”

“You know, you’re really bad at asking for help,” Tim responded, the sound of his grapple firing over his comm. “Bats can’t make it tonight. Robin said he had a bad night. He’s down for the count; or at least till the knock-out gas Agent A gave him wears off.”

“Jesus,” Jay breathed. “That bad?”

“He nearly clocked Robin. He’s in a bad way. Don’t worry about briefing me, I’m all caught up.”

Jay noticed one of the cardboard boxes was now leaning to the right, when it had been drifting left towards collapse at the beginning of the evening.

“For the record,” Jason said as Tim landed to his right. “I believe you. I don’t buy it that Bruce is dead.”

The white covered eyes of Tim’s cowl narrowed as he watched his older brother. “Do you really?”

“Speaking as a former dead person myself, yes. Now, I think our perp is down there. Let’s move.”

 The next morning found Jay and Tim, sitting at the table covered in bandages and brooding. Dick joined them. He had dark circles under his eyes which only made the paleness of his face stand out. He sat in his usual spot, to the right of the head seat. None of the boys said anything. They just sat. Alfred entered quietly, serving each one their favorite breakfasts. Chicken and waffles for Dick. Pancakes buried underneath breakfast sausage, bacon, and hash browns. Eggs benedict with a side of yogurt and strawberries for Tim. Cheese stuffed kaek for Damian, with a nice cup of tea.

They ate in silence.

Damian’s plate remained untouched.

 Alfred left the room to go retrieve Damian for his morning repast.

Jason sighed. He really wanted a fucking smoke.

Tim finished his yogurt. He needed to get back to finding his dad.

Dick swallowed a bite that was too big. He wanted his dad to be alive again, so he could get some sleep.

“Master Damian is missing.”

“There were 14 kids this morning,” Tim jolted in his seat.

 Dick decided that he was going to fight off sleep until he could find his youngest brother. It didn’t feel right to see Bruce in his sleep while his son was missing. The bats tore apart Crime Alley, asking every kid for help, taking every piece of evidence. Any criminal unlucky enough to mouth off to Batman that night got a taste of their own teeth.

“It’s almost as if he’s back,” Red Robin whispered to Red hood.

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown,” Hood responded.

Eventually, they end up in the Iron District. The snarling of the Batmobile echoed through the derelict buildings. All the clues and evidence they’d collected in their fear and rage was leading them to the original Wayne Enterprises factory. Where their father’s wealth had been quintupled during the industrial revolution.

All the signs were pointing them to the smoke stacks that loomed higher than any others in that area.

The car drove through a loading dock, then straight to the center of the building where the stacks sat. They were out of the car before it was completely still, charging towards the man-sized opening at the bottom of the middle one. Dick charged in first, Tim right on his heels. Jason checked his guns, then stepped through.

 A long haired, very bearded, Bruce Wayne was leaning against the wall with a regular tenant of Arkham Asylum unconscious at his feet. He held a bruise covered Damian in his arms. Those glacial blue eyes were filled with fire.

“He brought me back,” Bruce whispered.

[agapaic]

[fic] nothing’s gonna hurt you, baby [3/6]

he tian x mo guan shan

tags/notes: 1920′s au, new york au, reference to drugs and alcohol, gang violence.

links: read on ao3 | part one | part two

this fic was commissioned by @teanshan

part 3: patriotism

He Tian was sitting at the dining table when Guan Shan walked downstairs the next morning, his mouth dry and ashen from the liquor last night.

His pressed suit and concentrated gaze gave him the air of someone who’d been awake hours, and Guan Shan grew self-conscious in the teal silk nightshirt and trousers Jian Yi had given him, hair ruffled from sleep, sheet lines on his skin, eyes wandering blearily—sharp and alert as soon as he saw the man eating breakfast in Jian Yi’s dining room.

‘Good morning,’ He Tian said, blowing the heat from a spoonful of broth.

Guan Shan stood immobile in the doorway. ‘Why are you here?’

He Tian tutted. ‘Impolite,’ he said, and swallowed a mouthful.

Cigarette smoke mixed with salted soup, steamed buns, hot rice, and the tang of newly cut fruit, and Guan Shan’s stomach twisted with hunger. He’d spent too long snooping Jian Yi’s house the day before to use his kitchen, and his dinner at Zhengxi’s had been small and hurried between shifts. The last full meal had been in his mother’s kitchen, congee and fried tofu with greens and braised beef, swallowed down with his mother’s worry lines and the hand she wouldn’t stop holding.

He Tian said, ‘Did you forget? I said the attorney would be here with a contract.’

Guan Shan narrowed his eyes. ‘Yeah. I’m only lookin’ at you.’

He Tian smiled, all teeth. ‘Then you’re looking at my attorney. I don’t trust anyone else to carry out business I can do myself.’ He flicked his fingers across the table. ‘Sit. Eat. Jian Yi’s gone out, and you look wasting.’

The smell of food pulled him to the seat across the table, and Guan Shan cautiously picked up the sheaf of papers that rested beside the laid-out crockery. Stark paragraphs stared up at him, some terms Guan Shan knew and understood, and most he didn’t. He glanced up at He Tian, who was spearing a piece of melon with a fork.

‘What’s this?’ Guan Shan said.

‘What does it look like?’ He Tian said, chewing, helping himself to rice. ‘Your contract.’

The paper crinkled as Guan Shan’s fist closed around it. ‘I can’t understand this shit.’

He Tian said, ‘I know,’ and leaned back in the dining chair, as at home as if the house were his. Maybe it was. ‘It’s a farce,’ He Tian continued. ‘Just as you being my secretary will be a farce. Half of this is make-believe.’

‘You never asked if I could read or write.’

He Tian nodded. ‘Right.’ His head tilted. ‘Can you?’

‘Well enough,’ Guan Shan says sourly. He’d been educated in his village, taught to write mostly by his father from menus and pamphlets and newspapers. His mother would tell him stories as she worked in the house, Guan Shan acting as scribe, following her from room to room with a notebook and pencil. School had been too far from his village in Canton, and he’d never had the smarts or dedication to try for a university. There wasn’t much for his family to be prideful over.

‘I’ll take it,’ He Tian said. ‘Wouldn’t matter if you couldn’t. Eat.’

Guan Shan pushed down the desire to snap back at the command. Hunger won out, and he helped himself to broth and steam buns, peeled lychee and halved, sour-sweet pomelo.

He Tian watched him while he ate, tapped ash out into a cigarette tray, kept his gaze steady through the smoked haze, a lazed insouciance that left Guan Shan tense and nervous. He felt spiked with adrenaline, flashes of heat stabbing at the back of his neck and his thighs, and was grateful for the cracked-open window that let in New York’s cooling, damp autumn air, the chaotic acoustics of the city breaking stale silence.

One thing was abundantly clear to Guan Shan as he ate: dining with the enemy was as good as being in bed with them.

‘You’ve got better things to do than this,’ Guan Shan said eventually, sucking pomelo juice from his thumb, a thin sheen of spit layering his skin.

‘On the contrary,’ He Tian said, eyes on his. ‘I’ve got all day to do this if I choose.’

‘Must be real fucking nice,’ Guan Shan said. ‘That luxury.’

He Tian said, ‘On the contrary.’ He nodded to Guan Shan’s empty bowls, the abandoned fruit peel. ‘Go wash, if you’re finished. I have business I need your assistance with.’

‘Thought you could do this all day,’ Guan Shan said.

‘Thought you wanted a job,’ He Tian countered, smile polite enough to carry a threat.

Guan Shan left to shower.

He Tian drove them north-west through Manhattan in a black car called a Silver Ghost, which, as He Tian informed Guan Shan, was hand-built and one of only seven-thousand made in the world. Guan Shan told him he wasn’t much impressed by cars, sheltered beneath its collapsible fabric hood, eyeing the miniature winged woman made of silver that rose from the bonnet.

‘They’re an acquired taste,’ said He Tian, easing his way through the streets of Manhattan, away from Chinatown’s lower east side, where the bold, modernist buildings of Fifth Avenue and Greenwich Village and West Village rose higher, stretched wider, balconies bursting with flowers and a richness that was foreign and remote and western to Guan Shan, and billboards for cigarettes and Dodge and Ford motors clung to the building sides.

Jian Yi’s townhouse was a bungalow compared to some of the residences that filled the avenues of New York City’s Chelsea, Zhengxi’s restaurant a pale imitator of the glamour that lined the city streets up-town in Madison Square.

An acquired taste.

‘Yeah,’ Guan Shan muttered distractedly. ‘Acquired by people with money.’

He Tian shrugged. ‘Or people with determination,’ he said. ‘With fire.’ His glance towards Guan Shan was pointed, but his eyes didn’t stray from the streets long, pedestrians lining the pavements, decked in raincoats and hoisting umbrellas like rifles over their shoulders. The clouds were a rolling purple, eagerly gathering, and Guan Shan felt the air wait for its rainstorm.

‘Fire doesn’t do anyone much good here if they’re not white.’

He Tian said, ‘That’s what they’d like you to believe.’

Guan Shan went sullen as He Tian pulled the car to a stop. They were on a residential street on the outskirts of Chelsea. Guan Shan could see glimpses of the Hudson River through wide-spaced brownstones, the pier not too far in the distance, choked with ships and docked boats, and fumes from tobacco factories and steel mills soaked the air.

He helped He Tian pull a fitted tarpaulin over the Silver Phantom, and followed him up the few steps to the doorway of one of the residences. The door unlocked with He Tian’s palmed key, and the unremarkable exterior shifted as soon as it closed behind them.

He Tian’s penchant for disguises was becoming distinctly apparent to Guan Shan as he took in the space; normalcy on the outside, a dizzying parade on the inside, where men in suits and women in slim dresses hurried about the building like bees in a hive, spurred on by the smoke of cigarettes and hash, the ground floor open and absent of dividing rooms, like the stretched innards of a warehouse.

If there was music playing, Guan Shan couldn’t hear it over the shouting of back-and-forth voices, of wooden doors slamming and typewriter carriages pealing to a next line, of feet stomping up staircases and floorboards creaking with traffic above. Glasses of liquor and cordial sat like permanent fixtures on the rows of desks that filled the room, green desk lamps like pockets of jade that fit the main hall of the lower floor, and wooden boards stood sentry-like along the walls. They were decorated with profile photographs and typewritten posters stuck with drawing pins like some policing precinct, but there was nothing abiding in the building.

Almost, it had the illusion of a bank: high windows and suited employees and the nervous, commercial energy of professionalism. But it was too obviously apart from that legality. Guan Shan could almost smell the cordite from gunfire, could taste the white buzz of bloodshot eyes and cocaine breath, could feel the red-soaked paper of stolen hundred-dollar notes.

Men and women paused as He Tian pushed through the hall, nodding and letting him pass, glancing up from typewriters and thick stacks of documentation. Someone took his coat, another the key to the car. A stout woman muttered hurried sentences in He Tian’s ear as he nodded and moved ceaselessly towards the staircase, Guan Shan following, upwards and through another identical hall-like room packed with people, and then towards the closed door at the room. The power He Tian held in this building was palpable, energy shifting from harried to focussed as soon as they caught sight of his dark suit and the golden hilt of his cane, which clacked pointedly along the floorboards.

Most alarming to Guan Shan was that no one stopped him; no one questioned him or raised eyebrows at his red hair. He had arrived with He Tian, and that gave him an authority—an immunity—that was frightening.

Guan Shan had no idea who he was dealing with.

Like the bar beneath Zhengxi’s restaurant, the office at the back of the room was solitary and polished, and the sound of the rooms outside was muted as soon as Guan Shan and He Tian were inside, a blanket of cotton wool draped over them.

Guan Shan sat himself down before He Tian’s desk, its owner standing with his shoulder blades hunched back as he poured over an open manilla folder bursting with sheets of paper.

‘The bar under the restaurant isn’t where you work,’ Guan Shan said, running sweaty palms over the fabric of his trousers.

‘Correct,’ He Tian said, flipping through sheets, eyes scanning black and white text with a rabid kind of pace. ‘Farces, remember?’

Guan Shan remembered—substituted farce for disguise in his head.

‘What do you do here?’ he asked. ‘What were all those people doin’?’

‘This and that,’ He Tian replied.

Guan Shan bit the side of his cheek. ‘And d’you want me to do this or that?’

He Tian’s roaming gaze stilled, and with a careful steadiness, he looked up at Guan Shan. ‘What do you think, Guan Shan? What do you think someone like me does?’

‘Isn’t that why I’m fuckin’ asking?’

He Tian’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but then he collapsed into his desk chair with a cultured ease that seemed planned. He rubbed at his temple with the fingertips of his left hand. With his right, he dug into his desk drawers and threw a box of Turkish Murad cigarettes on the the surface, plucked one out, and lit it with the lighter in his breast pocket.

‘We run betting transactions here, Guan Shan. We handle liquor and opium imports. We ordain the gentlemen’s clubs and the whorehouses and fund the churches. We work with those dirty cop friends you happily condemned.’ He said, ‘We run the city here, Guan Shan.’

Guan Shan remembered the conversation he’d heard last night in the little Chinatown watering hole.

‘You’re a Tong.’

He Tian didn’t blink. ‘That’s a part of it. But that’s China. I’m talking New York.’ He took a drag. ‘Do you know two of the oaths a man takes to join a Tong?’

Guan Shan didn’t.

‘Loyalty, and righteousness,’ He Tian said, holding up forefinger and thumb. ‘Loyalty to one’s people, and a promise to protect those people from outsiders.’ He Tian spread his hands. ‘How’s that going to work in our people’s favour if we shut ourselves off from those outsiders—whose land we live on and work on and shit on?’

It was barely nine o’clock, but Guan Shan thought about the drink He Tian had offered him last night, and he thought he might accept it now.

‘You want our people to—assimilate?’ Guan Shan asked, trying to think of the word. It tasted dirty on his tongue like poorly made cigars and the ash of burnt ginger left too long over a flame.

‘In their eyes, we’re all delinquents. Thieving foreigners. We’re disorganised and lawless and we all want to follow different rules according to our heritage. How can we work with other people if we can’t work with ourselves? Then there’s the Russians, the Italians, the Irish. I want a common goal.’

Guan Shan stared at He Tian. ‘So you want Chinatown to be under your rule? Everyone according to your rules?’

He Tian arched a brow, and tapped his cigarette. ‘Is it not already?’

‘I heard there were wars.’ You can’t rule something when there’s civil war.

‘Old wars led by old people. I don’t belong to that.’

Guan Shan swallowed this. ‘You think—You know you have Chinatown,’ he said, quickly correcting himself. ‘So, what, you’re going for the whole of fucking Manhattan?’

He Tian smiled thinly. ‘Guan Shan. I’m going for the East Coast.’

Something ran down Guan Shan’s spine like a spider, spreading coldness through every web of muscle and capillary and bone fragment. He looked at He Tian, nine o’clock in the morning and running half of New York’s underground, and knew that He Tian believed in everything he was saying.

What scared Guan Shan, scared him in its arrogance, was that he believed in everything He Tian was saying too.

A thought popped into his head easily, unbidden, and it chilled him: How long do you have to run with this dream before they put you down? He Tian’s death seemed like the death of a god, something invincible and winged and too-powerful brought down by the humanness of a bullet or a knife. But Guan Shan knew that men were only men, and as much as he feared He Tian—fuck him and his mortal weaknesses—He Tian was only the same.

‘You’re fucking crazy,’ Guan Shan said.

He Tian chuckled. ‘My brother would be happy to hear that.’

‘Your brother?’

‘He runs the West,’ He Tian explained, a dismissive edge to his tone. ‘He always called the East an untamable beast. It’d be a fucking pleasure to prove him wrong.’

He runs the West.

Fuck, Guan Shan was beyond this.

If He Tian had his hand in every pocket of every citizen in a thousand-mile radius, Guan Shan was a pauper with empty pockets drinking rainwater off the streets. He couldn’t do this. His father was lost to the untamable beast that Guan Shan thought was He Tian before it was the coastline, and Guan Shan was dreaming if he thought he’d ever find his father again. He was going to die here.

‘And where do I fit in all this?’ he asked, fighting to keep his voice steady. ‘You saw me in a restaurant and took me as I was? No money and shitty education and a background you don’t really believe? You don’t seem like the kinda person who makes those kinda mistakes.’

‘Right,’ said He Tian. ‘So if I wanted you, what makes you think I’ve made a mistake?’

‘If you—’ The words shuddered to a stop. ‘Want me for what?’

He Tian shrugged. ‘Company. A second opinion. You interest me.’ He pressed out his cigarette. ‘You ask a fuck ton of questions for someone who just wants money, Mo Guan Shan.’

His full name on He Tian’s tongue was fearful; did He Tian remember Guan Shan’s father’s name? Had he made the connection? Was Guan Shan sitting here, waiting for a moment to strike, and all the while He Tian was waiting for him to do the same with some omniscient arrogance?

‘I don’t trust this,’ Guan Shan told him.

He Tian said, ‘That makes two of us, and I don’t care. You knew my name, where I was. What made you think you could?’ He held up a hand, fingers slender and exposed and silencing. ‘No more questions,’ he said, and tapped a finger on the desk. ‘Business.’

He threw the folder in front of him over to Guan Shan’s side of the desk, and Guan Shan picked it up the same way he approached anything offered to him by He Tian: tentative and cautious and waiting for it to bite. The same way he approached the man himself.

‘What d’you want with this guy?’ Guan Shan asked, leafing through the documented profile of some white politician, a black-and-white photo of the man staring up, his smile a stretch of white teeth that made Guan Shan’s skin crawl, light eyes leering and imposing through the paper.

‘We’re going to pay him a visit,’ He Tian said. ‘Mr Sauer’s parents fled to America in the eighteen-fifties after their pro-democracy politics threw them into government scrutiny. Sauer seems to be a fan of twisting his family’s beliefs to suit his own agenda.’

Guan Shan looked up, mouth twisting. ‘But you want to twist our country’s for your agenda? Fucking hypocrite.’

Wordlessly, immediately, He Tian leaned over and pressed his cigarette into the back of Guan Shan’s hand.

The searing burn was immediate, brief and gone within the second, but it was enough for Guan Shan to cry out and drop the folder into his lap, eyes watering with stinging, welting pain, the smell of burnt skin filling his nostrils.

‘You were saying?’ He Tian said, and relit the cigarette.

Guan Shan cradled his hand against his chest as his body trembled—and glared.

‘Don’t cross me, Guan Shan. Neither of us will like it.’ He reached over again, ignoring Guan Shan’s flinch, and grabbed the folder from Guan Shan’s lap. ‘I have most of Tammany, but I want more than that political machine. I need the right-wingers too if I’m getting this Exclusion Act out of my way.’

Mind reeling from the sudden act of violence, Guan Shan tried to piece himself back together and focus on the conversation. His skin had stopped searing, but it was sore and needed ice, the flesh already risen in a bubble the shape of a cigarette cherry. For some time, Guan Shan knew there would be a scar.

‘Sauer’s my answer to this problem,’ He Tian continued, ‘but if he won’t convert then he needs to get out of my way.’

‘Convert?’ Guan Shan asked, clearing his horse voice.

‘He’s an opioid addict, which is easy leverage. But he’s roughed up some of my girls a few times too many.’ He Tian ran a thumb along his jawline in thoughtful planning. ‘I’m half-hoping he won’t be easy to bait.’

‘It would justify you murdering him.’

He Tian’s smile is cold. ‘When one of my girls ends up in the hospital with her breasts cut open with a knife, we can talk about justification.’

Guan Shan felt his face twist at the starkness of He Tian’s words, undressed and barren. He spoke with a vulgar clarity that clashed with the low smoothness of his voice, an impression that was jarring and left Guan Shan feeling off-kilter. Really, he hadn’t felt balanced since the moment he’d set foot in New York, and He Tian’s character was threatening to throw him over.

‘Why bother with this Sauer guy at all?’ he asked. ‘If he’s such a piece of shit, why try and get him on your side? There’s other guys in government you could bait, right?’

Guan Shan couldn’t think about how easy the words were rolling off his tongue; how easy a concept belonging to He Tian’s world had suddenly become a standard part of his own.

He Tian nodded at him. ‘Many others, but this one’s already in someone else’s pocket, which means he must be worth something to the rest of the righters.’ His tone changed, went careful in a way Guan Shan hadn’t heard before, like he was testing waters. ‘You’ve heard of She Li?’

The name was unfamiliar. ‘Should I have?’

He Tian frowned and became pensive. Guan Shan couldn’t figure out what was puzzling him.

‘She Li wants his own Tong, and he wants to be sheriff.’

‘You’re worried about this guy?’

‘No. But I want to know what he’s selling people like Sauer that makes them want him more than me.’ He looked somewhere above Guan Shan’s head, seeing something Guan Shan couldn’t, eyes unfocused. ‘We’ve tapped his phones and cut through his telegrams, but there’s been nothing. None of my guys know anything, and if they did, I’d know. Whatever he’s doing, he’s hiding it really fucking well.’

‘What if it’s just the same as you? Buying Sauer with heroin and prostitutes?’

‘We’ve found his supplier and tracked it back,’ He Tian said. ‘It’s some big-timer from Chicago my brother knows, not She Li.’

‘And what if She Li’s giving him more than that? More than what he wants?’

He Tian shifted, looking at him blankly. ‘What’s your point?’

‘This—this Sauer fucker. He’s government, right? So what if She Li’s giving the government somethin’. Sauer’s just the in-between, and She Li’s not really giving Sauer anything.’

‘If that’s the case, then Sauer can be compromised. His duty to himself is more important than his patriotism.’

Guan Shan shrugged. ‘Guess you’ll have to meet the guy and find out.’

‘Guess I will,’ said He Tian. ‘And you’ll come with me.’ He rested a weighted gaze on Guan Shan, flipping his lighter in his hand. Guan Shan was growing used to the man’s stillness, his intense silences and dark staring. It made every motion, every rotation of the metal, captivating. ‘You know, you make everything sound easy,’ He Tian said quietly. ‘Simple.’

Guan Shan didn’t know what to make of that. Guan Shan made everything sound easy out of brutal honesty; He Tian was enigmatic and mercurial, except when he was cruel. It made him difficult to grasp, meant his mind must work on overtime, trying to make more sense of things than was needed.

A knock on the door interrupted their strange silence.

The senior woman who’d been muttering in He Tian’s ear when they arrived at the office poked her around the corner.

‘Your brother’s on the wire, sir.’

He Tian looked up, a clouded expression on his face. ‘It’s barely dawn there,’ he muttered to no one in particular, and then, resigned: ‘Give me a moment, Mei Fen.’

Mei Fen nodded, retreated. The door shut behind her, and He Tian had a finger pointed in Guan Shan’s direction as he stood.

‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘We’ll leave after I’m done.’ As he passed, he leaned down into Guan Shan’s ear, his voice kept to a murmur as if someone would hear him—as if it mattered who heard his threat. His breath was hot on Guan Shan’s neck, and Guan Shan caught a glimpse of He Tian’s leather shoulder holster, gun pressing forward on his jacket. ‘I’ll know if you try anything,’ he murmured, close as a lover, ‘and I will do worse than your hand.’

With He Tian gone, the pain from the burn Guan Shan had briefly forgotten now flared with a steady, stinging throb. He clenched his fist, unclenched it, skin shifting over his bones, the blistered flesh crying out with the movement, like pressing at a bruise, or twisting a loose tooth.

There wasn’t much of anything Guan Shan would be able to do while He Tian answered the call, but it didn’t stop him from wandering the perimeter of He Tian’s office barely seconds after the door closed.

Bottles of whisky and baiju and gin filled almost every cabinet, and cigar trays that He Tian didn’t seem to smoke were stacked in neat rows like the unread books. Boxes of documented reports filled the higher cabinets, sheets of paper that Guan Shan flipped through quickly, the listed figures a blur that Guan Shan couldn’t make sense of. Dates and names and locations were crammed into most of the reports, and Guan Shan skimmed them knowing he had no idea what he was looking for.

The drawers of He Tian’s desk were mostly locked, and there was no release switch that Guan Shan could find, fingers running over the smooth underside of the desk. Two pistols and a revolver sat neatly in one of the drawers, beside a box of gilded fountain pens and bottles of dark ink, and a serrated knife lay on a sheaf of starched vellum paper—the same He Tian had used to deliver the message last night.

I just need something, Guan Shan thought desperately, casting hasty glances at the closed door. Something that makes him culpable. Something that connects him.

But there wasn’t—locked cabinets and drawers barred him, and what was available to him—liquor bottles and expensive stationery and guns—gave him nothing. It told Guan Shan everything he already knew: that He Tian was rich, cultured, lawless, and violent. That, if he’d orchestrated his father’s arrival into New York, he wouldn’t leave a trail.

Guan Shan was thinking about the contract He Tian had given him that morning, head bowed over the open drawers of He Tian’s desk, when the door opened.

Guan Shan froze.

They stared at each other in silence, and He Tian shut the door without turning away.

He Tian stared at him. ‘Find what you’re looking for?’ he asked.

Guan Shan glanced down at the revolvers in the drawer, weighing, fuelled by the kind of chaotic, mad impulse his mother would warn him to watch. He’d never fired a gun in his life—didn’t know if they were even loaded. Carefully, Guan Shan pushed the drawer closed, no screeching of unoiled wood, just a smooth insertion, which He Tian watched from the doorway.

His watchful stillness could have told Guan Shan one of four things: none of the guns were loaded; He Tian knew he could pull a gun on Guan Shan faster than Guan Shan could on him; he didn’t believe Guan Shan would be capable of pulling the trigger; or he wasn’t afraid of death.

He would suffer a mortal wound with a smile on his face, and the knowledge that once a gunshot reverberated through the offices, Guan Shan would be dead within minutes.

‘No,’ Guan Shan told him, throat dry. His heart ached in his chest as it crashed against his ribcage. Maybe he’d be shot anyway, the cigarette burn on the back of his hand like a papercut. ‘I didn’t.’

You stupid fuck.

He Tian nodded, as if understanding. ‘Alright,’ he said, and Guan Shan waited for that quick strike of violence He Tian had employed in the office just before—a knife at his head, a pistol aimed at a kneecap.

But there was nothing.

He’s unpredictable, Guan Shan reminded himself. He’ll swipe one time and hunt for three days the next.

The thought did nothing to comfort him, made him only understand that if He Tian exacted no punishment now, then it would come later, when Guan Shan’s guard was down.

He Tian’s coat was draped over his arm, ready to go and find Sauer, and Guan Shan knew that He Tian was going to leave this office with him—or alone.

‘Grab one of those, would you?’ He Tian said, jerking his head towards the desk. ‘The Korovin would do. The blue one with the wooden side panels. Watch the blowback.’

It took a second for Guan Shan to catch up. ‘You want me to give you a fucking gun.’

He Tian smiled, propped himself against the doorframe. ‘I want you to give you a gun. I already have mine.’

Guan Shan had already called He Tian crazy. He was already bewildered by the man’s operations. Guan Shan had nothing to do but gape.

‘Something wrong?’ He Tian asked.

‘No,’ Guan Shan said. And then, as if experiencing some great, philosophical epiphany, ‘You don’t make mistakes.’

He Tian’s smile widened. ‘You’re learning, Guan Shan.’

One of He Tian’s men had been watching Sauer for weeks, trailing him from city hall to grocery store to whorehouse; it made finding his hotel suite at The Pierre easy, dressed in Turkish marble and Indian silks and overlooking the lazed movements of Central Park below, appropriately lavish for the bottles of champagne that rolled across Sauer’s marbled flooring and any sultan or rajah or English lady who wandered into the hotel’s ballroom or tea gardens or glistening lobby.

He Tian sat with his legs crossed in the alcove of an ornate window seat smoking a cigarette, while Sauer hurried to find his underpants and the two French women in his bed found a new residence in the bathroom and locked the door behind them.

Guan Shan stood at the suite’s front door, two of He Tian’s men standing watch in the hallway, and watched the scene play out before him, uncomfortably aware of the gun in his pocket. He Tian had given him a brief lesson on the drive uptown, his instructions matter-of-fact and trained, like teaching Guan Shan how to light a cigarette.

Guan Shan knew how to fight; he knew how to throw a punch. He’d bitten his lip enough times and broken enough teeth against his split knuckles to handle that—righteous kids from his village and thieves on the freight trains—but this was different. There was a detachment in pulling a trigger and ending someone with the sudden finality of a gunshot. It wouldn’t hurt Guan Shan to pull it. He wouldn’t risk bleeding.

‘You won’t even need to use it,’ He Tian told him, palming the keys of his car to a chauffeur with a five-dollar bill.

‘That’s a fucking comfort,’ Guan Shan had muttered in response, and followed He Tian, smirking, into the hotel.

Sauer was bigger than Guan Shan had thought from the photo, closer to He Tian’s height and broad in the shoulders, thick with muscle, but older too. His stomach was softening and the blond line of his hair was fading backwards, the leery glittering eyes in the photo He Tian’d kept now dull and watery. Guan Shan noted his sluggish movements and laboured breath, his light-haired moustache beaded with sweat. In part, Guan Shan could chalk it up to the champagne, to the sex, to He Tian’s casual entry—tell the girls to get the fuck out and get dressed—into his hotel suite. In part, Guan Shan recognised the signs of an addict.

Eventually, Sauer was clothed, shirt tails hanging untucked over the waistline of his trousers, his feet bare. He stood with a hand tight around the bronze rail of the suite bar, darting glances back at Guan Shan every so often, aware that he was sandwiched between the two men, window and door and bathroom barred, and drank deeply, shakily, from a glass of some clear liquid.

He Tian kicked his long legs out in front of him, and got to his feet.

‘Sauer,’ he said, finding the appropriate time for his introduction. ‘Mein Name ist He Tian.’

Sauer’s pallid complexion went translucent.

German, Guan Shan knew less than English, so the conversation that followed was a blur of guttural consonants and cutting exchanges that left Sauer stuttering and red-faced, and He Tian wearing a cool look of impassivity.

The sharper, more stressed Sauer’s responses grew, the lower He Tian’s voice dropped, the bass of each syllable rattling the base of Guan Shan’s throat. This was an interrogation of a hostage, and Guan Shan found himself shifting in discomfort with each question He Tian demanded, the gun growing heavier in his pocket with every panicked response Sauer threw out, arms flailing in defence of accusation. Questions were thrown back and forth, answers blunt and snappish, and Guan Shan only knew He Tian was getting nowhere.

He Tian never moved forward, didn’t shift his weight or make use of the cane in his right hand, a placid lake looked upon at night, movement mistaken for the shimmer of moonlight—so it must have been Sauer who moved first.

His glass smashed to the floor, shrill screaming echoed from the bathroom, and his nose was burst and bloodied before Guan Shan could make sense of any motion.

He stood frozen at the door to the suite as He Tian struck a fist into Sauer’s solar plexus, winding him and feigning to the right to miss Sauer’s strangled swing, and Guan Shan’s hands ached for a fight.

‘Don’t get involved,’ He Tian had told him. ‘Whatever happens.’

Guan Shan resented him for giving orders that were so hard to follow.

Sauer threw slow, heavy-handed punches like a boxer, glass crunching under his feet, his breath panting and shuddered. He managed to catch a fistful of He Tian’s jacket, the momentum causing them to stumble on unsteady feet towards the bar, and He Tian’s head caught on bottles as Sauer dragged him across its surface, hand scrabbling for a shard of broken glass to cut He Tian with.

He never found one, advantage not lasting long; He Tian brought a knee up between Sauer’s spread legs and the German was forced to release his hold on He Tian’s jacket, staggering backwards on impulse.

Guan Shan’s eyes widened as He Tian straightened himself. Blood from Sauer’s nose was soaking his white shirt, and more ran from a glass-made gouge in He Tian’s temple and down to his jaw line, which he wiped away with an impetuous swipe.

His movements towards Sauer were predatory, stalking, each click of his heels thudding with Guan Shan’s racing heartbeat, and he felt himself flinch as He Tian’s cane rose like an arm ready to throw a javelin—and swung.

The cane cracked across Sauer’s face, his shrill cry reverberating as he clutched at his collapsed jaw, and he collapsed backwards onto the marble floor with a thud.

Another swing caught Sauer’s raised hand across the knuckles, and Guan Shan swallowed at the nausea that was rolling in his stomach as the bones of Sauer’s fingers snapped.

He Tian wasn’t smiling as he stood over the man, showed no outward sign of pleasure at the slaughter, and Guan Shan didn’t know if that was better or worse—that he could do this, break a man, with such cold efficiency and feel nothing.

‘He Tian,’ he said quietly. ‘I think he gets the message.’

It would take weeks for Sauer’s jaw to work again, for a string of words to come out that didn’t make his eyes water, longer for him to be able to hold a pen or a gun or his cock. He Tian needed him damaged and warned and out-of-action. This wasn’t a necessity.

He Tian’s dark look could only be received as a glare. ‘I wasn’t here to threaten, Guan Shan,’ he said. ‘You knew that.’

Guan Shan knew. Convert or get out of He Tian’s way. Justifiable murder.

‘You could use him,’ Guan Shan said. ‘Use him as a mole.’

Sauer was left groaning on the floor while He Tian stalked towards the bar, found an unharmed bottle of gin swimming with dark berries, and took a swig. His chest rose even and strong, and his fingers tightened and untightened around the handle of his cane as he wiped his mouth into the arm of his jacket, spat blood on the floor, lit up a cigarette. Ineffective from where he stood in the doorway, Guan Shan caught a glimpse of He Tian’s split knuckles.

‘A mole,’ He Tian said bitterly. ‘He’s useless to me. Denies knowing anything about She Li. Either he’s telling the truth or She Li’s got him hooked tighter than I thought, and I don’t have the time to break him.’

Guan Shan glanced at Sauer, moaning over the warped shape of his right hand, clutching it to his chest.

‘You offered him opium?’

He Tian threw a disgusted look at the politician. ‘Offered him the fucking moon.’

He stubbed his cigarette out onto the bar and stretched his hands across his surface. Strands of slick-backed hair draped in front of his eyes like thin shadows. He was still standing, barely wounded, but he wore the heavy air of someone who’d suffered a defeat.

‘He’s the third one,’ He Tian admitted. And then, ‘Who knew these fuckers’ prejudices ran this deep.’

It felt strange to be having a conversation while a man agonised on the floor between them, but then maybe He Tian was right: all of this was about the Exclusion Acts. The Irish and the Russians and the Italians—where were the acts being placed against them? Where were their alliances for the Chinese when America had been birthed from foreigners and built on the back of its brown-skinned natives?

If the right-wing politicians wouldn’t budge while people back in Guan Shan’s village and neighbouring towns risked starvation and poverty weekly, risked travelling thousands of miles to feed their families, maybe this was the answer.

This rushed through his head in a few seconds, some burst of moral outrage that Guan Shan didn’t know what to do with—and then movement caught his eye.

He didn’t know where Sauer had gotten it from, how either He Tian or Guan Shan had missed the palm-sized pistol now held in Sauer’s left hand, but Guan Shan’s body burst into a cold-hot flame that was singular to fate-driven moments like these.

The gun was pointed at He Tian’s back.

Like the jerky, fast-paced movements of a movie star, there was a blurred sequence of events that Guan Shan would only recollect in agonising slowness later: Sauer lifting himself up from the floor with a strained groan, He Tian turning in response to Guan Shan’s silence, Guan Shan taking a step forward that seemed to take a lifetime, like trying to run from a monster in a nightmare, hand moving to the inside of his jacket, wondering who was the monster? Who was the victim? Who would get their throat torn out and their blood worn like a mask and—

Bang.

Guan Shan never knew how loud it would be, eardrums fractured from the sound so close and confined in a room made of marble and crystal and silk. He didn’t know how it would suck out everything until he was left with something deeper than silence, a vacuum emptiness that made his ears ring with shallow dissonance, how movement would blur and stumble in his vision, reason abandoning him.

But he learnt quickly.

He caught up with himself on the drive to Zhengxi’s, He Tian’s men leaning over their boss’ body with heavy-handed presses on his shoulder in the back of the car, He Tian’s face moon-white and sheened with sweat, brows drawn and lip curling in pain and irritation.

Sauer’s face swam in Guan Shan’s head as the driver took sharp turns that made He Tian groan, narrowly missing carriages and cyclists and other cars.

The German had worn a quiet look of surprise before he died. Oh, it said, red stain spilling across his back like the mistake of a clumsy waiter, pistol clattering to the tiles, head hitting the marble with a dull thud declaring lifelessness.

The hired girls screamed in the bathroom after the gunshot, and soon the suite doors had burst open, He Tian’s men cramming themselves into the room, piecing together the events—Sauer dead, He Tian wounded, Guan Shan holding a gun—in a belligerent rush.

‘He’s with me,’ He Tian had gritted out as they turned on Guan Shan, hunched over and clutching at his shoulder by the bar, and then it was a rush down the hotel’s back staircase, feet stomping against the metal, He Tian almost carried down the stairs, and into the car waiting among kitchen fumes and trash bags.

They were in Chinatown when Guan Shan refocused his eyes again. Zhengxi was already waiting outside the restaurant, which remained closed until the evening, and He Tian’s men were helping their boss to stagger inside before the car’s engine had even been cut.

There was a padded table laid out in front of Zhengxi’s desk that trembled as He Tian was lifted onto it, and beside it sat a metal tray of instruments and a bowl of water and rolls of bandages on what looked like a liquor cart.

‘No questions, just fix me up?’ Zhengxi asked impassively, already cutting away at He Tian’s clothing with a pair of scissors, his swift, steady actions and words like an echo of a previous time. Previous times.

‘I knew I’d hired you for a reason,’ He Tian managed to reply, humour ashen, drinking from a supplied bottle of vodka.

Zhengxi snorted. ‘Jian Yi hired me. Not you.’

He Tian tried to rise up onto his elbows. ‘And who hired Jian Yi?’

Zhengxi shoved He Tian back onto the table, unleashing a string of colourful curses from He Tian’s mouth, and peered pragmatically at He Tian’s bullet wound with a magnifying glass. He didn’t look at Guan Shan, but Guan Shan knew Zhengxi had seen him when they entered, marking Guan Shan’s presence with a soft frown that said, It didn’t take you long.

‘How close was it?’ Zhenxgi asked, picking up the necessary tools for extraction. He squinted. ‘At least it hasn’t fragmented.’

His remarks left He Tian lolling his head on the bench until his eyes met Guan Shan’s, who was standing before the closed office door, conscious of the weight of his limbs, the dryness of his throat, how quiet he felt—removed, and numb, stuck inside a goldfish bowl where the outside was misshapen and muted, head knocking dully against the glass, the skin of his hand still vibrating.

It hadn’t even hurt.

When Guan Shan blinked, he realised He Tian’s eyes weren’t glassy with pain, with the hazy clouding of the wounded, but startlingly clear, like pain was a crystalliser. It made him less murky, and Guan Shan could see the scars that littered his chest, some the neat lines of a knife swipe, others deep gouges that dimpled his torso, well-muscled and sweat-soaked, the mawling spread of a panther tattoo twisting across his skin, tail disappearing below his navel.

‘You saved my life,’ He Tian said, the last word marked with a wince while Zhengxi doused the wound and filled the office with the smell of ethanol.

Guan Shan had no honest answer. He could only think, I saved your life, and I don’t know why. Part of him argued that it was for his father, because if He Tian died then Guan Shan’s father died with him. But another part of him was clouded and voiceless, and Guan Shan had no reason to want to save the life of a man like him, whom he’d known barely a day. No reason at all.

‘Patriotism. Sauer was gonna kill you,’ was all he offered. You told me I wouldn’t need it.

He Tian sniffed at the lie. ‘He nearly did, if you hadn’t shot him first. Shame you couldn’t have done it before he pulled the trigger.’ He Tian gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, then said, ‘Felt some hesitation, did you?’

Guan Shan said, ‘What if I said yeah?’

Somehow, He Tian’s gaze was steady for a few moments as Zhengxi released the bullet, packing the wound with swabs of cotton. He hid drunkenness and agony well enough that it was frightening—and then he closed his eyes with a deep exhale.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he muttered. ‘You still did it.’

Right, Guan Shan thought, leaning back against the door, staring at the ceiling. The gun was a lead weight against his heart. I still did it.

If you liked my work, please reblog this post so others can find it, consider donating to me via Ko-Fi for a drabble, or commissioning me for a fic!

next >

[chac-ozai]

You ain’t free unless you’ve got nothing left to lose.

Some art accompanying my first Ficlet (chapter 1) of Chac the Overboss and Gage, his partner. Much like a couple of raiders, this fic is full of bad language and violence and grossness.>>

M!SS/Porter Gage, mildly nsfw. 

"This is perfect. Almost looks as good as it did in the postcards." The Overboss said, gleefully holding up a faded image of a forest-side cabin in a postcard. He held it up next to the shambles that remained of it over 200 years later, just a few walls and a crumbling roof dangling between them. 

"Yeah-huh. Perfect." Gage repeated him, smiling at the thought of throwing down their travel packs and taking a load off for the night. There was a few cans of cram with his name on it and the air smelled strange, almost good, being this far away from Nuka Town's deathly stench. His Overboss was a real wiz at getting fires going, all he needed was a few pieces of the fallen walls, some dried leaves and a fast bullet to get a nice little blaze started. His Overboss, who refused to give him any name other than "Chac" (Kind of a stupid sounding name, but whatever) had been overly pleasant since they'd gotten away from East Boston. 

"Look at you, havin' a good time." Gage sits back, watching his unusual boss dancing in place while he stabbed open some cans of food and ate them on the spot. 

"Owww~ I feel good! da na na na na na na~" Chac sang, gravy dripping under his chin before spitting out what looked like fossilized food into the fire with a sizzle. Gage loved to watch him, he was real funny when he was so full of life like this, it's been a while since he even seen the guy crack a smile. 

"You sure you ain't on somethin', boss? Y'been bouncin' off the damn walls for the past hour now." Gage found it hard to keep up with him sometimes, the guy just looked so high on life right now. 

"Don't like it, huh?" Chac threw his can into the fire, shrugging off his jacket and using it to form a cushion for where he planned on sitting. 

"Nah, It's friggin' great. I like seein' ya happy. Makes me happy." Gage refuted him, in the solitude and dark like this, far away from everyone, he suddenly wanted to be close to him. 

"Well look at us, just two happy guys having a little camp-out." Chac squatted next to the fire and took a big swig of water, warming his tattooed hands by the growing blaze.  

Gage inched up to him and followed suit, feeling a creaking in his aging knees. He stole the metal bottle from his Overboss and gladly shared the drink with him, loving this moment but feeling unsure of something- why was the guy so happy go lucky all of a sudden? Earlier today as they left Nuka World he was cranky at best, irritable and barely anything to talk to. 

"Glad you joined me, Gorgeous." Chac reached out and patted Gage's tan arm, the guy shooting him a testy glance. He hadn't heard that one in a while, either. "What, done with callin' me PG?" Gage falls back on his ass and gets comfortable next to him. Firelight smoothed out all the weathering of Gage's face, illuminated the lines of age around his eyes and mouth and made him look good. Real good. 

"Mmhm, Nothing PG about what I'm thinking, the way you look right now." his Overboss was a real flirt, and Gage actually felt bashful at all this talk; he never did get used to it. The joke flew over his head-

"No idea what yer sayin, but I'll take it." Gage relaxed as he listened to his Overboss' pleased humming. He had to ask him though, why?

"Really, Boss. What made you so perky all of a sudden?" 

"Food Poisoning, maybe." He lies, and Gage just scoffs.

"I don't think that's what it is. C'mon, Boss. What are you on right now?"

"Ugh, i think it is food poisoning." He repeats himself, holding his stomach. Gage started to get irritated, wondering maybe the guy was huffing Jet when he had his back turned- "Oh god." Chac gurgled, lifting up from his seat and ripping ass so loud it made Gage leap up and crawl away from him-.

"Ah fer fuck's sake, Boss! I had my damn mouth open." His partner was getting cranky, and likewise the boss has had enough of the questioning, something Gage had been doing more often lately.

"I'm glad that's over." Chac states, sitting back down and wrapping his arms around his knees, closing himself off from any more questions. But still, his partner persisted-

"I'm being serious right now. Seems like every time we get the heck away from Nuka World, yer a different guy, boss. Fuck, I can scarcely even look at'cha when we're at the park, like yer gunna fuckin' bite my head off." "It aint you, Gage. It never is you, and I'm not mad now so why you gotta keep bringing it up?" His overboss took a hunk of ancient plywood and lugged it onto the fire, cinders skittering to the tips of Gage's shoes.

"Cuz it's annoyin' as shit, man! I don't care if it ain't me!" Gage plopped himself down well out of arms reach from Chac, lighting up a stale cigarette and merely holding it, concentrating his blinded gaze on the smoke. "It might as well be me, because I'm the first fuckin' person who gets your rotten attitude. But look at you, out here, bein' all sweet and shit. I don't get you." Gage huffed harshly, taking a drag of his smoke and holding it tight inside his chest. The drug may have been old, but it worked.

Chac merely ignored him for the moment, deep in thought. This has been a long time coming, this talk. Gage was no good at it, feelings, but lately he'd been the one needing to bring it up more since shit got too much at Nuka World. The real reason why he was so happy right now? Because he wasn't at Nuka World. 

"Fine then, don't answer me." Gage spat on the fire, revolted. He didn't want to look at his Overboss and that deadpan look he got on his face now. Shaking his head in disappointment, the older raider chose to keep quiet.

"..." Chac toed a piece of rubble to form a better guard between him and the flame. He watched Gage from across the fire, how he pulled off his armor and his eyepatch, revealing the still-living but blind eye underneath. Thoughts flashed before his mind of a life abandoning Porter, leaving him with Nuka World in the dust. The pain alone that creeped inside him was just enough to get him to talk.

"I get that way because running Nuka World is a fucking nightmare, Gage." Chac let it out, and it was true. Porter looked at him in shock, as if he himself wasn't sharing the same amount of stress over it these days. "Every day some new bullshit comes up. The power struggles, the bootlicking, the assassins? It's a fucking miserable shit hole back there, and you know it." 

"What are you trying to say, Boss? You don't got the stomach for it anymore?" Gage let the cigarette burn to the filter, crushing it under his heel and immediately lighting a new one. His heart was in his guts right now.

"You know what I'm trying to say." Chac starts-

"No, I don't. Please, enlighten me." Gage retorts, clearly pissed off. Chac could see the flash of his gold teeth as he worried his lip, something he learned Gage was prone to do when he was stressed.

"I'm saying that Nuka World is a fucking prison." 

Nothing was said, a painful sort of silence above the crackling wood. 

"...But how? I know the Raiders are pissin' you off, but look, boss, you got the entire park running. We're gunna own the commonwealth, and you wanna say it's a friggin' prison?" 

"I want my freedom back." Chac states, Gage doing a doubletake- freedom? How could losing everything be..

"How could losing it all be freedom to you?" Gage leans in, something inside him breaking at the idea of his Overboss wanting to leave-

"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." Chac pushed himself up to stand, crossing his arms defiantly. Gage found himself once again looking up at him, caught in a flurry of confusion. What he said struck Gage deep...freedom. Nothing holding him down. 

"-And I can't think of myself as free until I don't have to worry about the next time Mason will threaten to tar and feather me." He thought, adding - "Or Nisha wanting to skin me and wear my body as a man suit. Shit like that, this dread, it's a prison. So if you want to know why I'm nice when I'm not in Nuka Town, well, there's your answer." 

"You can't leave. Fuck em up if you have to, but don't leave. This entire operation runs on you." Gage watched him like a hawk, refusing to stand and face him eye to eye on this.

"It's collapsing from the bottom up. It's a pipe dream, Gage. I can leave, but the real question is, can you leave Nuka World?"

He had it. Gage shot up from his seat and got in his overbosses' face, scant inches taller than him "The hell you just say to me? You askin' me to drop everything I've worked for, for the past 4 fuckin' years and just go fuck myself like I ain't poured my whole life into it?" 

Chac remained calm, hands at his sides. He knew Gage would be hurt, I mean, why wouldn't he be? 

"Yeah. I expect you to. Cuz' you're smart.You aren't willing to die for a lost cause." 

Gage reeled back and slugged his Overboss in the face so hard the both of them fell. His Overboss' dreads threatened to light on fire as they scrambled on the ground beside it, Gage climbing on top of Chac and winding up his fist for another haymaker-

"Burn in hell!" He screams, his voice harsh with emotions he so often hid. "You fuckin' asshole!" He slugged Chac again, blood on his knuckles and on the gravel below. All the times he hit his boss then, it did nothing to quell the truth that the Nuka World dream was crumbling. He was about to strike Chac again before the roof of their ramshackle hideout began to drop dust on them from above. Gypsum peppered Gage's mohawk and Chac's bloodied face, his Overboss looking up at his partner.

"...You can't leave me." Gage repeated himself, panting hard. Chac used that time to throw off the Southerner, scuttling back until as soon as their fight started, it was over. 

"I never said anything about leaving you." Chac panted, wiping blood off his face and onto his jeans "When shit hits the fan, and it will, I expect you to leave with me. With our heads intact." 

Gage shook his head, refusing to believe this. Partners for a year... more than partners, and then this? Gage didn't want whatever life awaited without his overboss. It'd be shit. Everything would go to shit. 

"I gotta get the fuck away from you. Don't follow me." Porter says, flatly. He picks up his flashlight and gun, and walks out into the wastes. Chac's eyes followed him until there was nothing but darkness, and chose to sit flush against the wall. If Gage needed space, let him have it. 

Gage stomped through the wasted wilderness for what felt like only a few moments. He came to a road overlooking a cliff, and saw Diamond City's dazzling lights far in the distance. Perching his ass on a traffic barrier, he let his anger consume him. What the fuck was he going to do about this? Nuka World wasn't doing good, yeah, He would admit that...but the boss running out on them? Might as well nuke the place. Gage felt betrayed in the worst possible way. 

"Gunna fuckin' kill him." He whispers to himself, forgetting his smokes back at camp. What he said resounded in his head. Kill him....That's what Gage promised himself he'd do if the Overboss didn't work out, right? Just fuckin..kill him? Gage looked at the gun in his trembling hands and bit his lip hard. He had to kill him. Chac was the overboss, there wasn't any other that would hold a candle to him. 

Furious, heartbroken, Gage knew this is what he had to do.

[steffers86]

Silent Night, Jopper Night

“You don’t believe in Santa anymore?” Joyce said with a look of astonishment.

Will scrunched his face up like he ate an entire bag of sour candy.  Joyce knew this day would come eventually. Will was growing up and growing out of holiday traditions Joyce, and he used to share. After all, they had been through as a family, Joyce felt like she could believe in ANYTHING at this point, even chubby bearded guys that crawled down chimneys.

Joyce clicked the tip of the black ink pen in a fidgety fashion. She jotted down her own pretend Christmas wish list as a way to pass the time while Will packed a small backpack of his belongings. Will planned on spending the remainder of the night playing Dungeons and Dragons with friends. An empty house would give Joyce the perfect opportunity to finish wrapping Christmas presents. Joyce’s attention was broken from her daydreaming as Will rushed into the kitchen practically plowing into the kitchen table.

“Hey, what did I say? No running in the house,” Joyce scolded.

“Mom, are we going? The campaign starts in an hour.”

Will bounced up and down anxiously beginning to feel the time crunch. Joyce, being her typical self, became scatterbrained gathering up her belongings; car keys, check, wallet, check. As she jogged over to the door, she repeated in her head her checklist humming to herself as she tried to remain focused.

 “Oh, make sure to grab the shopping list, please,” Joyce pointed.

 Will tossed his scarf around his neck and snagged the folded up paper from the kitchen table stuffing it down into his pants pocket.  Sighing, Joyce snatched the hood of Will’s winter coat pulling him back before he stepped outside. She flipped him around zippering his coat up further.

“Are you trying to catch pneumonia?” Joyce muttered as she tugged, zipped, and pulled on his winter coat.

“Mom…Mom…I’m good,” Will groaned.

Joyce stood back, “You are now. Come on. Let’s go.”

As they piled into the car and got situated, Joyce waited for Will to buckle his seat belt up tightly. She could cope with Will not believing in Santa or the Easter bunny. It was difficult for her not being over motherly to him after the trauma he had been subjected to over the passing years. Reaching over to the radio knob she switched through a few radio channels that were filled with static and random chitter chatter landing on a Christmas song, “Jingle Bells”. Joyce began to sing along out loud and off-key.

“Come on Will,” Joyce playfully nudged Will softly with her elbow.

Will rolled his eyes emitting a shy response, “Moooom.”

“Next thing I know you’ll grow out of getting Christmas presents too?” Joyce teased.

“No, definitely not that,” Will smirked.

When they arrived at the grocery store, Joyce had a sense of urgency from hearing about the high probability of heavy snowfall within the time span of the next few hours.

“O.k, still have the list we made out?” Joyce checked.

Will searched his pockets trying to retrieve the list. As he pulled the paper from his jean pocket, a gust of wind seized it from his light grasp. Will made a small effort to try to capture it, but Joyce stopped him before he wound up running in front of a car.

   “Will, its o.k. Well, maybe if we put our brains together we can remember what we intended to get for this shopping trip,” Joyce coolly implied.

 A random piece of paper migrated through the blustery winds, landing directly on Hopper’s windshield. Hopper muttered under his breath as he stepped out from the warmth of the Blazer to relieve his view. A natural curiosity, he looked over the paper. His attention directed towards one small detail that stuck out to him the most. His eyes suspended on each letter, tracing out the curvy print with his finger, like a maze he was attempting to solve. Though the ink was smudged a bit from the clammy elements of the outdoors, Hopper, nevertheless, managed to make out the blotchy signature at the bottom of the wrinkled paper: Joyce.

   Hopper glanced up from the letter, glancing about to see if he was being watched from afar. The events seemed oddly planned out. He knew Joyce well enough to know that she didn’t make big moves like this on her own. Honestly, seeing how she felt on paper was surprising.  

‘Don’t do this. Don’t do this’ Hopper repeated to himself subconsciously. The rapid pounding of his heart was loud enough to drown out any rational thoughts he may have had. Hopper was passed the point of trying to figure out this complicated relationship Joyce, and he shared. There was honestly no more to figure out. It was now or never.

  Finally arriving home before the roads became any worse; Joyce plunged into the worn and dingy floral armchair that seated in her living room. Her bulky winter coat continued to stay snug around her slim frame. The night sang lulling susurrations of wintry ambiances. The wind howled outside, piling up snow drifts. Intricate patterns of ice were filling the night with its incandescence. There was a certain magic to snow, how it breathed new life into the barren and dull. On nights such as this, Joyce didn’t mind it nearly as much as she could enjoy it from the comfort of her abode.  On the bright side, she did receive one item from her Christmas wish list. That being some quiet time. The peacefulness painted a perfect environment to drift into a daydream.

The stale aroma of cigarette smoke sparked up bittersweet memories. Hopper would be at the opposite side of the table, offering her one of his non-filtered cigarettes that she always managed to choke on. They’d laugh it off like a joke that never got old. His company never got old. The thought of him never got old.

 The cigarette between Joyce’s index and middle finger, at this point, was burning into an ash snake. Headlights flooded the living room as Joyce jerked a little as the remaining ash fell from the tip of her cigarette. She peeked at her wristwatch. She couldn’t imagine who it could be this late into the night, especially being Christmas Eve and such.

 “Hopper is everything alri-…”

Joyce’s eyes immediately directed to the letter that hung loosely from the tips of Hopper’s fingers. Her hand rushed to her mouth. She knew what it was; the paper was not her supposed shopping list. She was too in shock to confront the subject.

“Wh-what is that Hop?” Joyce asked with a nervous stammer.

Hopper didn’t waste another minute granting her the other Christmas wish she requested. Nothing could prepare her for what happened next. Her hands dropped to her sides feeling utterly helpless. She didn’t get a chance to breathe as Hopper locked lips with hers. Her eyes grew wild in bewilderment until she melted into the warmth of the kiss they shared.

“Hopper,” Joyce whispered, prolonging each letter like a cat purring in euphoria.

 Hopper never enjoyed hearing his name unless Joyce was beckoning him. This time around she was saying his name, not because she needed something FROM him; more than she just needed him; only him. When she opened her mouth further to speak her voice faltered as if the words were trapped, left to suffocate and form a lump in her throat. Hopper found himself drunk on something other than alcohol. Joyce gave him a certain rush that no amount of drugs could offer him.

“Merry Christmas Joyce,” Hopper casually spoke as if this was normal for the two of them.

Joyce could feel her cheeks, burning, blushing almost as red as the ribbons that trimmed the Christmas tree in her living room. Her fingers grazed her lips as she hid behind an unstoppable smile. She was never one to believe in Christmas miracles. It was as foreign to her like magic. He was able to sway her, finding herself completely under his spell.

“Merry Christmas Hop,” Joyce sighed wistfully.    

@starmaammke I hope you enjoy!!! ^_^ Happy holidays and New Year!!!

[josai]

familiar with the voice of the lonely, lost in the noise of the wind blowing

from the drug au series | prequel to the shit we’ve been through

“Hajime, hurry up! Don’t forget the salt!”

Hajime looks up from where he’s standing in the kitchen, emptying a bag of popcorn into a bowl. He laughs, snagging the salt shaker from the counter before he brings their snack into the living room where Tooru is waiting, curled up on the couch.

“How could I?” Hajime asks, amused. He passes the bowl to Tooru before flopping down next to him, loving how Tooru presses against him immediately. He’s warm, and still smells faintly of his favourite coconut shampoo. Hajime smiles when Tooru shakes a copious amount of salt onto his snack before taking a few bites, humming contentedly.

“What did you wanna watch?” Hajime asks, kissing the top of his head. Tooru munches on some more popcorn, shrugging his shoulders.

“I dunno. We don’t need to watch anything, we can just talk,” Tooru suggests, cuddling back against Hajime’s chest.

So cute. Hajime smiles, wrapping an arm around Tooru’s waist. “Sure we can.”

“Good,” Tooru says. He sighs, turning to look at Hajime.

Within a split second his smile falls and Hajime’s blood runs cold. Tooru grips at his sweatshirt, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes and trickling down his face. “Because Hajime, I need a break from you.”

It feels like all the air’s been sucked out of his body. Hajime scrambles to reply, but when he opens his mouth, no sound comes out. Tooru feels cold as ice, and he has to pull his hands away when they start to freeze solid.

“What?” Hajime whispers, his voice pleading, “Tooru, no, please, no-”

“It’s done,” Tooru says, standing up. Ice floods through Hajime’s veins as he heads towards the door, stops just in front of it and looks back.

“It’s not like I ever loved you anyway,” Tooru says, his eyes full of pity. When he slams the door behind him, Hajime’s blanketed in darkness.

Hajime shoots awake right out of a dead sleep. He gasps for breath, sweat dripping down the back of his neck. His heart’s beating a mile a minute, pounding in his chest; on instinct, his hand flies to the space next to him, the cold, empty space that used to belong to him-

Tears prick at the corner of his eyes as he fights back a panic attack. Fuck, he needs to calm down and he needs to calm down now.

He tries to take some deep breaths but he just can’t seem to regulate his breathing. His hands shake and each breath just comes out heavy and ragged. A wave of heat rushes over his body so he tries to untangle himself from his blanket to try and cool down, but every movement is heavy and so fucking painful.

His hands move far too slowly and his body fights every movement that he tries to make. He’s exhausted and low on energy, definitely - when the last time was that he ate?

Was it this morning? Last night? He can’t even remember.

Not to mention that it’s been weeks since he’s been able to sleep for more than a few hours at a time. Not since the break-up. Not since they decided - since Tooru suggested, teary-eyed, after yet another fight - that maybe they needed to take a break from their relationship.

The lack of sleep is catching up with him. He dreads seeing himself in the mirror because he knows those huge, heavy bags under his eyes are only getting worse.

He’s on a steep decline and he’s falling fast.

Hajime moves to swing his legs off the side of the bed, but everything just hurts. He just about falls off the bed when his feet finally touch the cold floor, dizzy and lightheaded already from just that small movement.

He tries not to panic, but not feeling in control of his own body is scary.

All that he can feel is the fear rising up his throat like bile.

He closes his eyes and grips the edge of the bed until his knuckles turn white from the pressure.

Carefully, he breathes in, waits a moment, and then lets it out. He opens his eyes slowly, relieved when he doesn’t feel like he’s about to pass out. He’s still shaking and feeling a little queasy, but he can push himself up to stand without falling back down.

Unfortunately though, that doesn’t keep the other self-destructive thoughts at bay.

That little voice in the back of his head that keeps telling him you deserve to feel like this.

Now outwardly he’s just as fucked up and broken as he’s always been inside.

He deserves to be alone.

A throbbing pain behind his eyes gets him moving, snatching up a bottle of water and his tin of cigarettes as he heads for his balcony.

He needs out of this apartment. The air is so stale here and it’s a mess - he doesn’t want to think about the laundry he doesn’t have the energy to do or the old take-out containers he should have thrown out days ago, but just can’t seem to work himself up to doing it.

He really needs a smoke.

Hajime pushes open the door to his balcony, the night air cool and fresh against his skin. He doesn’t bother to grab a sweatshirt even though it’s cold - the harsh air will keep him on his feet.

Besides, the cold helps keep him at a decent level of discomfort. A punishment he’s earned.

He drops down into the old wire chair he keeps out here and tosses his tin on his small round table. A sharp gust of wind blows by, sending goosebumps pricking up his arms.

He feels like he hasn’t had anything to drink in days, so the water is first - he twists off the cap and chugs back half of the bottle, stopping only when he starts to feel queasy again. Now he can focus on calming himself down with a cigarette.

He struggles to open up the tin where he keeps his smokes, finally managing to force it open. He groans when he sees that there’s just his pack of filters and a bag of tobacco inside. He’d rolled half a dozen cigarettes just this morning and apparently, he’d already smoked them all.

Just perfect.

Sighing, Hajime reaches for the filters, pulling one out of the package. He starts by folding it, then trying to roll it into the right shape, but this proves difficult with how hard his hands are shaking. He spills some of his tobacco twice before he manages to roll it properly. It’s way more sloppy than he’d like, but it’ll do in a pinch.

He fumbles with his lighter, finally able to take a nice, long drag of his cigarette once it’s lit.

The nightmare that’s been plaguing him for weeks is still fresh in his mind, despite his attempts to numb it with the smoke.

He closes his eyes, leaning back in his chair and sighing. He takes another deep drag, letting the smoke out slowly.

Christ.

Why is this so fucking hard?

When did he become this… broken mess? A fuck-up? A person who can’t even get through the day without a panic attack… A person who can’t sleep through the night, who forgets to eat and chain smokes-

Well. At least now there’s nobody around who’s going to complain that he smells like smoke.

His mind’s still moving a mile a minute, and one smoke isn’t enough. It disappears far too fast, so Hajime rolls another, this time a little neater. His hands are shaking a bit less, numbed from the cigarette and the cold air.

The one thing he can’t seem to numb, though, are his thoughts. The more he thinks about it, the more his heart aches.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He was with Tooru. His best friend, his pillar, his other half-

He didn’t just lose his boyfriend - he lost a part of himself.

This pain cuts deep.

They were supposed to work. No matter what, Hajime thought that he and Tooru could get through anything. No matter what had happened in the past, he and Tooru had always worked things out together. They’d persevered through so much shit only to wind up here-

The look on Tooru’s face when he’d told Hajime that he needed a break is burned into Hajime’s brain. He can’t stop thinking about how broken and helpless he’d looked.

How broken and helpless Hajime had made him feel.

He sure fucked this up, didn’t he?

Maybe… Maybe he really does deserve this.

This suffering.

Maybe he deserves to be sitting here alone, in the middle of the night, shaky and teary and broken. Maybe this is why he and Tooru couldn’t work.

Maybe this is just who he was always meant to be.

The longer he sits, the darker his thoughts get and he doesn’t know how to cope with them on his own anymore. He’s terrified about what’s happening to him but he has nowhere to turn.

Hajime’s on teetering on the edge and he doesn’t know how to get back down anymore.

[motherofangst]

Sniperpilot Halloween: DAY 1: FANGS. Shows up five days late with the prompt. I saw a lot of people making awesome Vampire/Faux Vampire fills, and I decided to throw some Werewolf into the mix. Lore taken from Teen Wolf, because I’m trash and that’s the only lore I know the most about.  CROSS POSTED ON AO3.

BAD MOON RISING

"Bodhi Rook died in the car crash. Or, so he was lead to believe as he picked up all of the pieces of his life and tried to cope with the mysterious change of his life." 

Cassian Andor did not harbor many friends in his life. It was difficult to do so; given his circumstances. When everything changed.

When everything changed, Cassian threw himself into his job – to your typical person, it looked like your everyday, saddened case of someone marrying themselves to their job. But, it went too much deeper than that. Perhaps it was not circumstances ; Cassian had by far a strong grip on control. Perhaps it was a mournful, inner cry for something he longed for and had lost one rainy night.

When everything changed, the notch up in intimidation merely helped to secure his position in his job. See, he worked graveyard shift at a well known, five star hotel called The Falcon. Or – it was a five star once upon a time. They were clinging with a death grip to three stars, currently. Tiles once so white they could blind you, merely an off-white tinge that mopping could never scour away. Saddened wallpaper drooping with misery against some of the meeting rooms. Air conditioners wailing for the prestige they had lost. Some rooms clinging the scent of cigarette smoke, despite a two year old no smoking policy.

Day in and day out, his job was what he threw his focus into – least he be consumed by pushing himself away from his family. Least he be consumed by the weight of a lost friend ; seemingly lost to the car crash the day that everything changed.

Five years ago, Cassian had a friend outside of his other security co worker, Kay Tu.  And if he closes his eyes some nights, he sees him still. Eyes darker than the darkest night, with a smile that chased all of that darkness away. Wiry hair that he had a twist in his gut telling him he harbored a desire to card his hands through it. If he thought of his eyes long enough, they were flooded with a crimson red – until he snuffed the memory away, convinced that the trauma of the accident was fabricating memories.

Bodhi Rook died in the car crash. Or, so he was lead to believe as he picked up all of the pieces of his life and tried to cope with the mysterious change of his life.

Understand, Cassian would’ve died that night in the car accident as well ; he would’ve succumbed to his injuries. But what doctors believed to be a miracle of medicine, it was a miracle of the supernatural. And it baffled most specialists on the subject he had found in the time between then and now.

Alpha werewolves, Cassian had learned, turn humans into something called betas. To grow their pack. To gain power. Albeit, whatever – whoever – turned him fled. Left him alone to struggle with his injuries as a monster overtook his DNA and made him into something new.

Could he really be so bitter, though, when he looked to the mirror to see molten gold in his eyes? The unknown, alpha stranger saved his life. He wanted to be, but he wasn’t.

It was three in the morning when Kay Tu nudged him to get his attention. Sometimes, Cassian would find himself focusing on nothing. Even five years later, the enhanced senses were distracting ; eyes tracking the gray tendrils of a snuffed out cigarette on the ground as his ears sought out the melody of too-fat rain droplets hitting the pavement – his mind clearly elsewhere.

Bodhi had become distant in the weeks before the crash – right after a family camping trip. He had stopped contacting Cassian, and when Cassian tried to reach out to his parents, they merely told him he wasn’t feeling well.

The day of the accident was supposed to be a mending to an unspoken chasm. And, looking back upon it, Bodhi seemed jumpy. Or – more so than usual. More so withdrawn, no matter how Cassian tried to coax him out. It was unlike him, as he watched Bodhi’s eyes train themselves on the night sky.

Cassian was the one driving, and while he knew it was not his fault, the guilt still ate him alive. Maybe it was because he made it out alive, due to unforeseen luck. It was raining that night too – rain always took him back. A reckless driver without his headlights clipped the side of his car and sent them into the ditch after flipping twice. Cassian fell unconscious almost the moment they hit the ground.

And when he woke up, he woke up to a mind numbing pain – his cries no doubt echoing above the angry fall of rain; crashing against smoldering metal and his aching body. If he had been more lucid, he would’ve noticed that someone had pulled him out of the death trap and onto the grass. Someone hovered above him with short, panicked breaths – breaths that sounded like words he couldn’t hear. Words that sounded like Bodhi. But, Bodhi didn’t have red eyes. ( “I’m sorry – god, Cass, I’m sorry. I didn’t – I didn’t know what to do! I don’t know – I’m so new to this, and you – you’re dying. You were dying – you’re not anymore, I don’t think --? Oh god, what if I made it worse? Cassian! Please, look at me!” )

Bodhi didn’t have fangs that shimmered in the moonlight seconds before sinking into fragile flesh with a breath of an apology—and Cassian had lost consciousness for a second time.

Cassian jerked to full awareness as he banished the vision of fangs that kept cropping up in the memory – he would allow it, the memory. If only to try and piece together a better picture of who changed him. To who the fangs belonged to. The red, the sharp teeth – that he remembered well. But the face behind it? To this day he retained that it couldn’t have been Bodhi. ( Even if part of him wanted it to be, because that meant Bodhi would still be alive to sate memories of beer-stale breath and callused hands. ) “What is it, Kay?” Cassian is asking, forcing his voice even as if to try and fool his co worker ( he couldn’t fool Kay, and he knew that ) that he had not been the furthest place from focused.

Kay, however, did not comment on this – per usual. ( He supposed that half demons such as Kay Tu were a curious breed ; and yet, the human half of him seemed to produce an unhealthy amount of dry humor that weighed on Cassian’s patience. ) “Someone is in the lobby, we should go and check it out.”

He sighs, checking his radio at his hip before nodding. It likely wasn’t a big deal – stupid kids, and a few unhinged locals, always wandered their way into the lobby at night from the outside. Some looking for shelter from the cold, some looking to just be little shits. Running them off was simple.

But, for an unperceived reason, there was a pulsing in his chest that made him believe there was something more in the lobby. Something he wasn’t sure he wanted to see or not. “I’ll go first,” he said instead of voicing his concerns.

Kay didn’t argue.

Cassian shoulders the large, double doors of the main entrance open – keen, inhuman eye sight able to flicker around the darkened lobby more easily; listening for heart beats. One – the front desk agent behind the counter, hidden from sight. Two --- there shouldn’t be a second one. He tuned out the worker’s heartbeat, like adjusting the sound levels on a radio – hyperfocused on the second. And the second was a familiar cadence somehow ; like a lullaby sung to you as a kid that you can’t quite remember the tune to. Wrapping itself around your brain in a vice grip that suddenly knocks you to the floor with a painful, mournful nostalgia.

It was the scent that hit him next, one that told him it was remembered from when he was a human – meshed with something that held a wilder musk. An alpha werewolf, tinged with memories of younger days. Smelling of bonfire smoke and cheap cigarettes.

It was then that his eyes fell on a pair of bright, crimson red ones in the center of the lobby – and his entire world tunneled into that point in time; certain his own heart was pounding in his ears. Without his own permission, his own gaze echoed a molten yellow ---

And the alpha smiles – the alpha who was connected to the fangs in his memory, the fangs that now flash at him in the low lighting of the high lobby. And he speaks – like a song, almost, marred with heaven’s most dangerous angels. “Cassian.”

A harsh breath -- one that tasted of nicotine and soot. “Bodhi.”

[artificialqueens]

Breakfast Tacos with The Run-Off-The-Mill Transvestite Bisexual Hooker (Trixya) - Spoky

A/N: A lesbian AU for Cat who doesn’t like dicks, but likes Trixya.

Summary: Trixie’s life is very domestic. Katya’s is not. A combination of the two creates romance and sex, mostly sex.

Breakfast Tacos with The Run-Off-The-Mill Transvestite Bisexual Hooker

The ceiling of the unfamiliar bedroom Katya woke up in needed re-painting. So did the toe nails of the girl snuggled to her side. There was a heavy, hairy arm wrapped around her chest, painfully pressing on her left breast, and a pounding headache that reminded her of the fact that she was no longer eighteen. She could taste yesterday’s cigarettes on her tongue and smell the stale scent of sex in the stuffy bedroom; combination of cum and sweat.

The curvy body on her left stirred as she slowly moved the hairy arm off of her and wiggled her way out of the double bed. Where the fuck was her underwear?

There were piles of clothing scattered around the bedroom floor and only the fourth one brought any results. Katya pulled the t-shirt on and glanced at the couple on the bed. What the fuck was wrong with modern society so that twenty-something-year-olds needed to “spice up” their sex life with additions such as her?

The walls were decorated with multiple framed photographs of the couple’s trips abroad, their happy moments. There was a statue of a cat on the dresser and candles Katya figured were lit on special occasions to set the mood. Fuck romance, she personally couldn’t even fucking spell the word.

The fifth pile of clothes was a jackpot, containing mostly just her items. She dressed as quietly as she could and licked her teeth. Ugh, wrong move. Her breath must’ve been foul.

She grabbed her bag and tiptoed next to the guy on the bed. Men did the paying in hetero relationships, right? She had nothing against the bear, or hairy dude – straights didn’t get called bears, did they? – and didn’t want to wake him, but she really needed the agreed $180. Money in the dresser, girl! Had she learned nothing?

“Dude,” Katya whispered, trying not to wake up the missus. “Fuck man, wake up.”

The bear stirred and looked up to Katya, clearly hungover.

“Dude, I need the money.”

The beast groaned and sat up. He pointed lazily to his left and Katya rolled her eyes. Maybe it was too much to ask of the males of the species to communicate in full sentences? She eyed the direction the bear was pointing at and spotted his wallet – or, she assumed it was his. She grabbed the thing and gave it to the man who after a brief pause handed her $200 in twenty dollar bills.  

“Thanks, man,” Katya whispered. Whore or not, she hadn’t been raised by fucking wolves. She weaved her way quietly to the door and was about to leave when a low grunt made her turn once more. What now?

“Same time next week?” the bear asked and Katya smiled politely.  

“Sure, text me,” she said and closed the bedroom door behind her.

*

The morning sun was bright and hot. Katya knew exactly how bad she smelled as she dumped the mints, the coke and the cheapest bag of crisps she could find in the gas station onto the counter.

“And Lucky Strikes, the click and roll ones,” she said to the severely overweight cashier.

“ID?” the man asked in a low baritone and Katya wanted to roll her eyes. Instead she flashed him her driver’s licence, revealing her age close to thirty, and smiled the sweetest smile she could muster.

The horizontally challenged cashier wiggled his plump ass to the cigarettes and back, tempting Katya to ask for another pack, just to give the bastard some exercise, but she figured that in a state where a Mars bar costed half the price of a fresh salad the man was probably doing his best anyway and so she decided against it.  

“Anything else?” the man asked and Katya snorted.

“A condo with a working bathroom, pretty wife and a job where I can keep my clothes on?”

The man blinked lazily, and Katya figured he was incapable of understanding humour so early on a Saturday morning.

“No, that’s all,” she corrected and handed the cashier the amount required.

She walked back to her car and took a seat. She really wanted a cigarette and had just lit one when her phone beeped for a received text message.  

T: I’ve got breakfast.

There were reasons why Katya was in love with Trixie Mattel, her immaculate timing being just one of them.

K: there in 15min

She started the car, dropped the half smoked cigarette on the parking lot and sighed. She really should’ve showered at the couple’s place…

*

Trixie Mattel was everything Katya Zamolodchikova aspired to be. She was smart, beautiful, cocky, artistic, occasionally cunty, sure of herself, add here your favourite adjective and just a fucking decent human being. Trixie was interesting and rarely judgemental, something Katya appreciated in a woman. She was also an amazing cook and whenever she invited Katya over, Katya never thought twice, a home cooked meal always sounding better than her favourite song on the radio.

Standing in Trixie’s clean apartment with white walls, expensive cutlery and modern art was always a little distressing. Katya usually avoided moving around too much, afraid of contaminating the place with grunge and stupidity. She therefore tended to hover somewhere in between the kitchen and the bathroom, never feeling entirely comfortable. Of course there had been times when Trixie had dragged her into the bedroom and fucked her senseless, but those occasions rarely occurred on Katya’s own initiative. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she was always expecting permission.

“Scrambled or fried?” Trixie asked gently and Katya chuckled.

Eggs. Who the fuck cared? Either. Both? They would be amazing regardless. The only way Katya ate eggs on her own was price reduced and overcooked.

“Whichever is easier,” she ended up saying, knowing that Trixie wouldn’t appreciate the reply.

“Easiest is to mash them to your head and be done with it.”

Katya sniggered. “Scrambled,” she ordered through her chuckles.

“Good girl,” Trixie said and dropped a hasty kiss to the corner of Katya’s mouth before walking to the stove.

Katya pulled herself a chair from underneath the kitchen table and took a sip of the drink Trixie had mixed for her. The drink tasted like something in between of strawberries and vodka.

“There’s towels in the bathroom,” Trixie said in passing as she crouched to get something from the fridge. Mushrooms?

“Is that a hint?” Katya asked and swallowed, trying hard to hide her disgust. How did you tell someone that perfectly good eggs shouldn’t be spoiled with literal fungus?

“Did you know that the FDA legally allows 19 maggots and 74 mites in every 3.5-ounce can of mushrooms?”

Trixie paused and turned to look at her, unamused. “No, I did not,” she admitted. “But for someone who smells like half decayed dead sewer rat, you certainly have a lot of opinions about free food.”

Katya smirked. There were many reasons why she loved Trixie Mattel, her quick-wit being just one of them.

“Fine. I’ll shower.”

“And I’ll accommodate to your uneducated taste buds.”

Katya figured it counted as team work. She should put it on her CV.

*

Katya reached over the sink to wipe a reflective surface to the misty bathroom mirror. She sneered at the revealed image and reached for the modified pantyhose she’d left on the toilet seat. Due to damp skin it took some effort to wiggle her way into the self-made binder, but she eventually made it and covered the damn thing with a red tank-top before jumping into her briefs. Pulling the wet strands of her blond bob out of her face she stepped to the hallway and made her way back into the kitchen.

Trixie was standing at the kitchen sink, her hands hidden in dishwater and bubbles. The woman noticed Katya’s presence as she arrived and turned to look at her. The pure lust in her eyes made Katya smirk cocksurely.

“Don’t get cocky,” Trixie snorted, taking notice of Katya’s expression.

“But surely that’s the point?” Katya asked, walking behind Trixie. She brushed the bubblegum pink curls over Trixie’s shoulder and pressed herself against Trixie’s back while grabbing her breasts gently, giving them an affectionate squeeze. The woman shivered under Katya’s touch.

“Your hair’s wet,” Trixie whimpered as Katya reached further down, forcing Trixie to abandon the dishes.

“I didn’t think wet would be a problem,” Katya said. Her voice now low.

Trixie licked her lips. She placed her hands on either side of the sink, leaning on them slightly for support as she felt Katya reaching lower, all the way down to her crotch and giving her pussy a firm rub over her dress.

“Fuck,” Trixie sighed quietly.  

Katya chuckled at Trixie’s swear and lifted the hem of her dress just enough to thread her hand into her knickers.

Trixie bit her lower lip as she moved her feet slightly more apart before thrusting her hips ever so slightly against Katya’s cupped palm.

“You like that?”

Katya wrapped her other hand around Trixie’s waist and pulled the woman firmly against her as she massaged her palm in firm waves over Trixie’s labia. The woman smelled like candied apples with a hint of soft, sweet peony. The hem of Trixie’s floral dress caressed Katya’s naked thighs and she could feel her fingers getting slick as Trixie got more aroused.

“Yeah,” Trixie moaned, barely above a whisper.

“Yeah?” Katya asked, pressing her middle finger slightly in between Trixie’s pudendal lips, not quite in straight contact with her clitoris.

“Fuck yeah,” Trixie groaned and bent her knees to thrust against Katya’s hand more firmly, craving for more stimulation.

“Turn,” Katya instructed and pulled her hands off of Trixie.

Trixie swirled around in one quick movement and placed her hands on the kitchen counter for support as Katya got down on her knees, swiftly making her way underneath Trixie’s knee length hem. Katya dragged Trixie’s white cotton panties down to her ankles and helped her to step out of them before pressing her nose against her pussy, bringing it into a sweet sweet contact with Trixie’s clitoris.

Trixie whimpered and thrust her hips violently against Katya’s face, begging her to fuck her.

The desperate movement made Katya grin and she dug her fingers into Trixie’s ass, grabbing it tightly with her left hand before tracing Trixie’s pussy with her already wet fingers.

“Stop teasing you cunt!”

Katya smirked but didn’t need telling twice. She pushed two fingers up into Trixie simultaneously as she opened her lips to press an open mouthed kiss over her clitoris. Trixie groaned loudly, melting into the touch and pressing herself firmer against Katya’s mouth and fingers, asking for more.

“Please please please,” Trixie whined, her voice wavering. “Just, just…”

Trixie was squeezing the kitchen counter tightly, leaning onto her hands, as she rubbed her pussy against Katya’s slick tongue. She needed more, wanted her deeper, firmer, faster and rose onto her toes, knees bent, to create more leverage.

“Fuck yeah, eat that pussy,” she moaned and fucked against the open mouth before surrendering to the shivers and vibrations that flashed through her body in tidal waves.

Katya could feel Trixie’s thighs shaking and just held her firmly as the woman shivered above her. She didn’t know when Trixie had gotten onto her toes but as she lowered her heels back down and straightened her knees, Katya’s tongue lost contact with her. She could hear her panting and could imagine her eyes closed, lips slightly ajar, completely consumed by the sweet lull of her afterglow. As a soft reminder of her existence, Katya crooked her fingers slightly inside of her.

“Stop it, bitch.”

Katya laughed at the words and pulled out. “Sensitive, are we?”

Trixie snorted and dragged Katya up to her feet before kissing her hungrily, tasting herself on Katya’s lips. How the fuck had she fallen so hard for this run-off-the-mill transvestite hooker, Trixie would never know, but the woman fit perfectly against her as she wrapped her arms around Trixie’s waist.

“Breakfast?” Katya mumbled between the kisses and Trixie couldn’t resist the opportunity.

“What, you want more than tacos?”

Katya’s shrieking laughter sounded like a cat in heat.

[iwriteshortstuff]

Someone New part 3

Warnings: Verbal argument-ish, getting drunk, embarrassment.

A/N: SO I’m kind of on a semi-unintentional hiatus (graduation is in 66 days), but I had this challenge for the @spnbuddywriters to do! I hope you all like it, and thank you to Dorathea and Caitlyn for being my partners on this!

Part One

Part Two

Tags: @iwantthedean @kbrand0 @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog @daydreamingintheimpala @d-s-winchester @ilostmyshoe-79 @one-shots-supernatural @supernaturalxreader @abaddonwithyall @ellen-reincarnated1967 @blacktithe7 @emissary-from-hale @jodyri @ashleymalfoy @callmesweetheartifyoumeanit @kickasscas67 @aprofoundbondwithdean @torn-and-frayed @driverpicksthemuusic @thisisthelilith @jerkbitchidjitassbutt @feelmyroarrrr @xfanqirlinq @quiescentcastiel

Monday evening, you find yourself in a heated argument with Andrew. You’re honestly not even surprised, nor are you even fighting that hard.

“You can’t even answer my question?!” Andrew practically screams, and you roll your eyes.

“You know what? Get out, Andrew. Get out. I’m done.” Instead of the snarky reply you expected, he just stares at you.

“What?” His voice sounds small, almost childlike, and it lightly tugs at your heartstrings.

“I can’t do this, Andrew. When was the last time we went on a date? When was the last time we ate a meal together? Had sex? Said ‘I love you?’” You can see him actually trying to think about it and that hurts. “See? You literally have to think about it. It doesn’t even feel like we’re a couple anymore. It feels like we’ve been roommates who happen to share a bed. Just get your shit and get out.” He gapes at you for a minute before blinking and nodding.

“Okay.” He takes a step towards you, leaning forward to press a kiss to your cheek. You close your eyes as he leans in, trying to hold back tears you don’t want. “I do love you, (Y/N).” He backs away and heads into the bedroom. A single tear slips down your cheek as you open your eyes, and before your brain catches up, your legs have taken you to the door.

You get all the way to your car before you realize you forgot your keys and your jacket, but you don’t want to go back up to the apartment. Instead, you start to walk. Just when you’re starting to lose feeling in your legs and you see snow start to fall, you see the neon of a bar and you jog towards it.

Stepping inside, you’re hit with the smell of stale beer and cigarettes, body sweat, and bad decisions. It’s moderately packed, but you have no trouble finding a seat at the bar. You order a whiskey double straight up and down it before signalling for another. You get about four (or was it five?) shots in before the feeling starts to return to your toes. There’s a pretty blonde behind the bar that looks familiar and an older woman who looks like her mom walking around taking care of the patrons. You signal the blonde for another shot, and you’re given a glass of water instead. You frown at it for a second before looking up.

“This isn’t whiskey,” you state, tilting your head a little. The blonde chuckles as she pops the top off a beer before sliding it across the bar.

“Well, someone is not nearly as drunk as I thought she was,” she says, planting her hands on the bar. The comment makes you smile a little before sipping the water. The blonde extends her hand, which you take. “Name’s Jo.”

“(Y/N),” you reply. She studies your face while pouring you another whiskey.

“(Y/N), you’re the girl that Dean brought to the bonfire, right?” Your brain finally makes the connection and you nod. “Alright then, what’s got you downing these like your life depends on it?” You exhale a laugh through your nose before throwing the shot back.

“My boyfriend and I broke up today, and I kicked him out.” Jo smiles knowingly before sliding you another shot.

“I know how that is.” She just seems to notice your lack of winter clothing and she squints at you. “Where’s your coat? Did you walk here?” You nod as you take the shot before taking a sip of your water.

“I left the apartment so fast I didn’t realize I left my coat and keys upstairs and I didn’t want to go back up.” Jo nods slowly.

“Do you have a ride? I don’t want you freezing to death by yourself.” You perk up, smiling wide.

“I can call Dean,” you state, patting your pockets for your phone. You realize just how drunk you are now that you’re moving, and finally locate your phone in your back pocket. It takes a few seconds to unlock it, but suddenly Jo slips the phone out of your hands and dials the number.

“Dean? It’s Jo. (Y/N)’s drunk here at the bar with no jacket and no car. Can you come get her?” She listens for a second before thanking Dean and hanging up. “Dean’s on his way. You get one more shot before you’re drinking a big glass of water, okay?” You nod in agreement.

Just as you’re finishing your second glass of water, you feel someone slid into the seat next to you. You look up into emerald eyes.

“Dean!” You throw your arms around his neck and bury your face in shoulder. You hear his chuckle as he wraps his arms around your waist.

“Someone’s trashed,” he states. You pull back, pouting.

“This is nowhere near New Year’s 2015,” you say, and Dean laughs.

“Let’s say we get you out of here, huh?” You nod and wobble a little as you stand. Eyes closed, you grip the bar for balance before feeling something drape over your shoulders. Glancing down, you see a brown leather jacket and you look up at Dean.

“This smells like you,” you say as he steers you towards the door. You see him blush a little and it makes you smile.

“I’m hoping that’s a good thing,” he says, looking over at you. You smile at him before tugging the coat closer to you.

“It is. Soap, spearmint, old motor oil, and something a little sharper I can’t quite place.” He grins before bringing you to the same car from the bonfire. He opens the door and helps you in before jogging around and starting the car with a growl.

“Where do you wanna go? I’m assuming not home?” You shake your head before grimacing.

“I need a bed, but not home right now.” You look at Dean, and you can see he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“Is it okay if I take you to my place? I’ve got a queen sized bed with a down comforter and a memory foam mattress.” He leans over before stage whispering. “It remembers me!” You giggle and nod. Dean grins again before putting the car in gear and pulling onto the street. The ride to his place is comfortably quiet, and instead of the apartment you were expecting, you pull up to a modest house.

Dean comes around and helps you up the driveway and upstairs, leading you down the hall to what you guessed was the master bedroom. The sight of the bed makes you tired, and without a word, you collapse onto the bed and instantly fall asleep.

“Do you want a shirt to sleep in? This one will be big enough-” Dean turns to find you face down on the bed, already sound asleep. He smiles fondly at you for a moment before untying your boots and tucking you under the blankets. He takes one last look at you before leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, then heads downstairs to the couch.

You wake in the morning, mouth dry and head pounding. You sit up slowly, taking in your surroundings. The room is pretty, the walls painted a light blue and pictures of what looks like Dean and his family adorning the walls. When you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and find water and aspirin sitting on the nightstand, you send blessings to the angels for Dean. After downing three pills and the whole glass of water, you find the bathroom and quickly wash your face, instantly feeling better. You decide you want breakfast, so you quietly make your way downstairs. You catch a glimpse of Dean sprawled out on the couch, and you smile at how sweet he looks.

Making your way into the kitchen, you find a note waiting for you in unfamiliar handwriting.

(Y/N), make yourself at home. Coffee’s ready to go, just push the button. Mugs are over the coffee maker, creamer in the fridge, sugar in the bowl next to the toaster. -Sam

You smile to yourself before pressing the button on the coffee maker and rummaging through the cabinets to find what you wanted.

Thirty minutes and two cups of coffee later, Dean’s stumbling into the kitchen. You slide a cup of coffee over to him, and he smiles gratefully as he takes a sip.

“Why are you making waffles?” You look at him, hand to your chest in fake hurt.

“If you don’t want waffles, I can just throw them all away…” You make a big show of picking up the plate with the waffles on it. Dean yelps and snatches the plate from you.

“NO. I want waffles, I’m just wondering why you’re making them.” As he’s moving around you to put the plate back down, he catches sight of the other pan. “You made eggs too?” You nod, pouring more batter on the waffle iron. You’re about to ask if eggs over easy is okay when the front door opens. “SAM! (Y/N) MADE WAFFLES!” Dean bellows, and you hear the sound of boots coming off as Sam replies.

“I didn’t even know we had a waffle iron!” You laugh as Dean looks pensive.

“You know, I didn’t know we did either,” he admits. Sam comes in and looks at all of the food before patting his stomach.

“I’m technically on a diet but I can’t say no to waffles. Thanks, (Y/N),” he says.

“I made eggs too. Is over easy okay?” Sam’s eyes widen, and he looks over at Dean who’s smiling and nodding.

“Yeah dude. She’s awesome. I told you.” You blush at Dean’s words and slide eggs onto Sam’s plate before cracking three more for Dean.\

“You want over easy too?” Dean nods, and without thinking about it he drops a kiss to the top of your head when he passes you to get coffee for Sam. You freeze, and Dean feels it.

“I uh, sorry, I don’t know why I did that.” You smile shyly, salting the eggs.

“No, it’s okay. It’s just… I haven’t been on the receiving end of affection in a while,” you trail off, and the room gets tense for a second. Sucking in a breath, you clear the air. “I broke up with Andrew and kicked him out of the apartment.” Sam is avoiding your eyes, shoveling waffles into his mouth. Dean coughs before sliding into the seat next to him.

“Explains last night,” he remarks as you slide eggs onto his plate. You give him the fresh waffle and laugh humorlessly.

“Yeah it does. Sorry about that by the way,” you tell him. Dean shovels eggs and waffle into his mouth before replying.

“Mm no s’okay.” He swallows what he had in his mouth before continuing. “I’m just glad you called me instead of trying to walk home.”

“I appreciate you coming to get me.

Six months later finds you and Dean down by the lake where the bonfire was, lying in hammocks across from each other. Those months have been some of the best of your life. Andrew moved out of town, and you and Dean hadn’t officially started dating, but things are lowkey, which you like.

“I’m gonna go sit down by the water for a bit, I’m getting hot,” you call over to Dean. You see his head pop up over the edge of his hammock and you laugh. “You look like a prairie dog like that,” you say in response to his frown. He chuckles as he sits up. Getting out of your hammock, you slide your sandals on and wait for Dean to get up.

Once he gets his shoes on, you walk hand-in-hand down to the water. You stay on the dock, but Dean was trying to show off and get to the rope swing, despite the mud on the ground. “Be careful, there’s mud-”

But just as you finish your warning his feet are slipping and he falls ass-first into the mud. He sits rigid for a second before resigning and laying back. You crawl to the edge of the dock and look over at him. “I tried to tell you.” His eyes are closed, and he sighs before opening them and looking over at you.

“I know. Didn’t do any good though.” You help him back up the hill and over to the hammocks before you see the full extent of the mud. You bite your lip to keep from laughing, but a snort escapes and Dean glares at you.

“I’m sorry. This is just really funny.” He rolls his eyes at you.

“I need to take a shower now. I can feel the mud seeping into my pants.” That made you snort again, and you hold your hands up in defense.

“Okay, well you aren’t getting into my car like that,” you tell him. “I think I have some towels in my car. I’ll be right back.” You find an old beach towel and bring it over for him, and he wraps it around his waist like a sarong before helping you pack up your stuff.

Back at your apartment Dean is taking his sweet time in the shower. “Are you okay in there?” you call through the cracked door. Dean pops his head out and you laugh at him.

“Yeah I’m peachy. You have all the nice smelling stuff. I’m gonna smell like a girl but I have no regrets,” he tells you before disappearing again. Ten minutes later he’s finally out of the shower and dressed, and he’s suddenly being weird. You were making lunch and he was being quiet, and unusually so. He’s eyeing your DVD collection for the nth time and you’re worried.

“Dean, babe is everything okay?” His head whips around to look at you, and he looks like a kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Hm? Yeah, no I’m fine. I uh, I just have a question for you.” You put down the knife you have and walk over to him.

“What’s up?” He takes your hands in his and looks at you.“What we’ve been doing is great, but I wanna change things.” Your stomach is in knots, and you feel tears pricking at the back of your eyes.

“Okay, um, yeah we can change things. What did you have in mind?” Dean takes a deep breath.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” The question took you by surprise

“Huh?” “Be my girlfriend,” Dean says. “Please?” Finally the pieces click in your brain and your face breaks into a grin, which Dean’s face mirrors.

“Yeah, of course,” you say before crashing your lips into his. When you pull away, you smack his chest. “You scared me. I thought you were breaking up with me,” you say. Dean laughs and pulls you into his chest.

“Nah, just the opposite.” After a moment, he kisses the top of your head and pulls away to look at you. “Thanks for spilling coffee on me,” he says. You chuckle, remembering that day.

“Thanks for standing too close to me,” you reply. He laughs before pressing another kiss to your forehead.

“Let’s eat. I’m starving.” You laugh and go back to the counter, thinking you could do this forever.