#i have drawings of bleach on the wall made by yours truly

[sorryimananti-romantic]

i was snooping around your blog and saw that you also like bleach (the anime/manga) 👀 are you still following the new seasons or did you stop at some point?

do you have any favorite: character, shinigami (shikai/bankai), arrancar (abilities/resurrecion), quincy/sternritter (abilities/shift), visored, hollows, arcs? special moments that have stuck with you (positively/negatively)?

it's so rare for me to find someone else into it lol so you got me curious now~

•🃏

omgg when i tell you that bleach is the love of my life, possibly my fav manga ever (or at least one of my fav)!! i started reading and occasionally watching (bc i was more of a reader) back in 2012 until the manga ended (somewhere around... 2016?) and then i reread the whole thing again and watched whatever episodes were available :'))

i don't read mangas anymore, i sometimes watch anime (not very often) but i still cherish bleach so much. and omg seeing those terms made me go *blink blink* bc it's been so long i had to google to confirm what some of those were!

and that's why my answers might not make sense BUT I HAVE FAVS. definitely. firstly, ichigo, ofc. esp when he attained bankai. kisuke urahara is also my biggest anime crushes (also my anime crushes are such a strong indicator of my type). from the arrancars, i remember how obsessed i was with ulquiorra and grimmjow (ulquiorra's arc and the way he died? and the scene with orihime still lives in my head rent free).

i honestly don't remember much but i remember being a fan of the ishidas too. i also have the softest spot for rukia and byakuya, kenpachi and the little girl that tags with him. toshiro's powers always fascinated me the most and aizen was so hot for being the villain lmao. and omg ywach!! always gave me the chills.

i think my fav arc was when (the explanation's gonna suck) the soul society is in... shambles? with ywach and the other espadas. thousand year blood war or sth? basically before the manga ends. i think the ending and opening of this anime are perfection.

i think this is my cue to reread bleach bc i've been wanting to reread (and hopefully getting back into reading manga) for a while now. since the last time i touched this manga was in 2016, my knowledge is very dusty if you can't tell already-- but if i pick it up again, i'm bothering you 🫵 bc it really is rare to find a bleach enthusiast! i need to hear your fav moments and fav characters too, come on. refresh my memory (and give me the push to pick bleach again)

[el-michoacano]

only the dead know

Takes place during Plan and Execution, and it's mostly canon compliant!

Ship: Lalo x Nacho

Rating: T, primarily for gore

Partially inspired by a gorgeous art post by @chomchomcherrybomb that was inspired by @sn4ilbitez and @rwsucculent. Hope it's okay to tag you guys!

READ ON AO3

.

Nacho-- Or this thing that looked like Nacho-- was riddled with bullet holes. Moonlight filtered through them, dappling Lalo's chest and the concrete walls of the sewer in silvery light. Lalo had been seeing it for quite some time, but getting used to such a thing didn't seem possible. It was small, only as tall as Nacho had been, and it was shrinking all the time, ashen skin drawing tight around its bones as it rotted. Some of those bones were exposed, bleached white from the desert sun. The radius and ulna were visible in its right forearm, and though Lalo couldn't see it from this angle, three vertebrae were exposed at the back of its neck, where a coyote had gotten it. Its left eye was missing, and much of the eye socket was visible, too. It was grisly, and Lalo looked away.

It was late, but he hadn't been sleeping. He had never been much of a sleeper, and here lately, the insomnia had gotten even worse. He had loved it once, had found it useful, even, but it was getting old.

Not that sleep was a refuge. The thing that looked like Nacho was in his dreams, too.

Betrayal could do that to a person, Lalo supposed. It haunted you, having someone you trusted turn on you like that. He should have seen it coming, but he'd been blinded by something he still firmly refused to name.

He missed the way things had been before. He missed his bed. He missed his hacienda. He missed Cecilio and Miguel and all the others, even Ciro. He missed Yolanda most of all.

And Nacho-- He missed Nacho, too. It was something unforgivable.

Was this rotting creature truly what had become of Nacho? Was it a ghost? A hallucination? Was it simply the result of regret and too little sleep?

Whatever it was, it said, "This is your fault."

Lalo ignored it, his binoculars held to his face as he scoped out Lavandería Brillante. He'd been here two days already, watching Fring and his men come and go and come again. Paciencia, he told himself. His time would come. His revenge would come.

"He's gonna kill you," the thing that looked like Nacho said. It was at Lalo's side, down on one knee, close enough that Lalo could smell the rot on it. The odor lingered sickly-sweet under the familiar scent of Nacho's cologne. It made Lalo's heart clench in his chest.

He spared a quick glance in the thing's direction, asking, trying and failing to keep his tone light, "Is that a threat or a promise?"

"Both." It was looking at Lalo with its single eye, its head tipped to one side. The other eye had been taken out by a bullet, as far as Lalo knew. A flower grew from the grisly wound, a desert bluebell, incongruously alive amongst so much dead flesh and rotten blood. "When you're dead, you get to know everything."

Turning his gaze back out of the storm drain and across the street, Lalo asked, "And you're using this to, what, warn me? You wanna protect me, Nachito?"

It didn't seem to have an answer for that, and instead, it said, "I tried to keep them from killing everyone else. I wanted it to just be you."

"Que amable," Lalo drawled.

"I'm glad they didn't get you," the thing that looked like Nacho said, and a shiver of something that was far too much like longing to be comfortable raced down Lalo's spine. It felt hot and sharp, like a million tiny needles, like Nacho's name was being tattooed onto him, deep and inescapable. "It would have been quick. It's gonna be quick this way, too, but at least you'll suffer a little. It's still better than you deserve," it added, almost as if it was a mere afterthought.

Lalo hummed to himself, but it did nothing to block out the thing's voice. It was soft, but there was a gurgling sound beneath it. Tío Hector had held the gun himself, the rumors had said. How he had managed to lodge a bullet perfectly in the hollow of Nacho's throat was unknowable. A miracle, maybe. Was there a word for a bad miracle? Bad luck on Nacho's part. Mala suerte. At least he'd been dead when it happened.

"I know you think about me," the thing said.

It wasn't wrong. Lalo thought about Nacho often. He thought about avenging his staff, about getting even for what had been done to his staff and to Tío Hector, about being the one who had gotten to put Nacho down like the dog he was.

"I know you miss me," it said, its voice soft. How could someone so treacherous have such a gentle voice?

That wasn't wrong, either. But it was a secret, held tight to Lalo's chest, where no one would ever find it. How could this thing possibly know about it? It would have taken a switchblade and a pair of pliers to dig it out of him.

"You dream about me." It stepped closer. "You call out for me in your sleep." It reached for Lalo, and when it touched the back of his neck, at the same spot where its own vertebrae were exposed, he shuddered. Its fingertips were so cold they burned. Lalo would have done anything to have Nacho touch him like this when he was alive, and it felt traitorous now. This wasn't the Nacho he wanted. But, he thought, it was better than no Nacho at all. "You pray for my soul when you think God isn't listening."

Lalo's chest hurt. He'd hoped he'd never have to hear that voice again, and to hear it this way, half-dead and full of dirt and blood and regret... He sighed, his hands white-knuckled around the binoculars. He wasn't even looking through them anymore, though he did his best to keep his gaze trained on the guard who was trying to look casual in front of Lavandería Brillante. Neither the guard nor Lalo himself were handling their tasks very well.

The thing that looked like Nacho-- No, it was him, wasn't it? It was full of bullet holes and coated in old blood, but it was him.

Was this a punishment? Was this Nacho being cursed to roam the earth due to his betrayal? Was this him returning willingly to seek revenge?

Nacho hadn't even gotten a proper burial; He'd been left to rot in the desert, his bones picked clean by vultures and bleached by the sun. He deserved better. He was a traitor, yes, but he had been young and full of promise. It was a tragedy, though Lalo couldn't say it was unexpected after what had happened.

"You miss me," Nacho said again. He was watching Lalo now with his single eye. It was the same deep, warm brown that Lalo remembered, but it was clouded over. It got worse every time Lalo saw him. "Even after what I tried to do to you, you miss me every damn day."

Lalo missed him every damn second, but he didn't say so. Nacho would know anyway, wouldn't he, if death had really given him all the answers?

"I know," Nacho said, as if reading Lalo's mind. Could the dead do that? Lalo's hands shook around the binoculars, and he released them, letting them clatter to the floor and supporting himself against the lip of the storm drain. The concrete was rough under his palms, and he used the feeling of it to ground himself. There was an especially sharp bit digging into the underside of his ring finger on his left hand. It felt like a wish that would forever go unfulfilled; It stung like betrayal. He could feel blood dripping down his hand, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing the ghost away. It did no good. He'd been seeing that decomposing face behind his eyelids since he'd heard the news of Nacho's death.

Softly, his voice almost lost to the sound of a car rumbling by, Nacho asked, "Who're you trying to fool?"

Lalo said, "Myself." It wasn't working.

[unohanadaydreams]

Could I get Knight! Kenpachi and Princess! Reader, otome scenario first meeting please! I hope I read the rules correctly jejdnfnf

YES! Y E S!!!! anon this is SO big brained. Oh my god. Please feel all the freedom to request more prompts for knight!kenpachi.

notes: a first meeting for the game’s surroundings, premise, protagonist, and Kenpachi all wrapped in one. Ah, the divine struggle between duty and lusting after + growing to love one fine motherfucker.

i thought of setting this in a Japanese inspired castle, but I know myself and I would get too caught up in being ‘accurate’. instead i’m gonna stick to what I, a filthy fantasy casual, know.

features: SFW content and some olden day vibes.

Bleach Your Heart: The Otome Ask Game

Knight!Kenpachi + Princess!Reader + First Meeting

You are the only daughter and heir of the castle to survive childhood and beyond. Both your parents live, greeting you with love each day you break fast.

The castle you will one day be Lady of is two grey rectangles of stone connected by one laid on its side in the middle of them, encircled by walls so tall it winds you to climb up them. There is little grandeur in your surroundings beyond the luxury of a full belly and warm room, always. Even the flower gardens are built sturdy rather than pretty.

Life is uncertain in the mountains. But not you. Not within your walls, with your father’s defense strategum to support them. There is even a little town within the castle walls, something no generation before him could hope to maintain and protect successfully.

Your father, who has taught you maths, strategy, and how each part of the castle must be maintained with upmost harmony, has announced it is time.

For marriage. And for more protection.

He is not aging well, hands that once held firm a sword too weak at the wrist to pick up a bowl laden of soup. And those who would battle for his castle are growing more organized—more dangerous.

And He is King before being your father, so you do not fuss even if you feel the weight of his responsibilities crushing you into a curtsy.

Those he will make knights the next morning now sit in the dining hall, eating perhaps their first meal of its kind. There are whole birds on the table, roasted well, and garnished with fresh greens meant to bring crisp freshness to the juicy meat. Thick stew and bowls of berries serve to fill any stomach that the birds do not satisfy. Not grand, but plenty.

You stop at the western entrance, wearied by worries of the future.

There is seldom so much noise as now. The men, all wearing some form of leathers and bits of mail, seem more aflame than the scones that flicker on the walls. You easily spot the newcomers—those who are already knights have been for most your life and are comparably calm.

A man with no hair and colorful makeup springing from the corner of his eyes like wings bangs his tankard on the table one—two—three times after gulping it down in seconds. Yells his victory and calls for another.

The man across from him, hair of oil and feathers truly decorating his eyes, throws a berry at the bald man’s face. It misses.

The bald man turns his head, laughing, to watch the fruit sail past him, and spots you. He waves, calling something you can’t understand, words unfamiliar.

Your hands untangle from behind you and one springs up to return his gesture before you can remember that you are in a doorway, where anyone could be behind you. Perhaps he is being friendly and grateful, you think, for your father choosing him, when so many trained up warriors from your land and the next struggle to find a place with no official war to guide them anymore.

A deep chuckle behind you is all you need to remember your surroundings. You turn, eyesight not filled, but overwhelmed by the height and lean bulk of the man meant to receive the greeting you took for your own.

“Oh,” you say after moments of staring, voice quiet and faraway sounding to your own ears. “Greetings.”

The side of his face where a long scar is carved into skin--above, below, and through his eye--is more lifted into smile than the other. A patch covers his other eye, held by nothing; seemingly nailed into his face by metal studs at the edges of the fabric.

It is not his appearance, punctuated by wild black hair sticking out at the sides like a wolf pelt does at one’s back, but his smile that hushes your manners and leaves you standing there--staring.

The smile is too wide and open. You can not help but remember Martha, who’s smile split her face similarly when hearing that her husband had not returned due to the cold rather than an enemy. Her usually puckered lips had bared her teeth as she laughed harsh, breath white and swirling into the cold air.

He had a smile that spoke of madness.

You heard Martha’s laughter as he acknowledged your words with a nod, asking, “Ya lost or something?”

“Lost,” you say in an echo, eyes drawn to the thin sword at his waist. “N-no. Not at all. I am princess to this castle.”

He laughs, the sound mingling with that which had begun to haunt your ears, as he shrugged. “Guess you’ve never seen a real warrior, then. Thought so, with all the stiffs you’ve got lazin’ around.”

The comment rouses you from where you’d retreated into yourself, drawing your eyes narrow. “I can see you are from across the mountain and perhaps you’ve different ideas of what a true fighter is, but know that all who protect this castle are genuine warriors.”

“Protect? I’m here to fight,” he says, gripping the hilt of his sword and shaking it for emphasis. “That’s what your daddy promised us. Is he a liar?”

“W-no; of course he isn’t,” you lift your chin, responding with gusto. “My father is an honest man and king.”

The man snorts, his head bowing toward the tables of familiar men who had accepted your fistful of flowers and paraded you around on their horses as a child, “They wouldn’t last as a warm up against me.”

“You won’t be fighting them,” you say, eyeing his crossed arms, wanting so much to reach out and smack one of them. “Surely, you must know protection comes before everything? Don’t they teach you that from wherever you come from?”

“Anything I know, I taught myself,” he grunts, smile gone. “And I know a real fighter when I see ‘em. Just like I know I wasn’t hired to sit and wait for a battle to come my way.”

Your father’s words in the throne room pressed you once more and forced a sigh from your chest. “You were hired to escort me to court, then.”

“Yeah, promised a lot of danger along the way, too. Always fun to be had on the edge of a kingdom.” He spoke with utmost confidence, leaning closer than any real knight would dare.

Your father had chosen this man, so you would not ask him to reconsider, but hearing him speak of killing as though it were as much a hobby as needlework or jousting made you bristle.

But you would not let your anger sit on your tongue or coat your words. It would be unwise to lash out against the person who would be a great part responsible for your future safety.

“If you are so great a warrior,” you say slowly, “and the one who will escort me, then it is an honor.”

You dip into a curtsy, listing off your proper title and name before inquiring for his.

“Zaraki Kenpachi--ah fuck, it’s backwards here, ain’t it,” he mumbles, looking to the side, his smile small and human. “Kenpachi Zaraki.”

“Lovely to meet you, Kenpachi Zaraki,” you say, hardly meaning it.

“Nah, you don’t like me at all,” he says as he passes you, large hand giving your back one firm pat. “Do ya, princess?”

[hawksugarbaby]

Todoroki x reader- Fix you with gold

Angst + Villain reader Au

Quirk: kintsugi- you can manipulate strings of gold hardening it as soon as you need to you can also remelt it.

Crimson lights flooded the bare brick room as you watched from the corner waiting for your dear hero to wake up. Shoto todoroki. You had been well acquainted a few years back. When you haven't been coined as (y/n) (y/ln) the UA traitor but now, well not so much for obvious reasons.

Thankfully, the boy you had once loved more than anything was chained up against a chair with his head hanging low avoiding the glare of the red filter. No no this isn't your boring old yandere simulator storyline. You had no intentions of killing everyone who looked at your dear peppermint boy, you had no of killing him because you loved him that was just absolutely ridiculous... no, you were killing him because he was a hero. But was he really?

Your chair screeched as you pulled it along behind you appearing from your corner and sitting yourself down drinking a lovely tea from a beautiful porcelain cup... well, beauty is subjective. "Good morning shoto" you greeted, your cheery attitude slipping between your grit teeth. Yes, today would be a good day "lovely day, isn't it? For a little chit chat hm?" silence. Once again your response was silence "oh come on my little hero I know you're not dead. Yet" it was a fun game you two had. You would talk, he would not, but all your conversations were rather one-sided and you decided chess was more fun with 2 people. Today was going to be the day you broke him once again.

"Shoto, are you interested in what would happen to you if you keep up this silly game of silence?" you asked and finished off the tea spinning the handle around your index finger. You stood up and launched the cup against the wall fragmenting into small pieces that rained down like drops of blood, he winced knowing that the cup was expensive and not easily found. rich boys and their pottery. "I wonder how easily you shatter compared to a teacup. Shall we find out?"

You put your finger on his chin and forced his head up to look at you. His mismatched eyes bore into you with sadness "I used to love you" he whispered. You let go of him and maniacal laugh erupted from inside you which bounced off the walls into his ears "Shoto you still love me. You want me to change my ways and go back to the way I was, maybe join you as your sidekick hm?" he looked at you his eyes wide with the kindling of hope "WELL NEWSFLASH HERO I never was that girl. I was a lie, a book wrote and edited to suit you" you watched as the hope dwindled away the kindles blowing out in the icy wind of your words you leaned down to his ear and whispered "everything you saw in me was an illusion. I could never be a hero, do you know why? Because heroes aren't real"

you stood back up stretching your arms behind your back a Cheshire smile graced your face. "you still have so much time to join me sho, no ones coming to find you, dearest" you sat back down on your chair leaning forward on your hand "you're a villain (y/n) there isn't a way in hell you could convince me to come to your side" you bit the inside of your cheek and pushed yourself off the chair and walking up to him, your face barely inches apart. You kicked his chair over, flicking a butterfly knife out holding it close to his neck "NO. I'M THE GOOD GUY HERE I-IM THE GOOD ONE. YOUR NO HERO I'M CLOSER TO A HERO THAN YOU'LL EVER BE" you spat while he struggled on his back like a helpless tortoise. You were in the right of course you were. Heroes aren't real anymore just read the news the hierarchy was crumbling and the ones who were at the top had the furthest to fall.

No one needs saviours anymore. "Your insane (y/n) your sick please just let me help you" you hated it when they told you that "SHUT UP. I'M NOT I'M NOT I'M NOT. I'M NORMAL. YOU'RE THE SICK ONE YOU KNOW WHY" you pushed the knife up drawing pinpricks of blood that trickled to the floor slowly "because you crave to feed a hunger you cannot satisfy. You want to save as many people as possible, lock up all the villains yes?" he couldn't look away from the intense expression that hadn't left your face since he told you you were a villain "what happens when you lock up the villains hm? When you run out of people to save? Who runs wild through the city then? You pump out heroes every day leaving less and less for you and between you and me it looks like your going to run out of us soon" you pulled the knife back and todoroki released the breath stored up. Now he looked at it, you weren't wrong? What would happen when the villains disappeared. The heroes that were supposed to make people feel safe no matter what had struck fear into the hearts of every civilian in the world, no one dared to steal, to murder, to light their fires across the country for them to trace back to a warehouse in the middle of the wood?

No, he couldn't be thinking about that. He was a hero through and through you wouldn't change his mind with a petty butterfly knife. You scoffed at his pathetic state squirming under you and stood up pulling his chair back up along with you "you're still so handsome shoto, it really would be the biggest shame to ruin you" you sighed remembering a time when you truly wanted to be with him no matter what. But your ideologies just weren't compatible. "Do you know what happens when you mix bleach and rubbing alcohol?" you pulled a bottle of anti-septic out of your pocket and slipped a white cloth down from your sleeve to your hand "no answer? Or are you being ignorant again" he pursed his lips keeping his words sealed in the front of his mouth "fine. Let me show you." you poured the anti-septic on the cloth and walked up to the gorgeous boy in front of you stooping down "last chance my love" he looked at the wall and you groaned in annoyance. You forced the cloth in front of his mouth and nose and smiled sweetly "you make chloroform"

Day 2

Well, it turns out yesterday wasn't the day. But he was getting close you could feel it, you would take a slightly softer approach today there was another name for this, manipulation. "Morning shoto, are you feeling chatty today?" he looked up from his chair quickly when you entered. Despite what others thought, you weren't completely heartless, you would bring him food and water, and for a hostage, it was pretty good food. Maybe it was the remnants of your love that made you treat him differently. You unlocked his chains and passed him his plate. He knew there was no chance of escape, he had tried and failed a hundred times, he couldn't use his quirk in this room, and you were waiting around every corner when he tried to run.

"You know what I really don't understand shoto?" you wandered around the ruby room admiring the walls that kept him inside "when I first met you you said you despised your father and you would go against him in every way possible" he ceased eating at the mention of his father his appetite suddenly lost in the crowd of emotions "so why even become a hero. Why did you not run off? be the opposite of what he ever told you to be?" you were getting there you could feel it ripping through the air. He was lost, and confused? Who did he want to be? Certainly not anything like his father? Why did he ever want to be a hero? To save children who had to bear what he bore, why should he care for them if no hero ever cared for him "as I see it your father is worse than ever is he not? He lost Touya, he can't find you, he's wearing fuyumi and natsuo away desperate to have his perfect creation. Wouldn't now be the best time to join me sho" the plate hit the floor splitting apart just like his own sanity. Here we go. This would be so fun.

You sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him and picked up the pieces of the broken plate stacking them in your hand "you've heard of kintsugi I assume?" of course he had he grew up with everything, he nodded hesitantly his dual coloured fringe hanging in front of his eye as he leaned over watching you intently. You started laying the pieces of the plate out like a jigsaw fitting them together perfectly "if you just took my offer sho..." you started pushing the pieces together and lines of gold brushed over the old cracks, you lifted up the plate and put it on his lap "I could fix you up with gold" you whispered he gulped and traced his finger over the gold that welded the plate making it better than before. "We could get to know each other again. Love each other REALLY love each other shoto please I'm begging you" you really hated playing the broken lover card especially to someone you truly did love, and of course, you wanted to know him all over again but the begging really was a chore you had to fake so much emotion.

"I-i missed you (y/n) I really did I want you to come back to me the way you were before. Don't do this please" he begged. He knew this was it. He couldn't hang on any longer he had missed you for so long he couldn't stand being away from you again and ... you were right! Why should he strive to be a hero when none had ever cared for him when he was almost dead, beaten up by his own father who had the audacity to call himself a hero. He was nothing more than the creature to be puppeteered by Viktor Frankenstein. "THIS IS ME. can't you see that shoto this is who I am? The way I was before was fictional I tailored for you" you brushed your hand across his scarred cheek and brushed his hair out of his face "but you could know me, you could love me like this, couldn't you. You just need to join my side."

he looked at you, taking in your details for the first time in 4 years. You're (e/c) orbs didn't even try to attempt hiding the craziness behind them, the way your grin had a sadistic twist that could make any god coil in fear, your (h/l) (h/c) that was matted and bloody, the way the red light mimicked the bloodlust radiating off of you, yet he could still find comfort in it. "I want to know you," he said in his low monotone voice. The breaking point. You were his breaking point. "Let's get to know each other then hm?"

[thegeminisage]

top 5 moments in broken road?

i literally waited until now to answer these ask meme questions so i could do this w/o spoilers. anyway time to do an ask meme i got questions for THREE ENTIRE WEEKS ago

#5 - "my girl" john/mary reunion

Mary rushes forward into John's waiting arms. He gathers her up and holds her close, pressing kiss after kiss into her hair, tears running down his face. "My girl," he says, in aching disbelief, drawing back to cup her face in his hands. "My girl." She laughs through her own tears, and when he smooths one gun-calloused thumb under her eye she turns her face into his hand, and then he draws her close and kisses her, like they're the only two people left in the whole wide world.

look. am i valid? no. but they compel me. to them their story is just as real and longlasting as dean/cas is to us. so i added a little gutpunch to that reunion because it’s my fic and i get to do what i want >:) actually, even though i made a point of calling john “dad” and mary “mom” in dean’s pov, in this moment, i deliberately used their names - it’s more than just mom and dad, it’s theee john and mary winchester back together after all these years. no, they don’t stay that way, but after a 22-year quest in her name, it still deserves to be like a Reunion. 

(other four are below the cut to spare ur dashes. there are major spoilers for the whole fic, just warning u)

#4 - john getting punched by [SPOILER]

Dean's shoves his father with all his might, yelling, "Let go of me!" Partially because even though just moments ago the dungeon was exactly where he wanted to be, he absolutely doesn't want Dad to be the one to put him there, partially because he's afraid that Michael is about to break free from that cage in his head and vaporize everybody in firing range, and partially because he's afraid that if Dad doesn't let go, Cas will kill him.

But Dean's only got one hand free, and Dad's grip is too strong. Michael and sleep deprivation have made Dean weak; he can't get away from Dad on his own.

Then, when Cas is still just out of arm's reach, Sam lays into Dad with the fiercest right hook Dean's ever seen.

Dean knows that right hook well. That's one of the first moves Dad taught him, one Dad forced him to practice a thousand miserable times—how to stand, when to turn, where to throw his weight—until he honed it to absolute unthinking perfection. And it is perfect: Sam nails Dad right on the jaw with all six feet and change of muscle, sending him staggering back, his grip on Dean slipping free.

Dad slumps against the wall for a moment like he's literally seeing stars, like it's all he can do not to pass out. His nose looks like it might be broken. Dean rounds on his brother; if he was expecting Dean to thank him for that, he's going to be disappointed. "What the hell, Sam?"

But Sam's looking at Dad, not at Dean. "He said," Sam pants, "to let go of him."

i’m normally very anti-punching john, but i feel like if anybody has the right to do it, it’s sam. he’s spent his whole life being protected from john by dean and he finally gets to return the favor! all his problems are solved because he’s literally the bigger man now in every way! i doubt sam would ever punch john on his own behalf, but it is UTTERLY in character for him to do it in defense of someone else, but i bet it was pretty fucking cathartic too. picking sam moments in this fic is like picking children but this...you know, it wasn’t even in my outline. it happened organically as i wrote. and it just. feels right.

#3 - sam telling john to clean up his mess

"Seriously, Dad—we've had enough of your lip service. You're sorry? You want to help? Clean up your mess."

What? John frowns. Does he mean Dean?

But, no—Sam twists and picks up an actual mop and bucket from the corner behind him. The bucket is full of red-tinted water. "Go in the kitchen," he says, "and if Dean says you can use the sink, run some clean water with bleach. We gotta get the blood off the floor, because the longer it stays there, the worse it'll stain—especially on the hardwood."

"Uh," says John.

Then Sam gives him a severe, no-nonsense look that nearly punches the breath from John's lungs—because for the very first time, he sees his Mary in that stubbornly unimpressed face. "Do you understand? This isn't a motel. You can't expect someone else to do it for you. Don't go in the kitchen," Sam says slowly, enunciating every word, "unless you're going. To clean up. Your mess. You want room service—there's the fucking door."

THERE’S THE FUCKING DOOR. i love this bc firstly i believe in man of the house sam and secondly it falls into the same thing of like...sam is finally big and strong enough to protect dean and by god he will make himself an impassable 6′4 between this man and his brother. i think especially since finding out about flagstaff, DOUBLY since becoming a parent, sam is like...so less than impressed with john’s bullshit, and even more impatient than he already was of john’s stupid excuses. 

there’s also this motif of cleaning throughout the fic - in john and sam’s very first scene alone together, they are washing dishes. at first this was a nod to sam and dean doing it in lebanon - dean washing, sam drying - but washing is the “hard” part of doing the dishes; when my mom taught me how to do them i began learning by drying first. so of course dean has been washing and letting sam dry all their lives - almost literally, because john talks pretty early on about dean being a neat freak too, because john simply wouldn’t pick up after himself but still hated the mess. there’s a few mentions of it in the fic, how john liked being able to leave a mess behind in their motel rooms, how he’d prop his feet on the table - but in season 10, it’s sam on his knees scrubbing the bloodstained floors after dean’s murder spree, and in broken road sam makes john wash the dishes, and at the end, sam makes him mop. @maulthots put it best:

like that’s it. that's literally it. and then, finally, john offers to clean up on his own without being asked. that’s Growth™, at least in whatever way he’s capable of it. at any rate, he’s too afraid of getting hit again to NOT clean up after himself lol

#2 - dean/cas car scene [content warning for nsfw and discussion of past sexual violence - scroll down to #1 if you’d like to skip it!]

Cas lets go of Dean, but it's to reposition his hands on Dean's knees, slide those huge palms up Dean's thighs. Dean feels the heat of them bleeding through his jeans. Then, holy shit, Cas rests his thumbs on Dean's belt buckle, and makes eye contact.

Dean wets his lips, a little uncertain. He has no idea what Cas is going to do. "Yeah, okay," he croaks.

Cas leans in and kisses him again while he undoes Dean's belt. Like—fuck, like he knew Dean wouldn't want to watch. Dean hears the zipper on his fly, and all at once it clocks that, yeah, okay, this is really happening. Heart thudding in his ears, Dean reflexively lifts his hips so Cas can pull his jeans off. But Cas only slides them down a little. Then he reaches into Dean's boxers and gets a hand around his dick.

Oh. A small, quiet noise drops out of Dean into Cas's mouth, and he turns out of the kiss, panting as Cas pulls him out of his clothes. He's not sure what he was expecting, but this is okay. Just a handjob—he can handle that. It's good, actually. A little dry, but Cas has a light touch, and Dean has decided that he likes Cas's hands. He knows the shape of them very well.

i really enjoyed writing this whole scene, but this was my favorite part. cas technically does get dean’s consent, which was important to cas and a little bit of a big deal for dean too, but dean didn’t ask what cas was going to do before giving that consent, because he almost...doesn’t care? like, dean’s previous experiences with men were all lousy at best, and violent and traumatizing at worst, and arguably none of them were 100% consensual. so part of him is figuring that whatever happens will be within that spectrum, and he’ll just deal with it being awful no matter what it is because he almost literally can’t picture it not being awful. he's not doing it because he likes fucking men or expects he’ll like fucking cas, he’s doing because he wants to be close to cas, he wants to be away from michael and his dad, and because if he and cas are together now that’s part of the package and he’s just done the full “for keeps” commitment bit, so he’s not gonna pussy out now, right? he trusts cas not to actually harm him, and be closer to “lousy” than “violent,” but he is, in his mind, basically giving cas consent to hurt him, because to him that’s what sex with men IS. and he’s understandably pretty nervous because he doesn’t know what’s going to happen - all he’s sure of is that he won’t like it. 

but then he does like it! he likes it a lot! trusting cas turns out to be the correct choice! because if cas had turned him down in that moment, trying to baby him or second guess him, i think dean would have felt really hurt and angry and embarrassed, he would have felt like he was broken or untouchable. which is why cas took him at his word, but ALSO did pretty much the most tame thing you can do and still count it as having sex. so cas managed to thread the needle perfectly because he knows dean so well and he’s literally been inside his mind and witnessed that trauma and knew everything to avoid doing. so for dean it wound up being TRULY consensual instead of the sort of fake consent he’s used to handing out to johns. if that makes any sense. idk i just really enjoyed doing it. i think a valid reading is that dean has this physical fear of men that is just...not explored very much in fic. and it was nice to write something where cas was sort of able to undo or heal a little of that damage. 

#1 - michael

No, no, no—we can't die—we can't die, we are eternal, we are our Father's most beloved, His favorite son—

No no no no no no no no no—I can't die—I can't die—

Light fills the room, reflecting in Dean's eyes making them look as though they glow. And for the very first time, John sees him. John sees him, John sees him, John sees him—

Where is my Father? Is He watching? Can He see me?

Father, help me, I beg You—please, I don't want to die—

I don't want to die—

i could honestly paste the entire michael scene here, there’s not a thing about it i don’t love, but this was probably my favorite part. and look, i waited NINE YEARS to see michael!dean, i deserved to go apeshit!!! i think the fun thing about michael is that he’s a great foil to both john and dean, the literal connecting tissue, especially when he’s hopping bodies like that. he’s dean’s aggressor but he’s also dean’s twisted reflection, nearly broken by his father’s absence. it was impossible for john to see dean as he really is until michael let him see it through dean’s own eyes.

and then “i” at the end - i knew going in that i wanted a “we” pronoun (though i almost chickened out of it), because michael’s in charge but he’s also making his vessel do things with him, like laugh or scream or hurt people. but when michael dies, he’s alone figuratively and literally, because john’s not dying with him, and his own father has forsaken him too - and that’s the way dean so often felt, and FEELING that was probably the only thing that could possibly give john the motivation to be even slightly less self-centered and shitty. 

michael was my whole reason for writing this fic - because i was livid they didn’t use him to tie dean and john together in canon, because the burden of being his vessel is just one more thing dean had to take...this whole chapter, this whole fic, hinged entirety on the batshit insane dynamic between michael and dean and john. and like there are parts of this fic i was insecure about and wished i could have done better, but this? i think i nailed it. definitely the part i had the most fun writing. 

but like, honorable mention?

"Dude," Dean says, flipping on his blinker so he can pull up beside the local grocery, "can we not do any touchy-feely shit, please? That's—"

"Gay?" Sam suggests.

"Get out of my car."

>:)

[lovely-necromancy]

A Cure for Insomnia CH.4

WARNING OF DEPICTION OF A PANIC ATTACK and mentions of drugging. 

////////

The rest of the day went by pretty uneventfully. That is after Nate lectured you about stranger danger and how you couldn't just walk forty miles in two hours. You really have no clue how you messed up the math that bad or how calling Nate for a ride never crossed your mind. Nate made you promise not to get into another stranger's car, especially without knowing their fucking names.

“I mean seriously YN, you just hopped in their car because they had a dog?! That's literally the first thing they tell you not to do when you learn about stranger danger!” he said munching on a boston cream donut. It was a good thing you'd brought donuts because you caused this man to stress eat...or was that a bad thing?

After you agreed to having better stranger danger instincts, Nate told you things would be run a little differently around the shop. Apparently the camera out back had died on Sunday, which although weird could be explained away as a camera that hasn't been updated or switched out since the shop was opened, maybe even before then too. So unfortunately Big Jo and Nate still didn't know who broke into your car or if they had been looking for anything. But Big Jo still wants to take precautions like the two of you leaving together and in the morning one of you waiting in their car with the doors locked for the other to come and then entering the building together.

Nate also mentioned a few other things, shipping and inventory related, that wouldn't really pertain to you or change any of your current tasks. It's really just to limit the amount of people coming through the back room. The back room was the emptiest you've ever seen when you went to check on your deer skull. You wonder if you hadn't been hired who would've gotten this position and how long they'd be able to keep their mouth shut about the obviously illegal activity going on. But you remember the person who had this position before you had been Bambi, a sweet if not oblivious girl. So, had you not come along the Cowells would have probably found someone else who didn't have an ounce of perception for their surroundings.

The week goes by slowly and with no further incidents. The deer skull has been completed and you plan on taking it to Maddie's Workshop next week to get a mount for it. In the time that you were bleaching and polishing the bones Nate took it upon himself to clean around the shop. Even though he's made it clear you just have to do your task list here, which takes about an hour maybe two depending on the tasks, he's always working on something.

Nate's the type of guy who's never content to just chill he needs to keep moving always chasing that high you get from accomplishing a goal, whatever he's made his that day. He's probably just substituting whatever he did daily with these new deep cleans of his.

Even with the lack of incidents following your car's break in the two of you have kept to the new precautions. Nate even going so far as to remind you tonight that on Monday if you arrive before him you'll need to stay in the car. At this point you think it's less about safety and more about the security of the store's extra curricular activities. Either way you don't really mind.

Things seemed to return to normal, you were back to driving yesterday and after you rearranged furniture in your house you felt a little less on edge. And every night this week you'd been able to get a good night's sleep, which although not too strange did stand out to you. Maybe another thing that had kept you on edge this week, because it meant when you saw a shadow pass by you during the day you couldn't write it off as quickly as you normally would.

But tonight it seemed your luck had run out. You sat on your bed with your sketch book in hand just doodling strange squiggles till your eyes were so tired they couldn't focus. Putting the book down to rest your eyes and crack your wrist, you sigh not feeling tired at all. The thought of a hike isn't really appealing right now, plus if you made a run into the mini mart you'd probably see either Ronnie or even Tim working behind the counter, that thought set your ears a flame. While the night life in Kepler was decent especially for a Friday night in summer, you just felt the need to be alone.

A drive was the best answer you had. You'd just choose a random lane on the interstate and take a random exit till you found a diner or something, order a tea and a slice of pie. Like you were a background character in someone else's story longingly staring out the window as your dreams slowly slipped through your fingers in this cold cruel world. Ok, you'd been joking about that because you saw a TikTok saying that, but your melodramatic ass actually thinks that sounds fun.

Throwing on some jeans and a flannel over you muscle tee, you were out the door. When you were checking the lock you'd heard rustling coming from around the house where your bins were. Worse case it's a stalker, best case just some raccoons. Either way you decided to calmly but briskly walk to your car, locking the doors immediately. Once in you drove around the side of your house, luckily, you assume, you spot the chonkiest raccoon you've ever seen digging through the bins. His tiny little person hands drawing an awww from you even though his demonic gleaming eyes should send a chill down your spine.

Hissing at the car Chonk returns to dig through your garbage. Weird how he only comes on your pizza weeks. Probably has a thing for Leo's homemade pizzas. You sure as hell do, as much as you love it you do save a slice for this little guy. You haven't put it out yet though, eh you'll do it tomorrow.

Having solved that mystery you sit in your car and link up your phone so you can have your driving playlist. It's mainly Folk Punk and Sea Shanties and while most might say it's a weird combination you say it's the same genre just different fonts. You could drive hundreds of miles into the middle of no where listening to this playlist and you'd be just fine...maybe have an emotional break down or two but expressing your emotions is suppose to be good for you. Mouthing along to Jim Bogart as it comes through the stereo you set off on your little excursion.

Just like when you have the urge to hike at night the urge to drive is nearly one in the same. Momentum taking you forward and not looking back as you do, needing to just go forward with no real destination in mind. Tonight however would be a little different you'd stop at the first diner you see that's out of Kepler bounds. Or turn right back around at one in case you hadn't found anything. There've been times that you kept driving straight through morning and didn't know where the hell you ended up. Not to mention you rarely remember the ways to get back after going for so long, and gps can only get you so far in some of the towns that also border the Monongahela Forest. You'd just have to rely on dumb luck tonight.

Unlike hiking, which gives you a burst of adrenaline as you push your body to its limits to move as far as you can and as much as you can. Driving gives a much more relaxed feeling, it's a feeling a weightlessness that gets lighter and lighter the further you get from home. Some may describe that feeling as a wanderlust or nomadic calling, but you've never cared for either of those things. You've only ever wanted to stay in one place for as long as you could remember. Moving around so much in your youth really messed you up, and you promised yourself this would be the last time you uprooted your life. And you've really come to love Kepler in these past few months. You can't imagine how you'll feel next year after getting to know the community more, but so far it's been really compassionate and understanding, a few rocky spots here and there but nothing like your hometown.

Without realizing it you've picked up your speed, you're doing 75 in a 55 zone. Even with no other vehicles around you slow down to just above the speed limit. While there might not be any cops around looking for easy tickets you don't want to risk dissociating at 75MPH or more. That could only end horribly. Though dissociating behind the wheel at all would be horrible. In the middle of shaking yourself from these thoughts you catch sight of an exit sign, which holds the logo for Denny's on it, and the exit is coming up in five miles. Switching lanes you cross over and get ready to hop off on the next exit.

You're pretty sure the only pie Denny's has is the dry apple with a scoop of ice cream. That isn't very appetizing to you, but then again you aren't really a fan of pie, a fact you seemed to gloss over when you made the decision to drive out here this late at night. Not too bothered by the fact, you remember Denny's has a salted caramel and banana pancake which should work in place of pie.

Pulling into the parking lot there are only three other cars, peering into the diner you don't really see anyone so the cars must belong to the skeleton night crew. Entering the Denny's you see there actually is one other patron, you only see the back of his head as he makes no move to look at the new arrival.

“Hun, seat yourself, I'll be out in a bit.” is the motherly voice that rings out from the kitchen, truly something you've only experienced in the south. Walking into a diner in the dead of night and  being treated like a daytime regular.

Seating yourself near the TV mounted to the wall you let the sounds of the soap opera playing drown out any buzzing you feel in your head. The waitress is out within minutes and though she startles at your masked face she regains her composure very quickly.

“I'd like the salted caramel pancakes if it's alright.” you say declining the offered menu.

“Just the pancakes?”

“Ah, yes please. And water's fine too.” it really pays to know the menu prior to coming in. Gives you ample time to run scripts over in your head.

Viv, the name on her name tag, nods and gives you a smile as she spins right round to the kitchen. Probably happy she won't have to run out so many times for just one order or maybe to spend time with the cooks in the back. You remember working food service sucked but the line cooks made it so much better at the end of the day. Even if they said you were too quiet and called you 'mouse'.

It might not have been exactly what you set out to do but this little midnight self date was really nice, you should do this more often.

Pancakes finished and mask back on you waited for Viv to bring out your check,  then you notice the other patron also making his moves to leave. You're sat facing the door so when he turns and comes closer dread fills your veins like burning cold dry ice. It's David, a local from Kepler you briefly met when you first moved. He gave you really bad vibes and over all was just a very skeevy dude.

What made you feel worse about him was when he left town to “help his sister” right after Bambi disappeared. Those in your circle told you she always talked about leaving Kepler one day but you trusted your gut in saying she didn't leave by her own choice. It got made for her, and David leaving just furthered your theory. You look away hoping he hadn't noticed you but unfortunately you could hear his footsteps falter and then pick back up by passing the door completely.

“Hey...YN, right?” fuck he remembers you, alarm bells are ringing at this fact. Why would he remember someone he briefly met months ago?

“It really is you, still as quiet as I remember.” what did he mean the two of you only met a handful of times and that had been because of your mutual friendship with Bambi.

Where is Viv with the check? You'd really like if she saved you from this painful situation right now. But you aren't sure what's worse having to sit here and listen to David tell you everything he's been up to these past few months, like you even care. Or the thought of leaving with David having him follow you and maybe doing whatever he did to Bambi to you.

“Yea so my sister's better now, I should be seeing you around soon. We should catch up maybe do Saturday Night Dead. Does the Crypt still do that?” great a fucking rhetorical question, he knows the Cryptonomica still does it's weekly movie nights, it's only been two months he's been gone. Not to mention it's a big hit and a huge source of revenue for the shop.

You haven't said anything this whole time, fuck being polite to a potential killer, and fuck being polite to this creep. He's just been talking nearly nonstop for the last few minutes. He must really love the sound of his own voice or thinks he's the most charming person to ever grace the Earth with his presence. Since he's not really caring that you aren't proving to be a stimulating partner in this conversation. He really does love hearing himself talk. By the time he's said his own goodbyes Viv finally makes it out from the back.

She apologizes for the wait, had to go on her break sometime you supposed. You take your time finding your wallet, it's in your back pocket but you wanted to stall for time since you could still see David's car out there, you were also keeping an eye on your own car. Only relaxing when you saw him pull off from the corner of your eye. Oh look you've “found” your wallet,  handing Viv your credit card you just want to get out of here quickly now.

You pay and leave a nice tip for Viv, while she didn't save you from that creep it's not like she could've known. You sit in your car for a moment or two just breathing in and out in the glow of the diner lights. Almost meditating before you begin your long drive back to Kepler with all these thoughts of David, Bambi's disappearance, and how it can't be coincidence that David is coming back at the same time that you have a break in. Could you be his next target? Were you just over thinking things? Just blaming this poor guy because you didn't like him? But you've always been intuitive and bad vibes aren't something to ignore. David appearing now meant something.

Just that thought alone put you on edge as your skin begins to crawl. With a few calming breaths you go to start the car and sync your radio when you notice the glow of the lights changed from the slight yellow to a sterile blueish white. Looking up where the diner should be you see the mini mart back at Kepler...how on earth did you get here? You didn't drive! You couldn't have dissociated while driving, you never even turned the car on and you can barely take a hike dissociating let alone do something as complex as drive a car.

It happens before you can register it, on shaky legs that move on their own you are passing the threshold of the convenience store and catching the tail end of a conversation.

“ppened to not feeding into delus...” the voice cuts off as the door shuts behind you. You know that voice why is it so hard to focus?

Something warm brushes your hand and you see someone in front of you. Who is that? You can't see their face, they've got a mask covering their face. Like you but that person is not you. You might know them...Tobais?

“Yea? You good there?” confusion, you blink hard and see you are standing in the mini mart now, Connor standing under your hand, Toby hovering close by and both Brian and Tim watch with unease over by the register.

“...I don't know how I...how I got here.” you register movement in the background but not consciously.

It's the shifting of Brian's head as he looks out the front windows and spots your Kia.

“You drove.” shaking your head, “Maybe...I don't...I dissociated?” in your confusion you can register Toby stiffen in front of you.

Fear, fear, uneasy, breath....are you breathing? Your head's so jumbled right now.

You scan the shop trying to look for answers that may help you but you find none. The more confused you get the more worked up you get, chest rising and falling rapidly. You take a step back or try to and end up falling on your butt. It's starting to get hard to breathe with your throat constricting, you bring a hand up to your larynx.

“..re.....have..attack......”

        “could be o...me..”

“.....pressure...”

Is all you can make out with your fuzzy consciousness before a heavy pressure is piling on your chest and knocking you fully on your back. The pressure is actually pretty lifting as contradictory as it may seem. Instead of restricting your breathing more it seems to be kick starting your lungs to exhale and inhale. With oxygen coming back into your body you can feel your toes and the tingle behind them. You can feel your fingers and the fur under them. Fur?

Taking in a big breath you move your head and come face to muzzle with Connor.  You give a nod of recognition to the dog before lying flat again and staring up at the ceiling. After about ten minutes you're thinking more clearly than before, which isn't saying much.

“Thanks.” you aren't sure who it's directed at but you still mean it.

It's silent until Toby breaks it, “I'm taking you home.”

“Car.” it's all you can manage to say but the message though distorted got through.

“I'll drive it, Brian follow behind.” there is no room for arguing, driving under any influence must be a touchy subject for Toby. Or maybe you're really fucked up right now and just can't comprehend how bad.

You use Connor to get up, he seems ready and no one else makes a move to you. Toby pushes past and holds the door open as Connor guides you, still holding onto his vest with one hand, and Brian murmurs something to Tim before following you three.

Outside Toby already has your keys in his hand, when did he get those? Did you give them to him? Your hand is risen, you must of...how on earth did you even drive like this. Had you really driven? There's a lump in your throat again and you're breathing's gone shaky, god you hope you didn't hurt anyone. You must have been zoning out for too long, not only is Connor pushing your legs but Toby has a grasp on your forearm coaxing you forward.

His grip isn't suffocating, honestly even seeing it there you still don't feel it. Maybe it's because you're so numb, or maybe it's because he's genuinely helping you but you can't feel the pain that  usually comes with being touched. The sharp jab that feels like you've been struck with a fire poker where ever someone laid their hands on you. After he's pushed you into the backseat, more like nudged you, even making sure you didn't bump your head, he buckles you in then snaps and Connor jumps into the car and lays across your lap.

You're shaking, actually trembling as you look at Toby. What's going on? Why can't you figure out what's happening? The brunette doesn't say a thing as he gets into the driver's seat and buckles in to drive you home. That's strange you think, how does he know where to go? You told him right, just follow the road...or maybe he guessed from the other day. What happened to you? Why the mini mart? You were at Denny's.

“This town doesn't have a Denny's.” did you say that out loud?

“I...I went for a drive, a town over...up...no.. north I think...” you start blinking barely able to keep your eyes open before your eyes lock shut. It's sending you over the edge even more in your confusion.

“Hey, hey just focus on the Denny's. What'd you do once you got there?” is he trying to distract you? Calm you down? Or is he trying to piece together what happened like you are? You can remember Denny's just fine, the dull yellow glow of the inside the skeleton crew murmuring in the back, the pancakes you had, and the “conversation” with David. Did David do this, had he put something in your water glass? Did you even touch your water glass after he left? Breathe. You need to breathe. Toby's waiting.

“Pancakes...I had pancakes. Then that creep came over...and he started talking. Didn't like. We aren't friends, I don't know him. I don't understand why he'd talk to me. Didn't like. Didn't like.” finger back to pressing down on your larynx and the weight of Connor preventing your legs from striking out at the seat in front of you.

“Wait, were you drugged?” Eyes flash to the rear view to lock with your own teary stare.

“No, maybe...I don't think so.” you barely feel the pain in your throat right now, this is all so overwhelming. “He left, I...I watched him drive off before getting in my car... I had an episode while the car was off then..” then you were at the mini mart. You never touched the ignition.

“I didn't drive, I never started the car. Didn't, didn't, didn't” Your attack is probably stressing even Connor out now, but this is all so confusing.

You're so focused on the fuzzy events you don't notice Toby bristle. Or how he grips the steering wheel tighter until his knuckles grow white despite his already translucent skin. He might not be able to feel or see it in the mirror through his mask but he's probably gnawing off more of his face. He'd deal with it after he dealt with you.

You've made it to your house and he's waiting for the headlights from Brian. When he sees them in the rear view he gets out but not before telling you, or maybe Connor, to stay put.

It's a few long moments before he comes back. But in the silence and darkness of your car, growing colder by the moment, you start to ground yourself. You aren't calm by any means and you're still very unfocused. But you aren't crying as the numbness overtakes you, you don't even jump when the door beside you opens. With a snap Connor is out of the car and soon you're being pulled from the car, that same weightless touch gripping your forearm. Toby guides you into your own home, and walks towards the hallway looking into the bathroom, the only other door, before finding your room.

Seemingly understanding your catatonic state he sits you on the bed and gives some order to Connor before he leaves the room. And you just sit on the bed staring into dead air as a silent guard sits in wait. You aren't sure what he's waiting for or why he's still there but the numbness has taken over too much and you can't find it in you to give a single fuck.

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Equilibrium

Request: Hi! Ok I just hv to say, this is a little cheesy. But could I request a Harry Potter x tipsy/drunk!reader where Griffendor is at a quidditch after-game celebration, and Fred and George snuck alcohol into the drinks. Y/n ends up drinking too much causing them to be cocky/confident, and stumbles into Harry knocking him over, trapping him underneath the reader?

A/N: Here’s your request! I hope you like it! I have a problem, I can't stop writing make out scenes with Harry. There's another one in this. It’s an addiction, I need to stop but I can't. Anyway, enjoy reading! Love to you all!

Pairing: Harry Potter x Fem!Reader

Warnings: alcohol, underage drinking, tipsiness, drunk teenagers, making out, shameless flirting from both parties

Word count: 1.5k

There was always a party in the common room whenever Gryffindor won a Quidditch game. But the celebration was always sweeter and wilder when it was a Gryffindor victory against Slytherin.

“Courtesy of our friends, the Marauders.” Fred whispers to you, pouring two bottles of fire whisky into the punch bowl, stirring it thoroughly so the strong drink didn’t settle at the bottom of the bowl.

Students descend on it; pouring the heady concoction into cup after cup, passing them down the line that was quickly forming.

You take your drink, drinking a tentative sip, enjoying the warmth that was slowly spreading through your body. It made your limbs feel like jelly, but you enjoyed the feeling.

The centre of the common room has become a makeshift dancefloor. One of the Fifth Years brought down her record player and her collection of vinyl records. George Weasley bewitched it to play louder and so music had begun to play through the Gryffindor common room. The familiar voice of Freddie Mercury begins to empower the muggleborn students who begin to belt out the lyrics to the song playing, putting all their feelings into it.

You spy Hermione singing along to the song with a bewildered Ron looking down at her; you smile to yourself wondering when they’re going to get together.

Your find Harry sat on the couch that was now pressed against the furthest wall. He’s taking slow sips of his drinks; his blue eyes glancing around the party as if he’s looking for someone. A smile breaks out across his face when his eyes finally land on you; a smile you can’t help but return. Your heart races as he eyes refuse to leave your; your feelings for the messy-haired teenager had grown over time and more often than not, you felt overwhelmed by your feelings for him.

“Enjoying yourself, Harry?” You ask, sitting in the empty seat next to him.

Harry nods, raising his cup to yours, “Of course! Gryffindor beat Slytherin and I’m sat next to you – what more could I need?”

“You’re a shameless flirt, Harry.” And he was. Harry was completely hopeless when he was sober but the confidence he got when he drank made him a shameless flirt.

“Only for you.” He states.

A pleasant buzz runs through your body. Partly down to the alcohol running through your veins; fogging your mind slightly but also partly because of the teenager sat next to you, nursing his own cup of spiked punch.

Harry had a large smile on his face; lighting up his features. The smile hadn’t left his face since he caught the Golden Snitch and won them the match against Slytherin. The Quidditch cup was practically within their reach now.

Student after student had been coming up to Harry all night, congratulating him on a match well played. It made conversation between the two of you difficult; Harry throwing you apologetic glances every time you were interrupted. And every time you reassured him – it was okay., he was the seeker that won them the match, you truly didn’t mind.

But you could see that it was starting to grate on Harry a little bit. Since arriving at Hogwarts six years ago, he had been the centre of attention time and time again throughout the year. Sometimes, he wanted to sit down and drink spiked punch with his friends and have a laugh.

You’re about to suggest leaving when Harry leans into you and all clear thoughts leave your mind.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Harry asks, his mouth close to your ear.

“Have you had enough for tonight?” You ask back, your cheek brushing his. You’re so close to him that you feel his nod rather than see it.

You stand from your seat in the couch, holding your hand out to him. “Let’s get some air.”

He takes your hand, letting you pull him from the common room. He doesn’t miss the catcalls from both Fred and George as he ducks under the portrait hole.

Fresh air hits you like a brick wall; you grip Harry’s hand tighter to keep yourself steady.

He grips your hand back just as tight.

Harry takes the lead as he pulls you through corridor after corridor before stopping in the courtyard.

The moon is full in the sky; bleaching the colour from your surroundings, everything taking on a grey hue. You sit down at the benches surrounding the fountain in the centre of the courtyard. The breeze is cold but it’s cooling against your heated skin.

Harry hasn’t let go of your hand, and you hope he never does. You love the feeling of his hand in yours.

“Thanks for coming with me.” Harry says, head tipped back to look at the night sky.

“Always. You know that.”

“You’re too good for me.”

“I disagree, I believe I am the perfect amount of good for you.”

He turns to look at you; finding your eyes already on him, as they so often are these days.

“I need to tell you something.” Harry whispers.

“You can tell me anything,” You reassure.

“I know we’re only young, but I’m certain I’m in love with you.”

Tears form in your eyes; overemotional due to the earlier drinking, “I’m certain I’m in love with you too.”

Harry smiles; a wide smiling that has you mesmerised. “Can I kiss you?”

“I think I may combust if you don’t.”

Harry laughs but his hand reaches forward to cradle your face, his thumb rubbing over your cheekbone. You begin to lean in, but the angle at which you’re sitting and the buzz from the alcohol has you overbalanced.

You don’t kiss him; you knock him onto his back, onto the floor, and you’re sprawled on top of him.

You look at Harry, shocked into soberness. Harry looks down at you, stunned.

He starts to laugh, full barrel belly laughs. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him laugh like this; with his whole body.

It’s contagious. Your body begins to shake with laughter; giggles falling from between your lips.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks, laughter breaking up the words. You nod; your equilibrium entirely knocked sideways due to the spiked punch courtesy of the Weasley twins.

The remaining alcohol in your body makes you brazen. You straddle Harry’s lap, a glint of mischief in your eyes as you ask, “Are you laughing at me, Potter?”

He lifts himself up, balancing on his elbows, “Of course not. I would never dream of doing such a thing.

You lean into him, rubbing your nose against his. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Harry smiles wickedly, “Where were we before?”

You tap a finger to your lips, humming as you pretend to think. Harry watches each tap of your finger.

“I think,” You start, “I was leaning in and you were about to meet me halfway.”

“Oh… so like this,” Harry says, turning his face up to yours.

“That looks about right, and I think I was somewhere about here,” You whisper, leaning down to meet him.

He’s so close to you; his breath fans your lips.

It starts off so innocent despite the alcohol swimming in both of your systems. Then you gasp against his mouth, and Harry’s hand works its way into your hair, keeping your mouth against his. He groans softly against your mouth, delighting in the feel of you against him. Your hands are on his chest, screwed tightly into his button-down shirt. All of him is pressed against you, and you inhale the scent of broom oil, cloves and sweet orange – the smell so distinctly Harry.

The lack of oxygen is making your head spin, or is it the feel of his lips against yours? Either way, you’re becoming short of breath.

You pull away; breathless, dazed.

Harry continues to press slow, open-mouthed kisses to your neck. The kind of kisses that have every sentient thought leaving your head; throwing them into the wind.

“Harry,” You whisper.

He hums, kissing a particular spot on your neck that has your legs turning to jelly.

“We need to go inside; we’re going to get caught.”

Harry pulls away, reluctantly. His lips are swollen, and his eyes are bright. It takes everything in you not to pull him in for one more kiss.

You stand on weak legs, holding out your hand to him once again, helping him to his feet. Once standing, he tangles your fingers together.

The walk back to the Gryffindor common room takes longer than it should really with Harry drawing you in for a kiss every few steps.

Eventually though, you make it. The party has died down now; only a few stragglers drinking together in a small circle.

You head upstairs to the dormitories; dreading the moment when you have to let go of his hand and leave him for the night.

The moment doesn’t come. Instead, Harry draws you into his arm, kissing you softly, whispering against your mouth, “Stay the night?”

You pull yourself away from him, “Potter, I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything,” He answers, worried about the seriousness of your voice.

“If I ever, ever say no to that, I want you to hex me. And use a long lasting one.”

Harry laughs, the sound music to your ears. He kisses you again, “I promise. Now, let’s go to bed.”

“Lead the way, Harry.”

*****

General (HP) taglist: @the-hufflefluffwriter @obsessedwithrandomthings @kalimagik @summer-writes @lupins-sweater @slytherinprincess03 @mischiefsemimanaged @soleil-amaryllis @masterofthedarkness @bforbroadway @chaotic-fae-queen @peachesandpinks @nebulablakemurphy @haphazardhufflepuff @siriusly-addicted-to-writing @firewhisky-kisses

[kyber-queen]

Like Real People Do (Rex x Reader) Pt. 3

Summary: Jedi!reader and Rex fall in love but are separated by the war. They meet again two years later, weeks before the Siege of Mandalore. In this chapter, Rex and Reader are prepping for a mission on an outer rim planet. Some fluff, slight angst, Rex gets to use a lightsaber because I say so. Italics signify a flashback in this fic. 

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: Mentions of children/family planning ??, insecure Rex, k*sses, mentions of blasters n violence against droids, mentions of alcohol

Author’s Note: I’m not gonna lie this is probably my favorite chapter yet. It’s a little longer, but I think it’s worth it :) Likes and reblogs are very much appreciated!!

Previous | Next

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After your less than satisfying encounter in the maintenance closet, you had made an early retirement to your quarters to sulk. You slept, but your dreams were ridden with visions of a certain bleach-blond captain. You awoke the next morning ill-rested and heartsick.

You showed up late to your first tactical meeting with the upper ranks of the 501st in a disgruntled mess of dark undereyes and wrinkled robes. If Rex noticed your sleep-deprived state, he made no mention of it. You had positioned yourself strategically in the back of the room, precisely so if you peeked between the admirals, you could clearly see Rex discussing troop formations with General Skywalker. His structured brow was furrowed, and you noted the way he gestured at the maps as he made his point. He was so much more confident now, so much more self-assured than that often-anxious shiny you remembered from training drills two years ago. Maybe that was why he gave you the cold shoulder yesterday—had he outgrown you? Two years was a long time, especially during a war. Did he find someone new? Your heart burned at the thought. You hadn’t even tried to move on—at times, at your lowest points, you considered it, but you never gave up on him. You had broken your code for him. You had broken it every day since you met him, and yet here he was, the picture of cordial indifference. You were attached, deeply and painfully. Did he still care about you?

“Commander, I can hear your gears turning—any input?” Skywalker looked at you expectantly.

You eased your tired features into a placating smile. “Looks good to me, General,”.

“Perfect. Rex, you’ll go with the commander. I want you two waiting just outside the village. The Separatists should arrive within around two hours of landing. Comm me when you see the Separatist forces coming, and you guys cut down as many of the first wave as possible. I’ll circle around with the rest of the 501st and we’ll finish off the rest from behind. All clear?”

You nod in assent as Rex answers with a decisive, “Yes, sir,”.

***

Rex was going to have to have a conversation with his general after this. Your very first mission with the 501st, and Skywalker had paired you with Rex on a glorified stakeout of all things. Rex was pissed. He had decided as soon as he found out you would be consulting with the 501st that he would keep his distance. He knew it wasn’t your fault that you hadn’t seen each other in years—war makes love near impossible. He was more upset with himself for falling for a Jedi. It was against the law for either of you to have an attachment to each other. Rex had fallen in love, and it was a stupid, shitty idea. He had spent the better part of two years trying to bury his memories of you, and just as he was beginning to succeed, here you were creeping back into his mind. Just the sight of you threw him back to two years ago—back when he was really, truly happy. Rex was built for war, nothing more. The problem with you was that being with you made him think otherwise. When you were together, you would always talk about ‘after the war’. Rex knew that as a clone, there really wouldn’t be an after. You, with your altruism and soft smiles and gentle touches were everything Rex didn’t need.

Rex walked to the pod that would take the pair of you to the Separatist-threatened planet. You were already seated. You thumbed the grip of your lightsaber, and Rex recognized the gesture—it was a habit whenever you were nervous. His eyes were locked on you, debating whether or not he should say something despite his earlier promise to not get involved. You broke the silence for him.

“I can feel you staring, Rex. Talk to me,”.

You could always tell what he was thinking. As your friendship first blossomed, it unnerved him, but as your paths intertwined more and more he found it a comfort to have you understand him so well without him even saying a word. Rex met your eyes, and his stomach clenched. You were still so beautiful. He looked away

“Just thinking about the campaign, sir,”.

Your heart ached. Every bone in your body was screaming, ‘I love you, I love you, I love you,” and yet he called you sir. He addressed you as a superior, another link in the chain of command. He really had moved on, hadn’t he? You bit your lip, the sharp pain of your teeth against the tender skin attempting to draw your attention away from your torturous thoughts. You had a mission to complete. You peeked out the porthole, and you saw the terrain approaching far faster than normal.

You landed with a crash. You were jostled from your seat, your head smacking the metal wall painfully. As the ringing in your skull crescendoed, you took stock of your darkened surroundings through your blurred vision. The lighting in the pod must have been damaged during your landing. You ignited your lightsaber, illuminating Rex with its soft glow. He stood up and rolled his shoulder experimentally, his nose scrunching in pain.

Your brows furrowed, “Are you alright?’

“I’m fine,” He grunted. He felt his way along the walls. “Exit’s been jammed shut, though,”

You searched his eyes in the dim lighting, another pang of longing reverberating through your chest. You dismissed the sensation and plunged your lightsaber into the wall of the pod, freeing yourselves. You emerged from the battered pod, your head pounding as your eyes adjusted. It was bright, with the triad suns beating down on you relentlessly. You checked your positioning system—you had landed a mere 15-minute walk from your stakeout site. You watched as Rex eased himself out of the pod. He groaned, his hand cradling his right arm. You handed him his positioning chip, and the two of you set off towards the village outskirts.

You noticed his hand lingered on his right shoulder, and he would grimace from time to time when it jostled. You reached your hand out to his plastoid-covered shoulder. “Rex, let me—”

“I’m fine,”.

His tone was sharp and dangerous, affecting you like a slap to the face. You sucked in a breath, and walked the rest of the path in silence. The planet was beautiful—you were surrounded on all sides by strange golden grasses that swayed with the breeze. Its beauty did nothing to distract you from the man by your side.

You arrived at the meeting point and immediately settled yourself against the large boulder meant as your cover. Rex sat across from you, leaning against a smaller rock. He tilted his head back, closing his eyes for a moment and swallowing thickly. You traced the sharp line of his jaw with your eyes, following down to the thick cords of muscle in his neck. You contemplated another attempt at offering him some bacta spray, but considering his earlier response, decided against it. When did Skywalker say the Separatists would arrive? Two hours?

You spent around an hour in silence. You meditated, as General Secura had taught you. Time moved thickly around you, your aura burning bright as it cut through the hours and seconds. With your deep focus came little flashes of memories.

You saw Rex, smiling. His golden skin was warm against the soft sheets. His thumb traced the apple of your cheek. You grinned.

“What do you want to do, Rex? After this is all over?”

He paused, his hand resting heavy on your jaw. “I don’t know, cyare. Guess I never really thought about it,”. His eyes flicked over your gentle smile and bright eyes. “I’d wanna be with you, though,” he whispered. You’re everything he could ever want. He’d never loved anything so much, and he knew he’d never love anyone else the way he loved you. What the hell did he do to deserve you? “What about you?”

“My parents—I barely remember them now—had a house on Naboo. We could live there, just us. No war, no fighting. It’s so beautiful there, Rex. The grass is long and tall—as a child, I’d play outside for hours just soaking up the sunlight. It’s a good place for raising children,”. Your face heated as you said the last part.

“Raising children, eh?” Rex tilted your chin, and you lifted your gaze to his eyes. You nodded slowly. “With me?” His eyes shone in the morning sunlight, his brow furrowed.

“Yes, Rex. Who else?” Rex’s expression eased, and you pressed your lips to each of his cheeks, followed by a gentle kiss to the tip of his nose. Rex sighed contentedly. He had no clue why you were with a shiny like him—he was one of a million genetically and physically identical men. He was sure that eventually you’d realize just how much better you could do than a clone, but until that day he’d savor every precious moment with you.

“You’re gonna be a great parent, one day, cyar’ika,”.

“You will, too, Rex,”.

You jolted out of your trance. It was just your luck that Rex had infiltrated the one escape you had from your relentless thoughts of him. You opened your eyes to find him studying your face. He averted his gaze quickly.

“Rex,” you called.

He fiddled with the straps of his armor.

“Rex,”.

He dropped his hands to his sides with a harsh sigh. “Would you just stop it?”

You were stunned. “Rex, I—”

“I spent two fucking years trying to forget I ever loved you. I was nothing, I was nobody, and you were this—this ideal being. I had no fucking clue why you gave me the time of day, but I let myself fall for you anyway. When we left for our tours, I broke. You were the first real thing, the first good thing I ever had, and you were gone. I was sure I was gonna die over there—and you wouldn’t have even known if I had. It was so much easier to believe that you had moved on, that you were through with me. Now you’re here and you’re alive and I—” his voice broke, “I don’t know what to do,”. He met your gaze, and his eyes glistened. His voice was barely a whisper, “You were always the rational one. Please tell me what to do,”.

Your wide eyes watered. You turned your head to the golden fields and let out a tiny sob. What the hell do you answer to that? Just as you opened your mouth to speak, you spotted what seemed to be a thousand metal heads just over a rolling hill. The separatists. You hastily wiped your eyes and took a deep breath. This would have to wait.

“The Separatists are here,” your voice wavered more than you would have liked. “I’ll comm the General,”. You sniffed, rubbing your eyes again. Get it together, you thought. You were a Jedi Master, for gods’ sake. Ever since returning to Coruscant, you’d been an emotional trainwreck. You were starting to see why the council discouraged attachments.

You allowed Rex a moment to collect himself, turning to face the oncoming droids as the two of you prepared in silence. The metallic clang of their footsteps grew louder and louder. Rex slipped his helmet back on over his head and unholstered his blasters.

“It’s your call, Commander. When d’ya wanna go?”

You looked back over your shoulder at him, and you were instantly thrown back to the hours of training exercises you had completed together. You grinned.

“Think you can take down the battle tank over there?” You motioned to the gargantuan hunk of steel situated right in the middle of a sea of battle droids.

The competitive edge you had so dearly missed was back in Rex’s voice.

“You know I never miss,”.

“Race you there,”. And with that, you were off. The two of you flew down the hill, cutting down the droids as if they were made of straw. You swung, decapitating a droid and ducking as Rex put a blaster hole through the one taking aim at you from behind. You worked well together, always did. The rest of the 501st seemed to be making easy work of the droids from behind.

“Rex, blaster!”

Rex tossed one of his blasters into the air, and you force-pulled it into your grasp in an instant. You fired off three quick shots at one of the tanks, damaging the traction treads. Rex looked over at the tank, and recognized the maneuver you had initiated in an instant. He took off for the tank, and called your name once he was just yards from its base.

“Saber!”

You switched off your saber and hurled it in Rex’s direction. He had barreled past at least ten lines of troops, snatching your lightsaber from the air before igniting it and plunging it into the battle tank’s generator while simultaneously firing off a few rapid shots at the droids. The droids’ main attention, as planned, was on you, and you were beginning to feel the heat. You force-pulled your lightsaber, still ignited, from Rex’s grasp and into a line of battle droids before its heavy weight met your palm again.

“Blaster!”

You tossed Rex his blaster, and he caught it with ease. With your lightsaber in hand, you began cutting a path to Rex, who had holed up against the decommissioned tank.

“Need to get me one of those,” Rex motioned to your lightsaber with a grin.

You shook your head with a laugh, deflecting a blaster shot as Rex took aim at the next line of droids.

It was your fault. You got distracted. Something about the focus in Rex’s masked stare as he picked off the droids one-by-one pulled your attention away just long enough for one of the droids to press the cool metal of its blaster against your neck. Before you could react, Rex fired two quick shots into its head.

“Told you, cyare, I never miss,”.

You missed this. The nicknames, the banter, working together like this. It felt good. It felt like coming home. You snuck one last glance at Rex before sprinting out from your cover to cut down the next row of droids.

Rex was fucked. Did you realize he called you cyare? It just slipped out—something about being here with you, fighting next to you—it brought him back to two years ago. He shook his head, firing at a droid that had pointed its blaster at you. He was done with pretending he didn’t care. He still had no idea what to do, or where this would go, but he could figure that out later.

You finished off the last droid, looking back at Rex with an easy smile before waving to General Skywalker. Rex jogged over to you, pulling you back behind the tank and away from the prying eyes of the rest of the 501st.

“Rex, wha—”

He ripped off his helmet, letting it fall to the ground as he pulled you into a kiss. His hand fell to the small of your back, and you practically collapsed into him. His lips were hungry against yours—he was all tongue and teeth and desperation. He needed this. You needed this. You raked your nails through his close-cropped hair, drawing a little groan from deep in his chest. His hands were everywhere—your hair, your neck, your waist—

“Rex, where are you? Are you injured?”

For the second time today, Rex was going to kill his general. He pulled away from you reluctantly, his hand lingering on your waist. You take his hand, and press your lips to his palm.

“We should go,”. Rex nods. “Meet me in my quarters tonight—you still like firewhiskey?”

“Rex—are you over here?”

You meet Rex’s eyes, and he smiles. A real smile. “I’ll see you tonight?”

“See you tonight,”.

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Like Real People Do Taglist: @pinkiemme @callme-eds @dinpoe 

[tatestripedsweater]

Playground Shenanigans

Plot: Fluff as per requested by: @darlingkitt

Gallant x Male!Reader

Wordcount: 1079

Warning: Some mention of homophobia but nothing too bad, Mentions of sex

A/N: Sorry for the lack of GIF, I couldn’t find a good one of him I liked, I literally cried writing this fluff god I love Gallant

The day you met Gallant was the day you knew what true love was, he was beautiful and the best thing that has ever happened to you. He was truly the love of your life, even if he was a bit stubborn and sassy at times, you couldn’t help but love him for who he is and that's something that Gallant truly appreciated. 

Once you two had gotten married the both of you started to look at houses, the current one you lived in wasn’t that big and honestly you both wanted to start a family, whether that be by having a surrogate or adopting a child. You both had a lot of love to give and a child would complete your family, it’s something you have both talked about and Gallant wanted them just as much as you did. 

Working with children is something you have always wanted to do, being a kindergarten teacher was something that Gallant adored about you. You loved the children like they were your own, you were a laid back teacher but it didn’t mean that you weren’t stern with them once one of the children had misbehaved. You were almost like it with Gallant if he left the dishes out to be cleaned or if he said something inappropriate to you in a public setting which would often result in him calling you ‘sir’, you can guess where it went on from there. 

Almost everyday at around 11am Gallant  would visit you while he was on a break from his salon, the man worked so hard and he deserved a holiday but he always refused, he just loved his job so much, it was the ‘art of hair’ as he so called it. As soon as Gallant walked over to the brick wall and waved at you while the children were playing they went mental, they loved Gallant almost if not more than you. He was known as Mr Hairdresser to them, it kind of stuck and now even you called it him at home just to tease the shit out of him but Gallant couldn’t help but laugh whenever you did call him it. 

What Gallant didn’t know was that you had a surprise for him and you had gotten the children involved with permission of the school and their parents of course, Mrs Parker had ushered the children inside since she was in on it as well. A confused expression placed itself on Gallant’s face as she usually let the children run over to him to talk, had he done something wrong? Was he not allowed to visit anymore? That confused expression was replaced with a smile once he saw you walk over, you were wearing a dress shirt along with the tie he had bought you for your anniversary last month, the slacks you wore with them along with the shoes did something to Gallant and he couldn't help but stare at your crotch which made you snap your fingers in front of his face. 

‘’Eyes up here baby’’ You opened the gate for him to walk inside the playground, it had chalk drawings on that the children had done and he couldn’t help but laugh as he looked down at them, Gallant loved kids and couldn’t help but grin when a parent walked into his salon with their child since he thought they were the most adorable things. As soon as he stepped foot inside the playground his lips met your cheeks, them now being a crimson red from the affection he was showing towards you. 

‘’I missed you today.. I could’ve done with you at the salon. The old hag was in today!’’ The Old Hag he was speaking of was Mrs Thompson, she was a 60 year old woman with a mean streak in her just because Gallant was a homosexual, but due to the fact he was the only one who knew how to handle her crazy hair she kept on coming back. ‘’I was so close to shaving it all off the bitch..’’

‘’Or just ban her from the salon?’’ Rolling his eyes, Gallant shook his head, he had mentioned the fact that she was one of the highest paying clients he had and he didn’t want to lose the money even if it meant putting up with her bullshit. ‘’Or not’’

‘’Oh just shut up..’’ Rolling your eyes playfully at your boyfriend as he rested his head on your shoulder, he smelled like hairspray and bleach which is something you had gotten used too, it was almost your favourite scent now apart from the aftershave he used. ‘’I just want this day to end so we can go home and cuddle.. And fuck’’ 

Your cheeks flushed bright red again and you slapped his head playfully which had a chuckle escape Gallant’s lips, moving so he was stood upright he looked into your eyes with pure love in them, the way he looked at you was enough to make you smile at the man in front of you. You thanked God once you noticed the children running out with the banner and that his back was too them, the children organised themselves with the help of the other teacher until they were grinning widely with excitement, waiting for Gallant to turn around. 

‘’What are you smiling at you idiot?’’ He asked you once he noticed the grin on your face, getting a hint the man turned around to face the children. The sign was filled with glitter and in colourful letters that they had painted red ’marry me?’. The moment Gallant read that years fell down his cheeks, out of everything he didn’t expect this to happen once he had come to visit you for work. 

‘’So? Don’t leave me hanging..’’ You whispered as you watched the man look over at you with red, glassy eyes. The moment he jumped into your arms and you caught him quickly, the children cheered and screamed in excitement. The children surrounded you both as you held him in your arms, one of the children tugging at your jacket as you looked down at the little girl in question. 

‘’Does this make you Mr Hairdresser too?’’ The moment that left her lips you and Gallant couldn’t help but laugh alongside the other teacher in the playground, her eyes were innocent and wide as she eagerly waited for your response. 

‘’Yes sweetheart, that makes me Mr Hairdresser as well’’

[lady-of-the-lotus]

Xue Yang brings Xiao Xingchen back from the dead.

Xiao Xingchen begins to rot.

“You would have dumped me in a ditch,” says Xue Yang, too calmly, “but I spent years bringing you back, even after all those things you said to me.”

“You mean the truth?”

Xue Yang’s pupils swell to fill his irises, two inky black pits in his face. "I didn’t steal your eyes and abandon you. I stayed with you.”

Xuexiao - E - Read on AO3! - Tumblr: Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Chapter 2 - Life

Xue Yang’s face is all he can see.

It floats in the darkness above him, eyes wide, red-rimmed, dumbstruck. Black hair hanging loose around his sickly white face, sticking to his sweat-beaded forehead.

“Where am I?” Xingchen tries to ask, but all that comes out is a choking sound.

With a shaking hand Xue Yang touches his throat, feeling for a pulse, and his vision expands to Xue Yang’s naked body, smeared in red, bleeding freely from his wrist.

“Thirsty,” Xingchen manages to rasp, and Xue Yang’s wrist is at his lips.

He laps at the blood, filling his mouth, wetting his throat, swallowing Xue Yang down as he lies cradled his arms, Xue Yang petting his hair. The blood is hot in his mouth, the heat filling his cold limbs, sharpening his vision, letting him see the stars, the treetops above the Coffin House courtyard, the crescent moon.

But the moonlight, the strong metallic taste of blood, the bold crimson splashed across his range of vision, are all too much. Xue Yang is looking at him, speaking, but his face slips away, voice fading as Xingchen’s senses spiral.

He feels himself being lifted, the breeze on his bare limbs, motion. Something damp gliding over his limbs, something being tied around his waist, something combing through his hair.

And then he’s lying somewhere soft, and Xue Yang is beside him, devouring him with his eyes. Xue Yang’s hair is fixed with a silver scorpion-like hairpiece, and he’s clothed in a black inner robe, but his pale cheeks are still sunken, eyes still red.

“Daozhang,” says Xue Yang. His voice cracks. “You're back.”

Xiao Xingchen blinks slowly. It’s been so long since he’s felt anything at all, truly felt it, that he’s half-forgotten that he had lost his eyes before he died.

Before he…

He begins to shake.

“It’s alright,” murmurs Xue Yang, reaching out to cup his jaw in his hand, pressing his forehead to his. “It’s alright, you’re back now, you’re home…”

Xiao Xingchen’s body is still half-numb, still waking, and Xue Yang’s touch sets his nerves tingling, bringing life into his arms, his legs, as if he’s consumed more of Xue Yang’s blood.

“Say something else, daozhang, let me hear your voice…Are you still thirsty?” And then Xue Yang has disappeared from the bed, flying across the room, and then he’s back, holding a cup of water. “Here—”

Unlike the blood, the water just sits in his throat, as if the muscles that should push it down to his stomach have lost their ability to contract.

“What am I?” he asks when he’s finished coughing up the water.

Xue Yang swallows hard at the sound of his voice. “Alive,” he says.

Xiao Xingchen closes his eyes, shuts out the starlight seeping through the paper window shades. “I don’t think I am.” It’s hard to get the words out, as if his tongue has forgotten how to articulate.

“You are, you are, and I brought you back—” A brush of lips against his, warmer and firmer than he remembers. A hand on his waist, solid. “Just let me know if you need anything...” An arm slipping around him, Xue Yang’s face pressed against his throat.

Xingchen can handle these sensations. Welcomes them. Xue Yang’s touch is bearable. Grounding. Pleasant, now that it’s silent and dark.

“Sleep, daozhang…”

He drifts off.

The morning sun is blinding when he wakes. He covers his face, wincing. His mind’s a quivery jumble, his memory a disjointed collection of stray scraps of thought and memory.

“What’s wrong?” Xue Yang brushes his hand. “Are you in pain?”

“Bright—”

“Of course—” Xue Yang is tying a blindfold over his eyes. “It’s alright, it’s alright…”

He helps Xingchen to the table. He’s prepared a simple meal of rice and fruit. Xiao Xingchen has no appetite, but he forces himself to taste the food.

It has no flavor, no scent. The chopsticks slip from his nerveless fingers, and he gives up, simply gazing down into his bowl.

Xue Yang is staring at him intently, but he doesn’t seem to notice his lack of appetite. He’s prattling on, talking without stopping to take a breath, as if afraid of what Xiao Xingchen might say if given a chance.

“Not hungry?” he finally says, and then, before Xiao Xingchen can respond, “I’ll put it away for later. Here, let me help you back to bed; I want to—tidy up the courtyard before you go out; you might trip over something. The blindfold is like old times, but we’ll get you used to the light yet…”

Xiao Xingchen tries to think as he lies there, tries to shore up the crumbling walls of his mind, but all he feels is a growing numbness spreading from his hands and feet.

He wants to panic, wants to thrash and scream at the horror of the encroaching nothingness as he had wanted to beat at his coffin, wants to cry out for Xue Yang to come back inside, to touch him, wake him up, but the creeping malaise pins him to the bed, and he falls asleep before Xue Yang returns.

He wakes half-blind, half-deaf.

“Xue Yang,” he whispers. His words are indistinct, and, face numb, he bites his tongue.

“I’m here, daozhang…” And then, so low his numbed ears can barely hear, “You can still call me Chengmei, you know…”

“…Chengmei….”

A ghostly touch on his throat. “I’m right here."

“I…I can’t see.”

“Here.” A faint brushing over his face. “There. No more blindfold.”

“It’s not the blindfold. And I can’t…” He closes his eyes, shutting out the blurred figure. It’s suddenly too much effort to speak.

“Daozhang?” A note of panic, even through the cotton filling his ears. “Daozhang!”

Hands inside his robe, sliding over his chest, the only thing he can fully sense. He focuses on the sensation, clings to it. He can’t slide back into the dark nothingness, can’t face the red eyes again…

Something wet in his mouth. He laps at it, mouth filling with coppery heat. He sucks harder. It tingles as it goes down, bringing warmth to his limbs.

“Better?” Xue Yang whispers. Xiao Xingchen opens his eyes. He’s nestled in Xue Yang’s arms, bright red blood dribbling over the curve of Xue Yang’s forearm. “I can give you more. Take it all…”

Xiao Xingchen shakes his head, licking the last of the blood from his lips.

“What did you do to me?” he whispers.

“I…”

Xiao Xingchen pulls away. Xue Yang’s face is bone-white.

“What did you do to me?” he repeats.

Xue Yang bites his lip, hard enough to draw blood had he any left to spare. “I brought you back.”

“From…”

“You don’t remember?”

“I don’t…I don’t…I....why...the blood—"

"Yin is animating you." He rubs his chest. "The yin in my blood helps."

"But—"

"I'll make sure you get the yang you need too." Xue Yang looks away, bandaging his wrist as if trying to avoid making eye contact. “What do you remember?”

“I…I stabbed you.”

“It’s fine.”

Xingchen sits up, feeling slightly sharper. “I don’t care about that! I—I stabbed you because—you—you lied to me—”

“Is that all?”

“You—you tricked me into killing Zichen—”

“I brought him back as a fierce corpse! He was killed by a ghost, not me! And I didn’t hurt A-Qing; she’s fine, she wandered off on her own—”

“You made me kill Zichen!”

“A mistake. I regret that. I was just as horrified as you were. If you’d had eyes, you would have seen that—”

“You made me—you made me—”

And suddenly he finds that he can’t dredge up the hate and rage he felt back then. It’s as if death has bleached strong emotion out of him, as if Xue Yang’s blood, still warm on his tongue, is clouding his ability to hate him as he knows he should be hated.

He rises and drifts, half-stumbling, to the door. The floor is insubstantial beneath his bare feet, the walls hazy.

“Wait!” Xue Yang scrambles shakily out of bed. “It’s not fully clean yet, you might trip—”

“Over what?”

“I mean—I mean, it is clean, but—”

Xiao Xingchen steps out into the courtyard, seeing it for the first time. A dilapidated wall encircles the courtyard, paved with cracked gray stone with scattered coffins and poles. The morning is overcast, almost twilit, air thick and humid.

There’s something caked in between the cracks on the ground, he notices. Something brownish-red—

“Come back to bed.” Xue Yang is behind him. “Come to bed, daozhang. I’ll make you some t—”

And then, without so much as a sigh, he sinks to the ground and sprawls forward on his chest.

Xiao Xingchen stands there for a moment, tilting his head at Xue Yang’s prone form, then lifts him up and, too weak to carry him into the house, deposits him in a nearby coffin.

He leans over the coffin and examines him.

Xue Yang is sharper than anything else around him, somehow. Extremely pale, handsome face thin. His loose hair is a silky black cloud around his head, body slender and well-formed and wrapped only in a green silk inner robe. It’s loosely tied around his waist, and Xiao Xingchen can see an unfamiliar sigil carved into his chest, the graceful lines healed over into scars.

Xiao Xingchen reaches down, trails a hand over the curve of his throat. The coffin is barely tangible where it presses against his chest, but Xue Yang’s cheek is solid, almost cold. He’s seized with a sudden desire to strip them both naked and rub against him, twine himself around Xue Yang like a vine, light up his skin for a few precious seconds of sensation. There's no heat in Xingchen's limbs, fingers and toes numb.

Xue Yang opens his eyes. Blinking, he gazes up at Xiao Xingchen. “What happened?”

“You fainted.”

Xue Yang rubs his eyes. “You look worried.”

“No.”

Xue Yang tries to sit up but can’t. “There’s plenty of room in here.”

Xiao Xingchen hesitates, and then, without making a conscious decision to do so, finds himself crawling inside the coffin. Xue Yang winds his arms and legs around him, pressing Xingchen’s face into the hollow of his throat.

“How do you feel?” Xue Yang murmurs, his good hand combing through Xiao Xingchen’s hair. Xue Yang's entire body is trembling, either from the blood loss or faint or Xingchen’s nearness. “Do you need more blood?”

The skin of his throat is soft and smooth against Xingchen's cheek, his hands firm on his waist, his back. Xue Yang moves slightly, hip shifting against Xingchen’s, and Xingchen is filled with that same desire to rip off his clothes and simply writhe naked against Xue Yang, the only solid thing among the numbing mists—

He kisses Xue Yang.

Xue Yang’s entire body goes rigid.

He kisses Xue Yang again, full on the mouth, probing past his lips. Desperate for warmth, Xiao Xingchen devours his mouth, his tongue.

His heat.

Without thinking about it he slips his hand inside Xue Yang’s robe, resting it on his hip. His skin must be cool after losing so much blood, but it feels warm against Xiao Xingchen’s cold numb hand.

“You sure?” Xue Yang breathes.

Xiao Xingchen kisses him again, Xue Yang's mouth even warmer than the rest of him. Xue Yang moves slightly, one leg bent at Xiao Xingchen’s side. He’s untying Xiao Xingchen’s robe, good hand closing around his cock.

“Ever done this before?” he murmurs in Xiao Xingchen’s mouth.

Xingchen stops kissing him. He knows he should be overwhelmed by a red-hot tangle of negative emotion, but all he feels is an urgent hunger for sensation. “I know how you brought me back.”

Xue Yang’s eyes widen. “I didn’t—”

“I don’t care.” Increasing desperation builds as Xue Yang pumps his cock to full hardness, all the frustrated lust of the past…weeks? months? returning tenfold. “Pay me back now.”

“I don’t know if—I don’t want you to lose whatever yang energy I was able to give you—”

Xingchen glances down at his cock, rigid in Xue Yang’s hand. He knows he should be embarrassed to be seen like this, but all he cares about is how Xue Yang’s skin feels on his, how he aches for that hand to touch every inch of him, spark his half-numb body to life. A few drops of blood ooze from the cockhead, dribbling down the sides, staining Xue Yang's hand red.

"We’ll try it once.”

Xue Yang is still strangely hesitant. “Do you even know what to do?”

Xingchen opens Xue Yang’s robe, slides a hand along his thigh. “I remember what you did,” he says, and thrusts into him without preamble.

Xue Yang winces at the sudden intrusion, body tensing, hands curling around Xingchen’s arms at his sides, and then he makes a concentrated effort to relax, allowing Xiao Xingchen to push in deeper.

Xingchen begins to move, sliding in and out of Xue Yang, cock slick with bloody precum. He leans forward to kiss Xue Yang as he thrusts into him, filling his mouth with Xue Yang’s heat, chest brushing against his. Xue Yang’s eyes are closed, gripping Xiao Xingchen’s arms tightly, not bothering to touch himself.

Xiao Xingchen reaches down, closes his hand around Xue Yang’s cock, strokes it, more to feel the soft slippery sensation against his palm than to give Xue Yang any pleasure.

“Yes,” Xue Yang murmurs, back arching. He has one leg on Xingchen’s shoulder, knee hooked around him, drawing him closer to him. “You can be rougher — ”

Xiao Xingchen wants to sink his teeth into Xue Yang’s lips, suck the life out through his mouth, but is afraid any more blood loss will kill him and with him, Xingchen. Instead he thrusts faster into Xue Yang’s pliant flesh, grips his cock tighter, eliciting a gasp from Xue Yang. Xue Yang has lost too much blood to be fully hard, but precum is leaking from his cock, dripping onto his middle.

The sigil on Xue Yang’s chest is glowing blue.

Xiao Xingchen glances down at it and for the first time notices a sigil on his chest as well. The same foreign symbol, backwards.

It’s glowing with red light.

“Don’t be gentle, daozhang,” Xue Yang breathes, and Xiao Xingchen comes, biting down on Xue Yang’s neck as he feels true pleasure for the first time since awakening, his body sparking to life around Xue Yang’s cock.

Xue Yang comes at the feel of his teeth in his throat, cum spurting weakly into Xiao Xingchen’s hand. Xiao Xingchen instinctively licks the cum from his hand, the sticky white liquid tingling in his throat, feeding the golden light in his chest.

The glow of the sigils begin to fade.

“Yin energy,” Xue Yang whispers as Xiao Xingchen pulls out of him and settles down next to him, body wrapped around his, absorbing his phantom warmth. He laps gently at the bite in Xue Yang’s neck, not daring to suck it but swallowing the blood that rises from the raw wound.

Xiao Xingchen makes a small questioning noise.

“You gave me some of your yin energy….” Xue Yang laughs weakly, body vibrating against Xiao Xingchen’s chest. “Tainted yin, thanks to the ritual, not fresh like my blood. Eating me from the inside, is that it?…I’ll take it…"

Xingchen doesn't respond. For the first time since waking, the dampening curtain has been pulled back and Xingchen can fully feel his emotions.

Feel the rage, the grief, the overwhelming sorrow and disgust. Roiling red emotion, all around him, inside him. He wallows in it, stretches out his arms, embraces him. Rubs his face in the emotion, inhales it.

Enjoys the humiliation.

The hatred. The guilt.

The confusion.

He's not sure all of those emotions belong to him.

Or only to him.

“You alright, daozhang?” Xue Yang murmurs. “You look like…”

Xingchen pulls him closer.

* * * * *

It’s evening when Xingchen wakes. Xue Yang is still asleep, neck crusted with dried blood.

Xiao Xingchen lifts him out of the coffin and carries him into the house. He’s filled a pot with water before he remembers that he can’t eat or drink. He takes the water off the fire and seats himself beside the bed, watching Xue Yang sleep.

His emotions are still touchable. The hate, the anger. But they're more muted than they were that morning, a simmer instead of a boil.

It would be so easy to strangle Xue Yang right now. Cover his face with a pillow. Crush his throat beneath his thumbs. Hold him down as he thrashes beneath him—

Without him, you’ll die.

“And so what if I do?” Xiao Xingchen says aloud.

But his words ring hollow. They would have rung true that morning, but now that he can feel again, his senses sharp—

He does not want to be back. But he can't atone for his sins if he's dead. Can't put some good back into the world, can't make up for all death he's sown.

He steps out onto the porch. The night is unusually clear for Yi City, the deep blue sky thickly embroidered with diamonds. A vast sweeping carpet of stars, filling the night with silvery radiance despite the dim crescent moon. The scent of the nearby forest is on the night air, drifting on a cool breeze that cuts the humidity. Its treetops wave over Yi City’s walls, the leaves rustling.

Slowly he walks around the courtyard, one hand on the wall, enjoying the feel of the rough warm stone sliding past under his fingertips, the soft smooth weeds in the cracks. He still feels surprisingly strong, surprisingly alive.

He’s almost all the way around the courtyard when he’s stopped by a heap of orange fur at his feet.

A dead fox, lying huddled against the wall, surrounded by a cloud of blowflies. Fungus is growing along the fox’s ribs, white in the shadowy gloom, and the air is heavy with the carcass’s sweet scent.

Xiao Xingchen stands there for a long time, watching the insects feed, swarming black on the bright red fur. Maggots writhe in the creature’s eyes and nose and mouth, white on the brownish-pinkish flesh. The buzzing should be growing quieter as the flies settle down for the night but instead it grows louder, filling his ears, vibrating through him.

That should be me.

The thought cuts through the overwhelming buzzing.

He does not belong here.

He closes his eyes against the stars, the moon, the trees, the dead fox, but can’t shut out the sickening certainty swelling in his chest:

I do not belong here...

No. You were brought back for a purpose.

A second chance....

He turns and goes back inside. The Coffin House is manageable, at least. Contained. Almost like the tomb he should be filling…

He spends the night dozing in a chair beside the bed. Xue Yang doesn’t move at all, lying all night in the exact same position Xiao Xingchen had set him in.

Xiao Xingchen makes him tea and congee the next morning.

“There’s honey in the cabinet,” says Xue Yang. He’s very white, hands shaking as he accepts the bowl of congee.

Xiao Xingchen ignores him. Half of him wants to dump the tea in Xue Yang’s lap. As if sensing this, Xue Yang eats the bland rice without another word.

“Thank you,” he says as Xiao Xingchen takes the empty bowl, and immediately falls asleep.

Xiao Xingchen sits and watches him.

Xue Yang looks young—no more than eighteen or nineteen, though he knows he must be in his late twenties. He’s lost the baby-faced roundness Xiao Xingchen remembers, his cheekbones and jawline sharp, but there’s still a softness to his face, an innocence.

Innocence!

He gets up and leaves the house before he can do something he’ll regret. Spends the day sitting beside the dead fox. The sweet smell is even stronger today, and he thinks the little white mushrooms have grown larger, nourished by the fox.

Useful, even in death.

He too can be useful. Will be useful. As soon as Xue Yang is stronger, they’ll go on a night-hunt—help people, save people—

Just as we used to.

He shoves the words away, but the memories remain.

The countless night-hunts, Xue Yang keeping up a steady stream of jokes and chatter. The thrill of the hunt itself. Xue Yang praising his technique. A hand on his arm, a thumb wiping the blood from his cheek…

Human blood, some of the time. The blood of the villagers he’d—he’d—

“I regret all that too.”

Regret all that. As if that would bring them back to life, wash the blood from his hands—

Balling his hands into fists, he heads into the house.

Xue Yang is sitting on the floor beside the bed, struggling to rise. “Where were you?” he mumbles. “I called for you, but you weren’t here...”

Xiao Xingchen helps him back into bed.

Xue Yang smiles up at him blearily. “I knew you’d come back.”

Xingchen swallows. “Where is all the poetry you transcribed for me?”

“You remember." Xue Yang smiles again, eyes slightly sharper. "It’s in the chest in the corner.”

Xingchen spreads the sheets of paper out over the table. “What language is this?”

Xue Yang sits up. “Oh, I f—it’s my own. I…”

Xingchen holds the paper close to his face, vision blurrier than it was yesterday. The page is covered in thin, uniform marks. “This reminds me of Nushu letters.”

“I made it up. I can read it to you, and you can write it out properly—”

“How many characters do you know?”

Xue Yang picks at the blanket. Xingchen can’t tell if he’s brooding or embarrassed. “I don’t know. Maybe five hundred. Why does it matter?”

“Who taught you?”

“I taught myself. Like everything else.” He lies back down and closes his eyes.

Xingchen looks over the poems. He wonders how old Xue Yang was when he developed his own writing system, and when he had taught himself the few characters he did know.

He glances back at Xue Yang, squinting slightly. There’s a fresh bruise on Xue Yang’s forehead where he hit his head falling out of bed, and his breathing is shallow.

Xingchen digs the heels of his palms into his eyes.

He can’t do this.

Can’t keep up sustained hatred for someone so—so pathetic. All his natural compassion is roused by the sight of someone in need, even someone like Xue Yang.

“I called for you, but you weren’t here...”

Xiao Xingchen goes to sit beside the bed again. If only Xue Yang were to yell at him, sneer, spit venom again—

But instead Xue Yang opens his eyes, one trembling white hand reaching up to brush Xingchen’s face.

“Don’t leave me again,” he whispers, and Xiao Xingchen thinks he might have strangled him then and there had his life not been bound to his, smother the source of his shameful weakness and pity.

Pity. That was the word. Pity as one would have for a wounded animal.

A wounded animal. That was what Xue Yang was, had always been. A scared, wounded animal, lashing out—

Scared. As if Xue Yang were ever scared!

The sound of Xue Yang’s voice returns to him: " But the man was so irritated at the sound of his crying, that he snatched the driver’s whip and lashed the child’s face, knocking him to the ground. Then the wheels of the carriage rolled over the child’s hand, one finger at a time. He was seven! The bones of his left were completely crushed, while one finger was milled into battered flesh on the spot!"

Not a scared animal. A scared child, lashing out.

He almost laughs aloud at the thought. Millions of people have been scared children. How many of them had Xue Yang’s body count? How many had made him kill his partner? How many of them had dragged him into their twisted revenge scheme?

He closes his eyes. It all seems like a past life, faded and blurred and impossible to touch.

It was a past life.

“Daozhang?” Xue Yang’s voice is soft. “You don’t have to sit up all night…”

Xingchen opens his eyes. “I’m fine.”

A wide smile curls Xue Yang’s pale lips. Xiao Xingchen still doesn’t know if he’s always this expressive, or if he’s forgotten that he can be seen now.

The night grows colder as it goes on. The chill creeps over Xiao Xingchen's arms and legs, numbing his fingers. It’s very late when he crawls into bed beside Xue Yang, desperate for heat. Xue Yang is still cool, but he’s warmer than Xingchen. Half-awake, he slides his arms around Xingchen, pulling him to his chest.

“About time,” he mumbles.

It’s late when they both wake the next morning. Xiao Xingchen fixes his breakfast, adding the tiniest drizzle of honey to the congee.

“Don’t try getting out of bed on your own again,” he says, and steps out into the courtyard to go sit beside the fox.

The mushrooms are definitely larger today. He sits there until mid afternoon, transfixed, allowing the flies to land on his eyes and lips, then rises and brings Xue Yang water and more rice.

“I brought you ink and brushes and paper a few weeks ago,” Xue Yang tells him as he eats. “You don’t need me to write for you anymore, so…” He keeps his eyes focused on his bowl. Xingchen still can’t reconcile this soft, almost bashful Xue Yang with the one he remembers. “And I found you a flute.”

That catches Xingchen’s attention. “A flute?”

“A dizi. I was going to give it to you later.” He points at a long thin box on a shelf. “If you want.”

“You can give it to me yourself.” Xiao Xingchen gathers the writing materials and heads out into the courtyard.

He spends the day sketching the fox. Page after page of the dead fox in various stages of decomposition: ribs rising from the red fur, bones bleached white in the sun. Flesh bloated, pink skin slit, inky black liquid leaking from its nose, the greasy liquid glistening with iridescent fly wings. Rice-like maggots, wriggling in the red, sun-baked flesh, slowly consuming the dead fox: nourished, strengthened. Dozens of mushrooms, red, brown, yellow, clustered thickly on the animal’s haunches, drawing life from the corpse. The carcass covered by moss, inlaid thickly with flowers, entwined with delicate green vines.

Flies land on his hands as he sketches. They’re beautiful, in their way, wings tiny glass slivers of rainbow, legs long and elegant.

And slightly blurred, just as the poems had been last night.

He returns to the house as the sun sets, dusting the grim gray courtyard with rose-tinted light. He fixes a meal for Xue Yang as usual, but as he hands Xue Yang the bowl, it slips from his hands, spilling on the table.

“I apologize. I’ll get you some more—”

“It’s fine.” Xue Yang scoops the rice back into the bowl. “Maybe you should lie down, daozhang. You’re looking…” He tilts his head. “I don’t know. Kind of…hazy.”

The entire room is hazy. Xiao Xingchen closes his eyes against it. If he can’t see the furniture’s soft edges, the growing shadows, then his weakening vision could simply be his imagination…

A hand at his elbow, guiding him into bed. A soft kiss on his forehead. “You’ll feel better in the morning, daozhang…” Another kiss. “Do you smell that?”

“Was sitting with a dead fox,” he mumbles.

“A dead fox?” Xue Yang nuzzles his jaw, laughing. “You’re more like a dove or crane or something like that than a vulture, I’d say.”

“It’s beautiful,” Xiao Xingchen says, or thinks, he says, and drifts off.

Xiao Xingchen feels better in the morning. His thoughts are… smoother , is the word that comes to mind, though he knows it’s not quite right. Unruffled by concerns about Xue Yang, of the people they’ve killed, of Song Lan, of A-Qing. Mechanically he fills a bowl with congee and honey, being careful not to drop it, and sits on the edge of the bed as Xue Yang eats.

“—go night-hunting, I think, I’m feeling much better. There must be some monster or something out there for us to kill. I want to watch you fight again; we’ll have to find you something—”

His voice fades, blends in with the buzzing Xiao Xingchen imagines he can hear. Buzzing, swarming, the song of hundreds, thousands of blowflies and beetles—

He picks up Xue Yang’s bowl. It slips from his hands, landing on the floor.

He stands there, staring down at the bowl, then looks at his hands. They’re hazy, ghostly white shapes in the darkness. It’s morning, with bright yellow light pouring through the windows, but the beams are frozen, failing to illuminate the dark room, sharp yellow blocks in the blackness.

“Daozhang?—”

“I’m fine.” His tongue feels thick, swollen, and he can barely form the words around it. “I’m fine…”

He manages to drift to the table. Sits there for a few hours, one hand resting on the table, the other on a sheet of paper, not moving.

A voice behind him, laced with concern. “Come back to bed, daozhang…”

“I’m fine,” he says, or tries to say, but his tongue flops uselessly between his teeth.

Pressure around him. A distant sensation of being lifted. A pricking in his mouth, something being squeezed out of his tongue. “You’ll be better soon.” Heat at his lips, between his legs. “Just hang in there, daozhang. You took care of me, let me take care of you—” A green and white shape above him. More pressure, inside him this time.

Movement. Fullness, expansion, something building—

He hadn’t realized how dim the golden light in his chest had become until it bursts back into full radiance, and suddenly the green and white shape sharpens into Xue Yang, straddling his legs, rocking forward into him. A faint blue light glows through the robe covering his chest, illuminating his anxious face.

“I’m fine,” Xingchen mumbles.

“Daozhang!” Xue Yang pulls out. “How do you feel?”

Xiao Xingchen blinks slowly. “Better.”

Xue Yang rolls off of him. “You have to be more careful! If you were to fade away entirely, I don’t know that I could bring you…I’d have to bring you back again, and that was a real pain.” Xue Yang scoots down the bed, hands sliding along Xiao Xingchen’s hips. “Now, to take some of your tainted yin,” he says. The anxious look is gone, replaced by a teasing one. “How about it?”

“You don’t have to—”

Xue Yang moves Xiao Xingchen’s robes aside, running a finger along the side of his cock. “Would you prefer to drink my blood, then? Try to dilute it with fresh yin?” He laughs aloud at Xingchen’s wince. “Let's try this first. You make the best faces, and now that I can see all of your face…” He grins at Xiao Xingchen, then closes his mouth over his cock, sliding his tongue along the sides, sucking hard on the tip.

Xiao Xingchen closes his eyes and tries to hold back his climax. He feels more alive than he has in almost two days, fully awake. He digs his fingers into Xue Yang’s hair, nails scraping his scalp, twisting hard enough to hurt. Xue Yang’s hands wander, ghosting over Xiao Xingchen’s hip bones, running between his legs, over his abdomen, along his waist, tracing the faint purple veins winding through Xingchen’s pale skin.

Xiao Xingchen gives in to the sensation, the warmth. He can live like this, he thinks, if only this one moment went on forever. Can live with Xue Yang suckling at his cock, warming his cold skin, sucking the poison from his body.

Xue Yang takes him deeper, gagging slightly, and Xingchen comes, filling Xue Yang’s mouth with blood. He pulls off of Xiao Xingchen with a sloppy wet sound, gulping down the yin-laden cum, cleaning Xingchen with his tongue.

“It doesn’t taste like blood alone,” says Xue Yang, licking his lips. “Interesting.”

Xiao Xingchen stretches, savoring the return of sensation to his limbs, the softness of the sheets against his bare skin. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no! I like it.” Xue Yang settles down on Xiao Xingchen’s chest, a leg wrapped around him, a hand playing with Xingchen’s hair. A slight tingle where their chest sigils touch, a humming. “We ought to bath you tomorrow,” he murmurs. “That dead fox is potent.”

He falls asleep like that, a gentle weight on Xiao Xingchen’s chest. Xiao Xingchen focuses on his comforting weight, his warmth, his heartbeat. Xue Yang is the most vibrantly alive person he’s ever met, and now it’s as if a fraction of that vivacity has entered Xiao Xingchen, seeping through his skin where it purrs against his.

Xue Yang makes breakfast the next morning. He sets a bowl down in front of Xiao Xingchen but doesn’t press him to so much as pick up the chopsticks, and he empties his bowl back into the pot without a word.

“So, I got you this,” Xue Yang says after he’s finished washing up. He sets a long silk-wrapped object down on the table with an overly casual shrug. “I thought you might want it.”

It’s the flute he’d mentioned before, a green jade dizi inlaid with ebony.

Xingchen runs his fingertips over the smooth jade and looks up at Xue Yang. He’s sitting across from him, eyes bright, grinning, unable to contain his excitement anymore. “This must have cost a fortune. Where did you get this?”

“Does that really matter?”

“Xue Y…Chengmei…if we’re going to—” He stops. “I need you. But if you’re going to keep—keep doing things as you’ve done them, then my keeping you here just to stay alive would be selfish, and…” He trails off, repressing a regretful wince. He hopes his words had been jumbled enough for Xue Yang to not understand what he was saying, but Xue Yang’s smile disappears.

“So the only reason you’re here with me is because you need me to fuck life into you,” Xue Yang says blutly, “and if I kill people, then you’ll kill me in my sleep.”

“No!” Xiao Xingchen feels his cheeks get hot for the first time since his return. “No! I….” He trails off again. What had he meant, if not that?

There’s no expression at all on Xue Yang’s face. A first. “I know you would do it. You did it once before.”

Xiao Xingchen runs a thumb over the flute, letting it catch on the holes, focusing on the feel of the jade. His heart is pounding, and he feels almost faint.

He welcomes the distress, as he would welcome any strong emotion after spending so long in that deadening malaise.

Then welcomes the irritation. Why should he feel upset? Xue Yang deserves far worse than a painless death—

He realizes Xue Yang is waiting for a response to his last jab. Xue Yang’s cheeks are as pink as his bloodlessness will allow, mobile mouth rigid, eyes hard.

“Can you blame me?” Xiao Xingchen asks.

Xue Yang laughs, mouth relaxing, but his eyes have no light in them.

“You didn’t even give me a chance to explain,” he says.

“Explain? You—” Xiao Xingchen stops. He’s fully dizzy now, the room swaying back and forth, Xue Yang’s face the only stable thing in the room.

He tips his head back, looking up at the ceiling, trying to stabilize himself. “It doesn’t matter, not anymore…”

Xue Yang shoves his chair back and leaves the house.

Xiao Xingchen picks up the flute with shaking hands. His mind is oddly empty, given what had just passed between them. A part of him wants to go after Xue Yang, but what is he supposed to say?

Tell him that he wants to be here with him? A lie.

Tell him that he forgives him? Another lie. He’s not sure Xue Yang even realizes he had done anything wrong.

He begins to play the flute.

He plays for hours, till his fingers grow stiff and his lips ache.

He thinks of Baoshan Sanren as he plays. The years spent teaching him the proper fingerings and breath. What would Shifu say, to see him like this? Reduced to—to—

Xue Yang’s mouth on his…Xue Yang, pressed to his chest. Xue Yang, nuzzling the sensitive skin between his legs…

What would she want? For Xingchen to kill himself again?

He sets down the flute. Perhaps Xue Yang had only stolen it. Perhaps he hadn't murdered the owner…

He wants to leave the Coffin House, but is afraid Xue Yang is sitting on the stairs.

Instead he goes to bed. He sleeps fitfully, waking before dawn.

The Coffin House is empty.

He picks up his flute, tries to play it, but his fingers won’t respond, fumbling over holes they can barely feel. Feeling vaguely sick, he heads out into the courtyard, lit by dawn’s soft pink light. Walks around the back, looking for the dead fox, half-tripping over nothing, legs heavy and clumsy.

The fox is gone. A greasy black stain and trail of ants are all that remain.

He stands there for what seems like hours, then looks up. Xue Yang is standing behind him, arms crossed, eyes dark.

“Miss your little friend?” he asks.

“What did you do with it?”

Xue Yang sneers. “Tossed it over the wall. It was disgusting.”

Xiao Xingchen returns to the house, takes out Shuanghua, and flies out over the wall, drawing on his weak golden core for the first time. The fox is lying in a heap of rotting meat and splattered intestine, red fur vivid against the brownish-greenish weeds.

Not quite vivid. Everything is… dull.

Xiao Xingchen gathers the fox and buries it under a larch tree.

He likes it here. He’s always been drawn to nature. It reminds him of the mountain he grew up on, his happy days traveling with Song Lan…

He looks up at the leaves. It’s been so long since he’s seen a tree up-close. Dusty yellowish-green leaves, but they’re alive, the trunks strong and slender, the tall grasses stirring in the fresh morning breeze.

A glimpse of black among the green. Xue Yang, sitting on top of the wall, looking down at him, backlit by a pale blue sky still streaked with the last gold fingers of dawn.

Xingchen turns and walks deeper into the forest.

A swishing sound, and Xue Yang flies down behind him. “Care that much about a dead animal?”

“It was a living thing.”

“And what were you going to do with my corpse after you disemboweled me? Dump it in a ditch?”

Xingchen turns, eyeing Xue Yang evenly. His emotions have died down to a mere whisper, any intensity long since faded. Xue Yang’s eyes are correspondingly blank, but more like a cat’s eyes seconds before it pounces than one truly devoid of emotion.

“I stabbed you in the stomach,” Xingchen says coldly, “and you tricked me into killing the people I’d pledged myself to protect and pushed me to suicide. Which do you think is worse?"”

Xue Yang takes a step towards him. Xiao Xingchen refuses to step backward. Xue Yang is too close now, but neither of them move.

“You would have dumped me in a ditch,” says Xue Yang, too calmly, “but I spent years bringing you back, even after all those things you said to me.”

“You mean the truth?”

Xue Yang’s pupils swell to fill his irises, two inky black pits in his face. “ I didn’t steal your eyes and abandon you. I stayed with you.”

Xiao Xingchen knows he should be furious at this oblique reference to Song Lan, rage at Xue Yang for daring to compare himself to him, but it’s hard to feel more than a flicker of irritation.

And the terrible, fleeting thought that Xue Yang had stood by him. That their fight had been worse than the one he had with Song Lan—just as bad, at the very least—and yet—

Zichen was right to leave you, he reminds himself. And then, He left you because of Xue Yang…

I wonder why he came to Yi City.

"Song Lan was not looking for you," says Xue Yang. "He came here tracking a ghost."

Xingchen closes his eyes. “The past doesn’t matter,” he says, getting the words out with difficultly. “I need you now.”

Xue Yang is standing very still. “And if you didn’t?”

“What does it matter?” Xiao Xingchen begins to drift toward the nearby stream they used to bathe in. Perhaps if he stands in the water, the cold rush might wake him—

Xue Yang grips his arm. “Then yell, or fight, or stab me, or something— ”

Xiao Xingchen pulls away and heads for the stream. He slips off his shoes and stands barefoot on the muddy bank, watching the burbling white water gush over the rocks and squeezing the mud between his toes, then slowly gets down and trails his fingers in the water. It’s as if he’s wearing a glove, touching it but not fully feeling it, just as he had felt while talking to Xue Yang—

It’s nice, though. Cool, soft, if not enough.

Xue Yang appears on the opposite bank, that strange, un-Xue-Yang-like stillness still clinging to him. Xingchen wishes he cared enough to spark that stillness into a rage, stir Xue Yang’s slumbering temper, but the numbness is growing.

“I liked it better when you were stabbing me in the stomach,” says Xue Yang bitterly.

Xiao Xingchen steps into the water. The water swirls around his ankles, wet hem clinging to him. He knows the pebbles in the streambed should hurt, but all he feels is faint pressure on his bare feet, as if the pebbles are covered by a thick blanket.

Xue Yang grabs his arm again, roughly this time. “Just say something , dammit!”

Xingchen only half-feels his fingers, and can't feel his warmth at all.

"What do you want me to say? Just tell me!"

Xiao Xingchen leans forward and kisses him.

Xue Yang melts into it, one finger hooked into the collar of Xingchen’s robe, stepping into the water. “So—”

Xiao Xingchen shuts him up by filling his mouth with his tongue, swallowing his heat. It’s not a gentle kiss, but Xue Yang swallows it down. Somehow they end up in the water, Xue Yang on his back, the water burbling around his face.

He pulls Xiao Xingchen’s face down to his as Xingchen fumbles between his legs. There’s no oil, and Xue Yang winces as he enters him, but Xiao Xingchen is not gentle. He's barely thinking, acting more on instinct than anything, consumed by a sudden desperation to feel fully again, feel like he did yesterday, feel the holes in the flute, be able to hold a brush, be able to rage properly at Xue Yang—

He enters begins to move, hard and fast. The stream grows cooler and wetter as the sigils on their chests glow brighter, sensation flowing back into him.

“I can’t—” Xue Yang’s voice is a sputtering choke. “I can’t bre—” His face is half underwater, and he gasps and spits water as Xiao Xingchen thrusts into him. He claws at Xiao Xingchen’s arms but doesn’t push him off. Xiao Xingchen ignores his spluttering, thrusting another few times, rough and deep, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of heat and friction and pleasure, and cums inside him. The gold light in his chest shines brighter, not as vividly as when Xue Yang gives him his own life force, but he feels like himself again.

Xingchen pulls out, and Xue Yang sits up with a wet gasp, coughing up water. His eyes are red, face bluish. He draws in a rasping, wheezing gasp and spits more water.

“Take some blood,” he chokes.

Xiao Xingchen is already unraveling the bandage from his neck, scraping the scab off with his teeth, sucking at the bite marks. He drinks until the world around him bursts into full color, till he can feel the breeze and hear the birds in the trees.

“Better?”

Xingchen lies down flat in the water, relishing the coolness playing over his limbs, the sunlight on his face, the sharp pebbles against his arms and legs. It’s hotter than he thought, the sun baking the countryside even at this hour, and he absorbs the heat like a lizard on a rock.

“Better?” Xue Yang asks again. He’s pale, neck still bleeding, but his eyes are human again, warm and anxious and just a little too intense. “I can give you more.”

Xiao Xingchen closes his eyes. “And die in the process.”

“Right, wouldn't want my dead body poisoning the water supply.”

Xingchen wants to laugh suddenly. He's not sure where this sudden mix of joy is coming from, but it's mixed with a potent dose of bitterness and disqueit that keep the laugh from escaping. “Drag you onto the bank, let you feed the plants…”

He can almost hear Xue Yang stiffen. “Really?”

“Of course not.” Xiao Xingchen reaches up, dribbles water over his face, savoring the sensation. “I would bury you.”

“Sprinkle dirt over the ditch?”

“Properly.”

“How generous,” Xue Yang says sarcastically, but when Xiao Xingchen opens his eyes Xue Yang is staring at him, eyes now far too intense.

Xue Yang quickly looks away. “What would you put on the headstone?” he asks, too sarcastically to be sincere about the cynicism.

Xingchen closes his eyes again, takes a moment to relish the emotions Xue Yang stirs up, now that he can feel them. The pity, the frustration, the hate.

And the embers of lust. Guilt. Disgust. And…

Not all of the disgust is for Xue Yang.

He, too, is disgusting.

Xue Yang is sitting up, clearing his throat, trying to get the last of the water out of his lungs. Blood runs down his throat, dripping into the water.

Xiao Xingchen winces.

“Sprinkle dirt over the ditch?”...

And suddenly pity is overwhelming the other emotions.

His hand creeps over the rocky pebbles, finding Xue Yang’s fingers. His bad hand, the glove soaked through. He slips his fingers under the hand, touching the scarred skin of his palm.

“Thank you,” he says. “I don’t know if I truly need the blood, but it helps.”

Xue Yang looks away.

Xiao Xingchen sits up and ties Xue Yang’s bandage back on.

“Can’t risk infection,” says Xue Yang, “or my bleeding out, can we. Though I suppose you can always fuck my corpse.”

“Let me fix your hair for you,” says Xiao Xingchen, wincing again. Like I used to.

“It’s wet.”

“After you bathe.”

Xue Yang puts his arms around his legs, resting his chin on his knees. “ You’re the one who smells like a dead fox.”

Xiao Xingchen swallows. “I want to leave the Coffin House.”

Xue Yang tips his head towards him. He simply looks tired now, and very pale. As if something more than the blood has been taken out of him—not taken out of him. Put into him. Slowly poisoning him, like a corpse fouling a stream…

“Why?” Xue Yang asks after too long a pause.

“I think it would be better for us.”

Xue Yang reaches his good hand down, cups it in the water, drinks, picks up a pebble, and fiddles with his hair, before asking, with exquisite casualness, “Us?”

“I’m not going to leave you behind.”

He knows Xue Yang wants to open that wound again —“Because you need me to survive?”— but all Xue Yang says is, “I’ll go buy supplies.”

“I’ll come with you.”

Xue Yang rises, shaking his head. “I’ll go alone.”

“I can help—”

“It doesn’t take two people to hold a basket.”

Xiao Xingchen remembers when "Chengmei" would have done anything to cajole him into coming with him, or make up increasingly ridiculous excuses to tag along with him, but he lets him go.

Xue Yang returns in the evening with the supplies, whistling off-key and swinging a basket from each hand.

“Want some fruit?—oh, right, you don’t eat.” He tosses a candied nut in the air, catches it on his tongue. "Too bad."

Xiao Xingchen wonders if he’s drawing attention to his mouth on purpose. No point, really. It’s not as if Xingchen has a choice about sleeping with him.

Xue Yang grins at him. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

Xue Yang sets the basket down on the table and begins packing the food away in oilskins Xingchen holds open for him. “Play the flute again?”

Xiao Xingchen reflexively flexes his fingers. He looks down at them, long and pale and tingling slightly, though they’re no longer numb. “No.”

“Just sit there thinking about how long you can go without being forced to fuck me, then?”

Xingchen looks up. “Don’t say it like that!”

Xue Yang pouts facetiously. “ ‘Make love’?”

Xingchen rubs his temples. His wrist smells sweet where it brushes his nose. “Call it what you like.”

Xue Yang frowns. Xiao Xingchen suspects he had been half-hoping for another fight, perhaps ending in bed.

“You telling me it’s suddenly alright to lie, then?” Xue Yang asks, still goading him, but Xingchen is suddenly too tired for these games. Irritated, he lies down, leaving the packing to Xue Yang.

From beneath lowered lids he watches Xue Yang. Xue Yang picks up the flute, then stops. Sniffs the finger holes. Glances at Xiao Xingchen. Hesitates, then wraps it in silk and inserts it in the qiankun pouch.

It’s late when he crawls into bed beside Xiao Xingchen, almost as if he were waiting until he was certain Xingchen was asleep. And yet he rocks the bed slightly, presses the mattress hard enough for it to dip, drops his hairpiece, curses when he bangs his knee on the bed frame, the first time Xiao Xingchen can ever remember him being so clumsy. He pulls at the blanket as he settles in beside him, making sure it runs over Xingchen’s shoulder.

“You’re awake?” Xue Yang whispers in feigned surprise when Xingchen grips the blanket.

“Get some rest. We should leave early.”

“Doesn’t really matter when we leave...” Xue Yang stares up at the ceiling. “I’ve lived here longer than I’ve lived anywhere else.”

“We have to leave early if we want to make sure we have time to travel to a decent town.”

“Nine years.”

“Neither of us are strong enough to fly distances, and once it gets dark…”

“Where are we going?”

“Wherever people need help.”

“Why?”

Xiao Xingchen presses his lips together. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“You couldn’t—” He stops. “You’ll learn.”

“To what? Save the world?”

Xiao Xingchen turns over on his side.

“Daozhang?”

Xingchen doesn’t respond.

Xue Yang touches his back. “How do you feel?”

“You don’t have to keep asking me that.” Xingchen wishes he had continued pretending to sleep. Save the world. Just as he and Song Lan had always discussed.

The snick of Shuanghua’s blade through his chest—

“You don’t sound so good. Here, let me—” Xue Yang slides a hand over Xingchen’s waist, grazing his hip bones, brushing the back of his neck with his lips, and Xingchen shoves his hand away with more force than intended.

“I said I was fine!” he snaps. He turns to look at Xue Yang. He suddenly feels like picking that fight Xue Yang was so intent on earlier. “Can’t we have a simple conversation without your hands all over me?”

Xue Yang pulls back. “You didn’t want to talk.”

“Well, what did you want to say?”

“Nothing.” Xue Yang rolls over. “Have to be well rested for tomorrow and all, right?”

The conversation is obviously over. Xingchen feels strangely dissatisfied. He tries to think of something else, something to spark the fight, fan the embers, but he has little practice being nasty and can’t think of anything on the spur of the moment.

Xue Yang moves slightly, rolling away from Xiao Xingchen, turning onto his stomach, and though he doesn’t understand why, another shameful rush of pity fills Xingchen.

“I’ve lived here longer than I’ve lived anywhere else. Nine years…”

Oh.

He glances at Xue Yang, but it’s too late to say anything now. He briefly considers offering to fix Xue Yang’s hair again, then banishes the thought as ridiculous. It will only get mussed. He’ll offer in the morning…

But Xue Yang is up before him in the morning, putting the last touches on their provisions.

It’s almost midmorning when Xiao Xingchen drags himself out of bed. His limbs are curiously heavy, fingertips and toes half numb, and when he washes his face with the water Xue Yang has placed beside the bed, he notices that same sweet smell clinging to his hands.

The same scent as the dead fox…

He finds Xue Yang pacing up and down before the Coffin House, eyes fixed on the sign above the door. 

“We should just burn this place to the ground," Xue Yang says.

"Xue Yang, I—”

"We should get going," Xue Yang says and, without waiting for an answer, turns abruptly and heads towards the courtyard gate.

Xingchen follows him.

* * * *

Xiao Xingchen, rocking the "undead chic" look and bonding with bestie

Up next: "Blood," in which several murders are committed and Xiao Xingchen realizes that taming a murder gremlin requires more than mere good intentions. Also, Xue Yang gets to suggestively eat tanghulu

Enjoy? -> AO3!

[conaionaru]

Woman’s game (Ivar the Boneless/Hvitserk)

The other shoe drops

Synopsis: Ivar leaves and Skuld is in mortal danger

Warnings: violence, slow descent into insanity, angst

The next morning, Skuld woke up early to buy wood ash soap while Ivar got ready for his departure. "Skuld!"

Queen Aslaug stood behind her and stared her down like a predator stalking its prey. "Yes, Your Grace?"

"Let's take a walk." She took the earl's daughter by the hand and led her away from the common folk to the Great Hall's steps. "Tell me what you think you are doing?"

"I am buying wood ash soap. I want to bleach my hair. I am sure it would drive Mother mad when she returns. And I think I would make a pretty blonde." Skuld teased charmingly, trying to ease the tension around them.

Aslaug scoffed and clenched Skuld's hand tighter. To the eyes of the other's, they might have seemed like two bonding women instead of rivals. "That is not what I mean, and you know it. I can see when a person is smarter than they pretend to be. You, for instance, are far more intelligent than you let on."

"Is this about Ivar, My Queen?" She fluttered her eyelashes innocently, a mischievous spark hidden in her eyes.

"Of course, it is." They continued their walk inside, Aslaug sitting down on her throne to seem more powerful. It was just like Ylva scolding her children while sharpening her weapons, a power move. "What are your intentions?"

"I assure you, I mean no harm to Ivar."

"Then why are the thralls walking around town talking of what you two do in bed? Margrethe is buying moon tea for you, and everyone signs your praise. They think him a monster."

"They gossip as women tend to do when bored. I ordered Margrethe to do a task for me; what she did after is not my fault. I am as angry as you are. No one should know what happens in anyone's bed. That is between the lovers themselves."

Aslaug scoffed and leaned closer to seize Skuld up. "So you and Ivar are really lovers... It is not just a rumor?"

Skuld strode up the steps, smiling at Aslaug reassuringly. "I swear I mean no harm to Ivar. He intrigued me with his sharp mind and tongue. I enjoy his company, any form he is willing to offer me. Everything I did was out of curiosity and affection. I can't claim to love him yet, but I care for him and his happiness - his wellbeing."

Kneeling at Aslaug's side, she took her hand in hers and looked up with vulnerable eyes. Whispering the secret, she wanted none to hear. "It is like he bewitched me. I can't sleep without him near, and every time I hear him laugh or see him smile... It's as if I finally found meaning for what I am meant to be."

Aslaug nodded and smiled at her. "That is good; Ivar deserves a nice woman. After what lies Margrethe spread before..."

"If I could do anything to make those rumors stop..."

"Leave that to me. Go along now. You have hair to bleach." She sent her off with a smile. Skuld walked away and sighed in satisfaction. The whole Aslaug is a threat thing was solved easily. Margrethe did as she was bid, thinking she was saving her own skin, only to help Skuld.

When Ivar arrived at the docks to depart, he looked at her strangely. "What happened to your hair?"

"Don't you like my hair, Ivar? Don't you think I am pretty anymore?" She teased; the blush on his cheeks was proof enough of the answer. He liked it but was too prideful to admit it, especially in front of his brothers and father. "I wish you good fortune on your journey. May you come back victorious and well."

"So you will not forget about me while I am away?" The truth was, she would probably sleep with somebody in secret, but he doesn't need to know that. She was a woman with needs, and gods know when he will return.

"Oh Ivar, how could I ever forget a man like you? You gave me many things to remember you by. And when they fade... I will pray for your return day and night." He smirked at the answer and turned to leave, the new crutches making him taller. It was strange to look into his eyes without having to crouch or kneel.

He fell soon after but crawled on, not showing a hint of pain or humiliation. Cripple or not, the man was truly remarkable. When he departed, Skuld pretended to watch him leave like a lovesick girl.

Flocking people at her side wasn't so hard. She complimented the merchants at the stand and bought gifts for people. Smiling at children and helping older people carry things was another approach she used. Within a week, she was loved by the people. Her room was always full of young girls that complimented her and played dress-up with her.

They plaided flowers in their hair and gossiped of the boys they liked. Whenever they asked her of Ivar, she pretended to tear up or just gave them minimal information. How good of a lover he is, how he may seem evil or rude but is very affectionate when alone with her. Some things were true; others were complete lies. After all, she couldn't say that he choked her in bed and she liked it.

They walked through the town, hands full of expensive fabrics to have dresses made from. Giggling with every step, Skuld looked back at the girls behind her and smiled. "Imagine all the fabrics and gold from the new land Bjorn wants to explore. All those pretty things and alcohol they might bring back."

"And all the pretty male thralls!" They laughed out in glee. Skuld looked back in front of her so she won't trip but was met with a shieldmaiden with a strange shield.

"Come with me." The tall brunette ordered, glaring at her with a harsh tone.

"And why would I do that? I don't even know you. Who asks for me?"

"The Queen does."

Skuld looked at the shield and shook her head. "That is not the seal of Ragnar Lothbrok."

"It's Lagertha's!" One of the girls that followed her called out in realization. Before Skuld could process the information, the shieldmaiden snatched her by the arm and dragged her away.

As Skuld was thrown over the woman's shoulder and carried off, she could see people fighting. Lagertha infiltrated the city to take over as Queen. Maybe Gunne was right, and she really needed the dagger after all.

So she pulled in out from her cleavage and slit the shieldmaiden's throat. The dead woman fell to the ground, and Skuld climbed off her to run to safety. Someone grabbed her from behind and tried to wrench the weapon from her hands.

The girl slammed her head against the attacker's face a few times till the grip loosened. She slipped free and stabbed the warrior in the chest. With a grunt, she pulled the dagger out. Someone hit her over the head with a shield, and she hit the floor, groaning. It wasn't enough to knock her out, but enough to make her stop fighting.

They dragged her to an empty house and threw her in like a dirty rag. "Stay here and wait!" Skuld sprung from the ground and glared at them, seething. She ran for the door but was pushed back easily.

"You will pay in blood for this! You and your stupid Queen!" They slammed the door in her face and left her in the darkness.

Skuld marched up and down the hut, cursing under her breath. "They left me here, and now look what happened. I will gouge out her eyes and make her stupid lover watch."

She repeated the last sentence, like a mantra and prayed to the gods for guidance and strength. Walking holes into the floor proved futile, so she sat down with her back against the wall and glaring at the door. "They will probably try to punish me for killing those shieldmaidens. Let them try."

The hut was small, one-room max with no furniture or window, obviously meant as a prison cell. She could feel hay under her ass and the cold bite of winter on her cheeks. Her eyes never left the door, the deafening silence around her suffocating. Twisting the ring on her finger, Skuld stared the door down with determination.

"All this time buttering up Aslaug and Ivar, and in the end, it was Ragnar Lothbrok's ex-wife that got to me. Hjordis would laugh at my foolishness." She chuckled and leaned her head against the cold hardwood. Closing her eyes, she took deep breaths to calm her anger. Lashing out now would do Skuld no good; she needs to save her energy so she can fight back when they open that door.

Her eyes snap open, and she smirks in glee. Pulling herself up on all four and search the ground for something. "Weapooon, where are youu?" Other than a pair of chains in the opposite corner, Skuld found nothing. Even those were useless; strangling someone with them would require her, pulling them closer to the bolts. Too much work and doing that would mean a struggle.

The blonde sighed and leaned her head back against the wall. She let her head fall into her hands and tapped her foot against the floor. The flow of time was hard to keep up with in here. She could be in here for an hour or maybe only half. There was no way to tell. So she tried counting instead.

"One, two, three, four, five..."

Drawing was fun when she was small and the coal from England new, when all she could do was doodle runes and flowers, now when she was thirteen, it wasn't so exciting. But the boys were training in the yard, and she didn't want to be a shieldmaiden.

She liked herself more like this; in her family, everyone was a fighter covered in dirt with bad manners. Despite being an Earl, even her mother didn't spend time on her looks until it was really necessary. So Skuld did her best to look as good as possible.

Mother had no problem buying her anything she wanted, what she wanted that she got. A smile here, a whine there, hug, fake tears, and she had the prettiest dresses within a week. Egil always complained that she was a spoiled little brat, but Skuld was more of a princess. Earl's daughter or not, she was made for royalty and ruling.

All the women told her that she was beautiful and graceful. She deserved to be pampered and complimented. Who else out there was as perfect as her? Beauty was her dagger to wield, less messy than the real thing. A courteous smile and sweet words, and everyone ate out of her hand.

The other girls in Yugar flocked around her like meek little sheep, trying to gain her attention and friendship. You say they look pretty or that you like them, and like naive children, they believe every word. Mother always said it was dangerous to live in a perfect world; it was a nasty place filled with greedy and stupid people. It's your decision on which side you want to be on.

Her brothers were the stupid ones, running after girls, fighting, burping, and farting to make themselves laugh. Their mother, on the other hand, was smart, which meant she was greedy. After all, she was an Earl and ruled the people easily. Skuld was greedy, too; she wanted to hold power as well. So ambition would be her other dagger, this one sharper and more fatal.

"Skuld! Come watch Egil make a fool of himself!" With glee, the girl shot from her spot on her mother's throne and run outside to watch Egil fail at flirting.

"Five hundred and thirty-eighth, five hundred and thirty-nine..."

She sighed and banged her head against the wall once. Daggers... That's what she needed, real daggers to carve out the shieldmaiden's hearts. Beauty and ambition would do her naught now. What would she do? Try to seduce the forty-year-old mother or her loyal lover? Maybe some of her shieldmaidens. Undressing always made people speechless, mostly because they didn't expect it. But women still fared better. It was the man that lost all common sense when their cocks got hard.

Women just crossed their legs, scowled, and talked. That's when sweet-talking came in handy, and by morning they were laying naked beside her. But that wouldn't work on the usurpers. Real weapons would serve better.

Again she hit her head against the wall and watched the ceiling. If there was some light in here, she could at least watch the shadows there. But the room was one huge shadow on itself. All she could see was darkness and her own bright dress and hair.

Her hand throbbed as she picked at the fresh scabs of her bloody knuckles. Skuld had hit the door in her rage as if she could beat it down. It didn't work; all it did was make her angrier and tired. Oh, so tired. She could sleep and hope to wake up in her own bed at home, instead of a small dark cell. The more time passed, the smaller the room seemed to her. With one last bang against the wall, she slumped down to sleep, bored of the world around her.

In her dreams, she was back at home, five or four, sitting in her father's lap as he sat on his high seat, ordering people around. Mother always said he was soft, which made him stupid and unjust. He got swayed easily, but on the battlefield, he was invincible. Well, he used to be. Until he got beheaded in Frankia,  he got no burial, the boat they burned was empty, maybe he was in Valhalla, perhaps not.

She could care less, barely remembering his face or voice. Sometimes, in her dreams or memories, Skuld sad his fair hair and a small beard. Othertimes he had no face, just a blank head. She never looked above his neck. Why should she? The sigh of the kneeling people in front of him was prettier. She imagined herself in his place, what she would have done. But never came up with an answer. What was the point anyway?

The dead were dead, and she was alive for now. The past was an anchor tying you to the realm of reality so that you wouldn't get lost in the clouds. But right now, she wanted to fly the highest she had ever been. Far away from all this bullshit. The furthest distance away from this hut that probably had spiders and rats hidden inside. Away from the shrinking walls and haunting darkness. She was Skuld Ylvasdottir. The only daughter of Ylva the Brave, Earl of Yugar, the Lioness.

Skuld was a lion as well, a cub, but a lion nonetheless. She wouldn't beg them to let her out. Instead, she would scream her throat hoarse and spit blood on them if needed. Lions aren't afraid of anything, not the dark or death itself. "When I get out, they will no longer call me a naive child or lion cub. I am a woman, vengeful, and ambitious.

[bitchfitch]

Copper artfight resource

big soft boy. if a cup of spicy hot chocolate was a massive apex predator/ obligate carnivore.

mikely stabbed him the first time they met and he fell in love Instantly.

an excerpt:

Death crept through the lavish halls of a rich man's home. Old cracked paint flaked beside sun faded tapestries and over well worn wood floors. The raged leather soles of of his boots softly thumping along with the creaking of old wood that accompanied his every step. He found the room easily, following the sound of a fading cough and short not quite gasping breaths that failed to draw enough air. 

He ducked through the door and the dying man greeted him with age hazed eyes and a broad grin.

"Copper!" his exclamation carried joy even if his lungs couldn't support more than a creaking whisper, "Bastard, it's so good to see you again," he stopped to catch his breath, his eyes closing as he did so,

"And you as well," Copper returned the smile as he sat in the chair beside the bed, "But to be honest I'm a touch surprised, both that you can see anything through those cataracts, and that you would… Appreciate my presence," 

The rich man chuckled, "Not many people have hair that color, even fewer are as tall as you. I may not be able to see much, but I can still see that,"

"I suppose you're right," Copper huffs with a hand going to his dark red mess of a mane "Still, you must remember the terms of our deal and what my presence means for you now?"

"I do," he nods, "I'm going to die tonight, going to see Min again," 

"Min?"

"My wife," he smiles as he speaks of her even as his words become more labored, "That quill you gave me, I wrote a letter to the girl I had fallen in love with when we were young. I didn't know she couldn't read, so she had to get someone else to read it to her, but when she'd heard what I wrote she came all the way into the valley to slap me and call me an idiot," he laughs, "Told me we should've eloped when we were both still fresh, before she'd found another man to call her own,

I'd not even thought that she'd have gone on like that. It made sense, she could have, and did, do so much better than me. But luck of lucks saw that husband of hers dead not long after. I felt bad for being so happy, but I couldn't stop smiling when she and I married,

That quill- You, gave me the happiest life I could have imagined. I'm glad to pay my end of the deal now, because it means I get to see her again,"

"It's a rare treat to find someone with no regrets, thank you for your story," Copper smiles softly, genuine and warm,

"Oh, I've got regrets," the rich man say "Many, but I don't care to dwell on them, not now… or… Well, one, there's one,"

"Hmm?"

"Min and I, we had a fight right before… She was so mad at me last time I saw her. Do you think she still is?"

"I don't know, but you will have plenty of time to make it up to her soon,"

"Yeah, yeah that's true… It's close now is it?"

"Moments if I had to guess," Copper shrugs, "The clot in your lung is migrating and will soon block off blood flow to the area completely. After that happens you won't be able to get enough air and will… fall asleep, then you will suffocate over a few minutes. It won't be the most pleasant of deaths, but it won't hurt badly," he simplified things greatly, not caring for the slight inaccuracies so long as they helped keep the rich man calm and peaceful in these final moments.

"Any final requests?" Copper cocks his head,

"I think… yeah, I think I want to be alone for this. Thank you," 

"Of course. Rest well then, and may your sleep bring great growth" Copper stood from his seat, the blessing leaving him without thought as the rich man closed his eyes a smile still tugging on his old, withered face.

The door to the rich man's room shut with a light thud as Copper drifted down the halls, a heavy sigh falling from his lips. He rarely visited the dying, usually he only came to the deceased caught between their death's and their afterlives to guide them across, and this was why. He knew where the clot was, it would only take a moment and a little bit of concentration to break it up enough that the rich man's body would be able to handle it on it's own. Sure, doing so would probably only buy him a few more bed bound days, a week maybe, but healers can rarely be trusted to leave the sick and dying to the whims of nature and he was no different. 

He wandered through the empty halls decorated with treasures that, do to a single deal made half a century ago, would soon be his, and found his way into a shrine room. Shelves upon shelves of precious jewls and metals, fine fabrics and sculptures filled the room. Though the alter beneath the stained glass window held only sea glass and shells that glittered from around a poorly made tapestry that depicted a stormy ocean.

The threads were too loose in some places too tight in others and there were places where it was clear the weaver ran out of one color and had attempted to dye more only for it to come out just wrong enough to be noticed. It was clearly made by inexperienced hands and now stood displayed still in it's loom in the place of honor on this shrine. Pride in its existence radiated from it and that made it stunning despite it's flaws. 

Distantly, he felt the rich man die, quietly and peacefully.

One of Copper's aspects would guide him across and later while Copper slept he'd dream of the conversation that aspect and the rich man would have, and he would dream of the conversations his other, near innumerable, aspects would have, and have had, and have been having with every other human who has crossed into his domain since he last slept. Then he would wake, and forget almost everything said during those conversations as they meld together into a messy but beautiful tapestry. All the threads visible and traceable in their places but ultimately he saw it not for the individuals, but the grander thing they made together.

He picked at the stones and shells scattered on one of the shelves, his dulled claws scraping against the rough surface. He should probably go find someone to deal with the body…

The soft creaking protest of a floor board that no longer fit in it's place being tread on called from behind him. Copper turned, curious to who or what would be intruding on this moment, but he was left slack jawed with a greeting trapped behind his lips as he saw the man.

Surrounded by gold and silver and precious gems that glittered in the low moonlight that flowed through the windows, this man outshone them all. He was tall for a human, coming up to just below Copper's collar bones, with broad, strong looking shoulders. His sharp features highlighted by the silver light caressing his warm tan skin and haloed by that same light echoing through the broken strands of bleach blonde hair that fell from his neat bun to frame his narrow face.

Light agitation turned to wonder and awesrrucked silence as Copper struggled for a second to find words, but once again those words died when he met the man's eyes, they were probably a deep brown but the low light turned them onyx. His gaze was sturdy, not cold or calculating, not bored. Determined but practiced.

The strange, beutiful, human man wore the expression of a butcher or a slaughterer, he did not draw perverse pleasure or joy from what came next. He was so obviously merely doing a job as he moved faster than Copper's confusion addled mind could react to that that alone struck more fear into Copper's core than if the man were hissing and snapping with rage.

The ice hot cut of an iron blade dug past the flesh between his ribs and into his chest even as he recoiled. On pure instinct he growled an awful rumbling sound that made the butcher- the hunter, flinch as Copper managed to stumble away, nearly falling to one knee as his own lung struggled to inflate. He could feel his magic burning along the wound as it tried, and failed to pull it closed. His hand going to his bloodied side in a vain attempt of staunching the flow. 

The hunter advanced, cautious and silent, his blade, slicked with Copper's own viscous black blood, raised as he followed the retreating god.

Copper hissed as his back collided with a shelf, cornered he pulled his attentions together just enough to attempt to teleport away, only to feel his magic jolt painfully within him as it failed completely.

The hunter advanced, already readying another swing.

In that moment Copper forced himself to focus on the warm summer night air, on the flickering candles and the heat of the hunter's body, most seals could be overpowered, he just needs to rush it hard enough. 

Heat leaves the room, the hunter stumbles with a pained gasp as the heat leaves him too. Copper doesn't see if the hunter falls because the seal gives as he uses all of that stolen energy to burst against it.

He drops to his knees on the cold stone floor of the cave he calls home. His blood singing through magic seared veins, his hands shaking as he braces one against the floor below him as his world swims, both from blood loss and the disorientation that always came with pushing his power that hard,

He struggles with his wound, gasping with effort as his magic finally starts working again. The wound tieing itself closed beneath his palm, a thick black scar forming as he comes down from the mountain top high of fearing for his life for the very first time since before the advent of this universe.

Copper slumps against the water-carved wall of his home, his head falling back against it with a deep buzz running beneath his skin, and he Laughs, deep and hearty and Alive in a way he has not felt in centuries.

---

A day passed, and Copper's wound still ached every time he bent wrong, sending a pang through his chest as his heart picked up at the memory that accompanied it. Truly, he could only go a few moments without thinking of the death dealing adonis that had, very litteraly, struck him to his very heart. He needed to find the man again, to see if a second meeting would make his blood race the way the first had.

Perhaps he would even find out why he'd been attacked, but if Copper was being honest with himself, he didn't care to know. The Hunter was a mystery, and like many mysteries, he was one that could be enjoyed as is, and did not need unraveling quite yet. Still, Copper couldn't wait around for fate to bless him with a second chance meeting. He needed to find The Hunter on his own, and that meant doing a little investigating.

The moment Copper had had time to rest he laid in his bed and let his consciousness drift to the aspect that could interact with the grand tapestry. The Hunter had not hesitated for even a moment, had not flinched at spilling blood, and so there was no denying that he was experienced. That, perhaps, killing was something that either came easy to him or that he was very well practiced in the art of it.

The hunter was young, maybe mid twenties to early thirties, which narrowed his search, and the location narrowed it further. That valley was a hard month long trek through ice capped mountains from the next nearest settlement. The Hunter probably lived and prowled within its confines.

Copper focused on the last ten years worth of threads from that area that ended in white knots, the tragic, violent deaths. This would be where he found what he would need.

Going by date he gently tugged the ends through the weave so that he could examine them closer. He was careful to not pull anything more than an hours worth at a time, dreading upsetting the careful balance of the fabric and the places of the souls that he examined within it. It took a few tries, a few years worth of deaths until he found the first one that he could catch a glimpse of The Hunter from. 

And oh how Copper dreaded what he saw. Five years before he'd met the man, an older boy, maybe sixteen with sharp, fearful and wild, onyx eyes and short, jagged ink black hair cried with blood stained hands, one still holding a blade, the same one Copper would become familiar with, it was still slick with the red of human blood as the boy stumbled back against the wall as the man he'd just killed gasped his last breath.

Copper found the conversation he'd had with that spirit, a man who'd heard screaming from within a home. He'd gone to help only to be found by the Chief's boy before he could find the source of the screams. Copper had reassured him, had praised him for his bravery, had not paid enough attention. He'd guided the kind man to his afterlife while the chief's boy who would become The Hunter silently wept beside the man's body, struggling against the tears as someone called out for him. 

Tucking the tread back into place with one hand and pulling another free with the other. He grimaced when he realized it was merely a visitor's thread. Someone from Copper's own home universe who'd come into this one for one reason or another only to find their end here.

The visitor's soul had not been theirs to keep stored away amongst those of their creations and so had already been returned home. Where it would have dissipated into the background energy to eventually become the fuel for something new. No life was stored in this thread, it was merely a place holder.

Copper found more threads like that in his search, nearly twenty pale threads all from the last few years lined side by side. Tragic human deaths surrounding them but none of those human deaths involved The Hunter. That was odd, very few places in his tapestry looked so strange and knotted, and most patches that did were of wars and disasters not… whatever this was.

If he had been tangible in that moment he would've been nipping at his claws as he tried to piece together what something so strange could mean. But no answers came to him.

He found the next, and most recent, human victim of The Hunter, a man now, still too young, but undeniably a man by Copper's math, cold and stoney eyed, tangled bleached hair and a badly bruised and swelling jaw. Copper would have been surprised if The Hunter didn't have a few cracked or missing teeth from the injury, the mandible itself might be broken, a serious wound that needs setting and cleaning imeaditly. Copper's mind supplied him with the diagnosis without him meaning to think of it, so focused was he on that wrecked face and the lack of answers it presented that his mind tried to give him what few answers it could, even if those answers were worthless.

The woman The Hunter had killed had sat silent and glaring at The Hunter who silently watched her die,  his blade dripping with her blood. She'd not spoken a word to Copper. Fuming as she stormed through the gate without any guidance from him.

He wished he had insisted on actually speaking to her, on finding the answers. The iron eyed Hunter was a far cry from that sobbing boy, and yet they shared a thread.

More visitors, more tragedy, and no more answers came from the grand tapestry. 

He needed to return to that valley, surely if tragedy struck this often they'd welcome a healer? Even if they didn't, the Oracle made her home at the very center, and while Copper tried to avoid his sister's emissaries, The Oracle would be able to tell him what he needed if all else failed. Besides, her daughter was such a cute little thing, it would be a joy to hold a chubby baby again. Would the daughter still be a baby? maybe she was toddling about already, having her first little prophecies as she explored the world she would be entrusted to protect.

Oh Copper couldn't wait to visit.

[sp00kworm]

Vermillion (Bo Sinclair x Reader)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Blood, Wounds, Injury descriptions, Gore, Kidnapping, Implied Stockholm Syndrome, Sexual References.

A/N: I forgot to cross post this! It took me a week to write for my favourite Sinclair so I’m happy to finally share this long piece with everyone. I love metal and figured Bo would too so this is sort of where this came from! Please enjoy!

----

It wasn’t often that Bo Sinclair couldn’t stand the sight of his home, but when it did happen, he was always the first to escape in his truck, leaving Vincent in peace in the basement. Lester was rarely there to begin with, so it wasn’t like he was missing much when he was out of town. It was just them. Them and the dog, he reasoned as he cranked the volume of the rock station down in his truck. The bars he could easily drive to were run down little things, often just off to the side of a fuel station. Truckers and the large sort frequented them, laying down in their truck cabins for a few hours of sleep after a beer. They were run down, but the beer was cold and the food usually greasy enough to take his mind off whatever was itching at the back of his neck. Bo took a breath, strangling the steering wheel in his grasp as he listened to the last of the song on the station. When it finished and the annoying presenter droned back in, he turned the engine off and hopped out of the truck, locking the door as he took in the run-down establishment. Thankfully he was in his mechanic overalls still. He didn’t look out of place among the fat-bellied truckers that had just walked in.

 The inside was just as dingy as the outside. The old wood was dark and the pictures on the walls were from when the area was known for its mining. He listened to the quiet hum lull on as he moved into the corner of the bar and eyed what was on tap. Truly he would be fine with a bottle. He didn’t care much for what it was so long as he could have the alcohol to destress. He snarled when his elbow was jostled, the trucker apologising gruffly before taking his tankard off back to a group of his friends. They clicked drinks before setting their scruffy lips to guzzling whatever it was in the huge cups. The music was some sort of rage metal, playing over the speakers in the corner, though not loud enough for any of the older men to complain about it. Bo was surprised by the choice but noted it as a reason to come back. Too many places played cheesy charts shit that he couldn’t stand. Heavier music had been his outlet since he was young.

 The bartender was the one making the swap it seemed, beer bottles clutched to their chest as they flicked through an old ipod and changed the tracks to something heavier still. Bo would come back if he could drink beer with this sort of music on.

You felt burning eyes on your form as you clicked through the tracks of your little ipod. Dark blue gazed at you from the bottom of the bar and you took that as a sign that your little music switch had taken too long for some of the patrons’ tastes. With a smile you dumped the bottles in the box for collection and placed the glasses in the other one for the kitchen to wash. You were unassuming to him. Yet your music taste made him want to cry with joy. He was god damn sick of the classical music Vincent had on in the house. The only place he was free of it was at the garage with his battered tapes.

“Hey stranger, what can I get you?” You asked as you drew out a cold glass from under the polished counter.

Bo looked at you hard, chewing a toothpick as he gazed at the beers and shrugged, “I ain’t picky. Stronger is better but nothin’ that’s a spirit.” He flicked the wood and watched you hum and pull him a pint of a lighter coloured beer, placing it in front of him with a smile as the next riff crashed through your small speaker set up.

“Tab or cash upfront?”

“Open a tab. I’ll pay before I leave.” He offered before taking the beer and sliding himself into the seat on the end, “We alright to smoke inside?”

“Sure, just make sure to stub it out in the ashtray. If I see ash on the counter, I’ll charge you double for the beer.”

 Your sour smirk drew a chuckle from the man in the cap. He placed the bleached, blue baseball cap on the bar before rubbing at his wild brown hair and drawing out a packet of cigarettes, wasting no time sparking one up before he took a sip of the beer. His face was pleasant as he took another, then chugged four great mouthfuls. If he was driving, you hoped he wasn’t going to have too many. Ignoring the new stranger, you tended to the other men, drawing beers and whiskeys before returning to your docked ipod, flicking to something metalcore before humming your way back to behind the bar, taking to cleaning glasses as the drum thundered softly behind you. The new band drew Bo’s attention back to the speaker as a vicious low noise growled over the wood. Some patrons rolled their eyes, and the male didn’t miss their chuckles at the music. It seemed like the regulars were used to the heavier stuff. A few seemed like the sort to enjoy this music. Bo felt his gaze linger on you as you canted your hips left and right, humming along to the song as you worked quietly before people came up to ask for drinks.

 The eyes were on you as the male drank, his dark eyes peering over the rim of his glass, searching perhaps for something he liked. Maybe the music was pissing him off. You couldn’t find it in you to care about what he thought.

Bo raised his hand with a smile, “Bartender! I’ll have another of whatever that was, please.” He was still smoking, slowly dragging on his second cigarette.

“Sure thing. Half?” You watched him drag on the cigarette, as though he was actually deciding.

“Sure. Half. I gotta drive home.” He ground the stub out in the ashtray, “Thoughtful of you.” He hummed before pushing the ashtray away, handing you back his glass, “You got a name, sweets?”

“As much as I wish it was sweets, it isn’t.” You chuckled, pulling another half a pint for the man before offering your name with his drink, “What about you? I’ve worked here about a year and I’ve never seen you before.”

“Bo. Don’t stand for nothin' either before you ask.” He gave you a smile full of teeth, sipping the beer you put in front of him with something of a relaxed slouch.

“Well, Bo, it’s nice to meet you.”

“You too, doll. Might see more of me with that music taste of yours too.” Bo winked and glugged the rest of his drink, as though the liquid would get rid of something he was thinking about.

 You’d seen his sort before. At least he had the spoons not to drink himself into a stupor. He had to drive home after all. The mechanics overalls moved enough to reveal thick, scarred wrists, the marks puckered, pink and white. You pretended not to see and took the glass from him as he sparked his third cigarette. A man with plenty of baggage. One to avoid. Yet as he cracked another smirk, taking the drink from you, you couldn’t help but smile back, watching him poke at his tattered hat, his hair messy. Something about him was off, yet he hid it behind a southern smile and a honey accent. Bo raised the crisp glass to his lips, drinking slower now, puffing on the cigarette between his lips as he turned to listen to a gruff exchange in the corner. The regulars were getting a little rowdy. The music chugged on in the background. Bo chuckled and turned his eyes back on you, watching under his lashes as you wiped down the counter with a cloth. The burning gaze followed you as you served another patron, and then another. He didn’t ask for another drink, just nursed the last one you had given him as the last of the men emptied out of the bar.

 It was close to two o’clock in the morning.

 Bo took his hat from the counter as the last man walked out, “Thanks for letting me stay, doll. Sweet of ya considering I haven’t bought more than two drinks.” He fished into his pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill, “Keep the rest as a tip.”

It was a kind gesture considering his drinks only came to about six dollars, “Thanks. You off back home now?” The glass clicked as you put it back in the box of washing, “Must have been something on your mind to keep you here until close.” You clicked off the chugging guitar of some metalcore song as Bo pulled the brim of his hat lower.

Bo chewed the edge of his lip before releasing it and smirking, “Ain’t nothing for you to worry your pretty little head over.” He tugged the sleeves of his coveralls and stood from the bar stool, tucking his wallet back into his front pocket.

“I’m not worried. You haven’t drunk enough to make a rat tipsy tonight. I’m sure you’ll be safe on your way home.” You put the cash in the register and took your four dollars for your tip jar on the end of the bar, “Thank you for the tip by the way. Not many tend to leave them.”

The male nodded and took a deep breath before moving to the door, “See you around, sweets. Your music taste really might just keep me around.” With another wink, he was out of the door, leaving you wiping your hands on your rag.

 Bo licked at his lips as he closed the bar door, looking at his truck in the empty parking lot then back at the door. It was tempting to wait, to drive a little way down and trail behind you. He could, but it was late, and he had a few errands to run early. The man smirked and walked to his truck, tucking the card with the address of the bar into his pocket. Maybe next time he’d get himself a little souvenir?

 You didn’t see Bo for a while.

 The typical men and women were tucked in the back of the bar. It was still early for a few of them, so most were only a drink or two in. You’d taken liberties with the music once more, bobbing your head by the fridge at the back of the bar as you stocked beers and ciders into it. When the door went, you peaked up over your shoulder, watching the new familiar face saunter in. Bo was earlier this time. Dressed in blue jeans and a plaid shirt, he walked in with heavy boots on his feet and a smile on his face. He seemed brighter, less in a mood than the last time. He pulled his baseball cap off as he entered and gave you a bright, toothy smile, dangerous as he prowled over to the bar.

“You look like the cat that got the cream, Bo.” With a laugh you pulled out a glass, “What will it be this time?”

The man rolled his shoulders, still happy with the ego stroking, “Same as last time, doll-face. Tab too.” Bo sat down on the same barstool, his elbows on the bar top as he rummaged in a pocket for his crushed packet of cigarettes.

You pulled the pint of drink for him and placed the cool glass in front of him before pulling along an ashtray for him, “What brings you back to our humble establishment?” Joking, you leaned on the top on front of him, fluttering your eyelashes, “Maybe the music?”

 Bo drew back slightly, sparking the cigarette before blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth with half lidded eyes, “Something like that. Maybe it was the beer. You got a good choice.” He shrugged and flicked ash into the ashtray.

“Well, you’ll be glad to know there’s plenty more where that came from.” With a smile you headed off to make the next round of drinks for the truckers sat in the far corner, humming along to the next song on your new playlist.

Bo watched under his eyelashes as you swayed and handed back drinks to the bearded, burly male, taking the cash and handing him his change with practiced ease. They seemed to all like you here, and respect you. It was nice to see. He waited for you to come back and continue the conversation. You ignored him and his gaze in favour of changing up the music, this time to a faster beat.

 Bo pulled his old phone out to see a brief message. Something from Vincent. They both had little pay phones, though Vincent only tended to send him anything if it was urgent. Apparently red paint at seven o’clock at night was just that urgent. With a snort, he sent a haughty reply about picking it up tomorrow afternoon. Thinking of a way to get you back over and talking was more important right now than his brother’s painting hobby. He’d been away for the week chasing new little victims for their collection. One had hidden out in the woods not far from Lester’s cabin, and had mistakenly banged on the door, and ended up right back in their clutches. He’d enjoyed hog tying the brat a little too much, and maybe enjoyed throwing him down the stairs to Vincent a little bit more. A violent part of him had wanted to beat the young man for the trouble he’d given him, but it wasn’t right. Vincent wanted that one alive for some reason. His younger brother had pointed wildly to some new pose in his notebook and Bo had been loathe to pay attention outside of a ‘Do what the fuck you want’.

 Bo settled for finishing his drink before calling your name, “Can I get another one please, sweets?” He asked, sugar on top of the honey that was his accent.

“Sure thing.” You took his glass with a smile and set to getting him a refill as he watched on behind you, his packet of cigarettes perched by his hand, his metal lighter clicking in his hands as he sparked it up, closed it, and repeated.

“You been working here long?” He asked as he snapped his lighter closed, blue eyes crinkled around the edges with his smile. It was a handsome smile.

Blowing air out of your mouth you thought about it, “Just over a year now, I think? Its not a bad job when you get the tips and the crowd seem to like me enough. Definitely makes it more bearable.” You placed his refilled beer next to his hand as he pocketed his lighter.

“I’m glad to hear it.” He smiled as he took his glass in his hand.

“What about you, Mister? What do you do for a living?” You stood next to him as the metal music turned soft, “Something hands on?”

 It was probably a bad idea. Definitely.

 “I’m a mechanic. Have my own little place. Not real busy but the work comes and goes.” Bo couldn’t stop himself before he was spouting too much, “Out in a little piece of land. The town’s quiet but we all make do. Like the peace ‘n quiet.”

You nodded with a smile, “That must be nice. I always wanted to live out in the country.” Confessing it to the man felt odd, but you were convinced no harm could really come from it, “But there aren’t that many jobs so far from civilization.”

Bo chuckled after a swig of beer, “It ain’t as bad as you think.” But didn’t say anymore as he fingered his pack of cigarettes.

“So Mister Mechanic has his own land and a little town to look after. Doesn’t seem like you’re doing too bad for yourself.” You joked, easing the tension, “All you need now is a little family.”

Bo felt something akin to bile rise in his throat, “Somethin’ like that. Though maybe playin’ happy families isn’t my forte.” He rubbed at his forehead with a frustrated smile, “One can only hope, right?” He laughed, brushing off the gloom with another drink, “You want the easy life I take it? Stayin’ at home. Lookin’ after kids?”

 Bo swallowed the sour taste in his mouth as his heart leaped in his throat. A little house-spouse. Something about the idea of it made his gut twist in his belly. He licked at his lips again before taking a few deep swallows of beer.

“Isn’t that what everyone wants? The easy life. No worries.” You smiled and tapped your fingers along the bar counter before sighing, “Though it will probably never happen.”

“Who knows, sweetpea?” Bo smiled over the rim of his glass, “Be careful what you wish for.” He flicked open his lighter to light another cigarette.

Scoffing, you reached for your handkerchief to wipe at your forehead, the summer heat still permeating the bar, making it hot inside, “Thanks, Bo. You’re a real mood sucker, you know that?” You smiled at him.

The smile made his worries ease a little, “Maybe everyone will get what they want in the end, doll.” The toothy smirk was known to you now, and you smiled back as metal thundered over the speakers, pulling him another drink before serving the rest of the clients.

 Bo grinned at his hand as he walked out that night, your handkerchief in his hand, your smell lingering in the material. As he sat in his truck, he pressed his nose into the material and groaned.

 At first Bo came by weekly. You knew he was busy. Looking after his brothers and running errands while trying to manage a plot of land didn’t leave him much time for socialising. Bo made time. The more he visited, the more time he made. Weekly visits became twice weekly all too easily, and Bo looked forwards to listening to you snark at customers, or music taste, though you both liked the same bands anyway. The handkerchief was still in his pocket, the red cotton kind on his rough fingers. He pushed a finger into the material before he ordered another drink.

“Heineken today, sugar.” His smile was infectious as he seated himself properly, hands on the bar, his cigarettes tucked into his shirt pocket this time.

“That’s a weak one for you Bo.” You teased, cracking a bottle open for him with a quick flick of a bottle opener. You placed the top by his hand and held up your pad, scribbling down his drink at the top of a new page.

 Bo gave a lopsided grin before pulling a cigarette out and thumping over his pockets with a curse, “You got a light? My lighter is back in the truck.” He asked and held out the cigarette to you.

Rolling your eyes you grasped the spare lighter from under the counter, “You’d think a nicotine addict like you wouldn’t forget your lighter.” You let him hold the cigarette in his mouth before you lit the end with a raised eyebrow.

For your sass, Bo made sure to blow the first lung full of smoke in your direction, “For a bartender you’d think you’d be a lot nicer to the clients that pay your wage, sweets.”

It wasn’t a threat, you knew that, so you laughed at him and turned to give a lady her whiskey before answering him, “I thought you only came here for the music anyway?” You teased.

Bo scoffed, “Somethin’ like that.” And drank a few mouthfuls of beer before tapping his cigarette on the ashtray edge, “Maybe I like the company.”

A grin was his reply, “Mister Bo Sinclair, hard man of the century, just wants a bit of company.”

“Carry on with that sass, doll, and I’ll make sure you don’ do it again.” Bo snatched your wrist from the counter with a dark look, “If you catch my drift.” His eyelashes were low, touching his cheeks as he leaned over the bar.

 Bo was coming on to you. The Bo Sinclair, was coming onto you.

 A thick wad of spit was hard to swallow, and you managed with a soft gulp as he eyed you, fingers tight around your wrist.

“And just how would you do that?” You knew you were playing with fire now, daring Bo to spout all the things he had been thinking about.

Bo took a drink before twisting you closer, his free hand dragging up over the soft skin on the inside of your wrist, “Maybe I’d rather your mouth be sayin’ other things?” He leaned up to make sure no one would overhear, speaking hotly into your ear, “Or screaming them for me. Bet you sound divine all worked up.”

That was a little too much. With a furious blush on your face, you pulled away jerkily, eyeing Bo with pursed lips, “What makes you think I’d let you, Mister Sinclair?” You really were putting your foot in it.

“I don’t.” He let go of you in an instant, “It was just an offer, should you want to take me up on it.” Bo sat back in his seat, pulling at his shirt as though he was hot before downing the rest of his drink, “Think about it, doll. I’ll be back tomorrow. I gotta run an errand before I head home.”

 Like a proud cat he was out of the door, chest puffed out as though he had just achieved the impossible. When you turned over his beer coaster, his number was scribbled on the back, everything blocky and rushed. As a drum thundered you entered his number into your contacts and thumbed at the text button. A customer called for another drink and you tucked your phone back away before pulling another round of pints for the group in the back, smiling and chatting friendly.

 The number felt odd in your phone. After your shift, you pulled out your phone and eyed his number again, thumb tapping the little message button once before you made your decision. Typing out the message you took a deep breath before pressing send. His reply didn’t come. It was sent, and as you locked up the bar you held your phone tighter, hoping that tomorrow wouldn’t be awkward. You climbed into your car as your phone buzzed with a response.

‘Did you see me writing my number or is this by accident?’

You swallowed and replied, ‘Thought I’d take you up on your offer ;)’

‘After your shift tomorrow?’

Your fingers shook as you typed, ‘See you then tiger.’ and exhaled, trembling as you turned on the engine and turned on the radio. The late-night talk show didn’t calm your nerves any as you pulled out and chewed on your lip.

 One night turned into two, and two turned into four faster than you knew. It wasn’t even a hook up the third time. Bo took you out for breakfast. It was still a little motorway diner, but the pancakes were to die for. It was nice. Almost domestic. The next time you met it was the same. Going for breakfast in another little place. The time after that is was back in the motel, teeth clashing and hands groping handfuls of one another as he fucked you hard into the bed. It was a stark and scary difference, but as Bo placed his hand over yours in the diner, you found it hard to care about the shadows under his eyes and the strange glint in the corner. You looked down at your waffles and hummed, sipping a hot beverage tentatively as Bo chewed his pancakes with a noise of glee. Anyone would think he never ate the way he shoved quarters of cooked dough into his mouth.  The coffee didn’t seem to bother him, and he swallowed a few mouthfuls before finally slowing down.

 “Anyone would think you’ve never been fed, Bo.” You shook your head as you cut up your waffle.

Bo struggled to swallow his mouthful before he replied, “In truth, I got to get home, doll.” He confessed quietly, strong fingers resting on the table edge, “Something’s come up back home.”

“Nothing serious I hope?” You hid the upset in your eyes.

Bo shook his head, “Nothin' serious but I’m worried about Vincent.” He tapped one finger on the table and drew his lips back, half of his teeth exposed as he sucked air through them, “He...He can look after himself but people keep comin’ up to the house and I get a lil' worried for ‘im.” If he was lying you couldn’t tell. Bo pursed his lips before releasing the tension, licking at them before he posed the question to you, “How about we get the rest to take out? I can show you the house if ya'd like?”

“Mister Sinclair, it’s only the third date and you’re already taking me home to meet the family?” You teased as he leaned over to ask for boxes.

Bo's eyes went low, looking at the dip of your neck into your collar bones before he replied, “Seen as though I’ve already taken you elsewhere, seems about right I take you home.” His tongue made a round over his lips, imagining the taste of you before he leaned back to let the waitress take your food and box it up.

 This was the moment. Bo knew it. You could reject him and go back to your little bar job, or you could come with him. He wanted you. He needed you like a dying man. It was like an itch in the back of his head, constant, fogging his brain with something like joy when he thought about you. The cruel part wanted to snatch you now, hunting knife to your neck as he dragged you back to the truck and hid you back in the middle of nowhere, back in Ambrose. Home, he thought, as he looked at your face. He wanted you home. To greet him when he came in, to greet him like a good little spouse. The sick part of his head wanted that and nothing else for you. The sicker part enthused if you were wax, he could have you forever. It wasn’t the same. He wasn’t a sick enough fucker to think wax people were real, nor would he do anything with it. He just wanted you to stay. The scars on his wrists ached when he rubbed at them, a subconscious, anxious movement as he waited. His Mama had left, and their Papa had driven himself mad. All he had was their town and his brothers, but now he wanted you as a part of his little family. A perfect little house-spouse. The words thundered in his head before you opened your mouth.

 “Sure then, why not?” You smiled at him as the waitress took the money for the food and returned your leftovers in Styrofoam boxes.

Bo felt a smirk widen across his face, “Come on then, sweets, let’s get back to the house.” He took the food and held the door open for you to walk through, his smile infectious as you both dragged yourself up into his pickup and pulled out onto the highway once more. Bo’s hand went to the radio as a comfortable silence settled over the both of you, and turned the knobs, trying to tune into the station he liked. When the rock station came on, he sighed with relief and listened, one hand on the steering wheel, the other arm propped up out of the window.

“It’s a bit soft for you isn’t it?” You teased, holding up your little ipod and a cord, “I’ll put some good shit on.”

Bo only chuckled and let you fiddle with his old radio plug in, watching you struggle with a snort as he tried to keep his eyes on the road. When you finally managed it, Bo When you finally managed it, Bo felt the tension ease, the heavy drums rattling through the old speakers as he sped past the junction to civilization and onwards.

 “You sure do live in the middle of nowhere, Bo.”

“Somethin’ like that, doll.”

 The ride to Bo’s home was odd. The town was off the beaten track, obscured in a small corner of the country that no one had seen in years. The path was well worn, and the town was simply a single street left to rot. It seemed desolate, that was until you saw an old woman peep from behind her curtains, curlers in and tv fuzzing behind her. There was some life still here. There was no one around still though. One woman didn’t make a town. That was when the famous House of Wax came into view, yet Bo didn’t stop to let you see much of it, quickly turning the truck up towards the house, away from the museum and the rest of the town. He turned off the engine and applied the handbrake before taking a breath and getting out. You let him open your door for you and smiled.

“It’s a big old house.” It was more an observation.

Bo shrugged his shoulders, pulling his cap from his head as he walked towards the front door. It was open, and he turned the handle, cringing at the insides ass you walked past him.

 A ‘pig sty’ was probably the nicest way of describing the inside of the Sinclair home. It was chock full of junk and stuff from so long ago you were sure it wouldn’t work anymore.

“It’s certainly unique.” You shrugged and perched yourself on the couch with a wave from Bo. He shoved his way into the kitchen and placed a kettle on the stove before walking back into the living area. His eyes were looking at something you couldn’t see as he walked through into another room in the back. The kettle was screaming on the stove. Your heart rate picked up when Bo didn’t come back. With a breath you dared to enter the kitchen, looking at the suspicious brown stains on the sink before you took the kettle away with a towel and placed it on the side, wondering where the cups were.

 “Doll?” Bo shouted from the living room, “Shit.” He whispered it before you replied to him.

“I’m in the kitchen! The kettle was screaming!” You shouted through the door and waved, hot kettle in hand, “I don’t know where anything is.”

Bo seemed relieved to find you there, but quickly pulled two chipped mugs from the cupboard over your head and some cheap brand coffee, “Sorry its not the fancy shit. We don’t have no fancy machines for any of the grounds.”

“Don’t worry about it. Did you go and check on Vincent?” You asked, pouring hot water into the mugs.

As though you had summoned the man, a presence lingered in the doorway, “He’s uh, come up to see you.”

 You turned around, coffee in hand, and almost jumped a mile in the air. A man the exact same height as Bo stood in the doorway, apron over thick jumper and tough cargo bottoms, boots covered in globs of white wax. His hair shadowed his face, hiding the features.

“Its nice to meet you, Vincent. Bo talks about you often. Only good things of course.” You offered him a drink and watched the man shake his head before he peered upwards, fingers cupped around the perfect skin of his chin. It looked like a medical prosthetic covering his face. It clicked that is was indeed a mask. Made of wax. You felt unnerved but held fast as you took your coffee back. A dark eye looked at you through the mask, analysing you on a level you couldn’t comprehend. The dark curtain of hair covered his face again as he tugged Bo’s shirt.

“A guest, not one of your projects. Well…” Something in the room churned then, darkening, souring the air with something you have never seen on his face, “Maybe if…” The words fell on deaf ears as Vincent reached for the bone handled knife on his thigh.

“Baby, don’t be doin’ no running now. We ain’t gonna hurt you.” Bo smiled and crowded your space, following you around the table as you felt the urge to panic rise in your gut, “What happened to breakfast? We were gonna eat here and have a grand old time!” He spread his arms as you watched Vincent by the door. Bo snatched your face in his hands, “Eyes on me, sugar.” White teeth snapped in front of your face, “We ain’t gonna do nothin’. You’re getting yourself all worked up for no reason!” He let go of your face and wrapped his arms around your frame, “I swear, you got an overactive imagination or somethin’.”

And like that, the atmosphere was calm. Vincent looked at you before taking a coffee and walking back out of the door, a dog barking and trailing behind him as he headed back towards the back rooms. As the door closed, you heard the scream that followed and the howl of the dog behind the wood.

 “What the fuck is this, Bo?!”

 Bo smirked, pulling his hat off before grappling you by the backside, pressing your hips together, “This is your new life, doll.” He snatched your wrists before you could smack at his face. The man leaned over, hand pinching your cheeks before his tongue ran over your hot face, licking you from the bottom of your jaw to the top of your cheek. He pulled away and pressed his face into your neck, breathing you in as the screams in the other room died down, and the dog stopped howling, “Better get used to it.” His hands trailed over your ass as he hugged you tighter.

The air in your lungs seized, “What do you mean?” and the screams started in the next room as the slick sound of a knife cut through the air. A door slammed open and you heard feet thump towards the kitchen. A girl ground her nails into the door frame, a stolen scalpel in hand as she glanced at Bo then back to you in his grasp.

 The scalpel glinted before she moved with wild eyes, “You sick fuck!” She howled, launching herself towards the both of you. Bo moved quickly, hand catching her wrist. His grip slipped and the knife sliced his palm, the surgical weapon wet with bright red blood. You panicked, grabbing the girl by the wrists as Bo fisted his hand, blood dripping onto the kitchen floor.

“Get the fuck off of me!” She thrashed with the blade and you grunted as the two of you clattered onto the table. With a heave you rolled enough to smash her hand into the wood, watching her fingers recoil, the blade dropping from her grip. Fat tears dripped onto your face as she howled again, fighting to retrieve her blade. Silently, you snatched the knife and pushed her back. Vincent dashed into the door, grabbing the escaped girl by her hair, hunting knife pressed to her throat, the sharp edge glinting against the soft skin of her throat.

 Clapping echoed around the room. Bo was leaned against the counter, his hips pressed back as he watched you gasp and hold the scalpel. You’d nicked yourself in the fight, arm bleeding and shirt sliced open, stained red with your own blood.

“What a show.” He hopped forwards and grinned, fingers moving over your shoulders as Vincent watched from the doorway, “Cut her real good, baby.” The purr made you clench, slick fingers unfurling from the scalpel with a shaky breath as you watched Vincent take the girl away, her tears dripping over her cheeks and onto the hard wood floor.

“You made me...” A sob choked in your throat before you steeled yourself, “I’m just as guilty as you.” It was a whisper.

Fingers pressed into your shoulders, a soft voice shushing your sniffling, “You ain’t done nothing wrong. She wont die. Vincent makes ‘em real purty.” They trailed a path down your sides before he held you by the waist, “Breakfast is getting cold.” He uttered behind your ear, breath hot against the skin, “I hate to waste good food.” Bo pressed a kiss to your neck before steering you to the table, pulling out a small first aid kit to patch up the cut until Vincent could stitch the both of you up.

 The stitches in your arm ached. Bo’s palm was a mess, wrapped for a long time before it stayed closed as he moved it. Vincent had put stitches in carefully and watched Bo hiss and pick them sore for days before holding his brother still, disinfecting the stitches, and wrapping his palm so he couldn’t play with the wire. Your arm healed quickly as you tentatively settled into the new life, gazing at the sculptures Vincent often positioned in the House of Wax. Bo didn’t like your silence. You refused to eat for two days before he stirred up an argument. A screaming match on his side that made you swallow the mashed potatoes on your plate and think hard about what you were doing there. Another kid rolled into the town a day later, his hair a mess and his backpack hanging from one shoulder. You sat on the porch swing-seat as Bo sweet talked him inside.

“Fan belt? Oh, sure thing. I got a few in the house. You want to wait here with the spouse?” He nodded and Bo walked past you with a smile. A warning was hidden in his eyes somewhere. The warning was silly. You knew that ratting them out wouldn’t be good for you.

 A smile curled on your face as you placed down your lemonade. It was cheap, flat almost, but it was refreshing in the sunshine as you sat with one of the boy’s books on your knees. Bo had been kind enough to drag you to your apartment, but not kind enough to let you ring work. Better you just disappeared, he said.

“Not from round here?” You asked, pushing your sunglasses up to reveal your eyes, “We don’t see many round these parts. A miracle I found Bo here in the wilderness.” The accent was choppy, but you’d been practicing enough to have a twang.

“Its a ghost town.” The male observed, “Just shit luck that my fanbelt snapped. It looked like it was done with plyers or something.”

You shrugged, “Shit happens.” And laughed before offering him a drink of lemonade. Bo was still inside; no doubt piecing together repair stuff to take to the truck.

“I will have a drink, thank you. It took me three hours of walking to find this place.” He took the glass of icy lemonade and drank great mouthfuls.

 Bo came back through the door, startling the young man into choking as he glugged lemonade.

“A man goes inside, and a boy is already moving in on his turf. By all means,” he gave a sharp grin, “Make yourself at home.” He smirked at the boys stuttering before holding up a spanner, “I’m playing with you, boy.” He twirled the metal around his fist before placing his tools to the side. You saw Bo's shoulders tense before the metal tool smacked the boy over the head. It sent him spiralling, unsteady on his feet as he let out a squawk.

“What the fuck?!” He held out his hands, dropping the lemonade over the porch, the glass shattering.

Bo was on him quickly, pulling his arms back with a sneer, “You think I gave you permission to make yourself at home, huh?” He threw the boy into the wall of the house.

“Bo!” You clutched your book and gave him a snarl of your own.

In a fury, the man turned around, fists clenched, “I’ll talk with you later, doll.” The words were purred against your ear, Bo pressed into your personal space, before he recoiled like a viper and grabbed the unconscious boy. He pinched his face, looking him over with mild disgust, “You get on with making dinner.”

 He left without anything else, descending into the basement, dragging the boy’s dead weight body behind him to try and calm down by exercising his muscles a little. Jealously wasn’t something you’d seen before. It was even deadlier coming from a man like Bo. You swallowed and sighed before pulling the pots out for dinner. You needed to get changed out of your lemonade sticky clothes before anything though.

 Dressed in a soft shirt and bottoms, you leaned over the stove, cooking a basic meal for those that wanted it. You’d already shouted to Vincent about food. He hadn’t replied with a knock, so you assumed he was busy with his latest creation. It was probably the boy Bo had taken down. Bo hadn’t resurfaced since, other than slamming the door to the basement link to the House of Wax and storming upstairs for something. You sighed, pinching at the shirt over your torso, wondering if the outfit would appeal to him enough.

 Listening to your own thoughts was sick. But you wanted to impress him. Bo was special. It was fucked up, but this whole thing was.

 “Bo?!” You dared to shout up the stairs, “Dinner is ready!”

The door slammed open. You made yourself scarce, escaping to the kitchen to turn off the hob. Footsteps made the stairs creak as Bo came down, sighing heavily before he shouted, “Where you at, sweets?” He called before entering the kitchen. He was a state, face red and wrists sore from rubbing and gouging at them.

Your eyes caught the redness, “Baby? What happened?” You knew. The abuse as a child. He'd sobbed one night in the bar after far too many beers, before taking you to the cheap motel you both often went to, and fucking you hard against the wall.

“Nothing.” He wrapped his arms around your waist, “Its all fine now you’re here, sugar.” Bo pressed his face into your neck and sighed again, breathing you in as the food cooled on the stove, “I love you.”

 The world froze as you felt the warmth from the man behind you seep into your back.

 “I love you too.”

 Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. But was it true? You adored Bo like no other before all of this. Did this change him? You leaned into his touch and made your decision.

 Bo purred at your reaction; lips pressed to the hot skin of your neck. The shirt was hooked out of your trousers, flapping over your stomach as he pressed you towards the side. His fingers slid teasingly along your sternum, pressing into the flesh as they danced over your stomach, aiming lower. A hot breath blew over the back of your ear as Bo's hips pressed you firmly against the counter. His fingers dipped underneath your bottoms, stroking as he kissed a spot behind your ear. His fingers slipped around before teasing the flesh, ignoring your grunt against the counter and the cant of your hips towards him.

"Make some noises for me, sugar, I'm a man dyin' of thirst."

You slid your hand around instead, grinning as you pressed your hand to his crotch, fingers splaying over the rough material of his old jeans.

Teeth snapped by your ear, “You better hang on. I’m gonna see what noises I can get out of you.”

[erekiosuncreativeideas]

Being Human - Chapter 08

<= Chapter 07

Summary :  :) Also available on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/24826561/chapters/62121352

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Okay so this chapter is rated M because of graphic depictions of violence + same for the drawing posted with it. You can skip this chapter if it makes you uncomfortable (I made sure to cut the chapter at the right time for that, just in case).

Thank you so much for all your nice comments in your reblogs and tags, you're all so wonderful ! I feel so happy when I read them, you're the best motivation I could ever get, thank you, thank you so much ! Also I can't believe we reached 3000 views and more than 200 kudos on AO3, gosh, this is crazy for less than 10 chapters !! Thank you so much, guys !!

The "Oh The Humanity" AU belongs to @doodledrawsthings​ !

Happy reading !

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Chapter 08 - “Please, please, stop! It hurts, it hurts!”

It was damp. It was awful. It was cold.

It hurt.

Lukas didn’t know how long he had been down there, in this nightmarish place that once used to be his home. Minutes, hours, days… He wasn’t able to tell. Or, well, at least he knew several things about his situation and how desperate it was. First of all… The Prince couldn’t feel his legs anymore and was barely able to move them at all. He had no idea if there would be some way to save him at this point… And the more time passed, the worst it all became. His weight had become more and more unbearable for his body after a while and he had felt his shoulders dislocate, little by little… Until it just snapped.

He had screamed so much. But now it was fine. Lukas had become accustomed to the pain. After all this time, his suffering had just become some kind of background sensation, something that was always present, no matter what. Sometimes, the pain was so strong that he couldn’t even think. Other times, it faded a bit, letting his mind rest for a while… Until all the horrible thoughts came back to him, hitting him like a wave.

“Why did this all happen?”, “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”, “Maybe it wouldn’t have ever happened if I had stayed with her”, “I shouldn’t have abandoned her”, and so and so. At first, the Prince truly wanted to think it wasn’t his fault, that perhaps Vanessa had been the problem all along… After all, she did some awful things on him, like bleaching his hair, preventing him from eating certain things, putting the blame on him for many things… She had claimed it was her own way of loving him.

And he had believed her at the time.

Now… Now, he couldn’t help but think it was all his fault. That if he had done things differently, if he had taken better care of her, if he had noticed how lonely she had felt with him gone for his studies… Perhaps all of this wouldn’t have happened. Sometimes… He couldn’t help but think he had deserved it.

Ice had started to spread through the cellar, approaching him more and more. At first, it came from the two doors, and soon, it progressed through the room, trapping everything in its grasp. What used to be kegs and barrels soon disappeared under several layers of ice. And now… It was so close to him, almost touching him, touching his hands and feet. Lukas wondered if the only thing preventing it from fully covering him up was the fire magic he was using to stay alive through this atrocious cold. It was probably the case. Though, his magic wouldn’t last forever, and he could already feel how exhausted he was from both using it and trying to survive his severe injuries. At least, the cold made the pain more bearable… Lukas couldn’t imagine how it would feel without it.

When he was tired, he had to stop using his magic. After all, he couldn’t continue to use it while he was sleeping. Each time he woke up, he could see that the ice had spread more and more in his direction, resisting his powers with time. Was it a coincidence or was it because of Vanessa’s influence? He couldn’t tell.

Eating and drinking had also been a problem, obviously. While he had been able to make some ice melt on the ceiling, drinking each drop falling in his open mouth thirstily… Vanessa hadn’t entered the room since he had been locked up there and, thus, didn’t bring any food at all. It didn’t take long for the Prince’s stomach to gurgle, but all he had in his situation was ice melting from the ceiling. Of course, he had tried to yell, to call for Vanessa, to apologize for whatever he had done to her… But she never came down.

Silence had always been his only response. Her magic had been the only way for him to know whether she was awake or not, considering it was less cold at some moments, allowing him to rest at times. If he couldn’t use his own magic when sleeping, then… So couldn’t she.

Lukas’s body had gone through horrifying changes as time passed. The lack of food made him grew thinner, the dehydration made his lips and tongue go dry and his skin had turned grey. His shoulders didn’t look natural anymore, his weight pulling him down with gravity. His hair looked awful and dark rings had taken place under his eyes. Soon, he lost the ability to talk, his throat too hoarse from all the screaming and pleading.

This was pure hell and there was no escape from it… Apart from death, something the Prince started to long for.

Vanessa wasn’t going to change her mind, was she? All this time, he had just been delusional, in denial of his situation… But she wouldn’t let him out, he knew that deep inside of him. As more time passed, Lukas became more and more pessimistic about his own situation, about his injuries and his future or, well, lack of a future.

And then, one day… After what felt like centuries to him, he heard something unusual, something that immediately caught his attention. Someone was walking down the stairs, approaching the door of the cellar, slowly. Lukas’s hopes suddenly came back at full force. Had he been wrong about her all along? Had she changed her mind finally? A disturbing smile appeared on his face when he saw the door opening with an awful creaking sound.

She was there, she was ready to forgive him! He knew she would, he just knew-!

But something was wrong. His smile tensed when his eyes saw a hand grabbing the edge of the door, pushing it open more. It was a black and skinny hand, deformed, monstrous… Its claws clenched the wood, scratching it slowly with an unbearable noise.

-“My Prince?” sang a voice Lukas knew more than enough, though it sounded distorted and dangerous. Instantly, he felt his whole body freeze, hit by a sudden wave of fear. This was wrong, something was wrong, she wasn’t there to help him, was she-

His heart sunk in his chest when his dear Queen appeared in his vision… Although she didn’t look much like her old self anymore.

-“Oh, there you are!” she chanted as a twisted smile took its place on her features.

Vanessa looked very much different from what he remembered. Her appearance had changed beyond anything he could have imagined, her magic having corrupted her completely. Her skin had turned pitch black, a very distinct sign of corruption. As for her eyes and mouth, they weren’t clearly visible anymore, just visible thanks to a red light coming from them, illuminating the room with a very threatening setting.

This couldn’t be her. This just couldn’t be.

-“Va-…” he stammered, his breathing quickening as he stared at her in fear and astonishment: “Vanessa?” his voice was weak, broken, almost inaudible given how dehydrated he was. Somehow, he knew he would be crying if he wasn’t that dehydrated. He didn’t have any strength left and, no matter how much he was trying to get away from his wife… He just couldn’t.

The Prince couldn’t escape those shackles.

The Queen took a few steps, smiling at him in a way that made him even more terrified than he already was. A pained and afraid sound left his lips, high pitched and pitiful. She didn’t look human anymore, she didn’t look like the woman he used to love-

She didn’t look like she was stable anymore.

The monstrous woman stopped just in front of him, a sick loving look on her face. She was lower than him, considering her back was now hunched and that Lukas was shackled on a wall, his feet dangling in the air below him. The Prince flinched and closed his eyes quickly when he saw what was left of his wife approaching her deformed hand to his face. The contact on his cheek was freezing, and Lukas could feel her claws scratching his skin lightly, caressing it in her own twisted way.

Ice was starting to materialize at the tips of her clawed fingers.

-“You look unwell, my dear…” cooed the Queen, visibly not caring about how terrorized Lukas was. Or maybe she did care... Just like a person would care about a scared pet.

This was just wrong, on so many levels. More ice spread onto his face, covering his right cheek almost entirely. His skin was becoming numb, though he was very much paralyzed with fear, letting out little whines as his wife was caressing his cheek, slowly and tenderly.

-“No, no, don’t be scared! I’m here, I’m right here…” she whispered, tilting her head on the side as she kept going: “I’m not mad anymore.”

The words took Lukas by surprise and he immediately glanced at her, searching for any trace of lies on her expression. But she was just smiling at him.

-“Rea-”, his voice broke and he coughed, his throat too dry for him to talk normally: “Really?”

Another wave of hope hit him: she might look like a monster, but maybe she had come back to her senses! If she wasn’t mad anymore, she wouldn’t have any reason to keep him locked up and shackled to a wall… Would she?

-“Yes,” she answered, stroking his face once again, spreading more and more ice on his grey skin. Now, it was coming over his lips and nose… Yet, the Prince couldn’t help but hope it was nothing more than a clumsy beginning of her forgiveness. Vanessa had always been a bit awkward with her emotions, so it might very well be the case right now! After all… She wasn’t screaming at him anymore! So it could only be a good sign!

-“S-So…” he started, his voice still broken, a small smile appearing on his lips: “Will you… Will you u-untie me?” His breathing rhythm was short and fast, hope and panic mixing up in his mind.

Vanessa stared at him for a few seconds, as if she had been surprised by his request. However, while Lukas hoped she would understand and let him out, not even hoping for her to apologize at this point… She just giggled, putting her free hand over her mouth like she used to do when she was still human.

-“Oh, ahahahaha!” she replied, gleefully: “Of course not, silly!”

Lukas’s face crumpled in absolute horror as he heard her last words. It was like every little traces hope he had just shattered at the exact same time. His golden eyes looked at hers with an expression full of distress and confusion. It made no sense! Why would she keep him like this if she wasn’t mad at him anymore?

Hadn’t he been punished more than enough now…?

-“Wh-… What?” he blurted, his panic suddenly turning into desperation: “Why?!” he tried to yell, but it came out almost unintelligible. He attempted to move away from her, but with both of his legs and arms unresponsive, he couldn’t do much in his situation. His reaction seemed to amuse the Queen, as she continued to stroke his face lovingly:

-“Because I cannot trust you, that is why!” she explained, in a tone that was too joyful to be entirely sincere: “You truly can’t resist your urges to see other women, so what can I do, other than keeping you all for myself?”

Her words were like poison in Lukas’s ears, his eyes widening as he was forced to listen to her claims. What? What was she even saying?! He didn’t even know what she was talking about! All he knew was that he had done something she didn’t like and that she punished him for it!

What did this have to do with women? He never thought of loving anyone else but her!

-“I-I don’t understand!” he countered, doing his best not to cough again. Talking was so painful… He could feel a distinct lump in his throat, even though he couldn’t cry: “What are-… What are you talking about?!”

His answer was apparently not the one Vanessa was expecting, as her face contorted in anger at his words. Her hand stopped caressing his cheek, clenching the skin painfully instead, more ice coming out of the tips of her fingers. The Prince let out a whine and gritted his teeth, barely keeping himself together now.

-“You know exactly what I’m talking about!” yelled the Queen, ice stalagmites coming out from the floor as her scream echoed in the room. Her claws were slowly penetrating his skin, piercing it and freezing the blood before it even started to leak.

-“How could you do that to me?” she asked, absolutely livid: “You said you loved me!”

Lukas let out a deafening scream as he felt the ice starting to cover his right eye, little by little. The pain was unbearable, the situation was terrifying, and he couldn’t even think straight anymore. It was just too much, too much, too much…

He couldn’t see from his right eye anymore.

-“No, no, no, Vanessa, no, please!” he pleaded with a panicked tone, his voice still broken: “Please, please, stop! It hurts, it hurts, Vanessa-!”

And then it just stopped.

The Queen took her clawed hand away silently, watching him carefully. Lukas’s mind was a mess, not thinking about anything else but surviving, doing anything not to die, not to suffer from her hands. He didn’t want all this pain, he wanted everything to stop hurting…! Why was this happening to him?

Why did he have to suffer so much for something he didn’t even do?

He lowered his head, closing his left and now only eye as he started to beg, sobbing without tears:

-“Please, stop, I’m… I’m sorry, whatever I did, I promise… I won’t do it again…” his distress cries echoed in the room, his body trembling from the fear and the pain: “Please, Vanessa… Forgive me…”

The Queen took a few steps back, staring at him with an expression he couldn’t quite place: hesitation? Guilt? Realization? It was hard to read her face, now that it didn’t look human anymore. No matter what it was, at least… She had stopped hurting him.

This wasn’t Vanessa anymore. This was only what was left of her, what she had become with her dangerous magic corrupting her.

The silence went on for a few moments, only interrupted by Lukas’s helpless sobs. After what felt like centuries to him, the woman let out an enraged scream and stomped her foot, using all of her strength and powers. More stalagmites came out of the floor and the nearby walls, pure manifestation of her fury and the monster she had become. Lukas closed his eyes, paralyzed by fear, screaming silently as he felt one of the stalagmite brushing past his hips, almost hurting him even more than he already was.

With a furious sigh, Vanessa turned away and opened the door leading upstairs swiftly, before leaving Lukas all alone again with his own thoughts and now more injuries.

Maybe death wouldn’t be so bad after all…

_________________________________________________

Snatcher opened his eyes violently, his whole body shaking. His muscles were tensed and, for a moment, he wasn’t even able to move. His eyes were staring at the blue ceiling of the room. He was breathing heavily and he could feel his heart beating fast inside his chest. It took him a few minutes to remember what it was, what was that sensation inside of him, this familiar and yet distant feeling it brought him.

Right. He was human, now. And he was still in the kids’ room, apparently, just like before.

The realization made him go back to reality as he tried to lift a very trembling hand to his face. He was sweating profusely and he had trouble to swallow his saliva, still very much shocked by what had happened.

And what had happened exactly? What was that?!

He brought his shaking hand to his right eye, as if he wanted to make sure it was still uninjured. As he felt a wave of relief engulfing him at the confirmation that it was indeed perfectly unharmed… The ghost felt something wet at the corners of his eyes.

Had… Had he been crying? The spirit moved his hand away to look at his fingers which, just like he had thought, were covered in tears. He tried gulping down again, almost in vain, letting his hand fall back on the pillows next to him.

Was that all… A dream? Had he fallen asleep after the little girls dropped him there? Somehow, he couldn’t see any other explanation, considering he was still very much alive and still in the brats’ spaceship, and not shackled in the manor again…

The awful thought made him curl up as a sob left his lips, against his will. But he couldn’t control it. The memories were now coming back to him violently, terrible flashes of his dream blinding him, making him simply unable to move again. His breathing quickened as panic settled over him. Mindlessly, he couldn’t help but hug himself, needing any physical sensation to force the memories out of his mind. He attempted to move his feet in his shoes, rubbing his arms repeatedly, rubbing his face against the colourful pillows… At this particular moment, sensation overload was all he wanted.

If this was what he was going to experience each time he went to sleep… Then he didn’t want to sleep anymore.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

I like writing cliffhangers and angst :) So this chapter was born with this. Oh and now I guess you all know why Moonjumper has a weird right eye :)

I hope you'll like the next chapters !

=> Chapter 09

[voldemorthatesnose96]

RETROUVAILLES

(The final part)

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Big thanks to @dreamy-slytherin for making a drawing for this fic❤️❤️❤️

 Earthlingoddity :

Do you need me to pick you up at the bus stop?

Sterkerdanijzer :

Sander, for a THOUSAND times since yesterday evening, I’m fine LOL! Really, don’t worry too much, please😌

Earthlingoddity :

You sure?

Sterkerdanijzer :

If you asks that again, the deal’s off

Earthlingoddity :

OK OK OK! I’ll shut up now. Careful on your way. Been preparing some croques for you

Sterkerdanijzer :

You’re the best!

Btw...

Uh-oh.

Is he gonna back out now? Is something happen? Did he say something wrong just now?

Sander tries to calm his breath as he types.

Earthlingoddity :

Yes, Robbe?

Sterkerdanijzer :

Do you mind if I bring Peter Pan along again?🥺he’s gonna be good. Pinky promise!

Sander lets out a very relief breath. Why does Robbe always makes him feel on edge, though? He really have it bad.

Earthlingoddity :

Jesus, you scared me for a sec right there. Of course you can

Sterkerdanijzer :

You really are THE BEST, Mr Driesen. See you in 15 mins!!

It takes five minutes for Sander to finally comes back to reality when Robbe called him Mr Driesen. Okay, he’s been calling that many times by many people BUT it feels much different when Robbe did it. Somehow Sander can hear Robbe’s voice through his phone saying that, and... God, he doesn’t know what to think anymore. What a blessing that no human can hear each other’s thoughts; because sure as hell, Robbe will run away once he knows about Sander’s inner thought.

Yesterday, Sander insisted to pick Robbe at his flat because it’s a bit far but Robbe always declined—said that distance never really matters to him whatsoever. Maybe Sander was being overreacted but he already feels protective of this cute yet unpredictable guy, and definitely not the same feeling like he’s being protective of a friend. Yeah, maybe he should tone it down a bit. Robbe’s not a kid, he’s capable of taking care of himself.

Trying to distract himself, Sander is now standing in front of the kitchen counter, staring at the croque he just made few minutes before he sent the text to Robbe. For today, he needs to impress Robbe—from his dish to this safe haven. Sander woke up at five in the morning today after doing a morning yoga routine to calm himself from the nervousness and then tidying his half-messy flat.

“Croques, don’t let me down,” Sander pleads as he lifts the plate. “don’t let my crush down. Please!”

He almost drops the plate when he hears a knock on his door.

Shit!

Okay this is it!

Sander is half-running to the door, taking a deep breath before he holds the knob and opens it. The first thing he sees is Peter Pan excited face; he’s too excited so he literally jumps into Sander’s arms and licks his face.

“Sorry,” Robbe laughs but his tone is definitely not sorry. “he’s being so impatient to meet you.”

“No...” Sander replies in between Peter Pan’s kisses. “problem... at all.”

“Is this the croque you were talking about earlier?”

“Yep!” Sander answers as he puts Peter Pan down, watching his tail shaking left and right and a minute later he’s already out of sight to explore the place.

“Looks good,” Robbe smiles at Sander and the world stops for a second—or at least it feels like for Sander. “can I eat them now? I’m starving.”

Sander clears his throat and force a laugh, “Sure, but I won’t be responsible if you suddenly get a stomachache.”

“I’ll take that risk for you.”

Sander raises his eyebrow. His feet unknowingly takes a step closer—close enough for his hand to graze Robbe’s, but he can’t do it. Yet. So instead, he says, “don’t say something like that.”

Sander thought Robbe will back out, but to his surprise and excitement, he smiles mischievously and says, “or what?”

Sander smirks, “Or I’ll feed you this croque by myself.”

“Please do.”

Excuse me?

What did he just say?

“Go on,” Robbe encourages Sander. “Feed me. I’m waiting.”

Oh, it’s on!

All the way or no way, Driesen.

Without saying another word, Sander grab a piece of his dish and feed it to Robbe who slowly opens his mouth and bites it.

Fucking hell and this infuriating sexual tension!

Sander knows he should look away but he can’t—even when Robbe closes his eyes to savor the food, Sander finds himself more captivated by him. These lips; how does they feel like? How does they taste like? Are they gonna be as soft as silk? As decadent as the most expensive chocolate?

But he must stop. He should stop his thoughts—this kind of thoughts, to be exact or there’ll be an unnecessary trouble.

“Is it good?”

“Divine,” Robbe says, smiling softly but later turns serious. “You okay? Your face look tense.”

Of course, I’m not okay, Robbe! He thought bitterly.

“Yes,” Sander answers in a clipped voice. “Would you like to do it now?”

Robbe is clearly confuse by Sander’s sudden dismissal but doesn’t say anything about it. To be completely honest, his feeling is a bit hurt.

“Okay.”

Sander turns his back to see Robbe’s hurtful face and immediately feels bad, “sorry,” he breathes. “It’s just.. whenever I’m around you, my brain’s stop working.”

“Am I that bad?”

Sander almost laugh, “God, no. You’re far from that. You’re special, Robbe IJzermans.”

Hearing this, Robbe’s blushes hard and quick. This is the very first time he hears someone—not just someone—but Sander Driesen, the coolest guy on YouTube, actually said that he’s special. His heart’s beating really, really fast right now.

“Komaan.” Sander says as he takes Robbe’s hand to his room.

The first thing Robbe sees is a HUGE poster of David Bowie in front of Sander’s bed. It’s so huge that maybe it can be use as a blanket.

“Cool, huh?” Sander chuckles when he notices Robbe’s ‘awe’ expression.

“So cool.”

“You can stare at him all you want later,” Sander says as he sits on the floor and grabs his guitar. “Alle kom, Robbe! Sit beside me.”

Robbe do what he’s been told. Something like the ocean and summer breeze from Sander catches his nose and Robbe finds himself inhaling that scent deeply.

Perfect. Now his heart beats erratically again.

“You ready?” Sander asks, looking straight at Robbe’s eyes.

“I am.”

Sander can feel Robbe’s nervousness and knowing it’s because of his presence can do such thing to his crush, it makes him smile so wide. Before he can stop, his hand touches Robbe’s cheek, “you’ll be fine. Okay?”

Robbe nods. He takes the flower crown from his bag and wears it.

“Cutie,” Sander mumbles softly under his breath before he presses “enter” on his keyboard to start the video.

“Hey everyone, Sander’s here and I’m with someone really special today,” he looks at Robbe whose eyes are as big as a globe because he’s too shock. “Introduce yourself. Go on!”

Robbe blinks fast as he comes back to earth, “uh, yeah! It’s Robbe and I agreed to do a collab with Jack Frost beside me.”

“Jack Frost, huh?”

“Yes, you are.”

“Fair enough,” Sander grins. “What are we gonna do today?”

“Whatever you want.” Robbe answers innocently.

“I have a lot of things on my mind about it BUT we’re gonna do an impromptu song cover for now.”

“What are we gonna sing?” Then Robbe quickly adds. “Oh not Bowie or anything that we particularly love.”

“I’m listening.” Sander says seriously.

“What’s song that’s been on your playlist for awhile, you like but never really sing it out loud?”

Sander immediately replies, “Ben Howard’s song called Promise.”

The big smile Sander adores so much reappears, “I also happened to know that song! Shall we sing it now?”

Just when Robbe is about to sing, Peter Pan suddenly bursts in, quickly finds place on his lap and sleeps. They can’t help but laugh at this marvelous sight.

“Sorry, viewers. This is just my puppy, Peter Pan.”

“And he’s dead tired.” Sander adds, chuckling.

“Anyway, let’s continue. You sing first, Sander!”

The cheerful vibes between them gradually turns much calmer when Sander sings the first chorus.

“And meet me there, bundles of flowers, we wait through the hours of cold...”

Robbe continues.

“Winter shall howls at the wall, tearing down doors of time...”

Both are singing melodiously, much to their surprises because none of them really actually practice or anything. It’s purely ‘in the moment’ situation. Hundreds of comment keeps on coming, saying they look really cute together, etc etc etc. The views rapidly increases from two thousand something to eleven thousand within few minutes.

Robbe admires ardently how Sander plays the guitar in the most calming manner possible. No rush, no hesitation, no doubt—it feels like he was born to hold that instrument. These tattoos, especially the Bowie’s lightning one on Sander’s wrist is making him look even more ethereal. Bleached-blond hair with black clothes and tattoos; Sander Driesen is the perfect example of a sweetest sin that Robbe will gladly accepts.

On the other hand, Sander never truly realises how beautiful Robbe is, now that he’s finally be able to sees his face up close. Everything about him is perfect—too perfect for him. He wonders how it feels like to have their bodies wrap together, with or without clothes. How his fingers slowly but hungrily traces every inch of Robbe’s body.

“Who am I darling, to you? Who am I? Going to tell you stories of mine... who am I?” Sander sings, never breaking the eye contact from Robbe. “Who am I darling, for you? Who am I? Going to be a burden... who am I darling, to you? Who am I?” He continues when his crush is too stunned to say anything.

Fuck it! I don’t care anymore!

Sander puts his guitar aside, places one hand on Robbe’s cheek, and without thinking, without worrying about the fact that thousands of people are watching this live stream, Sander kisses him. He promises to himself that if Robbe gives him the slightest uncomfort, he’ll back down, just like that.

But the greedy monster inside him roars in victory when Robbe’s also leaning closer and deepening the kiss.

After several long moments, or maybe several moons later (okay this is too much but it does feel like it for Sander), both finally breaking the kiss to catch a breath.

Robbe breathes, “Wow, that was...”

“Amazing?”

“Spectacular?”

“Show-stopping?”

“Never the same?”

“Totally unique?”

“Brilliant?”

Sander laughs loud until his nose scrunches, “unbelievable. We just kissed and suddenly mimicked Lady Gaga’s wisdom words? Never been done before.”

Robbe laughs nervously. His lips are chapped, so does Sander’s.

“You do realise that we’re still going live, right?”

“Of course I do and I don’t care,” Sander abruptly turns to camera and says proudly. “mense, I just kissed my crush in front of you all, even the world, and I have no regrets. I’ve been dying to kiss him for months and now I finally got it. And that also concludes today’s video. See you very soon and thanks for watching!”

“I still can’t believe we actually did it.”

Sander gives him a peck, “oh but we just did.”

Robbe smiles shyly, “so, what are gonna do now?”

“Kissing, talking, kissing again, lots of kissing, talking,” Sander smirks. “What about you?”

“Just kiss me now, please.”

Sander kisses Robbe again and again then whispers, “You don’t need to say please, engel.”

Couple hours later

[what-even-is-thiss]

Off of Land, Out of Water, Part 2, Help

It’s part 2 of the mer au. Let me know if I need to add warnings. 2,721 words

Abstract: Logan and Virgil relearning some things.

Part 1 Next

2. Help.

Virgil held onto Logan’s arm for a while at Logan’s insistence.

“You didn’t sleep, you shouldn’t be swimming much.” he had said.

For once Virgil didn’t protest.

They got to the school, a low building in more shallow waters where people went to memorize the history of merfolk. Undersea people had no written language so a select few with good memories were chosen as young children to learn trade secrets, history, how the systems of government worked, and yes, any interaction they had ever had with humans. Logan was appointed as a a history scholar but always felt he would be better at memorizing things found in science and math and magic. The masters had insisted, however, for whatever reason, that he learn history. So that is what he did. The names and places of all merfolk from the central Atlantic region, their ancestors’ place of origin, their previous migration patterns, the major things that happened in their politics and history were all in his head. Soon, if he passed this test, he would work as an archivist. Keep relics safe, answer merpeople’s questions about their family history when they came to the school. When he’s older he’ll take on an apprentice and teach them everything he knows. Literally. All that was ahead of him though. For now in this moment he had to start reciting.

And his chest was feeling weird.

“Virgil, I don’t like to use this word more often than I have to, but my chest feels weird.” Logan said casually as they waited outside the stone exam room where people had carved many pictures in the stone walls of teachers being eaten by sharks or stabbed with spears.

“Your chest feels…. weird?” Virgil asked.

“Yes. Strange. Odd. Queer.” He also made a low humming in his throat in mer language to further solidify his point that whatever he was feeling definately wasn’t ordinary.

“Like are you anxious?” Virgil asked, a horrible note of hope in his voice.

“Hardly.” Logan said. “I know everything I should. But my lungs, my inner gills, I…”

Virgil suddenly grabbed Logan’s arm and started pulling him away.

“Virgil! The test!” Logan exclaimed.

“No time for tests! Your stomach is going to start hurting soon! I knew it was you. I just knew it. Oh God, why did it have to be you?” Virgil said.

Logan swore very loudly with a whistle and a click as his stomach started hurting just as Virgil had predicted. His head went light. People made extremely disapproving noises as Virgil pushed them out of the way. They knocked a decorative rope made for graduation season and New Years off of a building. Virgil was moving upwards at a dangerous pace, somehow not bothered by the change in pressure, his black and grey scales and pale skin both began to reflect real sunlight rather than the bottled kind.

“Virgil take me to a healer!” Logan called, trying to fight his way out of Virgil’s grasp.

But it was no use. Even on Logan’s best day and Virgil’s worst Virgil was still stronger, bigger, and had a much tighter will than him. His fear made him unstoppable. Logan could vaguely hear shouts and other confused noises behind him as his skin began to feel gross. Just really, really gross. The shimmering light of the surface became visible. Everything was expanding too quickly. Somehow Virgil didn’t slow down. His desperate grip on Logan’s arm began to draw blood. Logan’s stomach reached critical levels of pain. Oxygen bubbles began forming in his lungs.

“Surface… too… fast…” Logan managed. His vision went blurry.

He blacked out.

……….

“Keep walking, Virgil.” dad said. “The car’s that way.”

“Dad… it…” Virgil started.

He fell to his knees.

“Verge!” his mom yelled.

Through his blurry vision Virgil thought he could see her straight curtain of bleach blonde hair. The boardwalk was hard and yet somehow soft under his knees. 

“Mom, what’s wrong with him?” Virgil heard his brother say.

“Be quiet, Roman. We need to think. I told you we shouldn’t bring him to the ocean until he’s grown. I told you!”

“I told him to not touch the water, Jen!” 

“What…” Virgil tried. “My stomach… Mom?”

He fell fully onto his side. His lungs were starting to burn.

“It wants him now, John! There’s no one around! That witch made sure of it! Do it!”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen yet! He’s only thirteen!”

“Look at him! The ocean doesn’t care! Do it!”

The air suddenly felt very dry despite the sea spray around him. For some reason Virgil knew this had to do with when he had stood in the waves despite his parents’ warnings. Though why suddenly being sick would be related to that he didn’t know. He felt his heart increase to a dangerous pace as some arms belonging to he didn’t know who began pulling his clothes off of him.

Virgil cried. But he couldn’t cry. Some hands, he didn’t know whose, threw him into the air. He felt water engulf his naked body. He couldn’t move his legs apart. He gasped in a mouthful of salt.

He blacked out.

……….

Logan opened his eyes and tried looking around. Everything was heavy except for his lungs which were horribly light. It was almost as if they didn’t exist. His body hurt. The surface under him was hard. All he could see was blurry grey shapes.

“Vir-gil?” he asked. He tried to whistle out his friend’s mer name but found that he couldn’t. His mouth felt strange. His hair felt strange. His skin felt strange. His tail felt… His…

“H… huh?” he asked nobody in particular.

A hand on his back helped him sit up.

“They’re called legs.” said a familiar deep and ominous voice.

“My teeth are…” 

“Not pointy. Take it slow. It’s hard to adjust.”

Logan ran his tongue along his teeth. Most of them were flat. They had become… what’s the word? Omnivorous? Flat? Annoyingly small?

“I’m going to put something on your face now.” Virgil said. “I borrowed them from my younger brother. They’re his old prescription. It’ll be better than nothing.”

Virgil carefully put some kind of glass and wire thing on Logan’s face over his eyes and Logan stopped seeing a blur and finally saw his friend’s face. His black hair wasn’t floating around, nor was it plastered to his head with water. It was dry. Before now Logan hadn’t even known what that word truly meant. He ran his fingers into his own hair. Dry. He looked at Virgil. Down his body. He was…

“You are…”

“Human. Yeah. Try looking down.”

Logan looked down.

“Okay clearly that isn’t natural.”

His friend laughed. “You said you know how full mammals reproduce.” Virgil said. He lifted up his shirt and pointed to the large inverted scar on his stomach. The one Logan had asked about every time he’d seen him for the past ten years. “That’s how I got this scar. From being born. We call it a belly button. Or, a navel I guess.”

Virgil jumped up and went to what Logan recognized from drifting junk he had seen in the ocean to be an ice chest. He looked around and saw that they were under a cliff face, or he assumed it was a cliff face from carvings he’d seen. He also slowly realized that he was physically human now and that according to what he’d heard about human customs....

“You need help putting these on?” Virgil asked, pulling some clothes out of the ice chest.

“Most likely. I’ve never had to… um…”

“You’ll get used to it. Don’t try to understand anything yet. Trust me. It isn’t worth it.”

Virgil gently helped his friend into a pair of boxers and some jeans. He brought out a polo shirt.

“You’re about my younger brother’s size so I brought some of his clothes. Hope you like polo shirts. That’s basically all he wears. Well, except for things with cats on them.”

Virgil instructed Logan on how to put a shirt on, helping him put his arms through the holes.

“Now, before I see if you can walk, word to the wise, don’t take your shirt off in front of people. Almost every human that has ever lived has a belly button, and you don’t.”

“Why?” Logan asked. “What is any of this? What is happening? What are you?”

“Okay, L. Clearly you were lying when you said that you know how mammals reproduce. I’ll have the talk with you later. I’ll have a lot of talks with you later. For right now, I’m gonna help you stand.”

……….

“That’s it. Put your entire body into it.” she encouraged.

Virgil clicked out her name angrily and huffed, but he moved his tail nonetheless.

“That’s good. You’re getting better at pronouncing my name!” she whistled.

“I’ve been thinking about a human name for you. I decided. I’m gonna call you Val in human.” Virgil said.

“If that makes you feel better. I don’t need a human name though.” Val said.

“Am I done yet?” he asked.

“Do you think you can swim next to me?” she asked.

“Ugh, fine.” Virgil spat. “You’re too happy.”

“So you keep telling me, guppy.”

“I’m already an adolescent!” Virgil hissed, showing his teeth.

Sometimes instincts really did override what he’d learned as a human. Even though he was, for all intents and purposes, physically a merman now, he did age a bit faster than other merpeople. A merman his age would normally be figuring out social rules and not have any hormones to speak of. The equivalent of a human nine year old. Virgil, on the other hand, was now supposed to be learning how to be an adult, which he couldn’t do when he didn’t know how to move around or speak in full sentences. He was supposed to be wrestling his younger brother and defending him from their mom, going to his older brother’s music recitals and hating it, learning how to cook from his parents, crying over final exams, worrying about which high school he was going to. Watching Gators football games and cursing as he stabbed himself in the eye with a mascara brush for the first time. 

But instead it was like he was a toddler all over again.

Val and Verge swam slowly together in silence to the edge of the reefs where her house was, dangerously close to human civilization. Virgil was exhausted.

“Why am I even here? Why can’t I just stay human?” he asked as she held him tight when he was ready to sleep.

“It’s because of what came before us, guppy.” Val said, running her fingers through his hair. “It’s just something you got caught up in. I’ll tell you soon.”

……….

“I am so heavy.” Logan said, rubbing his injured knee.

He had knees now. He… no, don’t process that. Save it for later.

“Everyone’s heavy. It’s just more obvious on land.” Virgil said, holding his hand out again. 

Logan took a deep breath of briny sea air and pulled on his friend’s hand. He managed to stand with some help.

“We can carry you to the car if you can’t make it.” Virgil said.

“No. Cars sound horrifying and I’d rather know that I’m able to get away from it. And your brothers. They don’t sound agreeable. Let me go.” Logan said.

“Alright, but I hope you know that almost nobody learns to walk in one day.” Virgil said.

“I’m not a child!” Logan exclaimed.

“Yeah that’s what I said too.” Virgil said as he let go.

Logan looked down at his feet now trapped in things called “tennis shoes” and took a breath.

“Just focus on not falling down.” Virgil said.

“You’ve already said that. And I have a good memory. I…”

“Yeah, I know L. Just look up. Look at me. Step forward. Just one step for now.”

Logan looked up. Virgil was a lot bigger than him even as a human. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. He wanted to take a step towards Virgil to point at him and tell him that this wasn’t fair. He tried to do that but took two steps and fell into Virgil’s arms instead.

“Further than you got last time.” Virgil said.

“You’re never this patient.” Logan grumbled into Virgil’s chest.

“I have a long term memory, you know. Swimming isn’t easy to learn as an adult. Or a teenager.” Virgil said. “Come on, we’ve got another hour before they get here. Maybe I can see you fall face first into the rocks a few more times.”

Logan tried standing up again.

“Virgil, how long were you… before we met?”

“A hundred days.” Virgil said. “Just living with Val, learning how to exist again. It was another year after that I got to visit my family again.”

Logan took a step forward.

“I can’t wait a hundred days. Much less a year.”

He took another step forward. Then another. Then he fell over again. Virgil caught him before he hit the ground.

“Well at least you’re giving me a good arm workout today.” Virgil grunted, lifting his friend up again. “God, Patton is rubbing off on me. I just looked on the bright side of something.”

“I don’t know who that is, but he’s clearly corrupting you.” Logan paused. “That was a joke.”

“I know, dude. You don’t have to tell me every time. He’s my younger brother.”

He sat Logan down on the rocks.

“Well I suppose I know where you go when you leave without any warning now.” Logan said, rubbing his face underneath the glasses. He clicked his tongue in a small curse. Some equivalent to “Crud” or “Shoot.” in mer speak.

“Yup.” Virgil said. “Florida. Lucky you.”

“That sounded suspiciously like sarcasm.” Logan said as he rubbed his suffering knees.

“It was.”

……….

Virgil focused on breathing slowly. He swam up cautiously.

“You’re shaking, buddy. Come on, you’ve been growing. They’re gonna want to see that.” Val said.

“I can’t.” Virgil said, stopping suddenly. “I can’t.”

He turned around. Val grabbed him by the arm.

“Hey, you survived the first day of school and talked to the elders. You can do anything.” She said.

She gently ran one of her hands along his neck and to the base of his spine, a gesture he recently learned was used to soothe people when they were nervous, especially between parents and children. He nervously flicked his tail at that realization. How did Val see him, really?

“They’re your family. They want to see you.” she said. “It doesn’t matter what you’ve become. And next year? You’ll get to visit them properly. Go on.”

She gestured upwards. Virgil swallowed.

“Alright, but I won’t like it.”

“Sure you won’t.”

He swam cautiously upward on his own. It had been so long since that day at the boardwalk where everyone had suddenly disappeared and his stomach had started hurting. The day he had been thrown in to appease the ocean and hadn’t seen his family since. How much did they know? How could they forgive him for not listening? How could he forgive them for not telling him why he couldn’t touch the water? Could he explain everything to them? How he looked like a freak even down there? How badly he wanted to come home? How badly he wanted to stay?

He caught sight of the correct pile of rocks and aimed for it. Two almost familiar figures were peering into the water. He broke the surface.

“Virgil, baby!” his brothers were pushed aside and almost fell into the water as his mom knelt and hugged him around the neck.

Virgil blew the water out of his lungs and smiled with all his teeth despite how embarrassed he was at the size of them. He saw his dad standing behind them and when it was his turn he hugged even harder. If merpeople could cry Virgil knew he would be doing it.

“Hi dad.” he whispered into his father’s shoulder. “Hi.”

Patton and Roman both smiled at him from behind their parents’ tearful babbling. Roman gave a wave. The same one he did whenever a piano recital was over. Virgil sighed. It was alright.