#i will tie your shit into a noose and hung you

[gayllamafromspace]

I dunno if anyone would be interested in this at all, but I have an original project I've been mulling over for the past few months. I mean COMPLETELY original. Original characters, world, cultures (that take inspiration from some irl religions and practices), gods/religion. Literally everything.

Anyway, I have some OCs that I've been trying to flesh out a story for. Their names are Lyra Cygnus, Raith Vera, and Tori La Joya. There are some side characters of course (Quinton La Joya, Elaena Cygnus-La Joya, Susane Roe-La Joya... then the gods: Melanna, Ludor, and Zara)

Lyra is cannotically a Lesbian, Raith is Pan, and Tori is Demi/Polyamorous.

Ages:

At the beging of the story Lyra is 19, Raith is 70(she's a vampire, physically she is 20), and Tori is 12 - almost 13. This is when they all get together and meet.

When the real shit starts happening, Lyra is 22, Raith is 73, and Tori is 15.

By the end of the story, I'm thinking that Tori should be 19 or 20. So that would make Lyra 26/27, and Raith would be 77/78.

So the whole story takes place over the span of 7 to 8 years, with a few flashbacks and junk.

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

What will the plot be? I'm still trying to figure that out. I do know that there will be war/battle/prophecies/magic and things like that.

Basically though, there's a prophecy about a human gifted by Zara with magick who would end the war between man and magick(a human hasn't been directly gifted for over a century, all witches at the current time are hereditary magick users - descended from the witches who were blessed well over 100 years ago.)

Now, all of the strings attached to that shit weren't accounted for. I'm trying to be as vague as possible lol. I do have pictures of my lovely children tho! I will reblog this with them.

Anyway, people die, people get hurt, horrible shit happens. There will be racism and political problems, along with religious clashes. Humans basically decided they they are the superior race and had begun worshiping their own God - a fake one, but it's all really a political sham in order to keep control and stuff. Only magical races, and some humans, worship the REAL gods.

The Gods:

Melanna, the first God. Goddess of creation, light, darkness, love, and authority.

Ludor, the second God, created Melanna (he was once a mortal Nymph, they fell in love and she made him a god) he's the God of life, death, reincarnation, balance, and change.

Zara, the child of Ludor and Melanna. She is closest to the mortal races of Renowyn (the world they live in), she's the Goddess of peace, magick, mortality, and fate.

Mortal Races:

There are of course all of the animals from this world.

Avians are a race of winged humanoids that were created in Melanna's image. They are diverse, and basically the messengers of all races. (Think Angels, but less ethereal) They were the first race created, they have free thought and individuality. The only thing Melanna asks is that they always seek new knowledge and insure that freedom is never stripped from those undeserving. Avians can live a very long time, 300 years at most. An Avian society can be best compared to one of ancient Rome or Greece. Avians can use magick.

Nymphs were the second race Melanna created, and the race that Ludor came from. The Nymphs have horns, pointy ears, and tails. The are humanoid, like the Avians, but lack the defining wings and longer life spans. Nymphs can only live up to 100 years. The Nymphs were created to bring peace and fertility to the earth. They're culture can be best compared to that of Native Americans. There are 4 different types tribes. The forest tribe, the desert tribe, the valley tribe, and the snowy tribe. Ludor had been a descendant chief of a forest tribe, he united all of the tribes and became the head cheiftan of the Nymphs.

(Avians and Nymphs have long been at odds, they eventually had built a wall separating themselves from eachother. The wall built to avoid further conflict, like the kind that created humans)

Humans were created by Melanna striping traitorous avians of their wings and magick. They were exiled to another continent. The former avians, now humans, in question had enslaved and tortured nymphs under the impression that "they are inferior and do not deserve to exist in their disconnect from Melanna" (Avians have a closer relationship with Melanna than Nymphs do). The rebel Avians shunned the knowledge of the Nymphs and stile their freedom, so Melanna saw fit to punish them. They went directly against her wishes. (This all happened before Ludor was made a god) Human society is comparable to medieval times - kingdoms, kings/queens, lords/ladies, dukes/duchesses, etc.

Witches/seers were created by Zara. Humans who she saw as worthy to give the gift of magick and foresight too. (She asked her mom first, don't worry) Witcher are the reason that Werewolves and Vampires exist. Their culture is comparable to paganism/Celtic/nordic traditions. They are a race of discovery and practice. At one with nature.

Werewolves were created when a coven of witches attempted to punish human criminals by turning them into wolves so that they would be hunted. (The criminals were rapists, murderers, pedophiles, etc) the coven was tacked during the ritual which caused the curse to go wrong. Instead of being turned into wild wolves, they were turned into bloodthirsty monsters that would be to shift during the full moon. Pure blooded werewolves have no control in their wolf form, and the only remaining pure blooded werewolves are all incestuous. Werewolves with delluted blood (werewolves that crossed with humans) gain more control and less monstrous forms as the gene is passed down. Lyra is decended from werewolves and has more humanity in her blood than beast, so she can shift whenever she wants (there is still the urge to shift during a full moon, but she can resist) and she is full conscious and aware of what's going on while in wolf form. The diluted gene can only be activated if someone descended from werewolves is scratched or bitten by one. If a normal human is bitten nor scratched the would will get infected and kill them. The saliva of a werewolf attacks the white blood cells and would prevent the wound from healing on a normal human. They would bleed out and die.

Vampires were also created by witches through a curse. A man, basically Jeffrey Dommer, was supposed to be cursed to never walk in the light of day again, least he die. He would forever be hungry and never be able to sate his hunger. There was a miss pronounciation, and the whole thing went to shit. He was indeed always hungry, but he would feed off of the blood of humans. He could not walk in the light of day or he would burn and die. But he gained unimaginable speed, agility, strength, and heightened senses as well. He went off on a murdering spree, but on his way he had accidentally turned some people. These new vampires were furious and killed him in his own palace. They turned their families. Vampires could live virtually forever, because their body would no longer decay over time. Like the werewolf gene, as the venom was passed down from vampire to human, it's potency would lessen. Within 4 generations of vampires, they had developed a tolerance for sunlight, they could easily get a sunburn, but they would not die. They could feed on the blood of animals rather than humans, and even live off of human food. Garlic though became a common allergy, ingesting it could give them a severe stomach virus and possibly burn holes into their stomachs. Raith is one of the most humanlike vampires of the time, so human that she actually has full functionality of her womb. She does still need blood though, and she can tolerate werewolf blood in small amounts.

Shapeshifters are the species created when werewolves and witches have children. They have a weakness to magick, but they can shift their appearance to look however they imagine it. If wounded, they will revert back to their original form until healed. Their original form is just like a humans.

Fae are the more reclusive species of Renowyn. They are created when Nymphs and witches have children. They are nature spirits at heart and have close relationships with the earth, their magick is plant based. They can turn invisible. Sirens are a rare subspecies of Fae. They live in the depths of the ocean and only come on land during the high tide. Many are the love children of Fae and shapeshifters. Normal Fae have pointy ears (down cast... I'll show a picture in the reblog), sharp fangs protruding from the bottoms of their mouths (think orcs?). Sea Fae/Sirens have webbed ears, fingers, and fins on their arms. During low tide they sport the usual fishtail or tentacles, but during high tide that are more humanoid. They can camoflodge, but they can't turn invisible.

ANYWAY!!! I just wanted to share my random stuff. I guess show that I do kore than just fan projects? I dunno, I just wanna talk about this stuff with somebody, get opinions and see if anyone is interested.

Please, please I'm begging, no one steal this from me. I've poured my heart and should into this, please don't take away and call it yours. I know that's a massive risk when putting my stuff on here... but please, have a heart and leave my story be, this passion project is more than just a drabble. It's a life goal, I want to create something from this and share it with world. Dont be an asshole and crush my dreams by stealing it and making it your own... I will condone making your own OCs out of the taxes and stuff, just credit me with #Renowyn or just #GayLlamaFromSpace Original Project or whatever... or just @ me lol. That is if anyone would be interested in creating (a) character(s)? I dunno. Just... this is here now. I'll probably be posting more about it.

[thekillingmoonmoon]

one | an encounter

don’t call it a fight when you know it’s a war

Pairing: Toman Timeskip! Hanma Shuji x Fem! Reader / minor Kisaki x Reader Warnings: NSFW, smut, drugs, blood, violence, death, guns, sex work, “infidelity”, Reader is as off the rails as Hanma Chapter specific warnings: Reader is a sex worker, discussion of sex work, discussion of violence, blood, Hanma being feral.

Masterlist

#TheCityAU

Your life ended the day you were sold to Toman. Your life as the eldest daughter of a Yakuza Legend ended, but you lived on, as the forgotten property of Kisaki Tetta. Forgotten, abandoned, until Hanma Shuji stumbled, bloody, beaten, and laughing, into your boring world.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

“Honestly, have you seen Smiley? He’s gorgeous. I wouldn’t mind having him every day,” a girl tittered, causing the other women to hush and hum.  “Yeah, but does he bring you any gifts? Koko brought me a new bag last week, all because I blew him in the car before that big meeting,” another chimed in, shaking her sparkling hands, adorned with jewels brought in as offerings by all her favourite customers. You sighed into your tea, wondering when your bedroom had become the impromptu meeting place of all the girls in the brothel. Women lay draped over every available inch of space, all bedecked in lace and frills, their tits barely covered as they spilt out over their glittering bras and dresses.   “That’s just because you haven’t had Inui’s cock,” a girl spoke, “once you’ve had that, shit like jewellery and new clothes don’t matter anymore!” “Really?” came the coos and questions, long smooth legs kicking languidly in the air. To anyone who was unaware of where they were, it would be like a little girl’s sleepover, except that everyone present was well past the age of teenage innocence and naivete. The pink was still there, in all shades of neon and fuchsia, leaving your room looking like a garden of psychedelic roses. 

You were just about to ask them to leave, to grant you a few hours of peace to do something besides talk about Toman’s top dogs and how they spent their lives (and their money) between your girls’ thighs. You had filing to do, and your monthly stipend was due next week. Your little sister’s school had just increased its fees, and you sighed, already preparing yourself for a month of tight budgeting and two-minute noodles. Thank God your owner was never around, you doubted you could do much besides bat your lashes before passing out from exhaustion, never mind servicing him with your body.

The door slammed open. He was huge. And bloody. His tie hung in a loose noose around his neck, his crisp white shirt stained scarlet in pretty patches down his side. His jacket was thrown haphazardly over his shoulders, equally coloured crimson by blood and lord knows what else.

 “Hello ladies,” he grinned, a glob of blood still trickling down his cheek. His glasses had slid down his nose, splattered so that he couldn’t see through the lenses. His hair tumbled to one side in a cascade of black and gold curls, raked boyishly to one side and smeared with detritus. “Girls, out.” You instructed, unfolding yourself from your bed. Who was this? You cycled through the various faces you'd seen come through the brothel doors over the last six months. The women were quick to react, scuffling upwards and shuffling out the door without a word, eyes wide as they stared at the intruder. He squinted at each girl as they walked past him, ducking below his outstretched arms until you were the only one left in the room. “Where’s Kandi? You know, with a ‘K’,” he slurred slightly, and you could see that one of his eyes had begun to swell blue. You gulped. This man was dangerous. “She left, last month,” you recalled the previous owner of this room. Oh, he was just lost. Just what kind of business was Kandi running that half-beaten and bloody men came storming into her rooms after 3 in the morning? “What? Fuck, man, she had a good cunt,” he gangled over to your couch and threw himself down with a huff. You groaned inwardly, that was real suede. “She was shit with bandages, but she had cute tits,” he mumbled, “what happened to her?” he tilted his head, somehow genuinely interested. You reached under your bed and pulled out a box. “She got bought out, one of the Toman men… Shiba? I think his name was Shiba. She said she’s having his baby.” You plonked the box on the table beside your couch. “So that kid and I have the same taste in broads, who would have thought?” he murmured beneath his breath. You pulled a towel out of your cupboard.

 “Get up and strip,” you instructed, missing the wide honey-eyed look he gave you. “Say that again, doll?” His voice dropped, but you held your ground. “Get up and take off your shirt, you’re staining my couch,” you commanded, looking up at him and raising your brows. Awkwardly, he stood. “Look, you ain’t exactly my type of woman, sweetheart,” he lied, looking over you, all dressed up with nowhere to go. He wondered what you wore beneath the silky satin of your bathrobe and would be sorely disappointed by the sensible cotton briefs and bralette you actually wore.  “What does that have to do with the fact that you’re bleeding?” you asked, throwing the towel over the couch and tucking it in place. You turned to face the stranger and reached for his shirt. You paused, only now noticing the supple straps of his gun harness around his shoulders. You shrugged, undoing the buckle that spanned across his broad chest.

“What’s your name?” he asked, staring down at you as you calmly began to unbutton his shirt. He hissed when you pulled the sticky fabric away from his torso. “D’ya want my real name or my alias?” you answered, standing on tiptoe to shuck his harness off his shoulders along with his shirt. You dumped the fabric onto the floor in a carmine colour heap and took his harness to hang it over a chair. You quickly slipped the gun from its holster and, with the gangster looking on in shock, unloaded the bullet magnum and switched the gun back onto safety with practised ease. “Both,” he breathed, quietly watching as you moved around him. You acted calm, but he could see the slight tremor in your hands as you grabbed a dish of warm water from your bathroom with a handful of rags. You gave your name, your surname ringing distant bells in the stranger’s memory. “But they call me Princess around here,” you wet a rag and with a gentle hand on his shoulder, willed the stranger to sit on your now-protected couch.

The stranger looked you over, suddenly entranced as you knelt between his knees. There, bathed in the lilac glow of the LED lights above your bed, you truly looked like royalty. He studied the planes of your face. You seemed to glow; hair neatly pulled back from your face as you looked over his body. “You not gonna ask who I am?” he suddenly asked. You shook your head, “It’s safer if I don’t know who you are, right?” you replied. He smiled. Clever girl. “I’m Hanma Shuji, from Toman,” he waited for your response. You paused, briefly, just enough for him to notice.  “The Reaper?” you clarified, and he nodded, “That’s me.” He waited for the awe, for the coos and wide-eyed stare, for the hand to make its way to the front of his pants. But instead, you just plopped a wet cloth on his skin. “Then how’d you get so beat up? Aren’t you meant to be good?” He leaned forward, into your space,

 “But I am good, doll,” he whispered, his honey sweet voice dropping dark and trickling in treacle streaks over your skin. You suppressed a shiver. “Ten fuckers tried to jump me on the way over, can you believe?” he smiled, and you could see the glimmer of his teeth in the low light. You unconsciously smiled back, close-mouthed but still softly grinning at the man. “Lemme guess, they got a surprise?” “If you call a fuckin’ fist to the face a surprise, doll.” “Well, it would be if you were expecting your target to come quietly,” you shrugged.  “You saying they expected me to come quietly? Me?” He giggled at you, “they must be crazy then.” “Not nearly as crazy as you,” you commented, dipping some cotton in alcohol and dabbing it on the gash between his ribs, the red spilling over the spidery script of his tattoos. He hissed in surprise. “I’m not as crazy as you are though, you should be scared of me, sweetheart,” he cooed, leaning forward to cup your jaw. He forced you to look at him, honeyed gold greeting the unwavering steel of your gaze. He smiled widely, loving the way your pupils dilated at the crazed look in his eyes.  “I never claimed to be sane, Mr Hanma,” you retorted, a sly grin sliding across your face at the glimmer in his eyes. He was beautiful. Beautiful, and dangerous. He let your face go and you got back to dabbing at his wounds with the blood-soaked rags.

“I’m gonna have to sew this fucker up,” you tapped at the deep scratch across his pectoral. He looked down in confusion, giving you a puppy-like pout. “Is it that bad?” You prodded at the wound,  “Yeah,” you ignored his groan of pain, “looks like someone brought a knife to your gunfight, Mr Hanma,” you commented. You got up and made your way over to your shelves. You retrieved the bottle of amber ambrosia and a glass. You opened the bottle for the first time, a naïve purchase you’d made on the off chance that your keeper ever came to give you a visit. You poured a generous two fingers of the whisky and handed it to Hanma. He gulped down half the liquid. “Twasn’t a gunfight, doll. Just a good fucking fight,” he grinned, you looked at him from the side, remembering how cold the barrel of the gun had been in your hands. Seems like he was telling the truth. “What happened to the men who attacked you?” you asked, threading a needle with surgical precision and steadying yourself against his arm before beginning the procedure.

 At this point you were half in his lap, half-clambered up onto the couch, your one leg slung over his spreadeagled thigh and your full bodyweight pressed down on his chest to keep your hands static as they looped the thread through his skin. Hanma clenched his teeth, his one hand coming up behind your back to grip at the sash of your gown. His hand was huge, his palm warm and broad over the small of your back. Your breath tickled his neck, your skin so achingly close to his exposed chest. He wondered what you would feel like, what noises you would make if he closed the distance between you if you would let him take advantage of you. But you paid him no mind, biting on your lip in concentration as you began to suture up the wound.

“Why, doll? Scared I’ll get jumped the minute I leave?” He cooed, trying to get a reaction from you. You raised your brows at him. “No.” You fibbed, instead wiping away the trickle of blood spilling from the stitches, “I’m worried they might come for the girls if they know you came here,”  “Oh,” the pout was almost palpable, almost. But he looked over your head taking in the open files lying around on your bed. “I thought Koko was meant to manage this place, don’t tell me he’s leaving this shit to his girls.”  “I’m not one of his girls,” you said simply, “so you can rest assured, Mr Hanma, Mr Kokonoi just his hands full,” full of money and gifts for the girls you grinned to yourself, wondering how much they had managed to scam out of the man this month. “You’re not one of his girls?” Hanma raised a brow at you. You were a whore, he was sure. From the room on the top floor of the brothel to the sweet scent of sex you exuded as you sat on his lap, you were a whore. A royal whore, but a whore, nonetheless. You shook your head. “I’m ‘kept’,” you explained, tying off the end of the wound and dabbing at the seam with more alcohol. “Ah, well then, sweetheart, who’s your keeper?” Maybe he could convince them to let him have a turn with you, that or threaten them into handing you over. You shifted off his lap, leaving him suddenly cold and slightly anxious. You scrounged in the box full of bandages and medicine.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you shot back, the name of your keeper burning bile in your throat. You swallowed down the venom you wished to spit out. If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t be in this situation, If it weren’t for him, you’d be happy playing house at home with your little sister, looking after your father as he lived out the last of his glory days. Instead, you were here, putting a stranger back together in your room in a brothel. You returned with a set of butterfly bandages, settling yourself over his thigh once more. You tapped Hanma’s cheek, getting him to tilt his head towards you. You got to cleaning the gash just below his eye. Up close, he was honey gold, gazing at you through half-lidded eyes, his hair swept up and back out of the way of your work. His hair looked soft despite the dye job, falling in a tumble of curls over the rim of his glasses, which you neatly removed and tucked into his open palm. 

“But I do want to know, sugar,” Hanma hummed, “I wanna know who’s leaving such a tasty treat like you all alone on a Friday night,” he reached up to curl your hair back behind your ear, twitching as you dabbed a bit too hard at his wound. You raised an eyebrow at him, “I thought I wasn’t your type?”  “I lied, sweetheart. It’s what I do,” he grinned, his hand finding itself softly gripping at your hip, Sin spanned over the silk of your nightgown as if he owned you. “Clearly,” you sniffed, “stay still,” you laid butterfly bandages across the gash, carefully bringing the edges of the wound together before laying down the sticky material. “Yes, ma’am,” he smiled, causing the wound to split open and you pinched his cheek. “I said, ‘stay still’,” you grumbled, readjusting the bandages once more.  “Yes, yes,” he waved you off, his fingers digging deeper into the soft flesh of your hip, and he hissed through clenched teeth as you wiped the area clean with alcohol.

 “Since when does a whore know first aid?” he rumbled, his hand keeping you still on his lap. You began cleaning up his other wounds.  “Since she grew up putting idiot gangsters like you back together,” you retorted. “Ouch, doll, not all of us are idiots,” he sidled, his thumb now rubbing soft circles into the satin silk of the robe. You resisted the urge to melt under his touch, to melt into him, despite it being so long since anyone had touched you, let alone held you. This man was deadly, you reminded yourself. He was a snake with flowers blooming from its mouth, each thorn dripping venom despite the beauty. You knew the danger those fangs posed, and you be damned if you would willingly submit yourself to his bite.  “Only idiots get this fucked,” you poked at the scratch you’d stitched back together, giving him a cheeky smile when he winced. “You should see the other guys,” Hanma bragged, “they’re not fuckin’ sitting around with pretty girls on their laps, that’s for sure,” he beamed at you, the sharp edge of his canines glinting in the lilac light spilling over the pair of you. You frowned, “And you won’t be either if you carry on with that,” you gestured to his roaming hands, immediately causing him to stop, his fingertips brushing over the top of your thighs, barely skimming beneath your robe to touch the soft skin below. He craved to grab you then, to take you, fuck whoever it was that ‘kept’ you. They clearly weren’t doing a good job, considering how neat and plain your room looked. Not a single jewel glittering in the trinket tray at your mirror, not a single scrap of silk lined the bed, leaving swathes of plain cotton to Hanma’s wandering stare.

“Fucker doesn’t ‘keep’ you very well, does he?” he commented, immediately feeling you freeze above him. You gulped. “He ‘keeps’ me alive, Mr Hanma, I think I should be grateful at least for that,” you mumbled, thinking back to the day you arrived here, the cold barrel of a gun prodding harshly at your back. You remember the scorn in your keeper’s voice, the way he kicked you to the floor in front of the new building that was to be your home. He was sickened by you, apparently, as if you’d asked to be sold off to him as his mistress in the first place. You scoffed to yourself. “I’m lucky enough to have been forgotten, Mr Hanma,” you pried yourself loose from his huge hands, sliding backwards and finding your feet. You stood holding out your hand to help him up “and I’d prefer to remain ‘forgotten’, do you understand?”

He towered above you, tall and foreboding, the shadow he cast onto you long and lean. He wrapped a single hand around your throat, Punishment loosely holding your jaw up to look into his golden eyes. Slowly, carefully, Hanma leaned down, placing a feather-light kiss upon your cheek. You flinched, unused to the ticklish sensation of his skin against yours. “But, doll, how the hell could I ever forget you?”

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I do not own Tokyo Revengers, or any of the related characters. Tokyo Revengers is created and owned by Ken Wakui. This story is intended for entertainment purposes only. I am not making any profit from this story. All rights of Tokyo Revengers belong to Ken Wakui. Please do not copy, re-use, or distribute this work as your own

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[wkemeup]

Sunrise (10)

summary: After an explosion takes his arm and his only sense of belonging, Bucky is content to live out the rest of his days in the hollow comfort of the dark. This is, until Sam drags him down to the local VA and he meets you. (Modern AU) pairings: bucky x reader chapter word count: 6.9k warnings: smut (18+), angsty angst, this time I dont leave you with a cliff hanger 😉 🧡 series masterlist / series playlist

“Come on, Bucky! I know you’re in there!” 

You hit your fist on the door again. Perhaps you would have been more mindful of the the hour, but you’d heard glass shattering as you raced up the stairway just moments ago. You’d heard him shouting himself hoarse and heavy footsteps as he paced inside his apartment. You’d heard the cracks in his voice – the consumption of grief and fury and shame swallowing him whole.  

One of Bucky’s neighbors had rung Sam the first time Bucky’s screams could be heard through the thin apartment walls. It was the fifth time in as many nights and Sam promised Bucky would get it under control before they went to the landlord with noise complaints. He made no such promises that he would be the one to do it. 

An elderly woman in a nightgown peeped her head out into the hallway, scowling at you as you continued pounding on the door. Her beady eyes narrowed and you only spared her a moment’s glance before you returned to the door. 

“I’ll wake up the whole building! I swear to—” 

The door was pulled from under your fist. In its frame, stood a ghostly version of the man you knew. Dark circles hung heavy under his eyes. His hair was disheveled, blood dripped from a cut in his palm. Behind him, furniture was turned on its side, glass on the floor, magazines and unopened mail littering every surface. He'd torn his place apart.  

“What are you doing here?” 

You swallowed, forcing your voice stronger than you felt. “Sam called me.” 

Bucky’s grip on the doorknob tightened. “Of course, he did.”  

He paused only for a moment before he turned his back to you and walked inside the apartment. The door was left open in his wake and you took it as permission to enter. 

Cautiously, you took your first steps into his apartment. You tried to ignore the dust lining the curtains and the fleeting thought wondering when the last time he’d allowed the sun to touch his skin. The latch clicked behind you and you winced at the intrusion to the silence.  

Bucky meanwhile was staring out into the mess of his living room. His gaze rested on the couch turned on its side, then to the box of trinkets spilled on the floor by the mantel, then the broken glass by the window. His shoulders sagged; his expression unreadable. Slowly, he knelt down to the edge of the couch to flip it back on its legs.  

You watched him carefully, not uttering a word or daring to move closer until he finished. Once the couch was right side up again, he exhaled a tired breath and leaned against the edge. Exhaustion flickering through his eyes, though you suspected it had little to do with the exertion of moving furniture.  

As Bucky moved to throw the cushions back to the frame, you realized suddenly how he was dressed. Plaid blue pajama pants hung low on his waist. Bare feet prodding over hardwood floors too close to where broken shards of glass waited. His chest was exposed; skin glazed in the dim glow of moonlight as it peered through the small slit between the curtains.  

You could see his shoulder blades move along his back as he tensed. The lines of his spine and the dips along his hipbones. When he turned to face you again, your eyes were drawn to his shoulder and the frayed mess of scar tissue and burns. It was mesmerizing, the intricate patterns and the markings on his skin. Pink and red and faded with time. You wondered if it still hurt, if he could feel the nerve endings there or— 

Your gaze flickered back to Bucky’s. He was watching you, barely taking a breath. So vulnerable as he stood in front of you and he had no time to prepare for it. He probably didn’t realize how exposed he was until he noticed you staring. You’d imposed on his home, on his space. He couldn’t have known he’d be confronted with this tonight. 

All the effort it took for him to simply remove his jacket and now he was left standing before you without a single layer to protect him.  

You could see the doubt swimming behind his eyes. No matter how hard he tried to pretend like this connection between you was something he could easily push away, like he could let go of it without much of a second thought or a single word in his own defense, you could tell he was ripping himself apart at the seams, wondering whether you found him as repulsive as he saw himself to be. 

He shook his head, his features hardening over again. He gripped at the side of the couch until his knuckles turned white.  

“You should go home,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was thick as gravel. “Sam shouldn’t have bothered you.” 

“Shouldn’t have—?” You scoffed, stunned. “Bucky, look at this place!” 

“I’m fine,” he replied flatly and you almost laughed if it weren’t for the deadpanned look upon his face.  

“You’re clearly not fine!” You dared to take a step closer, aching to remind him of the lightness he carried weeks earlier, only for him to retreat. He rejected the contact on instinct – a flinch throughout his whole body. Your heart clenched as if a hand had slipped in past your ribs and squeezed until it burst.  

Your breath was tight in your lungs as you tried again, a little softer this time, “you’re not fine, Bucky. You’ve kept yourself held up – alone – in this apartment for days on end. You’re pushing away the people who care about you. You’re not sleeping. You... You look like you’ve been through hell.” 

Bucky’s jaw was clenched so tight, you wondered if it might shatter. His gaze was unfocused, staring down at the floor by your feet.  

“You don’t have to put yourself thought this,” you eased, though the tension would not fade from his muscles. They remained locked as stone. You inched forward, a hand extending to him, an anchor to ground him. “Bucky, please... let me help you.” 

Something snapped – as sudden as a rubber band pulled taunt until its breaking point – and Bucky’s cold eyes met yours.  

"There is NO helping me!” he roared, startling you enough to flinched back a few paces, your hand curling back against your chest protectively. He curled his shaking hand to a fist. “I can't escape this shit! Even when I thought I could—when things were finally bearable again and I had a reason to get out of bed in the morning and I actually wanted to live through the fucking day— it all came back anyway! One word and I’m right back to where I started! I’m a fucking nightmare to be around! Don’t you get that?!” 

His breaths were coming in ragged, too quick. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes red. He hit his knuckles against the edge of the couch, on the wooden frame under the spine. Bucky barely took in a full breath.

“I can’t keep my shit together and I’m -- I’m only going to hurt you, okay? You shouldn’t want anything to do with this. I—I mean, look around you!” He kicked at the glass near his exposed feet, angry tears burning on his cheeks. “This is what my life looks like! Is this—is this what you want for yourself? You really want to sign up for this? This—this fucking endless parade of night terrors and panic attacks and anxiety? Huh?” 

He was brimming with pain. It was spilling over the surface and coating the floor. You were drowning in it and all you wanted to do was cross the room to him, to hold him, to soothe even an ounce of that suffering away because it would consume him whole if he let it.  

Bucky’s right hand was shaking so badly, tremors wouldn’t cease even as he clenched his fist. His body betrayed the stone he etched into his features. It was crumbling under the weight.  

“You really want to throw away your life for that? For me?” he spat as if the very idea itself carried venom in its implication, as if it were nothing more than a fool’s errand to spend a lifetime by his side, as if choosing him would be choosing to tie a noose around your neck.  

You’d never seen the evidence of his self-loathing before—not in full view and smothering the man you adored. He was expecting you to recoil, to run, to fight and argue and ultimately accept that you could never love a man so broken. It was a reaction he could wait a century for and still never find even a glimpse of hesitancy on your features.  

You steadied your breathing. Focused on the heart of the man standing in front of you, determined to push past the destructive fog he’d surrounded himself in. You took a step toward him, and this time, he did not run.  

“You’re not going to scare me away, Bucky.” 

Shame quickly spread through his body, replacing the threads of anger with something much crueler. His eyes fell to the floor, his chest rising unsteady and he stumbled back a few paces to give you space from the rage he wasn’t able to control. He looked about a decade younger as his features softened again, cowering back into the shadows. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you eased, daring another step. 

Bucky shook his head, reflective lines along his cheeks. His lower lip was chewed raw.  

“You don’t deserve this mess. You should—You should be with someone whole. Someone who can give you a better life than I can.” He could barely choke out the words.

“I don’t want someone else.” You took another step closer, determined to close the space between you. “I want you.” 

The tips of your fingers brushed against Bucky’s hand and a shiver cast up his spine. His eyes were transfixed on your touch as you slowly encased his hand in your own, easing the tension through his body and crumbling the stones in his chest with a gentle slide of your thumb against his palm. He started to sink against it, his whole body caving in to the very thing he’d been keeping at an arm’s length. He was suffering withdrawal.  

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” Bucky whimpered, tears slipping past his eyes as he shut them tight, as if he could cast away his demons if he were blind to their shadows over his shoulder.  

You tugged gently on his hand, pulling him down to the couch. He followed you easily, his body moving of your accord as if he were made of clay. When you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, you felt the slight tremble along his spine, the shakiness in his bones. His head laid against your heartbeat, his right arm snaking around your waist in fear of letting go.   

“I don’t need to know what happened. I don’t need the details,” you sighed against his ear. “I know you. I know you’re a good man, Bucky.” 

Bucky was quiet for a minute. The silence hung thick in the air. 

“What if I’m not?” 

You tried to ignore the twist in your chest. “Oh honey, please don’t say that.” 

“I lost eight people, Y/n,” he muttered out, holding onto you a little tighter. You could feel his heart pounding as you raked your fingers through his hair, hoping to ease him if only a little. “Eight of my unit. My friends. If I... If I had said something sooner... We were sitting ducks and... and...” 

It was impossible to draw the pieces together. You couldn’t see the vivid image he held in his mind, but the details of that day weren’t necessary. He trusted you enough to outline the frame, to provide glimpses into the worst day of his life, even if they were messy and blurred. His body shook as he spoke, like maybe it was the first time he was saying the words aloud.  

You ran your fingers along his spine, drawing patterns along his shoulder blades. He shivered. 

The gentle glow of the moonlight caught the reflective edge of something on the floor. A medal. A Bronze Star. You pressed a kiss to his forehead, remembering what Natasha had told you about its merit for exceptional bravery.  

“Were there any survivors?” 

Bucky held his breath and slowly he nodded. “He was... He was just a kid when it happened. Peter. I think... I think if it wasn’t for him, I would have died out there. I would have given up. Woulda been easy enough. My arm would have bled out pretty quick and the sky... the sky was so beautiful that day. I don’t know why I remember that. Not a cloud for miles. It would have been a nice last thing to see, you know? I would have been okay with that. But Peter... Peter was so young and I... I wanted to bring him home.” 

Tears were openly streaming down your face and you were thankful Bucky couldn’t see them as he laid against your chest. You tried to stifle the sob as it broke through. You kissed at his hairline again, holding him as tight as you could manage. 

“You saved his life,” you stressed, hoping he might be able to hear it.  

Bucky swallowed, tears brushing against the thin fabric of your t-shirt. “I lost eight others.” 

“Yes, you did.” There was no disputing that. Eight lives had been lost and he was grieving his friends, his team, blaming himself for each life he didn’t save. His body tensed and you were mindful to draw pressured lines along his back to ease the rigidity there.  

“You did everything you could, honey.” 

Bucky shook his head. “No, I could have... I—I should have...” 

“Some things are just outside of your control.” 

“But I—” 

“It wasn’t your fault.” 

Bucky froze, the recognition present in his body as he slowly lifted his head from your chest. “That’s....” He blinked a few times. “That’s what Sam always said. Those exact words.” 

You smiled, brushing the hair from his eyes. You wiped your thumb along his cheekbone, drawing away the tracks of tears on his face. “Sam’s a smart guy.” 

Bucky searched your eyes and you could tell he was wondering how you’d come to know Sam’s mantras, how they’d become words you often repeated to yourself in your darkest moments, but he couldn’t quite find a way to ask. He pulled himself from your lap and propped himself up beside you, your hands intertwined. He squeezed it lightly and an aching smile pulled at your lips.  

"Sam used to have to write it on paper for me,” you admitted at the bittersweet memory. “I couldn’t say it to myself and he figured if I could read it in his writing, maybe I’d believe it if it were coming from him. After a while I started to say them out loud and hearing it my own voice... I don’t know. Sam kind of tricked me into healing, I guess.” 

You laughed under your breath and you felt Bucky ease slightly beside you. He squeezed your hand again, a silent reminder that he was there. You focused on the feel of his grip, the callouses on his palms and the warmth of his skin. Real and tangible. Your Bucky.  

“Sometimes I think Sam’s the only reason I survived after I lost Riley.” 

A slight pinch formed at Bucky’s brows, his eyes narrowing—a subtle sort of curiosity, though he waited patiently for you to continue. The silence didn’t seem to frighten him as much as he focused on you, his eyes darted to your lip as you dug in your teeth.  

You hadn’t let yourself be vulnerable next to Bucky before, afraid to take away from his own suffering in favor of your own. But you had known pain of a different kind. 

You knew what it was to crave comfort, to silently beg to be held. You knew how it felt to be rejected by a man too shattered to offer any piece of himself away without breaking apart entirely.  

The way Bucky was watching you, even through the dark circles under his eyes, the exhaustion pulling him in... it settled the twists of nerves in your stomach. His thumb traced at the edges of your palms, gentle sweeps to ease the tension away. His back straightened, a determination returning to his features, a sense of belonging – of purpose – in his comfort of you.  

“He was a pararescue in the Air Force,” you continued after a moment and a flash of realization crossed over Bucky’s features. You pressed out a sad sort of smile as you said, “you remind me of him a little.” 

You thought of the t-shirt you’d lent Bucky the evening you’d gotten caught in the storm together, how it clung to his chest. Bucky’s shoulders where broader than Riley’s had been. It was slightly bigger on your frame the next night you wore it. The logo had faded with constant washing, the soft green of the fabric muted to a grey. You’d worn it to sleep nearly every night for weeks after Riley left for his final tour, longer after he’d been killed.  

It was the most cherished thing you owned. Lending it to Bucky that night had taken a strength you hadn’t allowed for yourself in years. It brought back memories you’d left untouched and an ache in your chest you’d forgotten. But somewhere, under it all, it had released you. 

Riley would have liked Bucky, you thought, might have considered him a friend. You hoped he wouldn’t mind being the bridge that allowed you to move onto a new sense of peace, a new comfort. Even in Riley’s darkest moments, he only ever wanted you to be happy. You desperately hoped he meant that.  

“I loved him so much,” you told Bucky, your mouth feeling suddenly dry at the admission, “but the war had hurt him beyond the scars on his body. Most nights, he woke up screaming. I tried... I tried to comfort him, to ground him back to what was real, but Riley was always so stubborn. He insisted he was fine, as if I didn’t notice the dark circles under his eyes or that he started drinking coffee in the evening before bed. He never told me what happened. I know he wasn’t trying to hurt me, that he was just doing what he could to hold himself together, but... the truth was, I lost Riley long before the officers showed up at his parents’ house.” 

Bucky nodded, watching you intently, though he didn’t say a word. You could feel his eyes on you as you kept your stare ahead, focusing on the imperfections laced into the brick of the fireplace across the room. You studied the curve of the cement, the nicks in the mantel, the divots of the stone. It was the first time you’d uttered Riley’s name in years. 

“I know you think I can’t handle this stuff, that it’s too much for me, but this isn’t the first time I’ve been around someone with nightmares, Bucky, or panic attacks,” you said, memories flashing over Riley sinking to the floor with his hands pressed to his ears, tears streaming down his face, images of him turning his back on you and disappearing for days on end. You had hoped he’d open up in enough time, but he never did. He couldn’t, he’d said, or it would consume him whole. Even years later, you still wondered whether it was under the weight of his pain that he suffocated, not in the prospect of its release.  

“Riley struggled after his first tour,” you continued, a lump burning in your throat. “He... He came back different. He couldn’t adjust to civilian life. I could tell from the second he got home that he was itching to go back. Despite all the pain he endured, all the nightmares and the guilt, all he wanted to do was go back.” 

You glanced over at Bucky to find his jaw clenched in understanding. It wasn’t an uncommon feeling, for soldiers who waited so tirelessly to be reunited with family and friends to feel isolated and insignificant when they returned home, to want to return to the one place they felt like they belonged.  

“I tried to stop him,” you continued, wiping your eyes as unshed tears started to blur your vision. “I begged him to stay. He was out of his contract. He didn’t need to go back but...” You sighed. Bucky’s hand gripped yours and you drew on the ounce of strength he was offering. “The worst part was that he was better when he was over there. He was smiling again and laughing and making jokes like he used to. He was promising things for our future I hadn’t even allowed myself to consider before then. Being over there... it offered him something I never could and I was... I was glad for that. I was thankful he’d gone. I was... relieved. I’d missed him so much and I was just happy he was himself again, even if he was a world away, even if it broke my heart. Seeing him happy again... it was enough.” 

You brushed at your eyes, the calloused touch of Bucky’s palm sliding along your jaw to gently wipe the wet from your cheek. His breathing was even again, the shakiness in his hands subsided. He waited for you to gather your thoughts again, not uttering a word in favor of the crickets chirping outside the window – unparalleled kindness in his patience.  

You swallowed back the lump in your throat, urging yourself to continue. Your eyes met Bucky’s, finding comfort in the warm shades of blue and the encouraging glimpse of a smile that barely rose at the edges of his mouth.  

“When Riley died, I blamed myself for a long time,” you said. “I told myself I could have stopped him from going back. I could have done more to convince him to stay, to get him the help he needed. I could have fought harder for him—for... for us. But Riley was his own person. He made his own choices and I couldn’t have done a damn thing to stand in his way. Sam helped convince me of that.” 

Bucky’s face slacked. “That’s why you started volunteering at the VA.” 

You nodded. “Sam and Riley were partners. They had some sort of pact to take care of the other’s family if something happened. Sam held up his side of the bargain whether I liked it or not. He dragged me to the open house that year and I haven’t left since. I do it for Riley, but... I don’t know... I think I do it for myself, too.” 

You exhaled a heavy breath, turning away from the fireplace to face Bucky. His eyes weren’t as red as they had been, a frown no longer etched into his features. His gaze full, though heavy, and he watched you as if you carried the entire world in the palm of your hands.  

“So, you have to understand... I can’t lose you to this war, too,” you choked out, squeezing at his hand to feel the firmness of it, to remind yourself that he was real and sitting right beside you and not an ocean away. “I won’t survive losing you, Bucky. I need you, okay? Please.” 

He looked as though he was about to argue, but he quickly held his tongue as he watched the tears slip down over your cheeks. Reflective in the dim light from the window.  

You took in a long breath, straightening your spine as you met his eye, your voice stronger than it had been since you started. “Not everyone comes home, but you did. You survived and you wandered into my life and somehow, you made me believe in love again. Even on your worst days, just being near you is the best part of mine.” 

Bucky’s lips parted, a semblance of shock flashing over his eyes. You smiled at him through your tears, a hand sliding along the side of his cheek. He sighed against the touch of it, sinking into your embrace as if hadn’t ever expected to be held like that again. Your sweet Bucky, still so surprised that you could adore him as much as you did.  

“So, I will take your nightmares and your panic attacks,” you told him, smiling through the trembling in your lips. “I’ll take your bad days and share the weight you carry on your shoulders. I’ll take every ounce of shame and self-loathing you have until the day comes you can hardly feel it at all. I’ll take the empty side streets with you and we’ll drive so far out into the country side we’ll never hear a firework again.” 

Bucky chuckled at that, a smile pressing up along his cheek until you felt it under your palm.  

“I will take anything you throw at me,” you sighed, your thumb brushing over his lips, “as long as you’re mine. As long as I’m yours. That’s all I want, Bucky. It’s all I ask. Just you.” 

Bucky stared at you, a strange mixture of awe and disbelief on his features. You could see the hope burning behind his eyes, how badly he wanted to believe you, but doubt crept in and sunk its talons into his spine.  

His smile sank. “You’ve... you’ve already been through so much. I don’t know if I’m worth all that.” 

“You are.” You slid both hands along his cheeks, holding his gaze, until you leaned in closer, inch by inch, and pressed your lips to his forehead. Slow, lingering, you kissed his temples, his cheekbones, the tip of his nose, his jawline, pausing only when you found yourself a breath away from his lips.  

“You are, Bucky,” you said again, brushing your thumbs along his cheeks and catching a tear in its path. He bowed his head, a slight trembling in his jawline. It took everything you had not to collapse into him.  

“Honey, I promise you, it won’t always feel like this and I’ll convince you every day that you are enough, if you need me to,” you told him, your voice shaking as you held back tears. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever again.” 

You leaned forward to kiss the crown of his head and his whole body seemed to sink in response, lightening, as if he’d let go of a boulder strapped upon his shoulders. His muscles softened, the tension slipping from his spine, until slowly, he began to lift his head, hair parting away from his eyes. Though they were strained and red, a crystalized ocean current stared back at you.  

You could feel the ease in his body taking over, a realization and a determination present in his stare, in his body.  

His lips parted, a steady breath in. “I love you.” 

*** 

It was the easiest thing he’d ever said; slipped from his lips as if the words had simply tumbled out on their own. Lost in how tenderly you touched him, how your hands never once left his body even as he held himself firm as stone, how you entrusted him with the most painful parts of yourself, how you gently coaxed him away from the shadows threatening to drag him back into a darkness he’d never recover from – he’d never been so certain of anything in his life.  

“I love you,” he said again, just wanting to hear it one more time. His voice was stronger this time, steadier, and he could feel his cheeks curving up into a smile. It ached from disuse, but it was a pleasant feeling. A kind one.  

He slipped his hand to rest on yours as it laid against his face and gently pulled it back just enough to kiss at your palm. It wasn’t often he found you at a loss for words, but it he didn’t mind the silence, not like he did before. He could still hear the slight hitch of surprise in your breath, the nervous laughter carrying in your exhale. You were smiling so wide, he wondered if it were even possible to love you more than he did in that moment.  

“Really?”  

God, you were so beautiful when you looked at him like that. Starry eyed and so full of hope.  

He nodded. “Yeah. I do.” 

You kissed him then, full on his mouth, arms thrown around his neck, and he had to stifle a laugh against your lips. He could feel the smile growing against him, laughing in between every kiss as the tears dried on your cheeks.  

“I love you, too, Bucky,” you beamed, drawing him in to kiss him again. 

He shouldn’t be surprised after all you’d said to him tonight, but it still fluttered in his chest, still caused butterflies to swarm in his stomach, still cast a blinding light deep into his heart that pushed out the remaining darkness lingering behind. His arm snaked around your back, holding you as tight against him as he could manage. He was breathless by the time you pulled away.  

“Will you stay?” he asked, suddenly feeling nervous as his eyes flickered over to the bedroom door. “I know it’s a mess out here, but—” 

Your lips were on his again and he swore he’d never talk again as long as you kept kissing him like that. Slowly, you began to stand from the couch, tugging him along with you. He pulled away from your lips just long enough to navigate his way to the bedroom, stepping over broken glass and the remnants of his nightmare on the living room floor.  

His bedroom was untouched, at least. The sheets were thrown haphazardly off the bed, but other than that, it was pristine in comparison to the damage he’d done out there. A shame tried to work its way deep into his chest, but he felt your hand slip into his, carefully drawing him close to the bed, and it released him to your care.  

His back bounced against the mattress in tune with the sweet sound of your laughter as you crawled over him. Thighs caging his hips, you straddled his waist and he looked up at you, certain he’d find a glimmering shine of a halo behind your head. The moonlight touched over your shoulders as you leaned down against him, kissing his lips. 

He’d missed you so much. Those two weeks left him in a hole he couldn’t possibly dig himself out of on his own. He was scraping at the bottom, nails filled with dirt, digging himself deeper and deeper until he could no longer see the sunlight as it touched over the surface. It wasn’t until you jumped down into the pit with him that he noticed there were notches in a wall once perfectly smooth, allowing him to crawl his way back up to the top.  

You leaned back a little, breathless, as your hands slid along his chest. It was the first time he’d been so exposed in front of you, the scars and burns on full display, and he was surprised that there was no hesitancy in your touch, no reluctance as you brushed your fingertips over the corners of the damage to his skin. But you paused, eyes flickering to him.  

“Can I?” 

Bucky sighed, his heart aching. You knew how difficult it was for him, for you to see this part of him. He hadn't even taken off his jacket once in the first few weeks of knowing you. But now, he nodded eagerly, wanting to feel the tenderness with which you handled him upon the broken remains of his left side.  

Your hands slid up over his shoulder, brushing along the bumps and ridges in his skin. Hardened tissue and raised edges. The way you touched him, like he was something beautiful and adored, made his heart swell. It wasn’t until you leaned down to press a feathered kiss to his shoulder, just over the burn marks and the glimpse of what he’d lost, that he choked back tears.  

“Is it too much?” you asked, noticing the trembling in his lower lip, but he quickly shook his head. 

“It’s perfect,” he replied breathily, drawing you back to his lips. “You’re perfect. I don’t deserve—” 

“Hush,” you warned, kissing him to cut him off, “don’t talk about the man I love like that. You deserve every ounce of love I can give you, you hear me?” 

He stared at you for a moment, studying the sincerity on your features until the gravity of what you said sank in, and slowly, he nodded. It would take time to believe that, but he hoped the more you said it, the easier it would come. He’d believe just about anything if it came from your voice.  

“Let me show you.” 

Bucky stilled; his throat suddenly dry.

“Let me show you, Bucky,” you asked again, your lips against his neck. He shivered. You sucked at his skin, drawing a map along his collarbone. You tongue licked at the indent by his neck. “Please.” 

When you met his eyes again, Bucky wondered if maybe you saw him with the same wonder and enchantment with which he saw you. It only took the slight tilt of a nod before you crossed your arms over your waist and slowly pulled your shirt up over your head. Your bra came next and Bucky shifted uncomfortably, realizing you were still straddling him, his hardening length prominent against your thigh. 

He stared up at you, studying over the curves of your breasts, the dips in your hips, untouched and exposed – so incredibly beautiful.  

He stopped himself as the thought entered his mind, the wondering whether he deserved such beauty in his life, wondering how he’d managed to trick the cruel twist of karma to allow him to love a woman like this – to love you like this. 

He cast away the doubt, forcing it back to the shadows where it belonged. It was easier to do that when you smiled at him like that, like he was truly worth something.  

You laid down against his chest as his hand slid up along your spine, feeling for the slight dip in your back and the goosebumps following in his wake. You shivered under his touch and for the first time, Bucky remembered what it felt like to be wanted.  

He couldn’t stop kissing you, even as your hands slipped to his waistband. It was like you breathed new life back into him; reviving him with every touch.  

He helped you push down the band of his pants until you could easily drag it down his legs and drop it to the floor by his bed. It had been a long time since he was so vulnerable in front of a woman, but he didn’t mind when you looked at him the way you did. There was no ounce of judgement in your eyes, no cautious glance to his shoulder and the absence there. There was only love.  

You slipped the remaining clothes from your body and Bucky held his breath as you climbed over him again, straddling his waist, bare. 

Bucky was trembling as he reached for the drawer at his bedside. Blindly digging around for a box in the back of the drawer, he felt for the edge of foil wrapping. He brought it to his teeth, careful to rip the packaging, though as he held it in one hand, he let out a heavy sigh.  

“Would you...?” he asked, a blush creeping up into his cheeks.  

He didn’t know why he was so embarrassed, given that you were both naked, but this was one of those things he couldn’t do for himself. It would have felt emasculating if it weren’t for how eagerly you nodded and how good it felt as you placed the condom on his tip and slowly rolled it down his base. He closed his eyes, sinking back into the pillow at the feeling, wondering how he was going to survive this. 

“You alright there, honey?” you called, giggling under your breath and, damn, if it wasn’t the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.  

“I won’t last long,” he admitted, his hand sliding up along your waist, thumb brushing over your breast. He tried to catch the whimper as it left his lips to no avail.  

You smirked. “I think we’ve waited long enough. Don’t you think?”  

You sank down on him and he choked back a moan, embarrassingly loud, but it only seemed to spur you on as you rolled your hips, giving him little time to adjust. You were so tight, squeezing around him, and – holy shit – when you dragged yourself against him, using him as you sought out the angle you were looking for, he’d never felt anything like it. 

He held his breath, focusing on the ceiling as he listened to the sweet sounds you made as your hands curled against his chest, hair falling down into your face. He knew he wouldn’t last as long as he wanted— hell, he would have stayed in you like this for hours if he could have – and it was taking near everything he had to hold out long enough for you to finish.  

Thankfully, you were just as riled up as he was – high on missing him, aching in the distance – and Bucky gasped as he felt your walls clench around him with the rushed circles between your legs. You picked up in pace and Bucky found himself meeting you half way, thrusting up into you as he braced himself on the headboard.  

“Oh God – Bucky,” you whimpered, your chest falling down to his, unable to hold yourself up. He kissed your neck, his hand sliding from around the wooden of the baseboard to grip your hips.  

If he could, he would have had a hand on your breast, teasing at the nipple, the other sliding down to the space between your bodies, rubbing circles on the nerves that left you so breathless you could hardly hold yourself up. But he was learning again, getting used to his body and his limits, and all he could focus on was holding you, guiding your hips, giving him leverage to fill you whole.  

Judging from the sounds you were making, your body molding like puddy against him, you didn’t mind at all. 

“I’m close,” you gasped, breath hot against his neck. “Ah, God, Bucky... I’m-- I’m--” 

He could feel it before the words left your lips, the clench in your walls, the spasms in your muscles that left you weak against him, overstimulated as you pulled your hand away from your clit. Your cries gave him the permission he needed to let go, only a few more thrusts was all it took, and he shuttered as he came.  

Breathless, hardly able to control the laugh as it bubbled in his chest, Bucky could hardly believe that he started this night in the darkest place he’d been in months, only to end up lying here with you, so full of light and love he could hardly stand it.  

He didn’t let you go at first, just wanting to hold you a little longer. He felt the sweet touch of your lips as they trailed along his neck, smile brimming against his ear. Then slowly, you rolled off of him, gently removing the condom and tossing it to the bin. A shiver slipped up his spine at the touch.  

“I’m sorry I pushed you away,” Bucky confessed as you laid against his chest, curling up to his side. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “Don’t let me do that again, okay? I can’t stand to go another day without you.” 

You smiled against his chest, your fingers tracing along the lines on his shoulder, touching over old scars and burns. You traced them as if they were simply lines on his body, just another piece of him worth loving, worth memorizing. He wondered if the next time he saw them in the mirror, he might remember this moment and see them for something more than the evidence of his loss that day. Maybe, he might see them the way you did – as evidence of his survival.  

“I love you,” you sighed and Bucky felt his heart swell; it grew and expanded so wide inside his chest, he wondered if his bones might bend to make room as it split him so lovely at the seams.  

“I love you, too.” He curled his arm tighter around your shoulders, drawing you close to his side. Over your shoulder, a cast of moonlight seeped in through the windows, touching over your skin, illuminating the room in a gentle glow. He closed his eyes as sleep drew him near, comforted by the patterns you drew against his shoulder. 

When he fell asleep, he fell willingly – protected in your embrace, safe, from the nightmares laying in wake.

[asktheghosthost]

Homecoming

Jai belongs to @catinabag, and is used with their permission. This was a little drabble gift that kept growing until I finally decided to just finish and post it. It’s a little lengthy, hence the Read More. Enjoy!

Fog was rolling in thick that night, but it wasn't doing much to dissuade the man lumbering along the edge of the road. Occasionally, he'd glance up at a damp street sign, grunt in acknowledgement of it, and keep going. He really wasn't relying on them, anyway. It was an... instinct, a feeling that pulled him to where he needed to be. And the closer he was getting, the stronger the pull became.

"Come to the Square," a voice whispered, simultaneously at his ear and in his brain. "Come to the Square, and you'll be home..."

Home... He hadn't seen home-- hadn't had a home-- in... God, how many decades now? Time had lost all meaning to him.

He tugged his pinstripe jacket closer around him. Fuck it was cold. Wasn't Louisiana supposed to be all muggy and swampy and hot? How many more miles of this did he have to deal with? Was it even worth it? What the hell was he even doing, really--

The honk of a car horn made him turn away from his thoughts. He glared at the car, a dull yellow taxi, as it slowed to a crawl next him. The window rolled down, and a scruffy faced driver leaned over the passenger seat and called out, "Y'all need a ride?"

Standing there, arms stiffly around him, the man hesitated to say anything. "Uh..."

The driver grinned. "Tell you what, brah, if you goin' the same way I am, and it's under five miles, no charge. Lagniappe. Deal?"

The man nodded, and quickly got into the car. "Thanks," he grunted. "'Preciate it."

"No problem, no problem." Pulling away from the road's edge, the driver continued forward. "Y'all  ain't from around these parts, are you? What's your name, ami?"

"No," he said, gruffly, shaking his head. "It's Jai. Ghast." He hadn't said his real last name in years. It was almost like saying a foreign word, like his tongue didn't know how to curl around it properly.

The driver let out a short, relieved laugh. "For a moment there, I thought you was gonna say 'Gracey.' Ah, there's a family no one wants any part of. 'Cause of them, most drivers won't make rounds 'round here."

Jai furrowed his brow in confusion. "They a crime syndicate, or something?"

"Non, ami. They're all dead." His grin glinted in the rearview mirror. "Now where you heading to, Monsieur Ghast?"

Go to the Square...

"Um, the Square?" Jai cringed inwardly.

Now it was the driver's turn to look confused. "New Orleans Square?"

Jai pursed his lips and his gray eyes darted from side to side. He wagered, "Yes?"

The driver's grin widened. "You in luck, ami! That's where I be headed to." The cab took off with such force, Jai was pressed back into the seat. "Ol' Gabe, he get you there tout suite!"

Jai's knuckles faded to a pale beige as he gripped the door handle. The vehicle-- and his stomach-- lurched. And then there was a strange sensation under him, or rather, a lack of sensation. It was subtle at first, hard to pin point, and then he realized what it was: there wasn't any road under them. There should have been the familiar pings of grit and gravel under the tires. A steady whoosh from below his feet. There was an eerie whistling, however, and he forced his head to turn to look out the window.

They weren't connected to the road. They weren't connected to anything. Tiny points of lights--streetlights-- barely shown through the mist dozens of feet beneath them.

"The hell! What're you doing, you crazy Cajun?!"

"Why, I'm gettin' you to your destination, of course!" Gabe cackled. Moonlight flashed through him, betraying he was transparent.

Jai let out a heavy sigh and slumped back against the seat. How had he not figured it out? "This some kind of show you put on for tourists?"

"Gotta get my kicks somehow, ami." He gave a good-natured shrug. "Besides, one of us had to let on we was dead."

Jai was quiet for a few seconds. "Fair."

The next few minutes were thankfully uneventful, and the cab touched down on centuries old cobblestone.

Jai didn't open the door right away, instead rolling down the fogged window.

Up ahead loomed a massive, white house, a plantation-style mansion.  It shone like a bleached tooth, a beacon in the misty night.  The imposing black, wrought iron gate ahead of it was almost easy to miss in comparison.  Even easier to miss were the strange, misshapen large stones scattered across the front yard of the property.

"This is the Square?"

"New Orleans Square is the town, but this is the place you need to be. Gracey Manor." Gabe's grin shifted into a gentler smile.  "Safe travels, ami. And when you see old Beauregard, you tell him Gabe Guidry says hi."

"Beauregard?"

But Gabe was gone. The cab was gone.  Jai was suddenly standing outside that menacing gate. With a long, high creak, it slowly opened, gesturing he should enter.

Jai licked his lips and ran a hand back through his shaggy black hair. Graceys. The dead people.

He straightened his jacket and stepped forward, a dirt path becoming more and more visible under his black leather shoes.

Moving forward, he got a better look at the property. A cement bird bath was to his left. A small pool was in it, but was too dark to see through. Jai had a feeling he'd regret sticking his hand in.

Near the bird bath was a statue of a smug, fluffy Persian cat.  This in turn was flanked by multiple tiny bird statues. Nearby were other stone animals--a duck, a snake, a few different dogs, a monkey...

Wait...

The spacing between the animals led him to look at tiny placards under each, which all listed names and dates.  This was a pet cemetery!

Cute, he thought. But then it dawned on him what those larger stones were.  Who has a house flanked by a graveyard?

Beauregard…

With a new sense of urgency, he bounded up the front steps and barely stopped before gripping the enormous bronze door knocker and slamming it down three times. "Open up." His throat was suddenly tight. Angry tears welled in his eyes. "Open up, you creepy bastard!"

As if responding to his impatience, the door was pulled open with such force, Jai was flung inside. Skidding, he caught himself before he could fall.

A low voice greeted him in the darkness of the foyer. “Welcome, wayward soul.” An unseen hand helped him straighten up.

That voice… Jai knew it. It’d just been so long since he’d heard it. That tightness returned to his throat.

“Beauregard?”

A man appeared in front of him, one who was simultaneously familiar and a stranger. Thin, lanky, like him, with long, shaggy hair, only shock white instead of black. Taller than Jai by a few inches, but he always had been. They stared at one another, jaws agape, eyes wide.

Jai took a couple of unsure steps forward, but the other ran to him, and then flung his arms around him and hugged him so tightly Jai thought he’d never break free.

“My baby brother!” He pulled away, only to hold Jai’s shoulders and look him over. “It’s been so long.” His voice cracked. “You… You look… so grown up.” A tiny sob-chuckle escaped him, but he was grinning.

Jai took a moment to take in some of the new details of his sibling—the pale, blind right eye, and the scarring over it that ran from brow to cheek; the bruising left behind on his thin throat, and its answer, a thick noose that hung loosely under it like some kind of macabre tie. His green coat was threadbare at the shoulders and elbows, and his purple waistcoat was slightly too long. The pinstripe slacks were all right, but his spats were misaligned.

“You look like shit.”

Beauregard laughed and wiped his eyes. “That’s fair.”

“Sorry,” Jai said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess those last few years weren’t so kind to you, huh?”

Beauregard shrugged a shoulder, not denying it, but not providing details, either. “It’s been a long time since then.”

“And you’ve just been here, in this big ol’ house, for…?”

Another shrug. “I’m honestly not sure how long now. I don’t keep track of time anymore. I know I died January twenty-ninth of 1901, at exactly 10:35 p.m. Beyond that…” He pulled out a pocket watch and flashed the face of it at Jai. It had been stopped since his time of death. “Time has lost all meaning for me.”

“So, you’ve been here…”

“Yes.”

“All this time?”

“Yes.”

“You died here?”

“Yes…” Beau was trying not to show the mild annoyance growing at the questions. “What are you getting at?”

Jai suddenly pointed at him accusingly. “You’ve been here, living here, for ages, and you ain’t never tried to contact me even once? Even once!”

Taken aback, Beau sputtered, “Well, you—Who do you think sent out the message for you, hmm? Who do you think led you here?”

“But that was just now! You’ve had literal decades! Decades! Decades that I’ve spent away from the very last little bit of family I had left!” There were tears in his eyes. “If Eulie were here…”

“Eulie is here. This was her house.” Beau looked over his shoulder at the grand staircase leading to the bedrooms above. “I’m surprised she hasn’t come down to investigate the ruckus yet. Her or Dorian…”

Jai took a tiny pause for confusion. “Is that her husband?”

“No, her son.”

“I have a nephew?” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “And you all were livin’ in a mansion! And not one of you saw fit to find me?!” Turning on his heel, he headed back to the door.

“Now stop!” Beau bellowed. A chair cut Jai off, knocking him down into it, and it scooted back to Beau. “You disappeared!” Pointing at Jai, Beau floated above the floor. “You were the one who forsake the family! You went off to who-knows-where, while Eulalie and I were dealing with our parents’ funeral expenses, and bank possessing the house, and—” He let out a frustrated groan. Slipping back down to the floor, he slowly exhaled, and started again, in a much calmer tone. “It was like you had fallen off the face of the planet. And… And I knew you were grieving in your own way. By the time we wound up here… H-How was I supposed to find you, Jai?” Beau put a hand on his shoulder, gazing into his eyes, imploring. “When you clearly didn’t want to be found?”

Turning his head aside, Jai looked away. It was true. He hadn’t wanted to be found, not at first. But when he’d found himself deep in trouble, that’s when he’d started thinking about his family and what he’d left behind. Then… Then it was too late. Far too late. You couldn’t scream for your big brother with a mouth full of dirty handkerchief, and lungs full of river water.

Jai blinked, sending tears cascading down his cheeks. “I—I missed you, Beau. I needed you. And—And I couldn’t find you. And I couldn’t face you. Not after what I’d done. I’ve… I’ve done horrible things, Beau. I…”

“Shh,” Beau shushed him. “Do you think I’m proud of this?” He gestured to the noose. “We’ve all done regrettable things, Jai.” Gripping the arms of the chair, he leaned down. “The important thing is we’re back together, eh?” He grinned his cock-eyed grin that always seemed just a little too wide. “The Ghast boys wreaking havoc from beyond the grave!”

Jai allowed himself a small smile. “You mean it? Back together like old times?”

Beau yanked him up, and put an arm around him as he led him further into the mansion. “Not exactly. Far fewer things to worry about now. I’ll give you the tour, and you can tell me everything you’ve been up to.”

“Eh…” Jai rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s a tall order.”

“Hm, we have all eternity little brother.” Beau squeezed him to his side.

[matthewtkachuk]

mad woman - topper thornton

The one where Topper’s insecurities and jealousy have driven you mad

Warnings: toxic relationship, domestic abuse of the emotional/psychological/slight physical variety, gaslighting

Pairing:  Topper x reader

Words: 2.3k

A/N: This is based on mad woman by T Swift. Y’all I just love folklore so much, I couldn’t help myself. Special s/o to my bb @jellyfishbeansontoast​ for encouraging me to write this one ILYSM 🥺

(gif found on tenor - pls pls let me know if it’s yours and i’ll credit you!!)

What did you think I'd say to that? Does a scorpion sting when fighting back? They strike to kill, and you know I will

Fighting with Topper is nothing new. He’s a full kook, living on mommy and daddy’s money, five hundred dollar shirts, five thousand dollar watch. You grew up on the other side of the island, mama shuffling three jobs on top of taking care of you, your father having bailed before you had even made your entrance into this world. His overprivileged upbringing causing him to spout off some really uneducated opinions about class and income disparity in your presence. He used to admire the way you would pop off, trying your best to educate the boy who had stolen your heart. He loved your fire and your heart and honestly it was kind of hot watching you get mad. Now it just annoys him, you can tell. He no longer entertains your rants, but rather shuts you up quickly.

“You know, those pogues just don’t work as hard as we do. That’s why they’re over there in their run down houses, and we’re here sipping expensive champagne on a hundred thousand dollar yacht.” Topper announces unexpectedly one afternoon as you sit tucked under his arm on the Cameron’s yacht. Your mouth falls open in indignation as his friends all agree with him.

You’re not stupid, you know the group you’re in don’t think highly of your kind, but they’ve always treated you with a modicum of respect as Topper’s girlfriend.

“Are you serious, Top? You think pogues don’t work hard enough? My mom works three jobs, Top. Three! I work two jobs myself, and here I am choosing to spend my very limited free time with you and you’re going to say shit like that.” 

Topper rolls his eyes, reaching for your arm but you jump back from him. “Come on, y/n it’s not that serious, sit back down.” 

“Not that serious? Fuck you Top, of course it’s not that serious to you. You don’t understand the meaning of hard work, you’ve never had to lift a finger to get to where you are.” You’re glaring at him now, so unbelievably frustrated that he’s stubbornly sticking to his earlier statement. “Take me back Rafe,” you turn your glare on Rafe who looks between you and Topper, clearly conflicted.

“Listen baby you’re being crazy,” Topper tries again to reach for you but you swat away his hand. 

“I’m serious Rafe, take me back or I will jump off this boat and swim back.” You threaten your boyfriend’s best friend. Despite his earlier aggressions against your friends, he’s always treated you the best since becoming Topper’s girlfriend. And he knows you’re more than likely serious, so he sighs and steers the yacht back towards the docks. You sit on the other end of the boat, ignoring Topper’s attempts to half-heartedly apologize. 

The second you near the docks, you don’t waste any time waiting for Rafe to tie the boat to the dock, you make the jump unaided. You see JJ and Pope giving you a concerned look from Heyward’s boat. Their concern only grows as Topper yells your name and tells you to come back. You don’t even look back as you throw your middle finger at him over your shoulder before hopping into Heyward’s boat.

They try and ask you if you’re okay and what happened, but you just shake your head and tell them you don’t want to talk about it. You hear Topper swear as he hits the dock, not fast enough to reach the boat before JJ is driving off. 

Your friends don’t like him. They really, really don’t like him. Years of bad blood between him and all of you have them suspicious and untrusting. You don’t fault them for that, having been witness to some of the worst kook v pogue showdowns, but you know both sides have their faults. Sure Topper was responsible for ratting out Pope which resulted in JJ going off the rails after being forced to pay 25k in restitution, but Pope sunk his new speed boat. 

But your friends said they would try, for you, and so you don’t really want to get into the specifics of why Topper has made you so mad, lest they renege on their deal. 

Every time you call me crazy, I get more crazy What about that? And when you say I seem angry, I get more angry

You’ve cooled down by the time night rolls around, and so you find yourself sitting on the beach between Topper’s legs, your back pressed to his chest and his arms wrapped around your middle. You’re enjoying the sounds of the waves crashing on the beach and the feel of your boyfriend wrapped around you when he has to open his mouth and ruin the moment.

“I don’t understand why you have to get so crazy. I was just talking with the boys,” he murmurs behind you. You can’t tell if he’s actively trying to rile you up or if it’s just a side effect of his lack of courtesy.

“Crazy?” You ask him incredulously before repeating yourself, “Crazy?! Oh I am sorry for being so insane standing up for my mother. How would you like it if I made a comment about your mom, huh?”. You struggle against him, but he links his arms around you tighter.

“Hey, calm down! I didn’t say anything about your mother, you’re the one just looking for something to be angry about.” He replies, more than a little annoyed at your combative response.

You throw his arms off of you, angrily scrambling to find purchase in the sand to pull yourself up. “I’m not looking for anything! You drive me crazy, you make me angry!” 

You were never the most combative of people, growing up around JJ you let him be the hotheaded one whose temper flared at every minor sleight. You on the other hand preferred to sit back from the action, only stepping in when your friends were in trouble. 

Topper brought out another side in you. At first you thought it was a good thing, he made you feel so much, made you so passionate. 

“I’m sorry baby, I didn’t mean it like that,” he sighs as he stands up to walk in front of you, grabbing your hands. 

“Every time you call me crazy, I get more crazy,” you admit to him, “and when you say I seem angry I only get more angry. Why are you trying to antagonize me?” 

He drops one of your hands to rest one on your face, letting his thumb stroke your cheekbone first and then your bottom lip. You look up at him

“I don’t mean it like that, you know that baby.” He leans in to kiss you and you let him, “Can you just try and be a little more calm and unassertive around my friends, you know it bothers me when you act out like that.”

“I know,” you reply quietly, all fire in you extinguishing further with every press of his lips to yours. 

“Thank you, baby. You know I love you, all of you. Even the scrappy, crazy, angry pogue parts of you,” he kisses you again.

You think his words are supposed to be a compliment, but they just sit around in your gut causing you discomfort.

No one likes a mad woman You made her like that And you'll poke that bear 'til her claws come out And you find something to wrap your noose around

“You’re cheating on me aren’t you?” He yells, under the influence of several beers and at least one line of coke you imagine. You roll your eyes, attempting to push past him, not wanting to get into this again. Especially not in his inebriated state. He has other ideas though, spinning you around by grabbing your wrist before pushing your shoulders into the wall, caging you in between it and his warm body. 

You struggle against him, “what the fuck Top get off of me!”. He only presses you into the wall further.

“Answer the fucking question, y/n. Are you cheating on me with one of your shitty little pogue friends?” He spits in your face, anger taking over his usually delicate features. As you look into his blue eyes, pupils dilated almost entirely, you realize you don’t recognize this Topper. 

Topper has always been jealous and insecure, Sarah Cameron really did a number on him when she went and shacked up with John B behind his back. You had tried your best to reassure him at every turn that you weren’t Sarah and you would never do that to him, but that didn’t stop him from blowing up with jealousy over your friends. It probably related to the fact that you hung around Sarah and John B, or maybe your close friendship with Pope and JJ. Topper was jealous of how close you were with all of them, sometimes angrily calling you every five minutes when you were alone with any one of them.

“Of course not, what are you talking about?” You shout back, hands wrapping around your body defensively. 

“I’m not fucking stupid, I know you’re doing something with one of them, so which is it? Heyward? Maybank? Or do you share Routledge with Sarah?” 

You’re trying to placate him, but he just keeps poking and poking, “I’m not fucking any of them, God Topper what the fuck?”

“You’re just a stupid pogue whore,” he snarls at you, shoving you harshly against the wall once more before letting you go. You cry out, as your head smashes against the wall painfully, causing you to see stars.

“Fuck you Topper,” you seethe, pushing him back with all of your strength. The alcohol coursing through his veins causes him to stumble a bit more than he would have sober, allowing you to escape. “It’s fucking over!”

“Good, I never fucking loved you anyway,” he shouts back at you, “It was just a game, to try and fuck a pogue and make her fall in love with me.” You feel his words like a noose around your neck, pulling tightly and suffocating the breath right out of you. 

You’re sobbing, unsure of how you managed to escape that house with Topper’s words chasing you the whole way. Every kiss, every word, every I love you passed through your mind. You gave him your virginity for fuck’s sake, you gave him every part of you and he had taken everything from you, thrown it in your face, insulting you and calling you a whore.

You know you can’t go home like this, so you head to the one place you know you’ll be able to find comfort, walking into the Chateau and directly into Kie’s arms.

Now I breathe flames each time I talk My cannons all firin' at your yacht They say "move on," but you know I won't

You’re angry now, the spell broken between you and Topper. Realizations of the months of gas lighting and emotional abuse crashing into your world view like the waves in tropical storm. You recognize that your months of excusing his behaviour based on what he went through in the past was just that – excusing his shitty behaviour. His prior relationships had nothing to do with you, and it wasn’t right of him to take it out on you. 

You spend many nights ranting and raving to the pogues, who mercifully limit their ‘I-told-you-so’s under the threatening gaze of one Kiara Carrera. 

“I can’t believe I was blind for so long, I let him treat me like shit and I pushed you guys away.” You’re laying on the bow of the HMS with Sarah and Kie beside you.

“It’s not your fault, y/n/n, believe me,” Sarah tells you, running a hand through your hair soothingly. 

“I don’t condone cheating, but I almost understand why you did it,” you admit tearfully to Sarah, who only smiles at you.

Two weeks pass like this, before JJ interrupts your ranting telling you it’s time to move on and that any guy would be lucky to land the hottest chick on the island. The sentiment makes you smile, but you know you won’t be able to move on. Not just yet. Topper had your whole heart and had tossed it onto the concrete, shattering it into a million pieces.

The pogues decide the best cure for heart break is to throw a wild kegger and let you get drunk out of your mind to forget. JJ even gives you a joint, winking at you and telling you “hydroponic” before throwing finger guns at you and walking away. Things are going well, you’re three or four beers in, all cares thrown into the wind when your spine stiffens as you spot Topper.

You catch his eye from across the boneyard, your pulse painfully beating in your ears as your traitorous heart races at the sight of him. He’s got his arm around some pretty little kook who you’d only really seen at Figure 8 parties he had dragged you to.  You think there’s a little guilt in his expression, maybe a little longing and regret too, but his arm remains firmly around the girl. She looks up at Topper, before following his gaze right to you. You see her tense, and then relax as you hear clear as day not to worry, that you’re just some crazy pogue. 

You meet his eyes again, mouthing “Fuck you forever”, before leaning into Kie’s side as you walk back into the thick of the party, letting Topper tell the next girl you’re just a mad woman.

No one likes a mad woman What a shame she went mad You made her like that

obx tag list (ily guys!!): @danicarosaline​ @velyssaraptor​ @copper-boom​

[isbus]

The City

Summary

Adam begins his adventure at the main spot for Greedy demons.

Chapter 2: All Bets Are Off

“What else do they have here?” I ask before regretting my decision as I knew, they have everything... don’t they? I groaned as he started listing off things such as clubs, restaurants, museums, casinos, wait, casinos? That sounds fun! Let’s go to the casino! I hope I’ll see King Dice or someone like that! “Let’s go to the casino!” 

“Which one? The Bettigan Casino is the most popular but if you want the least popular then...” he trailed off as I fake-snored. “Soo... you want the Bettigan Casino?”-I nod-“Alright, basic bitch casino it is.” He took my hand and dragged me out of the club to the packed streets, looking for bright lights and loud sounds as if he was a zombie. “This way, sidekick.”

Sam walked over to the right and over through an alley filled with moans, and groans, and lascivious noises just to be in front of a very bright building that was covered in multiple different lights. We entered through the velvet doors and saw multiple crazy sights- beautiful people playing outrageous games, many creatures with instruments playing on a stage, and people watching the music being played. 

“Wow... this place is huge!” I shake Sam with excitement and energy. I could hear Rock It For Me by Caravan Palace being played by the band but it quickly ended and soon Trouble by Cage the Elephant started. A girl with blonde hair and a red dress with a card skirt began to sing. “What should we do?” I was out-of-my-mind excited. 

“Haven’t you been in a casino before?” he asked, sounding curious as if the sights were new to him as well. 

“No, I died at 19.” I say matter-of-factly. He groans in response. 

“Shit, I died at 21 and didn’t get a chance to go to a casino so... I guess we’re both fucked on the thought of doing something here...” he looked down at his shoes before hearing the clicks from the shoes of someone who stood over him. He looked up when seeing his shadow overlapped by another man’s shadow. 

“Hello there, I’m Spade Clubs, but please, call me one or the other.” He smiled with pearly white teeth and pale rose lips. He had a brown quiff, a blue vest, dark blue slacks, a green club tie, a club mark next to his mouth, a green and blue top hat, and dark forest green dress shoes. His smile, which was directed towards Sam, suddenly became a grin when seeing me stare. “Are you curious, Adam?” 

“How do you know my name?” I ask. He chuckles back at me and pushes my fringe aside to look at me in both of my eyes. 

“I can see your horns, Adam.” I stare into his club and spade pupils as his face gets close to mine. He immediately backs up and laughs. “I’m kidding! I know it because I have my own Dead Encyclopedia!” I look awfully scared as he asks what’s up. 

“Oh, you got me, that’s all.” I felt the top of my head for safe measures. He laughs some more at my reaction, making me sound a little irritated at his annoying laugh. I bet some girl in the audience thinks it’s sexy. I laughed along with him before continuing to talk. “So, What should we do here?” I ask. 

“What do you feel like doing? Playing games? Listening to music? Having fun?” He whispered the last question just to wink. 

“None of that, we’re not fags!” Sam tried to defend before saying another word. “You’re not gay, right?” I shake my head. 

“I didn’t say you had to have me, you could have Diamond if you wanted to. But that’s not the point... you can do anything you want down here including eating broccoli soup with belladonna leaves! So, do what you wanna do, eat what you wanna eat, play what you wanna play, and so on and so forth.” His hands done weird gestures as he spoke about what happens down here. He laughed after he was done explaining. “So, I’ll help you out with what you can do down in Mr. Bettigan’s Casino of Fun and- well- fun!” 

I smile as he begins to push us towards a table by a window. We sat down and watched as the star of the show sing the final parts of the song. She vocalized at the end before exiting the stage. I noticed Spade walk over to the backstage but I couldn’t tell what was happening from there. Suddenly I saw them both walk out from backstage and walk towards our table. Women were vocalizing and once I looked on the stage, I saw a bowl of clam chowder sat on a stool behind the microphone. 

“How do you do? I see you met my faithful waiting-man.” She sung to the beat. I noticed that the clam chowder, as anyone would expect, wasn’t singing. She smiled. “Alright I’m done with the jokes. I’m Diamond Hearts. What’s your name? Isn’t it Adam Vil?”

I nearly shouted in rage from how pretty much everyone I met knew my name. “Yes, how’d you know?” I asked, sounding a tad annoyed.. 

“Oh, this is simple, it goes a little like Spade-told-me-everything.” She laughed. “Now, what would you like to do? Eat, drink, play, or all of the above?” I was hungry so I told her that I wanted to do all of the above starting with food. Spade moved over to the a door which I presumed lead to the kitchen and came out with menus in the crook of his arm. Diamond took one from Spade and then passed it over to me. Spade gave the other one to Sam while looking over at Diamond with a sincere smile. 

“Touch the button in the middle whenever you’re ready to order and I’ll be rushing to your table in a matter of time.” He directed his smile to us before strutting over to the entrance where he began to wait for the next people to enter. I pulled up the menu that was handed to me and searched the menu for something that suited my fancy. 

Sam on the other hand, looked over the menu then put it down with the speed of Usain Bolt. He looked over at me as I gave him a questioning stare. “What? All I want is a bottle of whiskey and some chicken tenders.” He nearly shouted. Spade heard that and rushed over to our table. 

“Didn’t I tell you that you have to press the button? But never mind your mistake, I presume you’re ready to order?” He asked sounding kind to cover up his anger. “You,”-he pointed to Sam-“ordered whiskey and chicken tenders; couldn’t forget that for the world. So, Adam, what would you like?” He looked over at me— was his spade pupil always on the left side? 

“I want vodka and Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes.” I simply stated while Sam glared. 

“Oh! How exciting and different that is! I’ll get my cooks to make it the best just for you as you ARE the prince of Hell.” He giggled like a girl then ambled over to the kitchen. I stared at Sam as he glanced back at me from time to time.

He sounded irritated as he asked me the most boring question. “What?”  

“Nothing but one question; why whiskey and chicken tenders?” I didn’t know what to ask so I just asked a question that was in the back of my head and should have not been asked. It was awkward cause I knew what his response was, “Why should I tell you”, or “It’s because my family liked it”. But I never would guess anything like what he said. 

“I ate that when I died,” I assumed that his food was poisoned or something until I was fully aware of why their was a noose around his neck and a shirt that said ‘Beer Pong Champ’ in black sharpie on the blank canvas of a shirt. “Before I killed myself, I was drinking and eating that same meal. But then I got so drunk, I must’ve hung myself.”

My heart was tugged at as he spoken about his death. “That’s depressing...” I mumbled. I thought about my death and realized that we had similarities. "Wait," 

"What?" He quickly responded. 

I thought about it some more before continuing the conversation. "I had a friend when I was alive who committed suicide while intoxicated. Could that have been you?" I looked at him in the eyes. 

"I- Maybe... But my Adam didn't know his dad- Wait. That explains everything! No wonder we get along so well!" He reached over the table with his arms out for a hug. I rejoiced in my head and done the same as him. Our arms wrapped around each other as we smiled.

When we were in the middle of said hug, we heard someone clear their throat. "Hot food and cold drinks are here!" We stopped hugging, sat back down, and looked to see Spade with a tray of food. "Thank you." He smirked with a singy-song voice. Spade sat the food down in our respective areas along with the drinks towards the tops of our knives. 

"Thanks, Spade!" We both conveyed to him. 

He laughed since we were synchronized when speaking. "It's nothing as long as you pay the bill." Spade howled with laughter. "Now let me leave you two lovebirds alone." He began to walk away before we could start protesting against his words. Sam shook his head. 

"Never really liked the king, or the queen, or any of the card demons. They're all just bad people." Sam mumbled under his breath. 

I was very confused. "Who and what are you talking about?" I asked him like if I didn't know I was gonna die... again. 

Sam glared at Spade as he sashayed away. "Don't you know? He's the king of black cards, Diamond is the queen of red cards, there's two more but they don't go with the suits. They're just jack and joker. The people who run this place are card demons. They suffer from the sin of greed. Like Spade's death; he used to bet his life for a abundance of money." 

"Wow... I didn't think of that..." Then I started to think of the other sins. 

If they suffer from the sin of greed then there must be at least six other sins to deal with in my venture through The City... 

"Uh, hello? Ya there?" Sam snapped me back into reality with his rough voice that makes me- wait. I nearly said something I might regret... oOpS 

"Oh! Uh.. yeah just thinking." I responded awkwardly. 

"Don't think to much; those demons of Lovers Land really like a man who can think without his dick." He laughed. I didn't laugh until I came to realize that maybe the demons there might be strippers. I bet they work at a club like 'Satan is my Daddy'. 

"Haha, yeah." He was really funny for a guy with such a tragic backstory. Although, that makes sense since that one comedian said something about funny people being depressed and stuff. I can't remember the exact quote. But instead of dwelling on his sadness, I decided to eat. 

Once he remembered that he had food, after seeing me dig in, he took a few bites. "It seems they put a little bit of hearts hormones on my chicken tenders..." he told himself. 

"Of course we did!" Spade loomed over Sam and smiled with closed eyes. Suddenly opening them to see his pupils switched from what we were used to. "What better way to knock out the prince of Hell's friend?" That sincere smiled changed to a sinister grin. 

"Good thing that chef of yours put in only one shot." Out of fucking nowhere, the glass shattered leaving us with, surprisingly, no cuts? Once our eyes opened from the shock, we looked over to our right to see (insert LoZ Chest Opening Music here) a man with messy blonde hair, a decorative mask, and a Vega-like* costume. 

"Prince Adam," He began, his words muffled by the mask since it had no mouth holes. "It's time to meet your fate... AGAIN!" He shouted while drawing his sword, a blood stained katana. 

"Who in (censored)'s name are you?!" His eyes, which you could barely tell, widened. 

"How dare you speak the un-lord's name in vain?! No wonder the king sent me here to kill you... again." You could barely tell but he began glaring at me. "I wonder how many cuts it'll take for the Devil's son to officially die..." 

Sam throws a bottle down to get the guy's attention. "I bet you won't be able to cut him at all!" 

The man, about to cut me, stopped at the word 'bet'. "What are you going to give me in return?" 

"This!" He holds up a hand grenade which was covered in rust and had an upside down cross. 

It was clear that he wanted it, by the way he stared in awe. "The 'Unholy Hand Grenade'?! How did you get your hands on that?!" 

"Does it matter? It's yours if you manage to slice him at least once." Sam winks at me. 

"Did you just wink at him?" 

"Of course not. Why?" 

"I swore you did..." 

"If you keep it up I won't give you it." 

"Ugh!" The man rushes towards me with his katana. "Give me everything you got, Adam!" He begins by jabbing at me, which I avoided by backing up. I tripped over a table, but I immediately got behind it. Once I thought I was safe, he stabbed through the round table. If I was any closer, it would be through my head. 

I thought he would pull it out and try stabbing in a different area of the table, but he actually lifted the table with his sword. What is his sword made of?! 

I tried running away but, before I could, he grabbed my shirt. Then I remembered Sam's wink. I thought quickly about what it meant, then I saw him about to slice my neck. My first instinct was to put my arm in front of my neck. 

I looked at my arm, and there was a deep, bloody, cut. I was about to scream in fear and pain, but I realized something very weird. There was no pain. I didn't feel the cut or anything. I might be imagining things, but, it looked like it was beginning to close up. 

"I did it!" He shouted. "Now, give me that Unholy Hand Grenade and I will end this!" 

Sam slightly grins. "Alright," he starts taking the pin out. "I will." The masked man's mask falls off and shows his terror. 

"NO! PLEASE, NO!" He yells in a plea. Once the pin was nearly out, a man with blonde hair, a yellow shirt and sneakers, and a jacket with pants (both black), snatched the hand grenade out of Sam's hand- pin and all. 

"Yoinked!" He grins. "Buh-Bye!" He throws his hand down as if he thrown a smoke bomb, then yellow smoke filled the room, and he was gone. 

Everyone who was still here, coughed and gagged on the smoke. People opened the windows to air out the yellow fog, and saw something that kids shouldn't see. Where the man was standing when he 'Yoinked' the Unholy Hand Grenade, was a mini slot machine which had a dancing stick figure*. 

"Damn. My most expensive item." He looked down. 

I quickly changed the subject. "Sam, where are we going next, anyway?"

- NOTES -

*1: Vega is a character from the Street Fighter franchise who I inspired the Masked man Jack O. Trades off of. 

*2 The Dancing Stick figure is a reference to Henry Stickman (GET DISTRACTED)

[aloysiavirgata]

The Way That Light Attaches To A Girl

Title:  The Way That Light Attaches To A Girl

Author: Aloysia Virgata

Rating: PG (language)

Timeline: Season 1

Summary:  Maybe she’s not so bad, this gingery little doctor.

Author’s Notes:  Mulder reads Cicero and finds the method of loci tool useful in honing an eidetic memory. Also, the timeline of this show is absurd. Per canon, the Pilot is in March of 1992. But here it’s March of 1993 because...I just can’t, honestly. Thank you to @perplexistan for reminding me that I wrote this in 2013, and talking me through the timeline.

*** It's been a long December and there's reason to believe Maybe this year will be better than the last I can't remember all the times I tried to tell myself To hold on to these moments as they pass - Counting Crows *** It’s gritty outside, gritty and gray with a rime of salt on everything. There are pockets of rotten snow for him to kick, slushy and satisfying against his heavy shoes. He pulls his coat tighter, feeling like a hard-boiled detective in a pulp paperback, thinking this would be a good time for a cigarette if he still smoked. His divorce papers were filed this time last year, just like his parents’ had been a couple decades back. The ink had scarcely been dry on the marriage certificate when they realized they didn’t know each other and changed their minds. It was the same time Diana left him and his - their - files for whatever the fuck had summoned her across the sea. Paperwork, as ever in his life, was all that remained of these experiences. If this were really a detective story, he thinks, stepping over a soggy Washington Post, a tall cool blonde would have walked in through the frozen mist and into his arms. Someone lithe, with red lipstick and half-lidded violet eyes. She would look like Veronica Lake and speak in a low, compelling voice, urging him to do brave and outlandish things to thwart the Nazis. He’d wear a fedora, buy a mink stole for the blonde. They’d drink martinis and make love in dark hotels smelling of leather and intrigue. But he’s not living in a dime-store novel, he’s living in Alexandria on Christmas Eve 1993 (“The New Age of Angels,” claimed Time magazine, somewhat cryptically) and is eager to turn the last page in his calendar. Mulder knows it’s symbolic only, that his Eurocentrism is showing, but he still watches the ball drop on TV. Last year he’d kissed a woman in a bar and gone home with her too, but doesn’t think he’d remember her face if he saw it. He hasn’t got the energy to entice a stranger this year, and Scully’s hardly his type. He shouldn’t be sleeping with coworkers anyway, it’s never worth the trouble and the FBI is full of people who are paid to do nothing but sniff out secrets. Besides, he is now 32 years old which is really about time to start getting your shit together even if your baby sister was abducted by aliens at Thanksgiving. Mulder generally holds the holidays in low regard. He pauses to watch a small flock of cats at an upended trash can, feasting upon pungent things like battlefield ravens. One of the cats glances at him sidelong, narrowing round yellow eyes as though Mulder has designs on the gray thing it’s gnawing at. He holds his hands up to show the cats he wishes them no harm, keeps walking. Scully had offered to drive him home but he thanked her and caught the blue line, the clank and rattle of the train making him feel like some variety of normal businessman. Maybe people thought he was a banker or a Congressional staffer, going home to a twinkling Douglas fir and a mantle hung with stockings. Nine months and a broken condom can, in many circumstances, result in a whole new person. But it’s been nine months with Scully and she’s still her own woman, though Christ knows Mulder’s tried to remake her in his own image. She’s trudged alongside him through graveyards, military bases, bad diners, and one memorable night in Pennsylvania where she had captured a frantic bat in the hotel lobby. (“Do you want to wait for it to take human form before I release it?” she’d asked drily.) Through all of it she remained disbelieving and supercilious, leaving him vexed. She’d chirped “Merry Christmas, Mulder” at him, assuming that he celebrated Christmas and was capable of merriment. He was afraid Scully’d bring in a little Charlie Brown tree for the office, ornaments smooth and shining as her earnest face. She is skeptical in all the wrong ways and probably has the Michael Bolton Christmas album on her stereo at this very moment. She probably has eggnog in the fridge and will drink it without rum. She probably likes fruitcake and ham with pineapple rings on it. Mulder, going home to the shadows of his apartment where he might listen to Pink Floyd and nurse his resentment with three fingers of whiskey, feels justified in his scorn. A couple loaded with gifts pushes past him and he nearly loses his balance on a patch of black ice, clutches at a lamp post. He gazes up at the endless sky as snow begins to fall again. (Scully’s probably delighted by the prospect of a white Christmas, probably whistling a few bars of the song as she puts on a green sweater.) But he’s being unfair, isn’t he? For all her tattling back to the higher ups, she’s never tried to present herself as an angel. Her primary fault is in not being Diana, not being a tall dark moon goddess. Being pretty rather than beautiful, being frank rather than alluring. He’s seen her smoking a couple of times, discovered that she says “Jesus!” a lot so that she doesn’t say “fuck” or “shit.” This amuses him; he thought the blasphemy would be worse. He knows Scully watches what she eats but turns to carbohydrates and wine in times of stress. He found out she was sleeping with that asshole Jack Willis, which really threw him for a loop because Scully has a schoolteacherish quality that led him to presume premarital abstinence. He thinks of her in that first motel room, her smooth back beneath his hands, her panic turning on some masculine caveman switch. It’s been a long year, perhaps she could be his type after all despite her sensible underwear. She’s attractive enough if you like that sort of Hibernian look. He can tell she’s a bit awed by him and he could manipulate that to his advantage. Mulder walks the last slushy block thinking impious thoughts about Catholic school uniforms and playing doctor. The honeycomb tile of his building is muddied, layered with fragments of leaves and footprints. A radio blares something about Barbra Streisand doing her first live concert in twenty years. Mulder shakes his head and imagines his mother on the Vineyard, frothing with excitement. “Merry Christmas Agent Mulder,” says Leo, the maintenance guy. Leo’s got some kind of intellectual disability that Mulder hasn’t bothered to diagnose, but he’s always quick to replace a kicked-in lock or a shot-out window, and Mulder therefore regards him as a master craftsman. He gives Leo money every year at Christmas. At present he’s attacking the hallway sludge with an ancient mop. “Merry Christmas, Leo.” He gets his mail, sorting through it as he ambles to the elevator. Bill; bill; Playboy; Christmas cards from his doctor, dentist, and insurance agent; coupons; a thick manila envelope from the divorce attorney. Mulder rolls it all into a bundle and shoves it under his arm. He’s fumbling with his keys when the elevator deposits him on the fourth floor. There are wreaths on most of the doors in his building, a handful of mezuzas. Number 42, as usual, conforms to no given standard. He stops when he sees Scully leaning against his door. “Um,” he says. “Hey.” She waves her fingertips, looking uncomfortable. She’s holding a cardboard FedEx envelope. “I forgot to give you this before you left.” “Okay,” he says, uncertain about the idea of Scully on his turf. “Hang on a sec.” He makes sure the packet from the lawyer is hidden, though she’s probably heard the whole story. He knows what the talk is. They all act like he’s John fucking Douglas, like he can guess what number they’re thinking of based on how they part their hair. He’s a sideshow act, the guy who can think like John Roche and Monty Props. A freak. Scully turns to slouch against the wall while he jiggles the latest lock open, wishing there were a convenient place to stash a can of WD-40. “So, uh, come on in, I guess.” She turns, walks under his arm as he hold the door open, and stands in the entryway. The door clicks shut behind him, a final sound. Mulder puts his mail on the kitchen counter, tossing his coat over it. “You want anything to drink?” he calls to her, unsure if he can make good on the offer. What the hell does Scully drink? Tea? Zima? He’s got a few beers in the fridge, his wife’s wine is long finished. “No, I’m good.” Her coat’s draped over her arm when he comes back out, and he hangs it up for her. He notices that she’s wearing jeans with a navy cable-knit sweater, no tartan in sight. Her boots are dark and practical. Mulder shrugs off his jacket, loosens his tie out of its regulation noose. “Here, sit down. There’s, uh, the couch is right over there.” His couch is the atramentous green of algae, appearing black in the close room. “So what’s up?” She holds out the folder to him. “I realized I had this when I got home and since it’s a three day weekend, I wanted to make sure you had it. I thought it might be important.” Scully sits down close to the edge of the couch, much of her weight on her knees. She presses her hands together between them after Mulder takes the envelope, bouncing a little bit. He looks at the return address and groans. Arlinsky, that idiot from the Smithsonian. Mulder’s got enough credibility issues without this nutcase on his tail. He tosses the envelope on his cluttered desk for later perusal. Scully, as the messenger, looks apologetic. “Bad news?” He sits next to her, why not? “Nah, just…you know. The usual.” “Ah.” He watches her do a quick scan of his apartment. He has nothing to be ashamed of, she can look around. Mulder removes his tie completely now, untucks his shirt and leans into the corner of his couch. “So I’m surprised you’re here, Scully. I got the impression Christmas was a…thing. For your family.” He waves his hand vaguely, as though families are something he read about in a Margaret Mead article but never fully understood. Something closes in Scully’s face, which intrigues him. Discomfort usually comes with a good story, but he’ll tease it out of her later. She scratches her elbow, stalling. “I’m going to go by my parents’ house tomorrow.�� “Not tonight? No big Scully celebration with stockings hung by the fire and cookies for Santa?” He has picked these ideas up from Oxford and Christmas music. Santa would probably prefer a cold longneck and some nachos. “My sister’s coming in tomorrow, she’s staying with my parents so they’re getting everything ready tonight. My younger brother and his family too, they’re getting in late.” Scully looks faintly guilty for this wealth of relatives. Which one of them are you avoiding, Dana? “Fun,” he says in a tone that he hopes is not sarcastic. Scully shrugs, picks at the cuff of her sweater. “Yeah, it’ll be good. I’ll get to see my niece and nephew. What about you? What are you doing?” “Oh, just…you know. Laying low.” He’s meeting up with the Gunmen for Chinese food and bootleg video games from some Japanese guy they know, but he’s not ready to tell Scully about them. In part because she might want to meet them and would end up charging Frohike with a sex crime. “Sounds good,” she says in a non-judgmental tone. “I could use some down time myself.” “Job wearing on you?” Going to wimp out and request a transfer? She puffs a breath of air out, pushes the tip of her tongue to her top lip. “No. Well, I mean, it’s hard. We travel so much, I didn’t do that before and it’s taking some adjustment.” Mulder drapes an arm over the back of the couch, wishing he could take his pants off and order a pizza. But he wants to know more about what drives her; Diana left him wary of unknown quantities, and this is his first opportunity to peer into Scully’s head. “Yeah, I guess they mostly shipped the cadavers to you before, huh? When you were doing doctor things?” He sees a slight narrowing of her eyes at this, the implication that she’s not a doctor now. The fact that she took it as an insult means it’s a vulnerability. “Mostly.” He decides to push it, being as he has home field advantage. “How come you decided to stop practicing medicine?” Scully sits up straight, her palms on the tops of her thighs. “I didn’t realize I had.” Prickly. “Oh, sorry, no offense. I just….you left your residency to join the FBI, right?” Faker, he knows her career trajectory down to the day. “My work as a Special Agent has always revolved around my background in forensic pathology. I just felt…called to the FBI as the place to best put those skills to use.” Called, religious imagery. Interesting. Her reply had a rehearsed sound, it’s something she’s repeated numerous times. Who gives her grief about being an FBI agent? A younger brother wouldn’t, would probably look up to that. Mom or Dad, most likely, though it could be one of the older siblings. He’d put his money on Dad or big brother based on the cold formality of her words. Both men are in the military, she’d speak to that. And big brother wasn’t mentioned as being in town, so Dad it is. He throws her a bone for revealing so much. “I’ve heard nothing but commendations.” “Thanks.” The appreciation seems genuine. “So what about you, Mulder? Why….this?” Scully holds her arms out like an orchestra conductor. The gesture encompasses his desk, the groaning bookshelves and fading newspaper clippings. Area 51, Reticulans, ectoplasm, and jackalopes. “Study hard what interests you the most in the most undisciplined, irreverent and original manner possible,” he quotes. “Feynman.” Scully knows her physicists. “It’s the perfect con, really. I figured out a way to get the federal government to pay for my hobbies.” He hopes that will satisfy her, but knows better. “Why is it your hobby?” Ah, Scully. You little investigator, you. “I’m a lousy knitter.” She smiles. “Because of your sister?” He steeples his fingertips, taps them against his chin. It’s tempting to blow her off, but he considers the implications of her presence. There was no reason to bring that letter by; she could have called and he could have told her to round-file it. She’s trying to build something between them, she’s looking past his annoyance with her assignment and he’s not going to slap her hand away on Christmas Eve. “Hold that thought,” he says. Mulder goes to the kitchen for the beers and the churchkey magnet stuck to the freezer. He checks for food, but a cursory examination reveals that Scully is going to have to make do with some brews. She’s peering into the fish tank when he returns, scrutinizing the inhabitants. “I think one of your mollies is pregnant,” she says. “That spotted one.” “Yeah, they’re prolific little cannibals. Here, Scully. Have a drink.” He holds the bottle out to her when she turns, watches her hesitate for an instant before accepting. “Thanks,” she says. “Though I probably shouldn’t.” She pops the lid off when he’s done with the opener. Takes a long drink. “So,” he says, returning to his seat on the couch. “Why do I spend my time looking for ET and yetis, right?” Scully rolls the bottle between her palms. “It’s hard for me to understand why someone with your abilities chooses to use those gifts this way.” Once she rides out this dogleg, Mulder thinks, she’ll go far in the Bureau with her careful diplomacy. “When my sister was…taken, it was the first time that none of the authority figures in my life had an answer. Not my parents, my teachers, the police…no one could tell me what had happened. Years went by and there was still no solution. People stopped thinking about it, you know? They just acted like she was gone and that’s all there was to it.” “But not you.” Her voice is gentle. “I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that this was a question with an answer, even if no one wanted to delve deeper into what that answer was. I became, well, obsessed with the idea that there were all of these mysteries out there with answers that people were uncomfortable finding. So when I found the X-Files…” He glances sidelong at his partner, her nutmeg freckles and her cinnamon hair. “Isn’t that what you were doing already, though? Solving impossible cases?” He shrugs. “They weren’t impossible. They followed a pattern if you knew what to look for. But what I do now, no one wants the answer, Scully. That’s the real challenge.” “You caught Monty Props. Props, Jesus, that case is legendary! I want to understand, I do. I see what you’re saying about the challenge, it does make a kind of sense. But when I think about the people you stopped…” She shakes her head. She doesn’t get it. But she’s trying instead of dismissing him. That’s something. “That’s just it. Your reaction, it’s…look. Serial killers, they’re sexy. The public loves them. Everyone wants to be Bill Patterson or, or… Jack Crawford, right? People still read about Jack the Ripper, they practically turn these psychopaths into folk heroes. There will never be a shortage of people wanting to do what I did.” Half the beer is gone in his next swallow. Scully looks thoughtful, her thumbnail at the damp corner of the label on her bottle. “So this is like, what? Like a martyr thing? If you walk away from the limelight for this then it makes up for never knowing what happened to your sister?” She turns her head to give him a level gaze, her eyes so blue and clear they seem artificial at times. He’s been called worse than a martyr, but somehow it stings. “Martyr? That’s condescending.” “I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sorry. I just, I guess it’s hard for me to understand what you hope to gain. What all this means to you in the end.” Mulder’s had enough of her analysis. “I’m not like you, I don’t crave approval.” It’s her turn to look stung. “I didn’t mean to pry.” He sighs. “Your questions aren’t unfair. It’s been a hard year.” “I heard.” There’s sympathy in her tone and he tries not to resent it. “Listen, Scully, I know you didn’t ask for this assignment and you’re doing your best with a bad hand. It’s just hard to share a career I’m passionate about with someone who pretty clearly thinks it’s a waste of time.” Scully sets her beer on the coffee table, resting her elbows on her knees, her hands cupped around her chin. Mulder props his feet up next to her bottle, patient in the silence. There are deep shadows in the room, illuminated by the ambient streetlight through the curtains, the cool blue aquarium lamp. Puddles of light leak from the kitchen, but they barely stain the rug. Scully looks like a Hitchcock girl, white and pure, untouched by the surrounding gloom. She reminds him of Ingrid Bergman or Greta Garbo, her good bones and heavy-lidded eyes. “You know,” Scully says, muffled, “Pathology’s hardly the hottest specialty in med school. It’s not really seen as a place to make a career.” “The malpractice can’t be bad though, right?” She rolls her eyes. “You spend years of your life learning to care for the living and use it to examine the dead. People have…opinions about that.” This had not occurred to him, and he says as much. Scully sits up and settles back into the couch. “And to then take that to the FBI, well…” Full circle to the truth. “Lots of grief for that?” She shrugs. “From some more than others. My dad, he – look, Mulder. I’m not saying we’re in the same place or have the same ideas or that we’re both noble misunderstood renegades. I am not trying to oversimplify anything. I’m just telling you that I know what it’s like to care deeply about something that other people don’t necessarily understand.” She looks defensive after this, takes a fierce swig of her beer. Mulder eyes her up with a new appreciation. “I guess I just figured all doctors sit on pedestals.” “If so, some of the pedestals are much higher than others. I know you don’t like me, Mulder. Or at least you don’t like our partnership. We may never be friends, I realize that. But it’s been three quarters of a year, you have to let your guard down if we’re going to work together. I want what you want, answers to these questions.” He smiles at her. A real smile, and thinks that it’s been a long time since he’s done it. “But you still think I’m spooky.” Scully smiles back. “Absolutely. And I still don’t believe in aliens. Or yetis. Or missing time or vampires or Nessie. But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe there are answers.” He scratches his chin, five o’clock shadow rough on his fingertips. Maybe she’s not so bad, this gingery little doctor. “I did say I wanted a challenge.” “You did at that.” She returns her bottle to the table, then turns to face him. The aquarium provides a ghostly backlight, her hair gleaming like rubbed copper. He holds this image of Scully in his mind until it is indelible, then tucks it away to remember her by. The Rhetorica ad Herennium advises sensory encoding to aid in recall, and so he places her in the sunlit portrait gallery of his memory palace. Scully stands, crosses the room to take her coat from the rack. “I’m sorry the letter wasn’t good news.” Mulder gets up to join her. “It’s okay.” He squints when she opens the door, the hallway so bright it hurts his eyes. “Thanks for bringing it by.” “Okay, well, I’ll see you on Monday, I guess.” She seems hesitant to go. She probably feels sorry for him. “Thanks for the drink. And the company.” “Go,” he says. “You don’t want coal in your stocking for oversleeping tomorrow.” She laughs a little, then takes his hands in her small white ones. She gives them a squeeze. “This is going to be okay, Mulder.” He thinks she might be right, squeezes back. She lets go of him, walks out and turns right. He locks up behind her, her perfume still lingering on his side of the door. Diana’s not coming home. It’s time that he moved on.

[hydra-collector]

Suck Me Out

Ships: Intrulogical, some Intruloceit

Characters: Remus Sanders, Logan Sanders, Janus Sanders (minor character), Roman Sanders (minor character), Virgil Sanders (minor character), Patton Sanders (minor character)

TW: Self-harm, choking, autoerotic asphyxation (not really though), depression, self-deprecation, I don’t want to spoil but if any of those previous tags bother you even a little, I suggest you don’t read this (I’ll tag the spoiler, though), cursing

Words: 1,716

Summary: Remus wouldn't expect them to understand. He's intrusive thoughts, god of kinks. Of course they wouldn't see it. But once in a while he wished they would.

"I'm serious, Logan," Remus gestured to his tightly adorned garment, "necktie."

Logan rolled his eyes at his boyfriend. "When you're done with your kinks, join us for movie night. We finally get to watch a documentary."

Remus shrugged and pulled tighter the pretty blue tie that had previously been on Logan's neck. His face was purple from the cutoff of blood and his hand struggled to keep grip. He began to tilt backwards a little towards the wall before Logan took his arm and pried away the tie.

"Remus, stop. You're gonna fall."

"But it feels so good."

Logan only sighed in response and reclaimed the tie around his own neck, leading Remus to the living room. 

Roman was the first to speak out of the welcoming mumbles.

"Remus, save your arousal for night time. We're trying to watch a fun movie about space," though he seemed skeptical of the amount he could enjoy a documentary.

Patton scolded the two of them for mentioning such subjects, but swiftly put on the movie anyway. 

Virgil and Roman became surprisingly enamored in the science of black holes and their possible opposite, white holes. Logan excitedly paused it at multiple points to fawn over or elaborate on some of the research like a child. Remus, however, sat leaning against Logan, staring mindlessly at the television.

What if I was in a black hole? 

Remus tried to shake the thought off, but it was persistent. 

If black holes lead to white ones that spit you out into another universe, could my world here end? 

Maybe he'd be happy in this other universe. Something in his brain would change and the sadness would be gone. Or maybe it'd be traumatic. 

"...Remus!"

"Huh?"

"I paused the movie to see if you were alright. You did not seem to notice when I did."

"Yeah, I'm, I'm fine. Think I'll just…" mumbling off something about the bathroom. 

The minute he left he felt lonely. And stupid. Lonely and stupid. He shouldn't have let them see that. Now Logan's gonna be concerned because there's obviously something wrong. He stared intently at the mirror. 

Ugly. They hate me. 

What if he said that to them? He'd be guilt-tripping them and he'd be a terrible person. Even thinking it , he's a terrible person. Die.

His arms flashed to his neck, grabbing as tight as possible. His balance began failing… 

No, he can't do that. Then he worries them and they don't need that. How does he even know death is better than this?

Thomas doesn’t need him. Thomas doesn’t want him. His mental health would be better if he never even existed. Thomas doesn’t deserve what he does.

I want to fix that.

He can't help but cry. Muffled shrieks that must sound like moans from the living room. Sharp breaths that must sound like enjoyment slip out. Hits to his arms and legs that only add to the many bruises sound disgusting to them.

But none of it is. 

Sure, they have good reason to believe that Remus has some kinks, he is indeed mostly intrusive thoughts, which he’d admit is related to kinks, but he half-wished they wouldn't assume. He didn't really want them to know, but it killed him to be constantly alone about it. 

Alone.

Forever alone.

Logan, Patton, Roman, and Virgil. They’re the “light sides.” Of course he’s happy Janus got accepted, but… he doesn’t get that. He probably never will.

Fuck it. 

He tiptoed his way to his bedroom, ceiling adorned with a hook in preparation. On a day easier than this, he’d drilled it for today. Under his bed sat a box holding the rope, paper, and pen he’d carefully hidden. He thanked his previous self.

Tying the noose, his ears kept open for visitors wondering where he was. Before he hung himself at last, he wrote.

I’m sorry. 

Patton, Virgil, I love you. Janus, I love you. My brother, I love you. And Logan. I love you. Thank you for caring. 

But it wasn’t a kink.

He questioned if he should refer to Roman as his brother, and decided at last to do it. He didn’t want to alienate him as he died. He’d never get to tell him again.

I’m glad this is the end. I wasn’t needed.

He kicked the chair from under him.

Thomas will be happier without me.

As the rope constricted, relief and fear washed over him.

They all will.

“Remus!”

--

His throat hurt.

“Remus?”

He then noticed he could see a face. A beautiful face.

Logan?

“L-”

As soon as he tried to speak, his throat stopped him. Logan took his cheek in comfort.

“It’s okay, Remus. We found you. You’re going to be okay.”

He looked around to find he was sitting on his soft bed, pillows piled behind his head. The rope, and the hook were both gone. A drill, that had presumably been used to remove the hook, sat on the far dresser.

“We found your note.” It was Roman this time.

“I’m so sorry we ever thought it was a kink. We should have talked to you.” Logan’s eyes were gazing prettily at Remus’s.

“-”

He was reminded he couldn’t speak, so pointed to the paper on which his note was, and made a writing motion. Logan soon obliged to his wishes, though getting a different paper. Remus began to write. Again.

You had good reason to think it was.

He smiled a bit, and would have laughed, when Roman and Logan read this. They didn’t seem as amused as he was, and only looked worried. He flailed his arms to get the paper back.

Y’all don’t understand my sense of humor.

Where’s everyone else?

Logan beckoned to the door and Janus, Virgil, and Patton came in. Seeing Janus’s scales, his beautiful face… he never did get to ask him out.

Janus.

Logan brought him over while Remus wrote his message.

Probably not the best time, but I’d like to take this opportunity to tell you that both me and Logan have a crush on you.

“What?”

His human side grew red. Someone, who you like, who’s just attempted suicide telling you they want to date you is a very odd feeling.

“Remus, what did you-” Logan attempted to look at his message to Janus, and immediately shut up when he saw it.

Can I talk to Virgil now?

Virgil had been snickering in his corner, seemingly able to read the paper. He stopped as soon as he was called, putting on a more serious face.

Sorry Janus pushed you down the stairs.

“Wh- you’re not going to say some sad thing about me leaving the dark sides and you getting depressed? Just apologizing for Janus?”

I’m not going to blame it on you. It was Janus who pushed you down the stairs. And my idea.

“I’d call you an asshole but you’ve just attempted suicide and this is your daily personality.”

Remus made peace signs before requesting to talk to Patton, who unsurprisingly apologized over and over for treating Remus like a piece of shit. He did need to apologize, but Remus knew he was making an effort. Even if it wasn’t going very well.

Hey Ro-Ro, my bro-bro.

Roman also apologized. 

I mean we were literally split for you to be the “good” brother and me to be the “bad” one. If anything that made it the worst.

Roman had nothing to do but give him a hug.

Logan,

could I have a kiss?

Logan smiled and kissed Remus lightly on the cheek. He was pretty sure it wasn’t a good idea to kiss someone on the lips if they’d been frothing at the mouth. 

That was tiny!

He would have gone to cuddle and kiss Remus more if no one else had been there. For now, Remus hugged everyone individually until they dispersed. 

Thankfully, Logan was put on watch duty, to make sure Remus really was feeling better, as he seemed, and wouldn’t try anything.

Logan pressed kisses to Remus’s forehead, cheeks, and nose. His warmth bled onto Remus, who desperately needed it. Logan’s eyes were beautiful. His arms wrapped around him. He felt safe. Remus snuggled into the affection, nearly happy he’d attempted suicide and been found. But-

He picked up the pen and paper again, reluctant to let go.

Logan, what if I did that because I wanted attention?

“Hey, Remus, no. You did it because everyone’s been against you. It’s made you feel like you don’t matter. But you do. We need you. Even if you did because of attention, it was because you needed attention. It’s okay if you wanted attention. If you were willing to go to… those lengths just to get attention, you needed it.”

Logan

thank y-

Remus’s eyes filled with bittersweet tears before he managed to finish writing, and he clutched Logan tight. He let go again to tell him more.

I felt so horrible. I still feel so horrible. I’m sorry I acted so happy when I wasn’t. I know you care but I shouldn’t be here. All I do is hurt Thomas. Now I’ll hurt him even more because I failed. He’s going to feel like shit. I’d pull out my own organs and put them in my horrible person pile if I could. It would have been okay if I’d succeeded. I’m so sorry if you would’ve missed me, but I can’t keep hurting Thomas. If I would’ve died he would have been fine, but I failed so-

Remus sobbed into Logan’s arms again, laying as close as possible, feeling his warmth, his body as much as possible. His boyfriend rubbed his hand over his back, arms, through his hair. He was starting to cry a little as well. He felt so horrible that he hadn’t helped how Remus felt.

“Remus, if a part of Thomas died, he’d have a piece of himself missing. It may not seem like Thomas wants or needs you, but you’re a part of him nonetheless.”

What do I do?

“Remus,” Logan turned his boyfriend’s face gently to look him in the eyes, “all you need to do is stay alive.”

What if I can’t?

“I'll be with you. As long as you need. You stay alive as long as you can.”

[writingwithadinosaur]

“A Helping Hand” - Oneshot?

“A Helping Hand” - Oneshot

My Masterlist - Here

My Tag List - Here

Malcolm Bright x Reader

Word Count: 3,082

Key: Y/N = Your Name, H/C = Your Hair Color, E/C = Your Eye Color Chunks or lines of text that are in italics means that its (Y/N)’s thoughts.

Warnings: Cursing, Violence, Death (Murder Victim), Anxiety, Fears/Phobias (Specifically focusing on sharp objects, bugs/insects, water, and the fear of imperfection), Gunshot, Talk of Suicide, the joys of writing about a serial killer based on fear. 

Summary: Working a serial killer case hits a bit close to home with the latest victim. Malcolm offers a helping hand. 

Author’s Note: This all started because I tried to think of how Malcolm would handle a situation involving someone who suffers from dermatillomania. This is a bit of a selfish piece because my own anxiety, depression, and ADHD manifest itself in the form of skin picking and biting a lot. 

Please read the warnings because this is a bit heavy with death and anxiety and fear talk. I do hope that this ends up making you smile though.

This is not beta-read so please let me know if there are any mistakes!

If you guys like this story or want this “Scarecrow” killer to be continued, let me know. I already have a little bit of an idea on how to make this into a series. <3 

If you would like to be tagged in any of my future pieces, check out my tag list above and let me know! And as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!

<3

- DreaSaurusREX

~~~~~~~~

You weren’t a rookie by any means, you have been in law enforcement and a little bit of psychology backgrounds for the last 5 years. But you were the newest member in this part of the NYPD. 

You really didn’t have a choice but to grow with and trust your team with the crazy shit that’s happened over the last few months. Lately, everyone has been going crazy trying over a serial killer dubbed as the “Scarecrow.” He or she took inspiration from the Batman villain and started to prey on people with phobias. 

Malcolm had some theories, but for now all you knew was the type of person that the killer targeted and no other obvious correlation between the victims. While Gil, JT, and Dani went out for lunch, Malcolm was at his desk going over the file while you found yourself stuck in the big meeting room during your break, staring at the board full of what your team had so far, trying to find anything that had somehow gone overlooked.:

Vic #1 - Omar Klinden. 25 years old. In a relationship, boyfriend’s alibi checked out. Omar was an entomophobe, someone that fears any sort of bug or insect. He was found tied to a chair in a storage unit that had three walls full of different types of bugs in glass cases, a tarantula, a handful of cockroaches, and some flesh-eating bugs on him. Cause of death was strangulation.

Vic #2 - Daphne Stewards. 26 years old. Single. Hydrophobe, someone that fears water. Found hanging above her bathtub full of water. Shallow tubs of water were laid all over the floor, preventing her from walking away if she had somehow gotten the noose from around her neck. Cause of death was hanging.

Vic #3 - Giorgio Lucinta. 33 years old. Single. Aichmophobe, someone that fears needles or pointed objects. Found tied to his dining room table with a multitude of knives, needles, and scissors stuck in the table and hanging from the lamp above the table. Multiple cuts were found over his body. Cause of death was loss of blood. 

The victims didn’t know each other. All three were in therapy for their phobias, but they all saw different therapists. Each body was found in different areas of the city. The only thing connecting them was the fact that before they died, they were tortured by being forced to endure their own personal fears before being murdered. 

Scarecrow isn’t physically taking anything from the victims, which means what they are taking from the victims is pleasure. They enjoy seeing people in complete and unfiltered fear for their lives. Each murder has shown more and more craftsmanship. They have been taking more and more time to set up something elaborate with each victim. They--

Before you could keep going, the door behind you opened to Malcolm with a sort of excited smile on his face.

“Gil called. We got a body.”

~~~~

“Victim is Wendy Undurmein. 26 years old. She was an analyst at the Cyrane theater down the road.” Gil gave you the rundown before you even entered the building.

“Cause of death?” You asked while slipping on some gloves, interested to know why you and Malcolm were called. 

“Gunshot wound to the head. It looks like suicide.”

“So then why are we here?” You could hear the slight annoyance in Malcolm’s voice, as if the case wasn’t interesting enough for him. 

Gil just motioned for you to follow him. He lead you through the apartment building and onto the third floor. JT and Dani were in the hallway, talking to a couple who you assumed to be the neighbors of the victim. Behind the normal yellow crime scene tape on the door of apartment 3538 made you realize why Gil called.

Wendy was tied to a chair in what you think to be the dining room, except every piece of furniture was replaced with an excessive amount of mirrors and lights circling and pointing at the chair in the center of the room.

“This is why I called you in.” Gil steps aside and lets you and Malcolm begin your observations.

You started by looking at the victim, Wendy. She looked younger than 26. Her shaggy bobbed brunette hair framed her delicate facial features. She was most likely wearing what she wore to work that morning. She had been wearing makeup, but you could see where some of it melted away from the tear tracks seen around her eyes and down her cheeks. 

She was tied to a nicer made wood chair, but only by her waist and ankles. Odd for a supposed suicide victim to tie herself up before shooting herself. Her head was thrown to the side, from the gunshot wound on her right temple. You follow her right arm down to the floor where the gun would have landed after she shot herself, but there was no gun in sight.

While you were inspecting Wendy, Malcolm was wandering the scene, absorbing everything he could and trying to figure out the meaning of the mirrors and lights or the reason why the rest of the apartment looked normal compared to this single room.

“Where’s the gun?” You peak through a break between a couple of mirrors and find Gil watching Malcolm to make sure he doesn’t mess anything up. He shrugged his shoulders a little bit as he answered you.

“No gun.”

“What do you mean ‘no gun?’ Unless I’m seeing things, she has a bullet hole in her skull.”

“I mean there was no gun found at the scene of the crime.” Gil shifted his gaze to you tilting his head slightly, making it really click as to why you were called. 

“Someone else was here before, during, or after this all happened.” Malcolm piped out the now obvious truth from behind one of the mirrors, inspecting it to see if there was anything odd about it. Dani and JT walked in as he spoke.

“I’m assuming before and during. Right after the gunshot was heard, the neighbors called 911 and reported it. When they came in, it was just Wendy here.”

You panned around the scene, trying to find anything else, but then you realized that no one had mentioned the elephant in the room: The mirrors and lights.

“All of this makes a bit more sense if there was someone else here.” Malcolm motioned to the setup, no one spoke up.

He turned to you as if to ask, “What? You don’t see it?” And you had to admit that you could see some possible things, but you were sure that he had a bigger and more coherent picture in his head. You motioned for him to go on.

“These are set up to make sure that Wendy had nowhere else to look other than at herself. The lights are set up so that virtually no shadows would be cast on any part of her, making every pore, line, and hair visible.” He stood behind the chair with Wendy’s body still tied to it, looking at every mirror to see the different angles. “I gotta say that some of these angles are pretty unflattering.” He paused, thinking out loud. “Maybe that was the point: To show the imperfections.”

“Could also be the reason why she wore so much makeup. To try to hide any blemishes,” Dani spoke up. 

You and Malcolm swapped. Now he was inspecting the victim and you looked at the scene. But you didn’t look at the mirrors, you looked at the rest of the apartment. Everything was in order. The bed was made as if it was a hotel bed, the towels on the towel racks were perfectly hung. She had awards and degrees hung up perfectly aligned on her wall. Showcasing her achievements. 

Imperfections. The word kept sticking out in your brain when something clicked: She was trying to prove that she wasn’t a screw up; that she was doing good things and good work. She wanted to be as perfect as she could be. 

As you kept looking and piecing more and more together, Malcolm’s discoveries validated your theory.

“She has small cuts around her fingers as if she was picking or biting at them. Her lips look bitten up too.”

“So? It’s New York and it's been cold out. Maybe it's just the weather making her skin dry or somethin’?” JT questioned.

“Check the inside of her cheeks.” You speak up, a bit panicked from the kitchen, finding everything in picturesque form like the rest of the apartment. You had also found the various pills on her counter. One bottle was paroxetine, an SSRI for treating chronic anxiety disorders, making your thoughts race as you realized the possible severity of this case. 

“Excuse me?” Gil spoke up, confused as to where you were going. Malcolm had looked away from Wendy to watch you walk back towards them, noticing small psychological hints that the others wouldn’t. Your eyes were flicking to different parts of Wendy, your breathing was slightly shaky, and you had a look that told him that you were trying to keep your cool while your mind was frantic.

You kept your breathing as controlled as you could, but you felt your chest tightening. You know these signs because you have lived through them. You tried to not focus on your hands while you explained your thought process.

“I think this may be a Scarecrow victim.” 

Gil walked up next to you, you felt yourself starting to nip at the insides of your cheeks as he whispered “Are you sure? This doesn’t look like it fits his profile. We can’t just throw that out in the air without knowing 100%...”

Malcolm was curious but cautious, so he stayed silent as you went on, keeping a close eye on you to see if you were going to be okay. 

“Wendy had anxiety. She--”

“So does most of New York. That doesn’t mean she’s a Scarecrow Vic.” JT quipped.

“Hear her out.” Malcolm defended before giving his attention to you, motioning for you to go on.

“Wendy had anxiety. It could be generalized anxiety disorder, but I think it's more than just ‘generalized.’ You kept saying imperfections and it made me realize how much she valued perfection… and feared imperfection. The fear of imperfection is called Atelophobia. It also means to fear not being good enough.”

You were visually focusing on Wendy’s body, but as you said “phobia” you saw Gil step away, sigh, and run his hand over his face from the corner of your eye. He, and everyone else in the room, were beginning to believe that this was the work of their serial killer. Malcolm knew about the phobia, but kept listening to see how far you could explain before needing help.

“She has her proudest achievements hanging perfectly on her wall to try to validate herself. Her lips are chewed up and there are signs of permanent damage at the skin around her fingers where they’ve been continuously picked at for an extended period of time.” 

You subconsciously hold your hands and try to not scratch. This doesn’t go unnoticed by Malcolm. 

“Wendy saw or felt when her skin would get dry and start to peel and view those as imperfections, making her pick and bite until she couldn’t anymore. She was trying to get rid of the mistakes.” You paused, trying to keep yourself in check. “And I’m sure if you look at the inside of her cheeks, they’ll be bitten up too.”

You were going to try to explain the mirror set up in correlation to the phobia, but your hands started to shake as you thought about your struggle with anxiety. Malcolm could see that you were unsettled by something and took over, seeing how it all worked together.

“The killer set these mirrors up for the reason we said earlier: to make Wendy see herself. They manipulated her into seeing all of the lines or dots or blemishes or what have you, progressively making her more and more scared of herself. Knowing that this phobia stretches to the idea of not being good enough, the killer most likely pointed out examples of when she messed up. Even the smallest of mistakes could set off Wendy’s spiral. They then gave her a choice to either live in fear and shame or to kill herself. And after exposing her to her phobia so intensely, she chose the gun.”

You just nodded as turned to walk out of the room, not making eye contact with anyone as you quietly said “I need to get some air.”

Gil turned to follow you and see if you were okay, but Malcolm was already on it as he put a hand up to Gil that said, “I got this.”

You found the exit to the alley behind the apartment building and found a spot against the wall to sit, close your eyes, and try to breathe. As soon as you sat down, you unknowingly start picking at the cuticles around your nails, old habits coming back. Your chest was tight and you couldn’t slow down the shirt, quick breaths that fled your panicked lungs.

You heard someone open the door a minute after you and thought nothing of it until you heard someone sit a respectable distance from you. You didn’t bother opening your eyes figuring it was Gil or Dani.

“Hey. If you don’t get your heart rate down, you're going to pass out.” 

Your eyes shot open as you realized that Malcolm was the one that came to check on you. After a second, you realized that it made sense why he would come out to try and help. He has a better understanding of psychology than anyone on the team. All you could do was nod your head in understanding because you knew that you had to calm down, but it was just harder than expected. 

“Would it help to try to follow my breathing?” You nodded your head, which prompted Malcolm to sit a bit closer next to you against the wall, making his breaths more audible. Slowly but surely, your breathing started to even out. Malcolm reached to his side and produced a water bottle that he had gotten from his car. 

“Here. Take a couple small sips. Sorry it’s not cold, but it should still help.”

You did as he said and then started to fidget with the water bottle. It was better than picking more at your fingers. 

“So how long have you had dermatillomania?” Malcolm asked cautiously, scared that talking about it might make it worse.

“A majority of my life.” You sighed out.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Malcolm was watching you closely, looking for any signs that your anxiety would flare up again. You figured that he was curious and deserved to know how you came to the conclusion at the scene.

“When I was in college, I started seeing a therapist. We thought I had atelophobia. But after a few sessions, we realized that it was a mix of GAD, depression, and ADHD. The dermatillomania is the way most of that energy comes out. It’s mostly in high anxiety situations or when my ADHD is really bad. You have your tremors, I have” you looked down at your hands and realized you had begun picking again and that your finger was now bleeding a little bit. Raising your hands up, you sighed in annoyance, “this bullshit.”

You plopped your hands down in your lap and looked up at the sky, closing your eyes and taking another few frustrated deep breaths. 

“Thank you for telling me.”

Without opening your eyes or moving away, you responded. “Well, I figured if anyone on this team was going to understand and respect it, it would be you.” You both half chuckled before you returned your gaze to him. “Thank you for listening and for having my back up there.”

Malcolm waved his hand to dismiss the second part of your thanks and then remembered something. You looked as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a bandaid he had snagged from one of the med kits at the scene. He held out his hand as if to ask for yours. You gently gave it to him and he proceeded to bandage up the fingertip that you had been picking at. Once he finishes, making sure it's not too tight or uncomfortable, he holds your hand for a little bit longer as he speaks his mind.

“I know how bad this job can get for people like us that have mental battles going on. And now that I know at least a little bit of what’s going on, I want you to know that you can come to me for help if you need it. If something in a case isn’t sitting right with you, or you need to go and grab a coffee for a distraction, or even just someone to find a bandaid for you, I’d be happy to lend a helping hand.” He ended with a true and contagious sympathetic smile that you don’t see very often on the face of Malcolm Bright.

“I really appreciate that. I will probably take you up on it.” He nods in contentment. “This offer does go both ways though, Bright.” He looked at you with a slightly tilted head. “I know you have a lot going on in that mind of yours that I may not fully understand, but if there is ever anything I can do to try and make it a bit more pleasant, let me know.”

“Sounds like a deal, (Y/N).” He gives your hand a squeeze before letting go. The two of you sit there in silence, focusing on your breathing together for the next five or so minutes. Without warning, Malcolm stands up and extends his hands out to you with a smile. You give him a questioning look. 

“I could actually really go for some good distracting coffee right now, and I would like you to come with me and be equally distracting. If you want.”

You couldn’t help but smile back. There was something about this strange man that made you feel comfortable. And after dealing with your anxiety more than you had hoped for, you find yourself reaching for his hand.

“That sounds like a fantastic idea.”

[fan-wicktion]

SPARROW (11)

MASTER LIST

a/n: Sorry for the weird format!!! Trying something new and of course it isn’t the greatest but here we are! Here’s the deal: the beginning of this story has audio. Please press play when you see the word “music” in bold, then stop it when you see in again in bold. Don’t count the pre-story summary or anything like that. Just the actual narrative.

warnings: violence typical of John Wick, bad language

Summary: You are an assassin who stole a kill from John Wick. He shows up in your apartment for revenge, but you managed to escape after some confusing sexual tension. You fled the country pursuing a new contract, but ruffled some feathers along the way. Winston orders John to hunt you down and bring you back to him, and he intends to kill you as punishment for your misstep. John finds you (of course), ties you up and transports you to a secret holding house, and attempts to interrogate you. You get back at him later, mess with him in an airport, and accidentally end up bonding a bit on a flight to LA. Now you’re about to team up and blow off some steam on a good ol’ assassination contract.

————————————————

John glances up from stocking his tactical belt when he hears the music. He rolls his eyes, figuring he’d now be waiting another hour for you to get ready. Women and their—

BAM! The doors to your bedroom fling open, thrust by the powerful sole of your boot. In what looks like slow motion you strut out, a cocky grin smeared across your face. You reach up and smooth your slicked back hair, and then adjust your black tie as John’s mouth falls open in astonishment. Fuck yeah. Head to toe in a sleek black suit that uncannily resembled the one clothing Mr. John Wick, you stride up to him and do a little spin before cutting off the music.

“What do you think? I personally think it’s a bit much, but some people swear by it apparently—”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding.” John glares down at you with what can only be described as seething admiration. You catch his gaze and wink, positively oozing annoying charm.

“Look!” You gesture between the two of you, acting like you just noticed. “We match! How embarrassing.” 

“You’re not wearing that.”

“And you aren’t my dad!” You stroll back to your room and begin the long process of strapping various weapons to your person. Today is going to be so fucking fun. Armed to the teeth, you return to him, hands on your hips. “Ready?”

“Ready,” he growls, ignoring the thought screaming in the back of his mind that you looked hot as hell. No distractions.

————————————————

As it happens, the contract the two of you were heading to fill was less than a mile from your hotel. Chester Marlan. He is a despicable cyber criminal with a global agenda, and his desire to cripple the internet had reached a dangerous level. When an anonymous tip had leaked his plans to replace all online fonts with Comic Sans (to undermine any and all legitimate websites), he was thrust into the Underground’s spotlight. Everyone knows assassins are classy, and this threatened their very existence. Oh, and he is capable of procuring any information he wants from any device in the world. Admittedly, that’s much worse.

You and John recoiled with visible disgust reading his bio, and you had to forcibly stop yourself from dry heaving when you read about his Comic Sans plans. This fucker needs to die.

Approaching the surprisingly well-fortified warehouse—Why is it always a warehouse?—you and John exchange glances. 

“Now, I trust that you won’t go running off on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, old man.” He rolls his eyes and slips through the side door, and you’re hot on his heels.

Side by side, you make your way through the deserted hall—pistols at the ready. John holds up his hand as signal to halt, and you both pause, listening intently for any sign of movement. Faintly, almost inaudible, you detect the light sounds of breathing just around the corner. An ambush! They must have caught wind of Marlan’s head price and expected us…

Catching John’s eye, you nod and reach a silent agreement. You know your own strengths and he knows his, and one of you is significantly more skilled at killing multiple people at a time. You’d meet up shortly. In the meantime, you peel away and sneak back out the door. 

Alright. Looks like I’m climbing this bitch.

You creep up a fire escape to the second floor, then size up the brick of the building. Nice and uneven—great for climbing. This warehouse was three stories tall, and you knew what—who—would be hiding at the top. Unfortunately the fire escape was all rust and dust past the second floor, and you’d be scaling the wall from here on out. Gunfire erupts within as you find a handhold, and even though you know he’s got it handled you can’t help but worry about John.

You reach a point in your climb where you are clinging to the wall next to your target window. Cautiously, you lean over and look inside. Marlan is seated at his desk, furiously typing at a laptop. An enormous guard stands in front of the desk, facing the door. From your vantage point at the window behind him, you can see beads of nervous sweat trickling down his neck. He knows he’s in trouble. Ha! If only he turned around…

Resetting your grip so that you’re perched on the windowsill—left hand holding you up, gun in your right—you lightly tap on the window. Marlan whips around from his hunched position at the computer and looks you dead in the eyes. Perfect. You squeeze the trigger, and the glass between you shatters as a hole rips through his skull. You pounce through the window and roll behind the desk right when his bodyguard opens fire.

In an instant, you’re back on your feet. You bound up onto the desk, releasing a knife to take out the man’s gun hand as you pounce at him. The knife embeds itself in his wrist and he drops his weapon with a yelp, toppling over when your legs wind around his neck. A pistol-whip to the face knocks him out. Easy peasy. A gutteral yell from below makes your blood run cold, and you’re sprinting through the door before you can finish him off. John!

Ignoring the steps, you leap down the flight of stairs and land with a swift tuck-and-roll that brings you to your feet—gun at the ready. John is staggering up off the floor, pulling a large knife out of his shoulder. The ground is littered with bodies and you deduce that he must have run out of ammo. His gun seems to have been flung across the room. Classic.

The man he’s duking it out with hasn’t seen you, and you’re quick to put a bullet in his brain. His body drops with a thud, revealing your silhouette in the doorway. John grins at you, then slumps so he’s sitting with his back against the wall. You rush over, pulling a handkerchief from your suit pocket to help stop the blood running down his chest.

“You dumbass,” you murmur, applying pressure. “How’d you let this happen?”

John chuckles. “I’ve had much worse than this.” He pulls a roll of duct tape from somewhere deep within his many pockets, then uses it to attach the wad of cloth to his skin. “That should hold for a while.”

Sitting back on your heels, you suddenly remember something. Shit! Gotta claim the contract! 

“I killed Marlan by the way. You were taking too long,” you smirk at him, standing. “Wait here. I’m gonna go snap a pic.”

He grunts in response and you jog back upstairs.

————————————————

It’s been too long. John stands and brushes himself off, rolling his neck around a bit to ease the ache of combat. It takes 2 seconds to take a picture. Unless she’s being dumb again and setting up some shot…

His brows furrow as he swiftly scales the stairs, worried you’ll somehow worsen your standing with Winston. 

As he steps into the room he sees the reason it’s taken so long. You aren’t alone. The bodyguard from earlier had evidently woken up, and caught you by surprise when you returned. He had you choking in a headlock before you could even cry out, and now you were silently turning blue in the crook of his arm. It had been minutes already without air, and your body hung limp. He was trying to kill you.

“Drop. Her.” John growls menacingly, wishing he had his gun. To his credit, the man seems surprised and even a little scared to see the tall, dark man in the doorway. He should have been terrified, but he didn’t know Wick.

John crossed the gap between them in a stride, whipping off his belt at the same time. 

CRACK! The body guard takes a stiff blow to the head and stumbles back, releasing you. Your lifeless form crumbles to the floor as John jumps the man, returning the favor with a leather noose. The man fumbles at the belt that encircles his thick neck, but is quickly losing strength. Reaching down, John quickly pulls the guard’s pistol from it’s holster and empties the chamber into his head. Fucking hell.

He kneels next to you as you open your bloodshot eyes, and everything hurts. You wince at the pounding in your brain and the fire raging in your chest, and allow yourself to be lifted off the ground.

“Thank you,” you try to croak, but it hardly even sounds like words.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag list: @chicksamwitch @mikaneonox @onebatch—twobatch​ @fandomwritrix @littledeadgirlwalking @minsugagenius @10yz @where-did-the-good-ones-go @catsmieow @xrevoltx @kezzasaurus-rex @homesoutofhuman @lunilate @coolbreezeinkeanureeves @bonky-bornes @lustforfern @so-not-waiting-for-godot @weird-civilian @linwavez

[daryls-dixon-antoni]

Chapter 31.) Last Day on Earth

"I'm going to go with them to bring Maggie to hilltop, I need you to stay here."

Mason's eyes furrow, "No, no I'm not- I can't stay behind."

I rest a hand on his shoulder, "I need you to stay and take care of Hope; I'd ask Sev, but their coming too. I need you to he here for your sister."

His eyes harden, and then he glances to the baby sleeping in the playpen Judith originally slept in when we first got here; before they got her a crib. "Okay," he agrees, nodding.

"Thank you," I kiss his cheek before rushing down the stairs as Rick is leaving the house, I quickly follow after him.

"I'm coming, too."

He looks at me, "Are you sure? You just had your baby."

"Maggie was here for me while I had my baby; I'll be damned if I'm not helping protect her as she saves hers."

Rick nods, and then hands me the red duffle in his hand, "Alright." He agrees.

As we approach the RV; we meet up with Sasha, Abraham, Sev and Eugene.

Sasha asks, "Any change?"

"She's getting worse," Rick replies.

Abraham says, "Good call on the transport."

"Well, I figured she'd be more comfortable." Rick responds.

"It also means you got room for more. They're out there, so I'm gonna be there with you. We are."

"Package deal," Sasha agrees.

"Uh, what she said." Eugene mumbles.

Sev gives me a look and I shrug. Rick approaches Eugene saying, "Look, it's a long trip, and you're just getting over-"

Eugene interrupts him, "It's a superficial graze, proteins are binding, plus we need to discuss ammunition production and manufacture, so let's roll."

"I already tried," Abraham says, causually. "Give him an inch, he's taking a mile."

"I'm only asking for 23, give or take, depending on the route." Eugene responds. "I know I can be of some help. Now's the time and here's the place. Don't shine me. I'll be your anchorman. Yes, I damn will." He hops in the RV.

Sev pulls my arm before I can go in after him, "Are you serious?"

"What?" I ask, playing dumb.

"You know damn well what. Why do you look like your coming with."

"Because I am."

"The hell you are."

I roll my eyes, "Glenn is out helping protect Daryl, the least I can do is help protect Maggie. I'm not arguing this, I'm coming."

"We're ready to protect this place and the Saviors know it," Aaron tells Rick who is loading up the luggage space under the RV. "That's why they grabbed Eugene."

"Look, it's not up for discussion." Rick responds, standing up.

"Then you're just gonna have to punch me in the face and tie me up again. 'Cause that's what it's gonna take to stop me."

I see Rick's head move and Aaron makes his way into the RV and Sev and I follow him. And it's not long after that Rick gets on and we leave.

I'm sitting with Maggie in the back of the RV as Aaron leaves and then Rick comes in, "Hey."

"Hey," Maggie's voice sounds weak and shaky, and my heart breaks for her.

"We're gonna get there," Rick reassures her. "The doctor at the Hilltop, he's gonna make things better." Maggie looks away so Rick says, "Hey," softly.

"How do you know?"

"Everything we've done, we've done together. We got here together and we're still here. Things have happened, but it's always worked out for us 'cause it's always been all of us. That's how I know. 'Cause as long as it's all of us, we can do anything."

I nod, "He's right, Mags. We're all behind you, ready to help you and your baby. We'll get you to Hilltop."

The three of us hear Abraham say, "What the bitch?" From the front and Rick and I both exchange worried looks before he gets up and rushes to the front, me right on his heels.

"What?" Rick asks, but as soon as we make it to the front we can see exactly what. A group of cars and people in front of them are gathered in the middle of the road.

"Enemy close," Abraham warns. A bunch of the men are stood around another man who is on the pavement face down and tied up.

"Are we going to fight our way through?" I ask.

"No," Rick says. Abraham parks, and we all get out of the RV and approach the group of men, Rick keeps his hands up.

The stranger yells, "He's someone who was with a whole lot of someones who didn't listen."

I feel as though the wind was knocked out of me, I know that voice. Daryl and I heard it in the woods when we were trying to save Dwight's ass. But I can't for the life of me remember this guys name, though I know I've heard it.

"We can make a deal right here, right now," Rick offers.

"That's right, we can." The man says cheerfully. "Give us all your stuff. We'll probably have to kill one of you. That's just the way it is, but then we can start moving forward on business. All you have to do is listen."

"Yeah..." Rick says, putting his hands of surrender down. "That deal's not gonna work for us. Fact is, I was about to ask for all of your stuff, only I'm thinking I don't have to kill any of you. Any more of you."

Some red haired man starts shaking a spray paint can and then starts spray painting an X on the man on the ground.

"Sorry, my deal is the only deal.

We don't negotiate," the man apologizes.

"Me and my people are leaving."

"Okay, friend. Plenty of ways to get to where you're going."

We start loading back into the RV, Rick pauses to say, "You want to make today your last day on Earth?"

"No, but that is a good thing to bring up. Think about it. What if it's the last day on Earth for you? For someone you love? What if that's true? Maybe you should be extra nice to those people in that RV, 'cause you never know," the man snaps his fingers, "Just like that. Be kind to each other. Like you said; like it was your last day on Earth."

"You do the same," Rick threatens before motioning for me to get in the RV, and then he follows me. We start backing up.

Carl, Aaron and I are sat in with Maggie when Carl asks Aaron, "Why didn't you stay back and help guard the place?"

"I owe her. Why did you come?"

"I owe them."

Aaron turns to me, "And why are you here?"

"Glenn's with Daryl, seems only right for me to be with Maggie."

"You didn't let Mason come," Carl observes. "Why?"

I shake my head, "I've dealt with the Saviors more than once now, I don't want him dealing with them at all. So he'll stay back and protect Hope. Help Gabriel protect Judith."

"Thank you."

I nod once.

"I knew it," Sev says as they come into the back with us.

I look at them, they are obviously upset. "Knew what?"

"Abraham is talking making babies with Sasha. He's never talked making babies with me."

I glance at both Aaron and Carl before saying slightly awkwardly, "Uh, Sev... you don't perform the necessary dance to make babies. He probably never wanted to make you uncomfortable by bringing it up."

"Right... you're right," they say as the RV comes to a stop.

I pear upfront, another man made road block. "We making our stand?" Sasha asks.

"Yeah," Carl replies from behind me, "we end it."

"No," contradicts Rick. "Not now. They've been waiting. They're ready. With one of us behind the wheel, that's five on 16. We're gonna play it our way, how we want it. Right?"

"Right," Carl nods.

"All right, go slow." Abraham starts reversing slowly, they let off a few warning shots and I can feel my heart in my throat.

"How are we on gas?" Rick asks as we drive down the road.

"Half a tank," Abraham responds. "I pulled some more cans before we left."

"Those weren't the same men who blocked the road the first time." Sasha observes.

"Same outfit, different soldiers." Abraham repsonds, simply. "They got numbers."

"Yeah, we keep driving, we get her there." Rick orders.

"We will," Sasha states.

Abraham agrees, "If we have to shove each and every one of them up their own asses."

We pull to a stop as a line of the dead are chained up across the road, blocking our way.

Rick sighs, "We can't go through it. Can't risk the RV. You stay behind the wheel, just in case. We'll clear it."

I follow him out; all of us with our guns at the ready.

"Putting together a red rover like that takes people." Eugene says. "A lot of them."

I freeze, seeing the vest. the vest I know way too well now. The vest that should have a rugged southern man wearing it.

"Come on, let's do this." I hear Rick's voice as though from underwater.

"Dad." Carl's voice sounds from far away.

"That's Michonne's." Aaron's voice echoes as well.

My world starts to slow down as Sasha says what I've already seen, "That's Daryl's."

"No," I find my voice breaking from my throat. "No!" I scream.

Thats when gunfire rains down upon us. Rick orders, "Get back to the RV! Go!"

The gunfire continues, and as we see figures in the woods we start shooting at them while we retreat.

We run back to the RV once Rick has broken through the baracade and we drive on, my body feeling numb.

While we drive we hear a slight squeaking sound and Sasha asks, "What's that sound?"

"Undercarriage could've caught a bullet," Eugene responds. "Or could be transmission. It could be nothing."

"They were firing at our feet," Rick observes. “They blocked the road, but they weren't trying to stop us. They want us in this direction."

"Barton Road takes us north," Sasha agrees. "But they gotta know we wanna go north."

"Meadows," Eugene says. "Could take us east a piece, but we can get back on track on Mayhew."

"We're down to a third of a tank. We could top off at the next stop, but no refills after that."

"All right," Rick agrees.

"Rick, Maggie's getting worst. Her fever is spiking," Sev warns.

"Rick," Abraham also says, warning obvious in his voice.

A very large man filled road block. "Go back," Rick orders.

"Where?" Abe asks.

We're out of the RV looking at yet another road block, this time a shit ton of logs stacked up high.

"These tracks they would indicate they not only have people, but some big-ass toys and capabilities." Eugene observes.

"What it indicates is we are neck-deep up shit creek with our mouths wide open." Abraham snaps.

All of a sudden we hear a metalic noise and then someone scream, as we turn around, we see a man being hung from the overpass, the man has his hands around the makeshift noose and is gagging. I recognize him from the first roadblock, mostly because of the spray painted X on him.

"Don't," Abraham orders, and when I look to see what he's saying, I notice Aaron with his gun pointed.

"I can try and break the chain."

"It won't work."

"I can try," Aaron protests.

"Aaron," I snap. "We can't waste the bullet."

I look away as the man stops struggling, now dead. Behind us the logs start on fire. We hear the man from the woods yell, "You're treating your people good, right? Like it was your last day on Earth? Or maybe one of theirs? You better go. It's gonna get hot. You go get where you're going."

"Go, go." Rick demands. He takes my arm, noticing my hesitation and practically drags me back to the RV. "Get on." I do so.

We park in the middle of nowhere, and Abraham asks, "So, what's the play?"

"She needs a real doctor, not the medic shit I did in the Military." Sev responds.

"There are two more routes north from here," Sasha says.

"They're probably waiting for us right now," Aaron states.

Eugene takes a deep breath, "So, they're ahead of us, probably behind us. But they're not waiting on us, per se, they're waiting on this rust bucket. And they don't know the moment-to-moment occupancy of said rust-bucket. And the sun sets soon." We all look at Rick.

As the sun sets, we prepare our last ditch effort of helping Maggie. Our last ditch effort at saving ourselves.

We take Maggie from the RV, she's laying on the flat bed that we're carrying her on.

"Thank you," she whispers to Eugene, who has basically signed his own death certificate so that we can save her and ourselves.

We start our way through the woods.

We hear the dead, and Carl takes him out.

I hear Maggie say, "Aaron, please. Just let me walk it."

"Relax," Aaron responds. "Just a few more miles."

"I heard what you told her when we were leaving." Carl tells his father. "We can do anything, 'cause we'll do anything we need to do. We have and we will. What happened to Denise, I'm not gonna let anybody die like that again."

"Son," Rick says.

"What?" When the whisteling starts my heart falls.

"Fuck," I mumble. Its surrounding us, the echoing whistles.

"Go! Go!" Rick yells, and we quicken our pace, the whistles not stopping.

We run right into a pair of headlights, then all of a sudden the whistles are in sync, the sound is haunting.

We are surrounded, our RV is parked at the head of the mass of men. Surrounding us. we're dead, and I never even told my son goodbye. I never held my daughter for more than a day. Eugene is knelt on the ground.

Woods bro says, "Good. You made it. Welcome to where you're going. We'll take your weapons. Now."

"We can talk about it-" Rick starts, but is interrupted.

"We're done talking. Time to listen."

A group of men approach and disarm us.

The woods man aproaches Carl, showing him his handgun, "That's yours, right? Yeah, it's yours." He flicks Carl's hat.

"Okay," he says. "Let's get her down and get you all on your knees. Lots to cover."

"Hold up," Abraham states. "We got it."

"Sure, sure." The man allows. We gently lower Maggie down and help her to her feet. We bring her forward and help her onto her knees. But most of us remain standing.

"Gonna need you on your knees," the man orders.

We look at one another and then finally listen, almost in sinc. Getting on our knees.

"Dwight!" The man calls, and the blond sleezy asshole comes out.

"Yeah?" He asks.

"Chop-chop."

Dwight approaches a storage thing and opens the doors, I can just barely hear him say, "Come on. You got people to meet."

They start pulling out Michonne, Daryl, Glenn and Rosita.

I gasp, "Daryl!" I whisper yell.

I hear Glenn, who is thrown to the ground ask, "Maggie?"

Dwight pulls him up yelling, "On your knees!"

Woods man yells, "All right! We got a full boat. Let's meet the man." He knocks on the door to the RV.

When a man I could never forget walks out with a baseball bat thrown over his shoulder I feel all the blood drain from my body.

"Pissing our pants yet?" He asks, approaching us. "Boy, do I have a feeling we're getting close. Yep. It's gonna be pee-pee pants city here real soon. Which one of you pricks is the leader?"

Woods man points to Rick, "It's this one. He's the guy."

The man walks over to Rick, "Hi. You're Rick, right? I'm Negan. And I do not appreciate you killing my men. Also, when I sent my people to kill your people for killing my people, you killed more of my people. Not cool. Not cool. You have no idea how not cool that shit is. But I think you're gonna be up to speed shortly. Yeah. You are so gonna regret crossing me in a few minutes." He smiles. "Yes, you are. You see, Rick, whatever you do, no matter what, you don't mess with the new world order. And the new world order is this, and it's really very simple. So, even if you're stupid, which you very may well be, you can understand it. You ready? Here goes. Pay attention. Give me your shit or I will kill you. Today was career day." He starts pacing, "We invested a lot so you would know who I am and what I can do. You work for me now. You have shit, you give it to me. That's your job. Now, I know that is a mighty big, nasty pill to swallow, but swallow it you most certainly will. You ruled the roost. You built something. You thought you were safe. I get it. But the word is out. You are not safe. Not even close. In fact, you are pegged, more pegged if you don't do what I want. And what I want is half your shit. And if that's too much, you can make, find, or steal more, and it'll even out sooner or later. This is your way of life now. The more you fight back, the harder it will be. So, if someone knocks on your door," he chuckles. "You let us in. We own that door. You try to stop us and we will knock it down. You understand?" He puts a hand to his ear and leans closer to Rick, "What, no answer?" He stands back up. "You don't really think that you were gonna get through this without being punished, now, did you? I don't want to kill you people. Just want to make that clear from the get go. I want you to work for me. You can't do that if you're dead, now, can you? I'm not growing a garden. But... you killed my people, a whole damn lot of them. More than I'm comfortable with. And for that, for that you're gonna pay. So, now... I'm gonna beat the holy hell outta one of you." I glance at Daryl, fear holding my tongue hostage.

The man shows us his bat, "This, this is Lucille, and she is awesome. All this, all this is just so we can pick out which one of you gets the honor."

He pauses in front of Abraham, and I see Sev tense out of the corner of my eye. Negan messes with his beard and says, "Huh. Ugh, I gotta shave this shit."

He then approaches Carl and crouches down, "You got one of our guns. Whoa. Yeah. You got a lot of our guns." Carl stares him down and he continues, "Shit, kid, lighten up. At least cry a little." He chuckles as he stands back up. Clears his throat as he walks to Maggie, "Jesus... You look shitty. I should just put you out of your misery right now."

Glenn moves forward yelling, "No! No!" Dwight tackles him and lands some punches as Maggie yells.

"Stop it!"

Dwight stops, as Glenn yells, "God!"

"Nope," Negan says calmly, "Nope, get him back in line."

"No," Glenn begs as he's pushed back to his original spot, "No. No." He screams out a heart wrenching sob then. "Don't. Don't."

I watch Negan chuckle and say, "All right, listen. Don't any of you do that again. I will shut that shit down, no exceptions. First one's free. It's an emotional moment, I get it." After a moment of us all remaining silent he continues. "Sucks, don't it? The moment you realize you don't know shit." He looks at Carl, approaches him again, addressing Rick, "This is your kid, right?" He laughs. "This is definitely your kid."

Rick yells, "Just stop this!"

"Hey!" Negan reprimands, "Do not make me kill the little future serial killer. Don't make it easy on me. I gotta pick somebody. Everybody's at the table waiting for me to order." He starts whistling, walking down the line. "I simply cannot decide," he laughs. "I got an idea." He points his bat at Rick, "Eenie," he points it at Maggie, "meenie," on to me, "miney" Sev, "mo" Abe, "catch" Michonne, "a" Glenn, "Tiger," Daryl, "by his toe." Sasha, "If he hollers" Aaron, "let him go.

"My mother" Carl. "told me to pick... the very... best one... and you... are... it." The bat stops at Abraham, "Anybody moves, anybody says anything, cut the boy's other eye out and feed it to his father and then we'll start. You can breathe, you can blink, you can cry. Hell, you're all gonna be doing that." The bat goes down hard on Abraham's head. I hear Sev, Sasha and Rosita's screams in my ear as Negan laughs mercilessly.

"Look at that. Taking it like a champ!"

"Suck. My. Nuts." Abraham says, pronouncing each word perfectly.

Another hit, another, another, another. Blow by blow we watch Abraham go down.

[dopescotlandwarrior]

Beauty Chooses Part II

On AO3

Chapter 5 The Strength Of Three Women

The days fell into one another like dominoes. The spring and summer months are a bustle of activity as the fields are readied for planting, the crops are watched closely for disease or infestation, barns are raised, fences extended, horses are broken and one hundred other activities. Some days Jamie and Murtagh were helping at another farm and I wouldn’t see them until dark. I was thankful for the company of Glavia and misses Crooke and the strength of three women was put to a frightful test one afternoon. I was rocking Faith in the nursery when I heard Glavia screaming and misses Crooke yelling at someone to get out. Thankfully Faith was asleep and I was able to slip down the back stairs and get outside.

I was frantically looking for a weapon of some kind and trying to run in my corset almost cause me to pass out. I saw no one else on the property so whoever was inside was alone. I could hear Glavia screaming in the parlor so I went into the kitchen and grabbed a heavy pan. Pausing to catch my breath I figured I had to hit the person on the head and prayed there weren’t two of them in there. Peering around the corner the room was in shambles and the man had a hold of Glavia’s hair, dragging her around while he searched every inch of the room.

“Where does yer master keep the money, gold, or silver? He’s the laird for Christ’s sake so I know it’s here. Tell me!”

Glavia was absolutely terrified and she tripped trying to get away from the man. Her skirts exposed one leg to mid-thigh and the man went silent for a minute before grabbing her and throwing her on the sofa. He threw her skirts up over her head and fumbled madly with his breeks trying to get them down. When my pan made contact with the side of his head he stood still and I panicked and hit him again even harder. He dropped like a sack of potatoes and I rushed to help Glavia.

We had to get Faith and make a run for it before he woke up. I tried to get Glavia to settle down and saw misses Crooke running down the stairs ripping long sections of cloth from a garment.

“Come mistress! We must tie him up, hurry!”

She was fumbling around with the ties and I realized he would bust through those sections of homespun so this would not work. I knew what we had to do thanks to an old western movie I once watched. I stopped misses Crooke and showed her how to rip sections going around the skirt giving us much longer sections. I handed Glavia the pan which she held menacingly above his head. It took several tries but I managed to loop the ties around his neck, tightly, so that any movement would cause him to strangle. I felt quite pleased with myself until I realized he was in our front room on the floor and we would be stepping over him all afternoon. Well, someone would need to guard him and hit him again if he woke up. Glavia was more than happy to fill that duty.

I exhaled a long breath and that is when I heard her, screaming at the top of her lungs. I flew up the stairs and opened the door seeing Faith reaching for me, face red, eyes wide with fear. I held her to me and spoke softly in her ear and humming her favorite song. I felt my own tears fall from the horrible danger we were in and how it could have gone terribly wrong. I didn’t want Faith to see the man tied up on the floor so I went back down the back stairs and came around the house almost fainting at the sight of Jamie and Murtagh coming home.

Faith was still crying loudly and I screamed at Jamie to help us. Tools landed in the grass and the two men were racing toward me. Jamie was scared and he reached for Faith to give her comfort and pulled me to him. I explained what happened as Jamie handed Faith back to me taking great strides toward the barn. He asked over his shoulder if I recognized the man, which way did he leave?

“Jamie stop! He didn’t leave, he is still here. I hit him on the head when he was trying to rape Glavia and then we tied him up.”

Jamie stood stock still looking at me as his face lost color.

“Here.”

“Yes, he’s in the parlor.”

“Sassenach, please keep Faith out here, I’ll send the others out to stay with ye. Murtagh will stay with ye.”

With that, he launched himself into the house. Murtagh looked into the window of Jamie’s study and started laughing. I found that in very bad taste until I too looked and could clearly see into the parlor where Jamie struggled to get the pan away from Glavia. It looked like she would give it to him but instead brought her arms down and almost struck the man in the head. Jamie grabbed the pan and walked the women outside. I could hear him laughing from the kitchen door.

“Yer mistress is around the corner lasses. Everything is alright, ken? Murtagh! Yer gonna want to see this.”

I watched again as both men examined the way I tied the asshole up. Murtagh put pressure on the tie and watched the noose tighten on the man’s neck. Murtagh turned to look at me through the window and gave me two thumbs-up laughing. That broke the spell on me and I laughed at that. I taught Murtagh every hand gesture I could think of because he fancied the idea of nonverbal communication. I laughed back and shook my head.

Glavia looked ghostly white so I sent her and Faith upstairs by the back steps again to play and relax. Faith was babbling to her and she relaxed and smiled at the darling baby. I hoped she would not be traumatized.

Misses Crooke and I went back into the house and put a hasty supper together so the men could eat before they…did whatever they were going to do. We enjoyed a relaxing meal and I heard all about their day. Every other minute I wondered what was to become of the man in the parlor. I fixed a plate for Glavia and Faith and as I came down the stairs I noticed the man’s eyes close.

“I’m delighted you're awake you piece of shit because I want you to feel this.” I pulled up my skirts and drove my foot into his ribs, face, the other side of his face, and ribs and was panting for air when I finally stopped.

“Do ye feel better mo chridhe?”

“Actually yes, I do.”

“Misses Crooke, do ye want a turn?”

She curtsied from the kitchen, “thank you, mi laird, no mi laird.” She vanished to the safety of the kitchen.

In one swift move, Jamie drew his dirk and cut the man loose and then sat down on the sofa like it was a Sunday social.

“I’m not an unreasonable man, I tell that straight away to gain yer trust. I’ll no kill ye if I ken why ye came here. Tell me the truth ass maggot and ye live.”

The man said nothing while he stole glances around the room, no doubt looking for a way to escape.

“Have it your way then. Sassenach, kill this worm.”

He stood up and handed me his broad sword, the tip of which hit the ground with a thud as soon as he took his hand away. He gave me a look that said, this is important.

“Ye know Sassenach, this reminds of the scuffle we had at the bottom of the hill, I believe it was our wedding day, was it naught.”

The scuffle he mentioned was acting out a fight with Jamie while he pretended to drag me to would-be kidnappers. He wanted me to pretend I think. I whirled at the man with a murderous look and screamed “my pleasure!”

The man shouted the reasons for stopping here and Jamie took his sword back much to my relief.

“Get up.”

The sound of Jamie’s voice made the hair on my neck stand up. I was ready to have this ordeal over with and the threat gone. No matter what that entailed. Jamie tied the man's hands behind his back and left with Murtagh. I poured a much-needed whisky and then another and went to check on misses Crooke before checking on my sweet daughter.

When I walked into the nursery Glavia hugged me sobbing her thanks for saving her. She was clearly not over the trauma. Faith sat on the floor smiling at me with her two teeth showing and her arm raised to hand me a block. I sat on the floor and Glavia dropped to the floor right next to me. Faith gave us both blocks and entertained us with her own special language. After a particularly long string of da-da-da-da-da, Jamie appeared.

“I heard ye callin me lass, what’s amiss then.”

Much to my surprise and delight, Jamie dropped to the floor and laid on his side pulling me to rest against his thighs. Whenever he interacted with Faith his face softened, his eyes sparkled, and slowly his joy returned. Within minutes he had us all laughing, especially Faith who looked at her father like he hung the moon. After some play and coaxed kisses, Faith yawned and reached for me. Jamie kissed my temple and got up so we could put her to bed. He looked down at the baby nursing at my breast and then at me.

“I have somethin for ye Sassenach. I’ll give it to ye downstairs.”

“Glavia, yer alright lass.”

She yawned and nodded and Jamie left. Later I found Jamie and Murtagh in the kitchen, still eating, and looked at Jamie with raised eyebrows.

“Sassenach? Oh! Yer wee gift!”

He pulled two perfect bars of soap from his sporran and dropped them in my hands. I smelled them feeling my smile as my eyes closed. I filled my lungs with the scent and opened my eyes to Jamie standing in the middle of the kitchen watching me. I drifted back toward the stairs smelling my new soap until Jamie lifted me from behind and told me not to drop the soap. Through my giggles, I asked him where we were going.

“To bathe mo gradhag.”

“You can’t carry me all the way to the stream.”

“I can, and I will, lest ye get sidetracked by a flower and I lose my mind waitin for ye.”

Jamie unbuttoned my jacket and pulled it off. Each piece of my ensemble was removed slowly, with kisses to the newly exposed skin. He pulled the pins from my hair and led me into the cold water. It was delightful and invigorating as I dropped below the surface loving every moment.

“Where’s the soap?”

“Soap?”

Before I could say another word he pulled a bar out of each pocket, smelled them both and handed me one.

“It wouldna do for me to smell like a lass, so I brought my own.” His clothes seemed to vanish and he waded into the water toward me. One body part at a time he lathered up his hands and spread the soap over me. I was in no hurry to leave the water so I took my time doing the same to him. As soon as the soap was washed off his cock he lifted me and set me down on him slowly. I wrapped my legs around his middle and moved my hips. A moment later I was on my feet again with Jamie’s forehead pressed to mine.

“Yer body doesna want mine tonight mo chridhe and ye would say nothin of that fact.”

“I wouldn’t say that Jamie, it always feels good.” I tried to move toward him.

“I love ye more than anythin in the world Sassenach. I can wait for a better time.” We left the water and Janie put my shift over my head and his breeks and boots on. He turned his back on me and motioned me to jump on his back so he could walk me back to Lallybroch.

“What about our clothes?”

”I'd rather carry you, love. I will get them at first light.”

As we approached the dooryard I asked Jamie what became of the intruder.

“Look up mo chridhe, he hangs from the tree waiting for Murtagh to take him to freedom.”

“What?”

I looked up and saw the man dangling from a very high branch with no boots or pants. When we were back in our room I asked why the man was dangling in the tree half-naked and what freedom would he be getting?”

“Murtagh will sleep for a few hours and then cut him down and take him to the docks to be sold to one of the oriental ships. It’s my favorite remedy, ye ken?”

“Why not take him to Fort William?”

“A Scot who victimizes other Scots is no a criminal Sassenach, he’s a hero, given a warm bowl of food and set free to continue his work.”

He nuzzled my neck and walked naked to open the window. I loved the feeling of being clean and cozied up to Jamie’s side while he read. I wasn’t the least bit tired so my mind wandered in and out of memories, thoughts, fantasies. Before long I was flipping through my card catalog of sexual positions, landing on ones that I loved.

Jamie glanced at his wife every few minutes until he was sure she was on the road that led to mutual pleasure. This was the first time he entered her body an unwelcome guest and he would keep his promise not to force her. Now he just needed her to force him. He turned the light down and held her close as he slowed his breathing, waiting.

I was lost in memories of an erotic carriage ride through the streets of Paris with my skirts up over my face and Jamie’s tongue sending an invitation to join the altitude of the angels. He had pulled my jacket away from my breasts so he could suck on them until I screamed. He pushed into my mouth after pulling me to my knees on the carriage floor. I saw the curtains sway back and forth in front of the windows, exposing my naked breast and the cock in my mouth. I should know better than to dwell on that special memory.

My hand found Jamie’s leg and traveled up his stomach and higher to twist his nipple before descending back down to wrap around his balls and hold them, feeling the heaviness.

Jamie struggled to remain still and asleep while Claire made her advances. She wanted him but she wasn’t ready yet. He turned on his side, his back to her. It was a gamble, he waited.

The images of Jamie’s infinite positions for making love danced through my head and I felt my breath go in and out across my wet lips. My core was throbbing and wanted his attention. I spooned into his back and ran my hand down his chest pinching his nipples. He was deep asleep and I was losing my mind. I could feel his glorious balls from behind and I squeezed them. In a flurry of blankets, I was pinned on my back with Jamie’s face an inch above mine.

“What are ye doin Sassenach?”

“I want you to wake up and touch me, Jamie.”

“Nah, ye didna want me tonight, you must rest Sassenach.”

I tried to kiss him and he moved his head away and got up. My heart was pounding and I could not let him leave.

“Why do you resist me. I can see you want me. Come and I will give you what you want.” I moved to the side of the bed and shed my night rail. I opened my legs wide and asked him to lick me. He approached and pushed my knees open.

“Show me Sassenach.”

I laid back on the bed and guided his hand to my core but he pulled away.

“No” I growled. I was done playing this game and needed to come. When he walked away from me I followed and tried to wrap around his body from behind. His large hand came around and I was thrown to the small sofa in our room.

“Show me again mo chridhe.”

He sank to his knees and told me to show him what to do. I grabbed his chin and pulled him to me. I could feel his breath on my wet tender core, his tongue was millimeter from me and he pulled away.

“No! Please, Jamie, touch it, right here, make me come, love, I need to come.”

Jamie grabbed my hips and pulled my pelvis up to his mouth so I was upside down with my hands on the cushions of the sofa. I felt the flutter of angel wings just before I blasted into a higher stratosphere where nerve endings were played like a harp.

As Claire spun slowly back to earth Jamie inserted his tongue into her and rolled his eyes to the side to watch the would-be-rapist hang from a tree with a mighty erection. Lowering Claire to the sofa he grabbed a fistful of hair pulling her to his groin. On her knees, in front of the window, he held her mouth to him before pulling her up and spinning her toward the window. He pushed into her while she clung to the window sill, unaware of the man watching them.

Jamie was not tender or nice. He pushed into her with force because that’s what she wanted in this mood. It played right into his torturous hands and he made sure the hanging man would depart for the orient with purple balls for what he tried to do to the women here. When he came with a mightly growl his eyes were open and staring into the eyes of his enemy.

Jamie picked me up and laid me on the bed. He kissed me deeply and ran his hand over my flesh. My hips jerked slightly toward his hand and he stopped. A minute passed and his finger pushed into my fold as my hips shot up. I needed to come again and I would tear this bed to shreds to get to Jamie. He pushed my legs open. I felt the cool night air on my swollen bud.

Jamie moved to the side so the dangling man would see a wet pussy and what he was about to do to it. For the next ten minutes, the man watched with wide eyes and a throbbing dick as Jamie brought her to two more orgasms. He turned to look at the dangler with a wet face and a smile before snuffing the light to hold his wife close.

Jamie woke in the deep night with a throbbing erection. It was painful and he reached for Claire. He only meant to punish the man who tried to rape the women under his care but the erotic lesson was demanding to be paid. As he slid in and out of her his gaze never wavered from her eyes. The exquisite build-up made him slick with sweat as he pushed deeper into her until he exploded. He held her so close and whispered his love into her ear and her dreams.

I woke the next day feeling like something inside me was different and I could not shake the feeling all day. In the afternoon, I rode Brimstone through the fields hoping some exercise would ease my anxiety but it didn’t. Murtagh had returned to Lallybroch and not another word was said about the intruder but he haunted my thoughts.

By the third day of living the nightmare in my head, Jamie pulled me outside for a walk before supper. He asked what was causing my silence, what was wrong. It just came tumbling out of my mouth, as if I was hearing it for the first time. My peace of mind, my happy space, had been burned to the ground watching that wicked man drag Glavia by the hair and then try to rape her.

“The way I see it, we have only one remedy Sassenach. Ye have to learn how to shoot and shoot well enough ye don’t hit the wrong person in the process. Are ye willin to try?”

“Yes! Oh Jamie, thank you. That would make me feel so much better!.”

“I have my doubts, wee love. A pistol often hurts the shooter.” He squeezed the muscle of my shoulder and arm and shook his head sadly. You canna shoot until ye’re stronger Sassenach. I’m sorry lass, but it will take some effort on yer part before you ever load a gun.”

“I’ll do what I must and do it quickly. Don’t you worry about that.”

We had an accord. Jamie would show me how to build my muscles and then teach me to shoot. I was excited about learning how to defend our home and my precarious daughter. I couldn’t wait to get started.

[missblanchette]

Rumor Has It [3/10]

Series: Hypnosis Mic

Characters: Izanami Hifumi/Yumeno Gentaro; appearances from Dice and Jakurai

Rating: T

Summary: Thousands of hearts broke that day. With tears shed and cries resounding to the heavens, each grief-stricken woman wondered how this could possibly happen. In the year 20XX of the H. Era, Matenrou’s MC GIGOLO and Fling Posse’s MC Phantom were officially in a relationship.

Except they weren’t, actually.

Notes: Minor violence and blood in the middle section! Please feel free to skip it if you’re not comfortable with that. You should be able to pick up on what happened in the last section.

Words: 3,814

ko-fi // Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | You can read this on AO3! Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy~! ^o^)/

Ch. 3: Before One Can Say “Knife”

The eyes of women followed Gentaro as he made his way home, staring daggers into his back. He'd long learned to fake a calm serenity since body language was key to any successful lie, but that didn't make the glares any less unnerving. Once, he'd thought that the wild fans in Chuuoku were too much to handle, but now he'd rather deal with passionate fervor than deranged devotion. The looks waned down when he returned to Shibuya, fortunately, but even in his home territory there were women who would lay their lives down for Izanami Hifumi. Nevertheless, he thanked whatever gods may be that his trip back was uneventful.

Returning to his apartment, he found a curled up ball swaddled in a green coat at his doorstep. Much too big to be a cat, the napping figure might as well have been one; though, certainly, it was better than the sight that greeted him this morning. Pulling down the hood revealed Dice's face, slumbering away with saliva running down his chin. With a shake of his head, Gentaro lips quirked up as he crouched down.

"Dice~" he said, a cheer to his voice. "Now's not the time to sleepin'. Don'tcha see? You won the jackpot!"

"Huh?!" Dice shot up, head darting left and right before his wide eyes landed on him. Gentaro waved his fingers, to which Dice's face fell. "Wha?"

"I take it Ramuda has kicked you out for the day?" Standing back up, he held out a hand to Dice.

"Uh, yeah. He's got some designs due soon and he wants some space or whatever," Dice said, taking it and hulling himself up. "I woulda let you known I was crashin’ here but I lost my phone."

"'Lost' doesn't happen to be synonymous with 'gambled it away,' does it?"

Dice wiped the drool off his chin. "Haha, yeah."

Feigning a sigh, Gentaro threw his hands up. "I suppose I have no choice but to let you in lest the neighbors call animal control."

"Y'know what, I got a nicer guy I can go to --"

Gentaro huffed a laugh, taking out his keys. "It's merely a jest."

"Yeah, yeah." Dice pouted and folded his arms, but that gave way to a look of bewilderment. "Yo, by the way, I found this when I got here?"

Like whipping out coins for a slot machine, Dice pulled out one of those plush dolls of Gentaro that they sold in Chuuoku from his pocket. A noose had been tied tightly around its neck and its stomach had been cut open, the stuffing sticking out from the wound. Gentaro couldn't help the sigh that escaped his lips as he took the doll from Dice's hands. At the very least, his door was left untouched after he took the time to clean it earlier.

"Oh dear, you've caught me, Dice," Gentaro said, lowering his voice with a dark and eerie tone to match it. His eyes snapped towards Dice with a mad touch to them. "I'm actually a serial killer and this is the plush doll I use to plan out my murders. Now that you've discovered the evidence, I'll have to kill you off."

"W-Wait a minute…!"

He leaned in closer as Dice gulped nervously, swinging the doll by the noose's tail before his features returned to normal.

"Worry not, I was lying." Unlocking the door, Gentaro gestured him in.

"Goddamn, dude, you had me there for a sec." Dice's voice echoed behind him as they entered and removed their shoes. "Why you got that on your doorstep anyways?"

"I'm dealing with something worse than a serial killer."

"Oh crap, really? What, like the yakuza?"

"Worse." Doll and noose carefully in hand, Gentaro made a beeline for the kitchen whilst scanning his home for any signs of trespassers. Nothing appeared to be out of place, thank goodness.

"Worse than the yakuza?! You got some loan sharks up your ass or somethin’?"

"Even worse than that." Gentaro paused at his place in front of the cabinets and locked eyes with Dice. He held Dice's gaze, milking the silence as long as he possibly could. "Fan girls."

Brows creasing into a multitude of lines and mouth puckering like he'd eaten something sour, Dice squinted. "Fan girls...?"

Gentaro nodded sagely. "Fan girls."

"You're... shitting me, right?"

"As much as I'd love for this to be a lie, it is not." He returned his attention to the cabinet, tutting at how empty it was. The one time he actually needed it, the plastic bag filled with plastic bags was gone. "This doll is very proof of it. I’d also discovered a message written in blood on my front door this morning."

Dice whistled, low and long. "Damn, bro. Who'd you piss off?"

"You haven't heard, Dice?" Gentaro fluttered his lashes, plastering on a smile as if he were a maiden who'd been forced into an arranged marriage. "I'm having intimate relations with Izanami Hifumi."

"Iza -- Wha? I -- Ooh, oh shit. That thing Ramuda was talkin' 'bout in the group chat?" Dice's nose scrunched up like he'd landed a bad roll. "That was real?"

"Unfortunately, yes, though not in the way everyone thinks. Then again, it's not like anyone cares to think otherwise."

Gentaro sighed, his miniature mirror image staring up at him with dead, green eyes. While the situation was undoubtedly unnerving, the threats themselves didn't scare him so much as the idea of being tracked down and played with so easily. Ramuda holding information on him was one thing, but any lay person locating him was another. If that was the case, then surely they could dig up any piece of intelligence they wished and threaten to manipulate him in any way they pleased. Maybe blaming Hifumi for all of this was taking things too far but though these women acted out of their own will, they waged war in his name -- that alone was enough to put Gentaro off.

Dice clicked his tongue.  "Man, that's tight. You're not hurt are ya?"

"Not yet," he singsonged. Peering deeper into the cabinet, he found a spare bag somewhere in the back.

"Well, damn. Hopefully they back off soon or something." Mumbling, he added, "Can only imagine what that Izanami dude has to deal with."

Gentaro lips curled down. "Is that sympathy for our dear rival I hear, by any chance?"

Making an unsure face, Dice shrugged. "Nah, not really. Just sayin' it kinda sucks having to deal with some crazies, y'know? Like, the fuck they gonna do? Stab you?"

Gentaro hummed in reply. Though no larger than his arm, the doll weighed heavily in his hand. The tail of the noose hung loosely, the rough material that brushed against his skin dispelling any disbelief he had about his mangled reflection. Had he stayed home today, chances were he would have been in this doll’s place instead; hanging from the ceiling with his gut cut open, his one place of refuge becoming his grave. The scene sounded like something out of a thriller, though Gentaro was anything but thrilled to be caught in the middle of it.  

Breaking him out of his thoughts, Dice spoke again. "By the way, I'm starvin', dude. You gonna make lunch?"

"Yes, I will be, but it seems that I'm in need of ingredients." Gentaro twirled the noose's tail around his finger, pointing it towards Dice. "Perhaps you'll do?"

"H-Hey, man --"

"No need to fear, it was another joke," Gentaro said, slipping the hanged doll into the bag. "Although it’s true that I need to do some grocery shopping. I'll let you decide on lunch if you assist me."

"Really? Sweet! Can you make some yakisoba?"

"Very well. I hope you don't mind if we take the long way to the supermarket?"

"Nah, it’s cool."

Securing his headaches and worries with a tie of the bag, Gentaro nodded. "Great."

Lunch had turned into dinner, considering how long they took at the police station. Though Gentaro didn't have a lot of faith in the police, he figured that a false sense of security was better than none at all. If anything, he made a reminder to himself to contact Yamada Ichiro again should he need to take matters into his own hands. Dice stuck by his side throughout the whole process, thankfully, albeit bored. What he'd hoped for anyways was that Dice's presence would deter any more budding rumors, but that yielded less-than-desirable results. Gossip was as gossip went, and word that "MC GIGOLO and MC Phantom revealed their love affair to the public" spread faster than a forest fire by the time they returned to Gentaro's place. Deep scowls and scrutinizing glares from the women they passed aside, he rewarded Dice with the yakisoba he so craved.

One week, then. Gentaro waited one week before daring to venture further than walking distance of his apartment. It seemed that talk about him and Hifumi had died down enough to allow him to leave without feeling the stares of women everywhere he went, but not enough to stop the nasty looks he received from passersby. Regardless of the matter, he couldn't stay cooped up at home for most of his days.

While a week was plenty of time to get progress on his manuscript done, Gentaro scarcely made a dent due to his frustrations. The plot felt contrived and the characters, too, felt stiff. There was that matter of the host as well, and how he couldn't possibly scrap them without changing the entire basis of the story either. An occupation like a bartender was much too mundane for the story, but something along the lines of a prostitute was too shady. What he needed, in that case, was a point of reference. Call him crazy -- and assuredly he would believe it after all that pacing he'd done in his room -- but Kabukicho was the best place for that. Setting aside his qualms and paranoia, Gentaro took to the streets of the red light district once again in hopes that inspiration would hit.

And something, surely, did hit.

With a shout of "Yumeno-sensei!", Gentaro was pushed onto the ground faster than he could process anything. His hands shot out, barely breaking his fall against the concrete sidewalk. Vision spinning, the shrill scream that cut through intensified his vertigo. Picking himself up with shaky legs, Gentaro noticed the crowd forming around him and his eyes followed the people's attention. His breath caught in his throat, seeing a familiar head of blond hair and the back of a gray suit jacket staggering about.

"Hifumi! I hurt you, Hifumi!" A woman wailed as she cupped Hifumi's face with her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks. Hifumi, meanwhile, wobbled backwards as his jacket slipped down his arms. At his feet, drops of red dripped down. "I'm so sorry, I was trying to get that Yumeno bitch!"

Her eyes, crazed and ireful, snapped towards him and pinned him in spot. She pointed an accusing finger at him as if he'd been the one to harm her beloved. Before Gentaro could quip back, Hifumi's laugh filled the tense air. Though a noise he usually found so annoying, the strain laced within it didn't sound right.

"My darling kitten, that's a little rash, don't you think?" Gentaro couldn't see Hifumi's face but he could hear the warble that underlain his flirtatious lilt, watch his fingers tremble as he took her hands in his. "There's no need for violence, love."

"But you belong to me!"

"If you care so much about your precious Hifumi --" Ignoring his uneasiness, Gentaro schooled his expression into one of impassiveness. "-- then mayhaps you should do something about the blood you've spilled?"

The woman scowled, baring her fangs at him. "How dare you!"

Giving no warning, she lunged at him. Gentaro shut his eyes closed out of instinct and raised an arm to brace himself for the impact that never came. Counting down the heartbeats, he slowly opened his eyes to see Hifumi holding the woman back. She squirmed and writhed in his arms, her kicks barely grazing Gentaro. A knife, he saw at last, had been lodged into Hifumi's abdomen and blood seeped through his shirt and the woman's dress. It was a wonder that he was even standing, as her thrashing agitated the handle and caused blood to flow faster. The drops of red beneath him formed a small puddle.

"This is for your sake, Hifumi!"

"Now, kitten, I'd gladly let you sink your claws into me but I won't allow you to harm anyone else." The flirtatious lilt had given way to a serious edge, the timbre unfamiliar to Gentaro's ears. He shuddered, though whether it was from Hifumi's tone, the woman's vehement ardor, or the faint sirens blaring in the background, he didn't know.

"Is this what you call 'love'?" Gentaro jeered at the woman. Never had he seen such hate directed at him, her eyes defiant and frenzied as they pierced through him. "Is your passion so twisted that you care only for your own feelings? That you disregard your beloved's wishes? How selfish."

"Shut up! What do you know?!"

Just as she'd broken free from Hifumi's grasp, the police arrived on the scene and grabbed her before any more damage could be done. Gentaro blinked, the sounds of sirens finally settling into his ears and his heart drumming against his chest. As the police officers took her away, Hifumi teetered on his feet, swaying as stalks in a field did on a windy day, and fell over. Without thinking, Gentaro caught him.

"Yumeno-sensei..." Irises dull like aged champagne, Hifumi looked up at him through lidded eyes. His breathing sounded labored as blood dripped onto Gentaro's fingers, the knife jutting out of his abdomen like a bookmark sticking out between pages. "Are you okay?"

"Have you seen yourself?" Gentaro blurted out.

"A flesh wound is all it is," Hifumi said, the levity in his voice weak. He let out a chuckle, more feeble than irritating. "It's not my first run in with a knife, anyhow."

For once, Gentaro found himself at a loss for words. A writer he was, a weaver of lies and a creator of worlds, but not in his wildest imagination would he have ever thought of a scenario like this: Izanami Hifumi, rival and nuisance, taking a hit for him and lying limply in his arms. The way he reacted so blase, so nonchalantly, as if he'd received a mere slap to the wrist only added to the shiver running through Gentaro’s spine.

Before he could find respond, the EMTs entered the scene and whisked Hifumi away. In his place were blood stains adorning his white sleeves and a heavy weight upon his arms; a chill replacing stifling warmth and a disquiet settling in his core. Gentaro stood frozen as the EMTs placed Hifumi on the gurney. A pit filling his stomach, he swallowed hard as they loaded Hifumi into the ambulance.

"Excuse me," Gentaro said, approaching the EMTs with a lie ready on his tongue. "May I come along? He's a friend of mine."

The EMTs looked at each other before ushering him inside the ambulance. Taking a seat beside Hifumi, he inhaled sharply at the sight of the languid man lying in front of him. The sirens filled the air again, and Gentaro's mind went numb with racing thoughts.

The ride passed like a blur, if anything because Gentaro couldn't quite concentrate. Hardly being able to answer any personal questions in Hifumi's stead, he simply watched as the EMTs dealt with his wound. The next thing he knew, he was sitting in the hospital's waiting room as they ran tests on Hifumi. Though Gentaro was well acquainted with the sterile smell and cold air of hospitals, that didn't make them any less uncomfortable, less harrowing, less sickening. He'd yet to decide if those working here were brave or broken for what they tended to on a daily basis.

His notebook and pen remained untouched in his pocket, his hands idle in his lap for even he couldn't bring himself to use his fake realities as a distraction. He had to wonder, really, why he hadn't left yet. He'd ridden with Hifumi out of obligation, to see him to safety as it was only what one should do. By all means, Hifumi was already safe, at least as safe as a hospital could be; but for some reason, Gentaro sat still as if his legs had turned into stone. Like a phantom, the feeling of Hifumi's limp body lingered on his skin and the image of his pale face staring at him -- so unlike the haughty man he'd faced on stage -- refused to leave his mind.

It might've been an hour or it might've been an eternity before a nurse gave him the okay to see Hifumi. Absentmindedly, he followed them to his room.

"D-Doppo...! Save me...!"

"Izanami-san, please relax. I need you to stay calm so I can insert the needle."

Standing by the door, he saw Hifumi cowering in the bed and a nurse at his side holding an IV line. Gentaro frowned as he hovered by the entrance, one foot inside the room and the other hesitating to follow. If he hadn't been doubting his decision to come along before, then he definitely was now. There was no comfort he could provide Hifumi nor any assistance to the nurse.

"Pardon me," a deep voice came from behind him. Turning, he was face-to-face with Dr. Jinguji Jakurai who raised his eyebrows at him. His guard went up at the sight of Matenrou's leader -- the saint so detested by Ramuda and the humanitarian with a history far too clean to be true -- looking down on him, but Jakurai questioned not his presence and gave him a polite smile. Dipping his head, Gentaro let him pass by.

Approaching Hifumi's bed, Jakurai nodded to the nurse. "Your help is appreciated, but may I ask you to leave? If there are any male nurses available, please send them this way."

With no argument, the nurse took heed and left. Like a switch had been turned off, the apprehension on Hifumi's face disappeared and he reached out for Jakurai with jittery fingers.

"Dr. Jakurai..." The quiver had left his voice, the tone more akin to the perky one he heard during their phone call. Gentaro stood silently as Hifumi clung onto Jakurai. "Thank God you're here, that woman was so scary!"

Gentaro's brows furrowed, noting that odd comment.

"I came as soon as I possibly could," said Jakurai, patting Hifumi's head. "I had a scare when I heard about what happened, but you're quite the lucky one, Hifumi-kun. It's amazing nothing vital was injured."

Sickly pale as he was, Hifumi flashed a V-sign. "It takes a lot more than a knife to get me down!"

Jakurai's lips tugged up, though concern crossed his features. "If I may ask, how did things come to this?"

"It was, like, totes cra~zy, Doc!" Hifumi perked up and shook Jakurai’s hand back and forth. "So I was walking to work, right? But get this: I saw one of my clients carrying a knife! I was like, 'Why's she carrying a knife in public like that?!' but then I noticed she had this super scary look on her face." His face scrunched up, squinting and pursing his lips as if mimicking her expression. "And then! And then, she started running towards Yumeno-sensei --"

With Hifumi gesturing right at him, Jakurai's gaze locked onto his. Gentaro could have written pages upon pages as to what he imagined was going through Jakurai's mind, his face refusing to reveal any of this thoughts.

"-- so of course I had to do something!"

Eyes lingering on him for a moment more than necessary, Jakurai turned his attention back to Hifumi. "That's very admirable of you."

"Yes, indeed," Gentaro spoke up, finally finding his voice. He couldn't tell if what he said next was a lie or a truth. "I appreciate what he did for me, so I felt it right to see him to the hospital."

"Thank you for being there, Yumeno-kun," Jakurai said, his voice even. He might have been reading too deeply into it, seeing things that weren't there, but the smile Jakurai wore appeared to be stiff. "It's rather late so if you wish to go home, you may. I can take care of things from here."

For all Gentaro berated himself for not leaving as soon as he could've, he hesitated at Jakurai's words -- a demand, perhaps, under the guise of courtesy. In contrast, Hifumi's smile was kinder in spite of the weariness in his eyes. Gentaro's stomach twisted in knots. They were rivals on the stage, practically strangers outside the territory battles; he had no place at Hifumi's bedside, let alone seeing him to the hospital. Truly, he had no place here at all.

"Right then, I suppose I'll be taking my leave." Taking a step back, Gentaro bowed his head. "Thank you, Izanami..." He paused, the title hesitant to roll off his tongue. "...-san."  

"Take care, Yumeno-sensei," Hifumi said, chipper despite the fatigue evident all over him. He waved, albeit sluggishly. "Get home safely!"

Without a further word, Gentaro exited the room. His steps slowed down, however, as he heard Hifumi's loud voice from inside.

"Hey, Doc, did you hear anything about that woman? Is she doing all right?"

The conversation trailed off and Gentaro fell to a stop. All he'd ever known of Izanami Hifumi was that he charged recklessly into the future, that he was a man with no filter, that he was a wolf who blindly followed in the steps of of his pack leader. Upon the battle stage, he sung of naive ideals and self-praises; within Kabukicho's nightlife, he dared present himself as a perfect dream. He'd no regard for sensitivities, no sense of sympathy if his dises and careless words about his person had been anything to go by. But here Hifumi had gone and taken a knife meant for him without a second thought, asked him if he was unharmed like the bad blood between them didn't exist, and bade him farewell as if they were friends.

Had the situation been reversed, Gentaro wondered, would he have done the same? The answer to that was a resounding "no" -- or at least, it would've been before the events that transpired tonight. With the pressure of Hifumi's body lingering on his arms and his blood staining his sleeves a deep red, he regretted to admit that. Perhaps he was the one with no regard for others.

With a heavy heart and an even heavier conscious, Gentaro left Shinjuku Central Hospital.

[wisepuma23]

Flowers For A Ghost - Prologue

Masterpost and Summary Next

1991

The thunder crashed over the dark mountain road. The stars couldn’t be seen through the dark canopy of storm clouds. Lightning streaked across the sky like whips until the thunder shook the heavens in its agony. The gravel road curled around the mountain like a snake, water ran down the sides until the roads shined with slick. The mountain was more waterfall than dirt at this point. There was a flash flood warning in effect for the Blue Ridge mountain range and its surrounding counties. No one in their right mind was outside in this weather.

A car zoomed past the trees, its light shimmering in the heavy rain, and water crashed in its wake as it raced around the sharp mountain turns.

Virgil took a rare stretch of road to pull down his tie. His silk tie felt like a noose tight around his throat. He blew out a sigh when it hung loose around his neck. God, he can’t wait to get back home. The interview sucked ass. Virgil knew the nice lady said she would call back in a few days, but what if she didn’t? Then he would’ve worn this monkey suit for nothing.

Virgil growled as he yanked up his shirt from its place tucked into his belt, one hand on the wheel still making the sharp turns in the dark and the other freeing him from his tailored prison.His car rattled just under the constant thrum of thunder and rain. He could barely make out the road in the blinding rain. Why did his interview needed to be so far away?

Virgil shook his head as he made another sharp turn, water sucking on his tires; it was worth it. Patton and the kids were worth it.

Virgil cursed as the car jumped over a pothole hard enough that his head bumped into the roof. He just hoped he made it home in time for Patton’s cooking. The smell of lasagna made his way into his memory and his tongue started to water. Or maybe it was cold by now.

His car whistled by on the hard curves. Virgil felt the thrum of the thunder in his bones. His eyes focused on the road; he wasn’t dying on some mountain road like a dumbass. Well, maybe he can put on some tunes. Something to settle his nerves at least.

Virgil looked away from the road and looked down at his radio. He pushed at the buttons, switching from static to static. Nothing but white noise. Come on, come on, get some good ol’ Nirvana in here. Then finally the radio belted out the beginning lines to Smells Like Teen Spirit.

“Haha yes!” Virgil exclaimed. Then he heard a loud honk and light filled the cabin. His head whipped up and he screamed as he saw a truck coming right at him. Virgil yanked on the wheel and his wheels screeched as he went back into his lane.

“Fuck!” Virgil cursed, then rolled his eyes as he heard the answering honks as he passed. “I’m sorry! Shit, that was way too close.”

Virgil blew out a sigh as he winded his way down the mountain. His nerves were shot all to hell, and the thunder boomed outside. He thought idly that the storm must be on top on him, the lightning and the thunder seemed to arrive within the same second. The storm was gnarly, yeah.

Virgil clenched his steering wheel, trying to let Nirvana’s peeling strums wash over him.

He just needed to get home.

Virgil made it halfway down the mountain when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He slammed down on the brakes and his eyes widened as he felt the sick lurch of the car skidding on the slick roads. His car spun and then slammed into the metal rail and he let out a shaky breath. The radio shifted back to static.

Virgil shakily stepped out of the car and pushed his hair out of his eyes. Rain ran down his face in rivelets as he sloshed his way up the road. There was a bright yellow car wedged in the metal rail, with one edge teetering over the cliff and the other on the road. White smoke curled up into the dark sky. It must be the coolant, so the car won’t explode at least.

Virgil leaned down to look into the windows before yelling, “Hey! Are you okay? Hello?”

There were three teenagers slumped against the seats. Virgil looked up to the rolling sky, fricking teenagers, he hoped his kids didn’t grow up dumbasses like these guys.

“Hey! Wake up!” Virgil shouted. “Your car is on the edge of a cliff! I– I said wake up, or I’m breaking in!” No response. Virgil groaned. “Dammit!! Hold on.”

Virgil drudged his way back to the car and wrenched open his trunk, rummaging in the back for anything to use. He found a wrench and grimaced, but it was the best he had on hand.

Virgil made his way back to the yellow car. The rain bit at his cheeks from how harsh it was coming down now, and he could barely see where he was walking in the storm. He knocked on the window with his wrench, the teens slowly waking up now.

"Come on, wakey wakey!" Virgil said as he tapped on the glass again. "You're going to die in there if you don't wake up right now!!!"

Finally, one of them shook their head and turned to his window. Virgil jiggled the door but it was locked like he already suspected. The teenager, a shaggy-haired boy, screamed as he looked through the front windows. Yeah, looking at certain doom can do that to anyone.

"Wake up your buddies!" Virgil shouted over the roar of the storm. "We don't have all day!"

Virgil wiped rain away from his face as he watched the boy shake his buddies awake in the front seat. He spotted blood on their foreheads; not good. There was no cell service out here either — shit, they had to hurry it up, shit .

Virgil eyed the rain beating down on the teetering crumpled hood. It was a miracle that they hadn't fallen down already. He could picture the broken heap at the bottom of the mountain face for authorities to find in the morning.

"Help us!" the boy giggled as he leaned against the glass. "Help us, bunny sir!"

Virgil squinted against the rain. "Are you fucking high?"

The boy blinked back at him. "Yeah, we are, don't you see the cliff? Aren't you high too, Bugs Bunny?"

"Damn kids." Virgil rolled his eyes. "Can you open the door?"

"No," the boy replied as he tried the lock too. "It's jammed! Larry thought he saw something shiny and he couldn't stop himself. We flew. We flew so high. But we're stuck here in the clouds. Can you free us from this metal prison, sir? And please don't tell our parents!"

"I won't," Virgil lied through his teeth. "What's your name?"

"Kenny."

"Kenny?" Virgil confirmed, then tapped on the glass window with his finger. "Okay then Kenny, can you roll down the window? I said roll down the window."

Kenny tugged on the roll but it was, again jammed; like everything else in this situation. Virgil bit back his swears. He didn't want to scare him more than he already was.

Kenny shook his head. Virgil sighed and felt the heavy weight of his wrench. He really didn't have anything else to use. God, he hoped the teenagers weren't such mega dicks that they pressed charges. He couldn't afford it. It was why he was even out here trying to get an interview to get more money.

"Lean back," Virgil shouted, "I'm going to break the window!"

"What?"

"I'm going to break the window!" Virgil yelled again over another clap of thunder. He tugged his grey suit jacket off. His pressed white shirt grew heavy with rain water and he wondered how he was going to hide it from Patton. The thought left as sudden as it appeared.

Virgil shivered as the rain soaked his white shirt until he felt it clung uncomfortably to his chest in seconds. He can handle the inevitable cold later when he wasn't saving reckless and drugged up teenagers in the middle of one of the worst storms this county has ever seen.

Virgil wrapped his suit jacket over his wrench. It had to work.

He roared as he swung it full force at the back window, grinning at the resulting giant spider web crack in the glass. Virgil rolled up his sleeves and worked up the wrench over his shoulder. He swung again with all the strength of a former baseball player. The glass shattered and Kenny's eyes bulged at the twinkling glass in his lap. Virgil tied his jacket around his waist.

"Kenny, well okay," Virgil swung the wrench over his shoulder, "Can your buddies climb over here? Just really gently. I wouldn't want y'all to fall okay. Just very slow."

"Hey, Larry?" Kenny said, then shook his shoulder. "Larry, dude, you need to get into the back seat. Come on, man." Then he turned to the other slumped boy in the passenger seat, "Hey Bart? Stop thinking about Kristina Rogers for one second and get up. Get in the back seat."

"Nngh," Larry groaned, "I'm not getting in the back seat, bro. I don't even like you dude. Well, maybe I will if you stop eating candy. Shit's not right. We brothers."

"Shut the fuck up," Kenny hissed, "we're going to die! We need to get out. We're on a cliff, dude. Like whoa, trippy as hell; so like, we're going to die if we stay here."

Bart shook his head. "S' my dad's car. Can't leave it here."

"I said GET OUT !" Virgil screamed. "Get in the back seat now or I'm calling the cops on you. Understand? I'm not joking. Your parents will be here quicker than I finish saying cocaine and hookers. So snap out of it."

Larry and Bart froze at the undeniably adult voice. Good. Virgil glanced again at the mountain and the storm. If it gets any worse then there were no denying that rock slides were going to become a danger. It was just going to happen.

Larry started to climb into the backseat. Careful, careful, his hands clenched and unclenched around his wrench as if it did any good. Virgil wished he had books or something in his car that could weigh down the trunk.

He looked down at himself. Oh right. God, this was so dangerous but he wasn't letting anyone die on his watch.

"Get out!” Virgil shouted over the storm. “I’m going to get on top of the trunk! Go now!”

He threw himself on top of the trunk. The car groaned under his weight, his muscles tensed and his throat closed up. Then it settled.

Virgil shook the sopping wet hair out of his eyes as he yelled over his shoulder to hurry up. He could hear Kenny tumbling out the broken window and onto the ground. The car groaned and Virgil felt his heart leap into his throat as his toes left the ground. Kenny shouted at his friends, and one by one, they shoved themselves through the window. Virgil leaned forward — don’t tip back, don’t tip back .

The rain whipped his back in harsh sheets. His fingers started to go numb and his chest ached from the abuse. Virgil spat out the rainwater as he waited on the teetering trunk in the roaring winds and rain. Kenny finally hauled Larry and Bart toward the road.

Virgil sighed. Three dumbass teenagers saved at long last. He wondered if Roman would call him a hero. Especially with his cute lilt over his h’s.

Home was waiting for Virgil at the bottom of the mountain. Just another thirty-minute drive. Some cold pasta was what he needed. Yeah, cold pasta sounded great about now. Virgil tipped his head back to blink up at the storm. It was so beautiful out here. Even if it was deadly.

The car groaned as it finally lurched upwards. A scream died in his throat as he realized the car had finally lost it balance on the sheer cliff face. Virgil tipped back, his arms swinging in the air; OH GOD!

He felt the empty air at his back and saw the horrified faces of teenagers. Kenny reached out for him, but his eyes were already sliding upwards to the sky. Oh. Oh no no no.

One word rang clear in his mind: Patton.

I’m sorry.

...

The yellow car tipped wheels over hood as it tumbled down the mountainside. Kenny screamed as he saw the body trapped in the tumble like a shoe in a dryer. Larry fell to his knees and puked onto the roadside. His vomit mixed with the rushing rainwater that sucked at their shoes. The storm raged on, uncaring in its wrath, however, the teenagers hadn’t registered it as a tempest. The thunder rang like a gravel in a courtroom that spoke of lifetime imprisonment; the harsh white flashes of lightning similar to the inevitable mugshots. The wailing of the wind transformed into the same eerie notes of police sirens.

God. They killed him. They did, they did, and they didn’t even save the nice man. Not after he saved their lives.

“We….we have to get out of here, man,” Bart said, he pulled Larry to his feet and pulled Kenny away from the edge, “Cops are going to be here any minute. Like wooooo boi, I can’t let my parents know. They’ll kill me, you know? My dad will kill me. Shit, shit, Kenny let’s go! We can take his car.”

Kenny took one last look back and then limped away. His parents would actually kill him if he’s home after midnight.

He looked up at the storm that continued to rage on.

Huh, the weather was real nasty tonight.

[peaky-yamyam]

The Other Shelby - Luca Changretta

   - SPOILERS FOR SEASON FOUR - 

37 with a Shelby reader x Luca

“I tried my best to not feel anything for you. Guess what? I failed.”

Tommy had tried his hardest to exclude me from everything regarding the war with the Changrettas. Not that it surprised me, but I had expected at the very least, after John’s death, he’d be a little more cautious of keeping us all safe. Of course though, Tommy being Tommy was more concerned about when he was next going to be able to get his cock seen to and his damn gin.

I’d been lucky not to end up with a noose around my neck next to Polly, but that luck had nothing to do with Tommy and I know without a doubt that he would he hung me out to dry like the rest of them if it had come down to it. So I’d taken matters into my own hands, not that I’m proud of myself for it, or even that I thought it was a good idea, but as soon as I’d realised Polly had a plan I’d decided to follow her and found myself at a swanky bar, hidden while she chatted to Luca Changretta; the man hunting our family. As she’d sauntered away, confident she’d pulled the wool over Luca’s eyes and convinced him she’d give up Tommy if he spared her and Michael, I'd been unable to stop myself from stepping in and stealing her seat next to Luca.

He’d sat with an air I’d never seen before; his confidence so strong that it seemed to radiate from him. He didn’t need fancy words and metaphors to intimidate, or sarcasm and violence, his mere presence was enough to establish that he was not a man to be messed with.

“Evening,” I’d said, taking the drink that Polly had left.

“Must say I’m surprised to see you sat here Miss Shelby,” he’d replied, barely lifting his gaze from the match between his fingers.

“Well, I wanted to make sure that Polly had mentioned my name in her little deal.”

He’d glanced at me then and quirked his eyebrow, almost impressed that I’d figured what was going on.

“Can’t say she did.”

“I’m not really surprised if I’m honest.”

“You seem calm,” he’d said, twisting then in his seat so his knee bumped against mine.

I’d shifted my skirt a little, drawing his eye to the contact and he’d smiled slightly; that same half smile Tommy had perfected.

“When everything goes wrong, you know where to find me,” I’d said, finishing the last of the drink and hopping from my seat.

He’d grabbed my arm roughly and the goosebumps that it elicited had clued me in then that whatever this little interaction was, it was the beginning of something. Something exciting.

“What do you mean, when it all goes wrong?”

“When you need someone who’s actually going to give you Thomas, I’m sure you’ll know where to find me,” I’d clarified, standing my ground as his grip had tightened around my arm.

After a second he’d released me and nodded his head, mumbling something in Italian as I’d flounced from the room, taking the same path that Polly had.

That had been a few weeks back and since then I’ve been waiting for Polly and Tommy’s plan to unfold and the inevitable knock I’d get at my door. Almost like clockwork, Tommy calls a family meeting - no doubt to tell everyone how he and Polly have conspired behind everyone’s backs again - and Luca Changretta appears in my house.

“You should really keep that door locked,” he says, pointing the match in his hand over his shoulder.

“Well, I knew you were coming.”

He nods to my silk pyjamas and robe. “It don’t look as if you knew I was coming.”

He reclines in the armchair, one long leg folded across the other as if I’m the guest in his house. “Polly stitch you up, did she?”

Luca doesn’t answer, just places the match stick back into the corner of his mouth.

“I did warn you.”

That garners a smile. Although there’s no trace of humour in it and my stomach turns.

“You did. You did warn me, you also promised a solution. So here I am.”

“I didn’t ever mention a solution, maybe I just invited you here for a social visit. Maybe I find you intriguing and I want to know more about you…”

“Dangerous game to be playing when I’m out to kill your entire family, Miss Shelby.”

“That’s a nice suit,” I say, nodding towards the tweed ensemble he’s donning. I know he’s only wearing it to fit in, the sharp suits he’s used to wearing acting as a beacon on the outskirts of Small Heath.

He glares at me as he folds the lapels over his stomach. “Miss Shelby I’m not here to chat-“

“It’s a little out of fashion for the season though don’t you think? And I probably would have gone for a different tie-“

“Miss Shelby, you better have something to offer me,” he interrupts, his voice still calm despite the flicking of the match in his mouth.

“The hat’s a bit off as well, but then maybe I’m too used to seeing those fucking peaked caps they all-“

Luca drops both his feet to the floor and leans forward. “I’m beginning to lose patience n-“

“Would you like a drink?” I interrupt again, and in a flash Luca has shot from his seat and is stood over me.

“Get to the fucking point. Now,” he growls, staring into my eyes, trying to read my thoughts before I voice them.

“Am I making you angry Luca? Because if I’m making you angry, then the solution to all this is really going to wind you up.”

He relaxes a little at that, at the promise that I have something for him but he doesn’t return to his chair.

“Did you want a drink?”

“Just tell me what your solution is.”

“I’ll get us some tea,” I say, trying to hold back a smile as Luca looks off to the side, his jaw quirked as he works to keep himself calm.

When he offers no verbal objection I wander off into the kitchen and take my time readying a tray with a teapot, some biscuits and just for good measure, a bottle of whiskey.

Luca touches none of it though, but he sits back in the chair and watches and I pull my legs next to me on the sofa, the bare skin of my calves peeking from beneath the silk robe.

“I’m curious as to why you’re offering to help me Miss Shelby,” Luca says, buttoning his jacket with one hand, the movements of his slender fingers exaggerated. “You’re clever enough to know that you aren’t really any of my concern, you have nothing to do with the Shelby business. In fact, I don’t even think you were living in Birmingham when my father was murdered.”

“That’s right.”

“So this ain’t about keeping your name off my list.”

“Not entirely, although I would appreciate the comfort of knowing me, Finn and Michael are safe.”

Luca smiles, another stomach churning smile, and pulls the match stick from his mouth. “Making demands now are you?”

“Finn’s just a kid, so is Michael really. But they’re poisoning them, ruining them and I won’t let it happen.”

Luca nods, logging that information away, filing it for when he might need it - exactly the same way Tommy does. “I killed your brother.”

“You did. On Christmas Day as well.”

“I’m the reason you’re back in this, this-“ he waves his hand looking for the appropriate word.

“Shit hole?” I offer and he flicks his finger in my direction.

“This shit hole.”

“You are.”

“So why are we talking like this?”

I take a cup from the tray and take my time pouring tea into it before lounging back in my seat, ensuring that a little more skin is on show. It amuses me, the expression on his face that he tries so hard to hide, the little glimmer that hints of the distraction I’m offering.

“Tommy’s a bad person. And Arthur. And John. They weren’t always, but the war changed them.“

“You Brits and the fucking war,” he mumbles, shaking his head and popping the match back into the corner of his mouth.

“Yes us Brits and the fucking war. Us Brits and the fucking war because nothing has been right since. Tommy, Arthur and John, they’re my brothers but at the same time, they’re not. Arthur killed a fucking kid in the boxing ring, pummelled his face in and you know what Tommy did about it? Gave the boys mother some cash. But, you already know about that. John started this whole fucking war because Tommy couldn’t keep his dick out of other people’s happiness. And the best of it all, the fucking icing on the cake, he let them all get arrested! They had those nooses around their necks and it was fucking chance that Tommy managed to get them out. You know what he’d have done if they’d have died? Nothing. If he can’t shoot it, fuck it or throw money at it he doesn’t give a shit about the problem unless it’s about him. So I’ll give you Tommy and Arthur and Polly, because they’d as soon as throw me in the shit as anything if they had the chance.”

Luca listens while I rant, teacup forgotten in my hands, his expression calm and unreadable until I finish. “And you believe that?”

“You don’t think I should?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Who am I to comment on family business? You, Michael and Finn will be safe. What is your solution?”

I place the teacup back on the table, frustrated that I allowed myself to fall so far into my festering anger and display my intent so clearly. However, it seems to have served me well and something about the look in Luca’s eyes tells me that our deal will be honoured. It’s hardly a compromise on his part, as he said, I’m none of his concern, neither is Finn, and Michael’s death only serves to repay Polly for her betrayal. Something I’m sure can be overlooked with the dispatch of Tommy and Arthur.

“Alfie Solomons.”

“The Jew?”

“Yeah. There’s a boxing match soon, Alfie’s nephew and some lad Tommy’s taken on. The whole family will be there along with a load of Alfie’s men. He’s betrayed Tommy before when it suited him yet Tommy still trusts, more than he should. He’s your best bet and I can get him to see you as long as you have something to offer him.”

“You think he’ll betray him again?”

“Maybe. He wants him rum shipped to America, the more sway he gets at the docks over there, the better.”

Luca nods slowly, his focus on the other side of the room as a plan formulates rapidly in his mind.

“He’s a little shit though. He’ll try and get under your skin, he’s famous for it. Just don’t let him intimidate you-“

Luca scoffs and whips his gaze back to me. “You think he’ll intimidate me?”

“You’ve never met him. Don’t let him get the upper hand but don’t try and belittle him or insult him. It won’t work and he will make you look like a fool.”

I almost wish I could watch their inevitable meeting unfold. It’s clear that Luca isn’t taking my warning seriously, but he’s warming to the idea of having Alfie on side, he’s seen a way to get at Tommy again at little expense to himself.

He stand from his chair and holds his hand out to me. “We have a deal. Set up the meeting.”

I shake his hand but before I can pull it away he dips low and presses his lips to the back of it, lingering for a second as he holds my gaze. “See you around Miss Shelby,” he says, turning quickly on his heel and disappearing through the door.

I spend my time on the outskirts of Small Heath on the off chance that Luca might sought me out. I have no way to contact him, no idea where he’s staying, so making myself readily available to him is the only chance I have of another meeting. It seems such a stupid idea to be making myself so vulnerable to the man who wants my family dead, but I can’t stop thinking about him. About the composed way he holds himself, about the low rumble of his voice when he speaks. Gangsters have never impressed me, the assumption that they’re attractive for the danger they bring has never worked on me, until now.

With nothing to distract myself with I find myself spending dark evenings with my thoughts on Luca’s hands and the ways they could explore my body and as much as I try to convince myself that trying to meet with him is to find out about his potential deal with Solomons, it’s clear that my interest in their partnership is minimal; what I really want is just to see Luca again.

“Miss Shelby,” a low voice says one of those dark evenings, making me jump as it rips me from my sordid daydreams.

“Fucking Christ!” I hadn’t heard the door open, however I’d taken to leaving it unlocked until I finally turned into bed.

“Expecting me were you?” Luca says with a smirk.

“You just startled me is all, hanging around in the dark. How did it go with Solomons?” I ask, folding my arms as I lean against the kitchen counter, attempting to show some kind of composure.

Luca snorts and swipes a finger across his nose, his eyes flicking to the side as he replays the meeting in his head. “He was… testing.”

“Did you make him angry?”

“A little.”

“Did he call you a fucking wop?”

“And a cunt.”

I can’t help but grin, although not my cup of tea Alfie has always impressed me with his attitude and it’s clear by the look of disgust on Luca’s face that he’d very much managed to ruffle his feathers.

“I won’t say I warned you, but you know, I did tell you…”

“You did,” he says, taking a step towards me.

“I also warned you about Polly.”

“You did.” He pulls the match from his mouth and throws it to the side.

“Maybe, Luca, you should start listening to me.”

“Maybe…” He takes another step towards me, his body so close to mine now that there’s no way I could move from the counter.

I drop my arms, removing the last barrier between us and he slides a foot between mine, pinning me in my position.

He trails a finger down my arm, watching as the contact leaves a line of goosebumps across my flesh.

“You know,” he says, leaning in so his breath tickles my ear. “You are something else.”

I try to raise a brow, give off a look that says it’s all cleverly calculated, that I knew this would happen and I’m not surprised. But my stomach bubbles with excitement and nerves as every inch of skin tingling awaiting Luca’s next touch.

He presses his lips to my cheek, gently, slowly. Lingering before moving towards my jaw and neck, where he unleashes his attentions. “I tried my best to not feel anything for you. Guess what? I failed.”

[d0gdaze]

since we’ve no place to go (let it snow)

Read on AO3

One Shot

Pairing: Richie Tozier / Stan Uris

Warnings: swearing, brief mention of suicide by christmas decorations

Word Count: 2495

There were ten reasons why Richie Tozier was not having a good day.

First, he woke up too late, and had to pack his suitcase for a two week long trip in the span of five minutes. Sure, this could have been prevented by making sure his alarms were set for AM and not PM, and yeah, he could have packed his suitcase sometime during the week and not the day he was supposed to leave, but hindsights 20/20.

Second, it was snowing, and the pavement outside his housing complex was slippery, and in his hurry to get to the curb and hail a taxi, he fell flat on his arse in front of approximately seventy onlookers. Again, preventable, he shouldn't have been wearing keds in winter. But again, hindsight.

Third, his phone in his back pocket broke his fall, but also broke the screen. Preventable, maybe. Mental note to not put his phone in his back pocket anymore.

Fourth, even after witnessing his bad luck, some forty-something in a business suit shoved him and got in the taxi he had hailed down, blatantly ignoring his pleas, and then the string of curse words he directed at him. Less preventable, assholes are assholes.

Fifth, Los Angeles holiday season traffic is ruthless. Absolutely unpreventable.

Sixth, when he finally did get to the airport, thinking he had just enough time to make his flight if he was willing to sprint for it, the perky blonde at the baggage check informed him his flight had been cancelled due to weather. Not his fault in the slightest.

Seventh, when he got back to his complex, he slipped. Again. He'd blame it on the wind.

Eighth, when he finally, finally got back up to his flat, he found the door locked, and his keys nowhere on his person. Okay, that was on him.

Ninth, when he called the locksmith, they were closed. Surely way too important a service to close during the holidays, right?

Tenth, but going by his current streak, probably not the last, was that his neighbour saw him crying.

His uptight, clean cut, turn-your-music-off-it's-nine-pm neighbour, after parking his car and taking his eco-friendly recyclable bags of groceries out of the boot, saw him sat on his doorstep with a suitcase, the day before Christmas, absolutely bawling his eyes out. And he did nothing but raise a perfectly manicured eyebrow, and went inside, leaving him to freeze and starve and die.

Not that it was surprising.

Richie knew wholeheartedly that he was a less than ideal neighbour. He was loud, he had guests over often (loud guests, guests with alcohol and an affinity for karaoke), he let his mail pile up in the letterbox until you couldn't fit anything else in there, he only took out his trash when it was actually overflowing (and attracting raccoons), he left his outside lights on, and he liked confrontation. And his neighbour provided just that.

Stanley Uris – or Stanthony, as nobody but Richie referred to him as – was a good neighbour. He kept to himself, when he had get-togethers with guests they were dignified and respectful and everyone left before midnight, and he made sure the outside of his house and anywhere people could see into his house was kept clean and presentable. He was the kind of neighbour to wave at you across the complex as he left for work, or offer to feed your cats when you went away. His mail never piled up, and his trash definitely didn't.

Richie did not like Stanley Uris.

Stanley Uris did not like Richie.

It was a good arrangement, he thought, mutual hatred. Better than unrequited hatred, he figured.

He sat, sobbing, his face and feet and stupidly ungloved hands feeling near frozen, until his sobbing was replaced by sniffling, and then silence. Sweet, miserable, lonely fucking silence.

His eyes drifted upwards, to the fairy lights he had hung off the roof in a last minute attempt to feel festive – it didn't work, Christmas still sucked – and wondered, briefly, if they would hold up his body weight. He was unsure whether that was because he planned on climbing them to get onto his roof (which would serve no purpose whatsoever, he lived in a one story house and there were no upstairs windows), or if his subconscious was telling him to hang himself with christmas decorations.

Honestly? The latter seemed more likely.

He mulled it over in his head, weighing out the pros and cons. The list looked something like:

Pros: will probably get on the news, won't have to deal with this bullshit anymore.

Cons: death sounds unappealing, don't know how to tie a noose.

He could hear his neighbour's front door opening, then closing, then footsteps crunching in the snow that sounded like they were coming towards him. Then they stopped. Then silence, as he continued to stare thoughtfully at the string of lights above his head. He ignored the fact that Stanthony was standing in his peripheral, apparently waiting for him to respond in some way.

“Why are you sitting out here?” Stan's voice was deadpan, because he didn't actually care about the answer, obviously.

“What's it to you?” Richie's reply came, snappy and borderline childish. He didn't drop his upward gaze. His neck was starting to hurt.

“You locked yourself out.” He sounded more annoyed than anything, as if Richie sitting on his own doorstep minding his own damn business inconvenienced him in some way.

“No.” Richie lied. His neck was really starting to hurt.

“Then why?”

“Maybe I just want to be out here, ever think of that?”

“You're an asshole.” “I know you are but what am I?”

Stan huffed. Richie finally gave in to the pain and dropped his head, finally looking at Stan. He was wearing a light grey coat with a darker grey scarf, and black jeans. He looked boring. As always.

“Love the colours, really brings out your personality,” Richie snickered at his own joke. Stan's expression didn't change.

“Better than what you're wearing, at least I don't look like a toddler that dressed itself.”

Richie looked down at himself, bright blue snow jacket unzipped over a green and red christmas sweater. He didn't think he looked that bad, actually.

“What do you even want?” he asked in place of a comeback.

Stan bit the inside of his cheek, squinting slightly. Richie could practically see the gears turning in his head.

He didn't answer, instead, he grabbed the handle of the suitcase and turned on his heel, back in the direction of his own flat. Richie shot up from his seat, tailbone aching.

“OI,” he yelled, hobbling after him, “You're stealing my shit now? Is that what we're doing?”

Stan stopped, turning around with an unamused expression. It looked the same as his regular expression.

“Dipshit,” he spat, “do you want the couch or not?”

“What?” Richie asked, dumbfounded. Stan rolled his eyes. “I mean, you can sleep on your fucking doorstep if you want. I don't give a shit. Or you can have the couch.”

“Oh.”

Stan continued walking, trailing the suitcase behind him. Richie followed.

The inside of Stan's house was not very surprising. Richie had hoped that if he ever did get to see it, there would be something at least a little interesting about it. But no. It was clean, and tidy, and all the furniture matched. Disgusting.

“Shoes off,” Stan instructed, having left his own boots just outside the front door. He toed off his thoroughly soaked keds and left them in the doorway. “Jacket, off,” he continued, pointing a finger towards him with a scowl on his face, as if he were a diseased animal. Richie rolled his eyes, shrugging the item off and holding it out in front of him.

“Now what?”

“Coat rack,” Stan nodded his head towards the opposite wall, to the line of hooks next to the front door.

“Yes sir.” Richie shuffled over and hung his coat up.

“Don't walk like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like that. Pick your feet up when you walk.”

“You're really bossy, you know that?”

Stan scoffed.

“You're a dick.”

“You're a dick.”

“You're insufferable.”

“Why invite me over, then?”

“I was being nice,” Stan folded his arms across his chest, “I'm starting to regret it.”

“Then I'll leave.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Richie exhaled sharply, not making any motion to actually leave. An awkward staring contest of sorts ensued, until he ended it with a sigh. He shoved his hands in his pockets, taking a look around the room.

“No decorations, huh?”

“I don't celebrate.”

“Oh?” Richie started wandering around, inspecting little details. Stan's eyes tracked him into the kitchen. “Religious reasons? Or do you just think it's all a waste of time?”

“Both.”

Richie hummed, opening an overhead cabinet. Grey bowls, next to grey mugs. Coordinated kitchenware. Figures.

“Don't touch anything.” Stan came up behind him and didn't-quite-slam the cabinet shut. Richie held his hands up in surrender, then moved to open the next cabinet along the line.

“Do you actually live here? Because this place looks like it's out of a brochure. You're too tidy.”

Stan closed the newly opened cabinet as Richie moved onto the silverware drawers.

“I like tidy.”

Richie hummed again. The silverware drawer was in much the same shape as the cabinets, that was to say, meticulous.

“So whaddya do for a living Stanthony?”

“Don't,” he pushed the drawer closed.

“Don't what?”

“Call me that.”

“Why?” Richie asked, taking a step closer to him, and pushing his glasses up his nose, “that's your name, isn't it?”

“Out,” Stan held firm, poking Richie's chest with one finger, “of my kitchen.”

Richie smirked, backing away, instead setting his sights on the small living area.

“I work in an accounting firm,” Stan said after a moment.

“Pssh,” Richie pssh'd, “boring.”

“What do you do then? If that's so boring.”

“Television.”

“Television?”

“Mm.”

“Elaborate.”

“I work at a station.”

“Doing what?”

Richie shrugged, picking a gardening magazine up off the coffee table and dropping it back down again. Stan hurried over to re-straighten it.

“Stuff.”

“You're doing my head in.”

“Yep.”

Richie gave up on the game he had been playing, choosing to retire to the couch. It was decievingly uncomfortable. “Damn, your sofa's like a fucking rock,” he groaned, arching his back. His tailbone really fucking hurt.

Stan sat down on the opposite end, sitting up properly, a stark contrast to how Richie had starfished himself. Richie was, for the umpteenth time that evening, not even the least bit surprised.

“It's good for your posture.”

“Who needs posture?”

“You, obviously.”

Richie rolled his eyes. Stan picked up the remote from the table, switching the flatscreen in front of them on. He started flicking through channels.

“So, what are we watching?”

“Depends what's on.”

Every channel was playing damn christmas movies. Stan huffed, seeming to settle on a random channel, replacing the remote carefully.

“What's this?” Richie asked.

“Don't know.”

“It's a christmas film.”

“Obviously.”

They watched in silence for god knows how long. Said christmas film turned out to be The Santa Clause, with Tim Allen, and Stan looked unimpressed the entire time.

“It doesn't make sense,” he finally spoke up about three quarters into the movie, nose wrinkled slightly, “one guy travelling to every single house on earth overnight and, what, just breaking in? Leaving shit under a tree? Who would ever believe that? Why put trees indoors?”

Richie quirked an eyebrow and shrugged.

“I dunno, kids like it, I guess.”

“I would be concerned if I knew there was a random old man breaking into my house. And why use the chimney?”

“Because he lands on the roof.”

“Why not just leave the stuff at the front door? Would save a hell of a lot of time.”

“Oh yeah, hey kids, let's go see what Santa left at the front door!” Richie's voice went high pitched and mocking. He laughed at himself. Stan's brow creased.

“It's stupid. And why don't the adults believe in him? Where do they think the presents come from?”

“That, my friend, is the million dollar question.”

They continued watching, and the film ended, and the next one started. Richie stretched and let out a long, drawn out yawn, then stood up.

“So, what're you cooking for dinner, Stanthony?”

“Nothing, if you don't stop with that fucking nickname.”

“Okay, Staniel.”

“Nope.”

“Stan the man.”

“No way.”

Richie sighed, drawing it out into a groan.

“Stanley.”

Stan looked up, smug look on his face. “Yes, Richard?”

“Where's the bathroom? I gotta take a piss.”

Stan threw a pillow at him, pelting him square in the face.

Ten things happened that night that made Richie feel a little less like hanging himself with Christmas decorations.

First, Stan made pizza. He didn't let Richie in the kitchen, of course, but he did let him point out which toppings to go on his half.

“No bacon?”

“I'm Jewish, asshat, no bacon.”

Second, Stan had wine in his fridge. He made Richie use a coaster, but that was hardly a hassle.

Third, tipsy Stan was a lot less uptight, and a lot more giggly. He loosened up on the insults and orders and actually laughed at Richie's jokes. Well, some of them, anyway. Still an accomplishment in Richie's book.

Fourth, they watched about five awful christmas movies, and complained through all of them.

“That's not even fucking mistletoe. They're kissing under a bunch of leaves.”

“Stan, you know your plants?”

“I was a boy scout.” “NO WAY.”

Five, wine-drunk Stan liked to talk about birds. A lot. A lot, a lot. More than any one person should ever know.

Six, Stan let Richie into the kitchen to make them both hot chocolate.

“With the marshmallows!”

“YOU HAVE MARSHMALLOWS?”

“What am I, Amish? 'Course I got marshmallows.”

Seven, Stan's pyjama pants were bright green and printed with little white birds. Richie just about died and went to heaven.

Eight, when Richie asked why Stan hated him, he replied:

“I never hated you. I thought you were kinda cute.”

“Whoa, really?”

“Yeah, until you egged my fucking house.”

“Hey, I was drunk. I thought it was Mr. Stevenson's house.”

“Oh, fair. He's a dick.” “Right?”

Nine, very wine-drunk Stan liked to sing.

“I really can't stay~”

“Y'know, for a Jewish guy, you're really into Christmas music.” “I've got to – singwithme – go away~”

“No.”

“This evening has been~”

“You're plastered, aren't you?”

“So very ni- IT'S A DUET RICHARD, SING WITH MEEEEEE-”

Ten, Stan fell asleep on the couch at three am. Richie carried him to bed, and had to physically pry his fingers from their death grip on his shirt. He whined – fucking whined – when Richie finally freed himself and he dropped back against the pillows. It took about five seconds before he was softly snoring away. Richie let himself smile at the sight before retreating to the living room.

He felt happy. On Christmas. Gross.

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