#just a silly little bonus chapter where you get railed

[genuine-wrestleboy]

freeze or fawn (2/2)

words: 4,110

hey, god! if ao3 going down right as i finished this was meant to be you trying to tell me something, i am simply not listening <3

(on ao3)

You watch your mug spin in the microwave, the day-old coffee inside steaming to gelatinous perfection. There’s a sort of ridiculous camaraderie to it; you watch the coffee, and in the reflection in the glass door, Springtrap watches you. You can feel the cold intensity of his gaze, gooseflesh on the back of your neck.

The microwave whirs on, and you pick nervously at your cuticles.

“Thirty years is a long time,” you say, mostly just to fill the silence.

“It's a very long time,” he confirms dryly.

“And what is remnant, exactly?”

He sighs. “That explanation would also be very long, and I doubt you would even understand most of what I could tell you.”

“Try me,” you offer.

“Later,” he says firmly. “Are you quite done yet?”

“Almost,” you tell him, “I just, hold on—”

You cancel the rest of the time and grab for the mug, burning your fingers a little and half-dropping it onto the countertop with a quiet “ow, fuck". You don't even want to consider what the reaction would be if you started pulling out pans to cook a proper breakfast, so you fish a box of cereal out of the cupboard and resign yourself to eating it dry.

Something occurs to you, and you turn to Springtrap, tucking the box under your arm.

“Do you want anything? Can you, like, eat? Other than, uh—” You clear your throat. “—you know.”

You watch the change in his posture as the implication of your words sinks in. He pinches two fingers against the bridge of his muzzle, like he’s staving off a headache.

“I liked it better when you were afraid of me.”

You laugh a little deliriously, because you can’t not. Does he really think you're not still afraid of him? You’re terrified, but, well. He’d just eaten you out on your aunt’s kitchen floor, you thought maybe you could establish a rapport.

It’s just impossible to get a read on him, is the thing, to know where your bearings lie. All that threatening anger and violence, and then he’ll catch you off-guard with these stunning little moments of gentleness, of kindness or comfort or affection. Brief little pops of warmth that pass as quickly as they come and leave you stumbling after him for more, your adrenaline on a wildly oscillating loop. No safe place to land, to rest long enough to recalibrate.

“Sorry, I’m still a little—” You make a vague, waving gesture near your head. “I thought you were gonna kill me, so. Taking a while to adjust.”

“I may well still kill you,” he tells you without heat.

“I—okay." How are you supposed to respond to that? “I’d rather you didn’t, for what it’s worth.”

He makes a sort of shrugging gesture. “As for your question, I don't believe I am capable of digestion in my current state, no.”

That doesn’t surprise you, you guess. From your cursory, stolen glimpses you’d be surprised if there was enough left of his digestive tract left intact to begin with, never mind how any of it would still be functional. Honestly now that you’re thinking about it you could probably say the same of anything under that suit—only, you’ve definitely heard him breathe, haven’t you? Did his lungs somehow miraculously escape the damage that befell the rest of him? Does he need to breathe? He’s not constantly bleeding out, so you assume whatever blood might be left in there isn’t actively circulating, but you can’t do it with any real confidence.

On that note, though, does it even matter? You don't understand how he's still upright at all, you can't even begin to guess the rules his body might follow now. If it’s—whether it’s all still connected, or if it should work, does that count for anything one way or the other? And if it doesn't, or if it is, could he—

Oh, no, no, are you insane? You're absolutely not thinking about that right now, you are shutting that line of speculation down immediately.

“You’re ready now, I take it?”

You startle, feeling caught, grab your coffee and nod. Just gonna…let all of that go, for now, then.

 "Yep. What are we looking for?"

"Tools." He's entrusted your superior knowledge of the house's layout with tracking down what he cagily referred to as 'necessary supplies'. "A toolkit, if there's one to be had, but I can make do with a screwdriver and my wits, if needs must."

Your mood soars; you've got good news for him.

"I don’t think they’ll must,” you say. "I’m pretty sure I remember seeing all my uncle's old tools in the garage when I parked yesterday. Not that I doubt your wits,” you add, and the absurdity of attempting to flirt with someone who has expressed a passing interest in your death isn’t lost on you.

Springtrap stills like you’ve surprised him, looks you up and down.

“Well, then. In that case it seems like the least I can do not to doubt your memory, hm?"

That's a risk at the best of times, but thankfully, this time, your memory does comes through for you; you flick on the yellowy garage lights to reveal a sturdy black workbench pushed into the far corner, collecting dust beneath neatly organized rows of hammers, wrenches, pliers, and a few very specific-looking tools you don't recognize that hang from a pegboard bolted to the wall. Excitement and relief fizz through your veins, and you turn to Springtrap with a grin.

“Will this work?” You’re angling for a sign of approval, and it’s probably painfully obvious.

He scans the room and laughs, not entirely kindly. You flinch a little when he reaches out, but it's almost reverent when he takes your face in one huge hand, strokes a thumb along your cheek.

“Well done,” he says with feeling.

You had absolutely no hand in acquiring any of the tools in question, and even less in making sure that they stayed around for him to find, but fuck if the praise doesn’t get under your skin and flood straight down.

“Happy to help,” you reply weakly.

He taps you slyly under the chin. “That’s the spirit. Come along.”

You follow him down into the garage, edging around the nose of your car. Leave, comes the thought, sudden and unbidden, get in the car and get the fuck out of there, but how would you even do that? Even if you wanted to leave, your keys are in the house, and anyway Springtrap needs you—he told you that he does, sort of.

Maybe he’d find you again, your brain suggests, and you think about that hand on your face, that glow of praise, pressing your own palm against your cheek as you feel heat rising into it. This is not the time, you tell yourself firmly, to say nothing of whether or not there should ever be a time at all, but it doesn’t do much to relieve the nebulous desire reforming in your belly.

By the bench, Springtrap fiddles with the latch of a dented red toolbox. You’ve noticed before, but he seems to have trouble with movements that require any higher degree of fine motor control in his hands. He is also very clearly irritated by this fact, so you keep this observation to yourself. Eventually he lets out a snarl and rips the latch off the box altogether, chucking it over his shoulder to vanish into the nooks and crannies of the garage.

“May as well make yourself comfortable,” he tells you, leaning in to examine the newly revealed contents, “I imagine we’ll be here for quite a while.”

“Aye aye.” Carefully balancing your mug by the wipers, you hoist yourself up onto the hood of your car, pressing your legs together self-consciously. For a while you just sit there, sipping the now-lukewarm coffee and picking at your cereal, watching Springtrap work. He peels back a section of matted fur to expose the joint of his wrist, measures out an inch of a clear liquid, and dips the corner of a rag into it. The cloth turns black with the grime of years, blood and rust and who knows what else as he rubs it into the protesting metal. When he’s satisfied, he sets it aside and positions the head of a screwdriver against a screw you can’t quite see, and then adjusts the whole limb under the lamp clamped to the bench, out of your view completely.

Fascinating though the process promises to be, you’re pretty sure you’d only be in the way if you ask him to move so you can watch what he’s doing. You lean back against the windshield instead, and exhaustion crashes into you the instant you’re in something resembling a reclined position. It’s been a long morning, and the caffeine you just ingested hasn’t begun to work its magic quite yet. Plus, your night on the sofa hadn’t exactly been a restful one. You’ve been running on nothing but adrenaline for hours now; sleep, when it comes, hits you fast and hard.

You wake with your neck at an angle that barely feels survivable, flooded with impotent panic from a nightmare you barely remember. The back of your head smacks against the glass of the windshield as you jolt back into consciousness, and you cradle it gingerly in one hand, pulling yourself upright.

Springtrap looks over from where he’s leaning against the workbench, fighting something at his hip with a pair of needle-nose pliers.

“You fell asleep.” It isn’t anger, but there’s something odd in his voice that prickles along your skin like being too close to a fire.

“Sorry.” You have no idea why you’re apologizing. “I didn’t realize I was so tired.”

He tilts his head to one side, eyes flat and sharp in a way that sparks a cold, guttering fear in your chest.

“I could’ve done anything to you,” he informs you, still with that strange, keen edge to it.

“Sorry,” you say again, because you’re not sure what else to say. “Did—can I help at all?”

Backlit by the bench lamp, his unchanging smile seems to grow in shadow, longer, hungrier.

“If you’re offering.” He twists his wrist, and a section of suit paneling by his pelvis comes loose and swings open. “Come here, give me your hand.”

You maneuver your way back to the floor, careful to avoid upsetting the remnants of your makeshift breakfast. You do want to help, to be useful to him, but placing your hand in his feels like putting it in the mouth of a lion and trusting it not to bite.

Laughing softly, Springtrap reels you closer, muzzle butting your face as he takes several hot, gulping breaths against your skin. His other hand abandons the pliers to press at the small of your back, fingertips biting through the fabric of your shirt.

“You smell afraid.” He says it like an endearment.

“I—” you stammer, “I'm—oh, oh.”

Your line of thinking stalls hard, that rising tide of fear dissolving in the wake of the long, low groan that all but pours out of him as he guides your hand to his cock. Shock, bitten-back and swallowed, the simmering desire in you rising like a white-water tide. Your knees tremble traitorously beneath you.

"Is something wrong?” he purrs. “I thought you wanted to help."

“I do,” you say breathlessly. His hand at your back feels like the only thing that’s holding you upright.

Springtrap’s fingers fold over yours, inhuman and irresistible, and he growls into the crook of your neck as he pumps himself lazily with your fist.

“So help.”

Well, you suppose, there's that question answered, at least. 

He feels huge in your hand, only half-hard and already too thick for you to get your fingers all the way around. Your pulse pounds in your ears, between your legs, in the palm of your hand. Springtrap shifts forward as you move experimentally, twisting your wrist to cover as much of his shaft as you can.

“Harder,” he hisses encouragingly. “My nerve endings aren’t what they used to be, you know.”

It shouldn't be sexy, that reminder, but he runs a claw up your spine as he says it, little sparks along a willing fuse, and you shiver and tighten your grip until his hips stutter forward and he lets out a loose, throaty moan.

"There you are, darling. Just like that."

The endearment makes a molten mess of your insides, all the blood in your body rushing downwards so quickly that it makes you dizzy. You're still wet from earlier, and between that headstart and the way Springtrap's cock twitches in your hand, you're mortifyingly close to leaking down your own leg like you're in heat.

As if noticing, Springtrap presses a merciful knee between yours, chuckling when you immediately begin to grind against his thigh. The suit catches and pinches at your shorts, your skin, but that matters far less than the welcome pressure against your clit.

"You want my cock that badly?" He catches your chin in his hand, pressing his fingers into your cheeks until your mouth drops open. It's all you can do to nod in response, bearing down against his thigh as you work him with long, sloppy strokes. You imagine that girth on your tongue, heavy and hot, and you feel your mouth start to water, drool pooling hungrily in its stead. 

"Filthy," Springtrap murmurs against your hair, his tone warm with dark approval that throbs between your legs.

"Please," you try to say, or "yes" or "god", but it comes out a needy, open-mouthed mishmash of sound, wordless and hoarse. Pleasure builds like syrup, thick and slow, hips and hand rocking at the same mindless, driving rhythm. You can feel the wet spot you’re leaving on his fur, clutching at his arm to keep your balance as your legs start to shake. You feel—god, you feel empty.

Metal screeches and smashes to the floor as Springtrap clears the workbench with one swift swipe of his arm. You jump back, startled, swallowing a frustrated whine at the interruption.

Reaching out, he drags a claw slowly, slowly along the line of your throat, and when he speaks, his voice is calm, but brittle, fast-flowing water under very thin ice.

“Normally, I would take my time with this, but I’m understandably a bit pent up, so if you wouldn’t mind.” He pats the surface of the bench expectantly.

Heat floods your face when you realize what he’s asking, eager anticipation buzzing in your blood. You move to obey; he catches you by the waistband of your shorts.

"Take these off," he says. "Quickly, before I tear them off you."

Oh, you are not opposed to that idea, at all,  actually. Your eyes flick up to his, breath catching, and your expression must give you away, because his grip on you tightens, and he laughs, low and amused.

"I might’ve guessed."

 The fabric of your shorts pulls apart like paper. Even though you know it’s coming, it still startles a cry out of you. Springtrap crowds you back against the workbench, hands bracketing your hips and moving upwards. Your shirt rucks up around his wrists, and he dips his head to nuzzle against your temple with a pleased hum.

“This too,” he says, which is all the warning you get before your shirt goes the same way. Your skin, newly bare, fever hot, prickles in the cool air of the garage, and for a moment you feel like you should cover yourself with your hands.

Then Springtrap hitches you up and drops you onto the bench, fingers divoting your thighs as he pulls your hips flush together. Your head falls back, and you bite out a soft moan as the full length of him slides against you, slick with your arousal. He feels even bigger between your legs than he had in your hand.

“Look at me.” It’s clear from his voice that he’s trying very, very hard to hold himself together.

You look. His eyes burn at you, at this angle almost mirrored. The visible muscles of his neck tense, shoulders taut as he draws himself over you and stills. Beneath that gaze, the broad shadow of his body, you feel cracked open and bare, something soft and helpless shucked from a shell. He rolls his hips forward once, twice, and a shudder goes through you.

“Tell me you want this.”

Without meaning to, your eyes fall, pulled to where his cock parts your folds. His skin is the same mottled purple here as everywhere else, blotchy and dark, and the fluid that leaks from the tip is cloudy and pungent and thick. You imagine it pressing into you, and the ache of desire is almost matched by a sudden, urgent fear. Your words stick in your throat, and he tilts his head to the side, sneering.

"Don't play coy with me now, you were gagging for it a moment ago."

That does something twisting and strange to your stomach. You don’t want him to stop, but you realize you don't entirely believe that he would if you asked him to.

"I want it," you say weakly, then surer, "I want it."

He leans even closer, forcing your legs apart until it edges on painful, lowering his face as if he's about to kiss you.

"What do you want?" Sweet as spun sugar in his terrible wreck of a voice.

You whimper, rocking your hips upwards desperately. “I want—hn!—I want your cock, I want—please, I want it so badly.”

Springtrap touches your cheek with his fingertips, feather-light and fond. He shifts back, and you feel the blunt, solid pressure of him at your entrance, barely enough to tease, and it's already so much and nowhere near enough, you need, you need—

“Go on, then. Beg for it."

You think you could come like this, untouched, to nothing but the sound of his voice.

You would really, really prefer to be touched, though.

"Please," you sob breathlessly. Your cunt clenches on empty air. “Please, god, please fuck me, I’ll do any—anything, please, I need you inside me, please, please.”

Springtrap’s teeth glint behind the mask.

“Now what man could resist, when you ask like that?”

A brief burst of pain, and then gutted, boneless pleasure; you clutch at his shoulders as he fucks you open, needy, gasping moans shallowing your lungs. The slow stretch floods you with warmth until you're drunk with it, liquid and loose. Heavy, hazy heat, the contents of your skull bleeding soupily together, your whole world nothing but that hungry, spreading fullness. Your body, reshaping itself to fit him.

"Fuck, you're so big." The thought tumbles out as it occurs to you, and Springtrap snarls and hilts himself in one harsh, sudden motion, muzzle pressed so tightly to your neck that it bites into your skin.

You suck in a breath through clenched teeth. It's just the wrong side of too much, too fast, but he gives you no time to recover before he starts moving again. Both paws dig a constellation of bruises into your hips as he pins you to the bench, skin slapping yours as he bottoms out on every thrust. You feel shattered, cracked apart, bleeding light into his palms. He sets a brutal pace, driving into your eager cunt with untiring speed until you’re mewling beneath him, overwhelmed with sensation as discomfort cedes again to building sweetness.

"That's right,” he coos. “You'll take it for me, won't you?"

You gasp, nodding through shocks of pleasure. “Yes, yes, please.”

“Yes, yes,” he mimics, teasing—then lower, as you arch up to meet him, “yes.”

That rough syllable echoes in the cage of your ribs. Springtrap rolls his hips forward, deliberate and slow, rutting blissful friction against your neglected clit. A thin, keening sound falls from your lips, and you hook your ankles around his back, closer closer closer like the twin of your rabbiting heartbeat.

Breath rumbling low in his throat, Springtrap curves forward, pulling your hips off the bench entirely. The new angle draws him in impossibly deep, and his cock brushes something that sings bone-deep through you, your whole body fizzling like a live spark. You grasp for purchase around his neck, and his even rhythm falters and fails.

“Please don’t stop,” you beg, canting your hips desperately upwards.

Springtrap bites down hard against your shoulder, pulling out nearly all the way before slamming hungrily back into you. The force of it wrings a hoarse moan from your lungs and shoves the whole workbench back a screeching inch. You wonder distantly if you’ll be able to walk after this. 

“Oh, darling,” he chuckles. “That was never an option.”

You feel yourself clench around him, and Springtrap groans, hips stuttering. He moves against you, picking up speed, breath ragged and hot against the crook of your neck. Higher and higher, rushing pleasure climbs your spine like the swell of a wave as he fucks you full of helium and heat, of him and him and him, until it feels like there’s no room in you for anything else.

“So tight for me,” he growls, voice rough. “Only for me.”

“God,” you whimper. Maybe part of you wants to protest the possessive words, but most of you is busy feeling like you're about to burst out of your own skin.

“You like that thought, do you?” he asks, and you nod frantically. 

"I—ah!—yes." You're close, you're so fucking close—

Springtrap grinds into you, steady, unrelenting pressure, building and building without relief. He lets out a harsh breath by your ear, but his voice is soft and confiding when he speaks, like he's sharing a secret.

"I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."

He doesn't even slow as you come, howling, around him, fucking you through the aftershocks at that same merciless pace until you’re trembling and spent. You feel like you’ve been split apart and thrown in a thousand different directions, like it’s only his hands on your skin keeping you together. Weakly, you take his face in your hands and kiss the ruined nose, the corner of his grinning mouth; he turns to butt his muzzle against you with a sound somewhere between a snarl and a sob.

“Take it,” he hisses, and understanding hits you a beat too late.

“Wait—” you manage limply; Springtrap laughs like nearing thunder.

"Shhhh. Whatever I want, remember?"

You sob a feeble “fuck” as his hips hit yours, and your cunt fills with spurts of warmth. It's a foreign, electric feeling, and you rock against him mindlessly, the last of your breath escaping you in a weak, panting moan. His cock twitches and throbs, emptying into you as you shudder in his arms, held up easy as a doll. The sound you make would be mortifying, if you had a single brain cell to spare for it.

Springtrap pulls out just as pleasure edges into overstimulation. You wince at the strangeness of the feeling as he sets you down, the soreness already blooming, the sticky wetness that seeps out to pool on the bench beneath you. A huge hand palms high up on your thigh, the gaze behind it lazy and appraising. Then two fingers stroke a line from your ass to your entrance, and you let out a hiss of discomfort as they press a generous amount of come back inside you.

“What a mess,” tsks Springtrap, presenting the fingers to you. You open your mouth dutifully, but he seems to change his mind, instead wiping his soiled hand ineffectually against your leg. “You really ought to get yourself cleaned up. There’s still work to do, after all.”

You don’t know why you’re surprised, it’s the same one-eighty he pulled on you last time, already back to business while your brain is still leaking out of your ears. You let out a frustrated huff, and he tilts his head to the side, eyes glittering curiously.

“I—would you, just, like, come here a second? Please.”

He pauses at your request, then hovers closer, and you have to close your eyes against the bright scalpel-blade of his gaze. The new smells of hot metal and grease sit thick over the smoke and decay, stinging your nose as you bury your face against his shoulder and take a deep breath. You wet your lips; they taste like blood.

After a moment, you feel Springtrap wrap an arm around your waist, then your shoulders. If you lean into it just so, it even feels like an embrace.

[concussed-to-pieces]

Whether It Works Out Or Not; Back In The Cage

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2

Pairing: High Honor!Arthur Morgan/Named OFC

Rating: Holy shit T.

AN: Okay I promise I swear this is the last bonus chapter until I finish the game. I swear.

[Spoiler warning for the first four chapters of the game!]

Tag List: @huliabitch​ @cookiethewriter​ @pedrosbigdorkenergy​ @thirstworldproblemss​ @anonymouscosmos​ @culturalrebel​ @karmezii​ @teaofpeach​ @crookedmoonsaultpunk​ @wrestlingfae​ @zombiexbody​ @nelba​ @scribblenotes76​ @toxiicpop​ @mstgsmy​ @misty-possum​ @gallowsjoker​ @midnightbeauty35​ @lackofhonor​ @renegademustelid​

Part One: Strangers

Part Two: Friends

Part Three: More

Bonus One: A Brief Diversion

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: For allusions to character death, mentions of previous abuse, historical inaccuracies and my poorly-remembered French. Stay safe!]

She felt a bit silly in her outfit.

Of course, she didn't need to display as such. "Tastefully understated," she had said to herself in the mirror with a firm nod. It was the fawn-brown dress (admittedly, it was the only dress she currently owned), but she had scraped together the funds for some light trimmings and alterations. A flounce of lace around the hem, a small length of lovely cream ribbon at the waist. The corset, while unwanted, would be expected, practically required in polite company, and even secondhand it was by far the most expensive piece of the puzzle. After that, everything else seemed to fall into place.

Irene Carson (née Craft) arrived at the ball astride Bluster, her hair crowned with a plethora of vanilla flowers and one single spider orchid. The buttermilk buckskin had been curried to within an inch of his life, and sported a matching cluster of vanilla flowers in his mane. He behaved remarkably well given all the hubbub, not putting up any fuss when he was taken from her to be stabled for the evening.

Irene had no elaborate hat to wear, no fantastical feathered monstrosity, so she had made do with what she could find. The flowers would be out of fashion, but they would suit her understated attire a bit better. Perhaps she could be fashionably unfashionable, ahead of the curve.

"I will not be on the list, but please tell Mayor Lemieux that it is the Widow Carson." She politely informed the man with the list at the gate, doing her best to seem calm and collected.

This was a bold move in the normally-subtle social maneuvering of Saint Denis. Attempting to integrate herself back into the gentry was a risky strategy, but a recent realization had convinced her of the necessity of such a move. 

Arthur had made an excellent point. That house had sat silent for long enough. It was time for her to take what spoils she could, time for her to think of the future. Hardly fair that she should escape her dismal marriage with nothing but the clothes on her back!

Tonight would be the first step, provided she could even get past the door. 

As luck would have it, the mayor himself, Henri Lemieux, came out to verify her claim. "Irene? My dear Mrs. Carson, is it really you?" He asked, all a-fluster. "Let me look at you my dear, let me just…" The man took her by the shoulders, examining her face. "It is you! Mon dieu, Irene, we all thought you had perished! Willie assured us-"

"I am certain he went to great lengths to convince you all of the legitimacy of my death." Irene interrupted him coolly. "However, it would appear that he greatly exaggerated."

"He said you...Irene, my dear, he claimed you committed suicide. He had me thoroughly convinced! But he remarried so quickly, I…" The mayor shook his head in a disapproving manner. "I know more individuals than I alone were skeptical! Oh it is so good to see you again, my dear. Please, you are more than welcome." He offered her his arm, which she took without hesitation. "How have you been, my cheré? Your hair is so short, so fashionable! I see you have been taking cues from our sister city of Paris, ne c'est pas?" 

"Naturellement, my dear sir." Irene replied, offering him a soft smile. "I know I will look somewhat out of place in your party. Please forgive my impropriety, but when the news of Willie's passing reached me...I so longed to see you all again, I could not stay away."

"Nonsense, you have nothing to apologize for!" The mayor scolded her lightly, patting her arm. "You have returned from the dead, our very own Lazarus wreathed in flowers like a Belgian-crafted nymph! You are most welcome at our little fête, dear girl. I daresay, after whatever it was that you went through, you are quite justified in a night of revelry." His heavily-accented voice dipped to a conspiratorial tone, "and you must tell us all about your trials. I am certain you have a grand story indeed!"

"Thank you for your hospitality, my dear Mayor Lemieux. I pray that the road ahead of me is far kinder than the road I have traveled thus far."

…

And here Arthur had thought that them playing lawmen was as foolish as they could get. 

He couldn't even believe some of the stunts Dutch was willing to pull for the sake of networking or contacts. The bunch of them looked like damn circus animals in their tuxedos and white ties, and Bill in particular seemed aggressively uncomfortable. Just getting him to bathe had been a struggle. 

Arthur personally had been downright henpecked by Grimshaw and Tilly, the two of them doing their damnedest to tame his thick, unruly mane with a comb and the vestiges of some pomade. All the while Abigail alternated between telling him he would cause every woman at the ball to swoon and bemoaning his stubble. He had shaved yesterday, damn it, and he wasn't going to shave again!

Lord, they were all fools.

Hosea was the only one who seemed to be even remotely at ease, the elderly man already maneuvering his way to the balcony above the courtyard before Dutch had even managed to find Bronte so they could 'pay their respects'. Bill just followed Hosea like a lost puppy.

Arthur didn't have to understand Italian to know that Senor Bronte was insulting them right out the gate. Neither did Dutch, if the tense smile he gave Angelo while they conversed was any indication. 

Arthur was slightly entertained by the panic that flitted across the waiter's face when the larger man ended up catching his arm to use the match originally lit for Dutch's cigar. Never mind that Arthur had had to cut his own cigar with his damn teeth, he was used to doing that shit. Used to falling by the wayside in the gregarious presence of Dutch Van Der Linde. But he wasn't about to let this stuffed-shirt little cocktail carrier get away with ignoring him scot-free. An uncut cigar he could excuse, but an unlit one? That was sacrilege. 

The courtyard was teeming with people, illuminated by the soft glow from crisscrossing strands of fashionable Edison bulbs. There were so many ornate gowns, elaborate hats and stiff-necked suits, Arthur scarcely knew where to look. "Mingle, Arthur." Dutch ordered in an undertone, giving him a concealed shove from behind. "Steal nothing unless it's information."

Arthur sighed, straightened his white tie with the air of a man set before the gallows, and slowly descended into what reminded him of how educated folks would describe an active volcano. The courtyard was a maelstrom of activity, the dull roar punctuated by the mosquito-esque whine of a string quartet. God, what he would give to be out with Irene in the hills instead, listening to her play the fiddle for the wolves.

He shook his head at himself. Again with this nonsense, thinking about her every time he heard violin music. 

He gritted his teeth and approached a group of women, seizing a bottle of champagne off one of the tables as he went. Arthur Morgan was not a smart man, but if there was one thing he knew, it was that folk were more inclined to think charitably towards you if you brought them alcohol. 

"Ladies, might I offer you some champagne?" Arthur asked, knowing his speech was stilted at best as he tried to choke his drawl down. The trio of women seemed to buy it though, simpering and preening while calling him a gentleman. 

That was a lie, and Lord was it a bold one. Though, looking around at the so-called polite company, Arthur felt less like the villain that he was and more like a sheep that had wandered into a wolf's den. 

Maybe a nest of vipers would be more accurate. 

Either way, the large man wasn't used to feeling like prey. As he made his rounds slowly across the courtyard, complimenting outlandish hats and offering his input on the most recent theatre performances (which he had absolutely no clue about), Arthur experienced the distinct sensation of the noose tightening around his neck yet again. Saint Denis was far too civilized for the likes of the Van Der Linde gang. It was only a matter of time before they were rooted out, sent scampering into the night like the vermin they were or slaughtered without quarter.

Lord, this place made him long for the open country.

He bumped into Hosea and Dutch shortly after he had rescued a rail-thin man from choking to death on some peanuts, the two elders of the gang looking like they were plotting something.

"Figure anythin' out yet?" Arthur asked softly.

"Maybe, Arthur. You see that group of folks over by the fountain? That fellow with the tall top hat is the mayor himself." Dutch pointed the man out, gesturing with his cigar.

"So?" Arthur muttered. 

"So, my dear boy, ingratiating ourselves with the mayor's little band will no doubt do wonders for our credibility." 

"Dutch, if the mayor is already cozy in Bronte's pocket like we are, what's even the damn point?" Arthur queried, trying not to sound as sulky as he felt.

Dutch sighed heavily and Hosea quickly interjected, "it's not necessarily the mayor that's our target, Arthur. Rather, the group of people with him. We are attempting to make as many friends as we can, if you recall."

The large man nodded. "Shoah, I guess. You want me to mosey over and...what was the word? Ingrate myself?"

"Ingratiate Arthur, dear Lord." Dutch huffed.

"Right, yeah. Usual fake name?"

"Of course, my dear boy!" Hosea replied brightly, smiling and patting him on the back. "You may have some luck with the woman he has alongside him. From what I can gather, she's stolen the show a bit. The Widow Carson, back from the dead!" He chuckled, oblivious to the way Arthur froze. "Apparently she's returned to attempt to claim her deceased husband's money. Some nasty business, for certain."

"See if you can get into her good graces, Arthur. A wealthy benefactor could do the gang wonders." Dutch instructed absently, already back to scanning the crowds. 

"Her good--Dutch what the hell are you sayin'?!" Arthur hissed, his stomach knotting as a nasty sense of comprehension slowly dawned on him.

"Oh go on Arthur, just pour on the charm! I know you can do it." Hosea encouraged, misinterpreting the source of Arthur's discomfort. The older man gave him a gentle nudge and Arthur found himself sent on his way.

A wealthy benefactor. Was it Irene? Was Irene really here? More importantly, was Arthur shameless enough to accomplish what Dutch had requested of him?

A wealthy benefactor. His skin crawled and Arthur suddenly felt disgusting as he realized that, were it not for his suspicion that the Widow Carson was indeed Irene, he would not have any sort of particular qualms about being asked to do something like this.

Is it Irene? All he could see from his current position was Mayor Lemieux's top hat. He loitered beside a garish floral arrangement for a few moments, trying his best to get himself under control. He was Arthur Morgan, the enforcer of the Van Der Linde gang for fuck's sake! He had survived countless trials before this, surely he could manage speaking to a woman at a party!

Arthur growled under his breath, clenched his fists, and slowly approached the group by the fountain.

"-cheré, you must continue with your story! Ferdinand, stop interrupting, I beg of you!" The mayor was chiding one of the other men standing there, his voice luxuriantly heavy with a French accent. 

The other man, whose complexion was bright red (whether from drink or passion, Arthur could not yet discern), scoffed at the mayor. "Her tale is rife with inaccuracies, Henri! We knew Willie, he would never-"

"Unless you too visited him in his bedchambers, Ferdinand, I suggest you keep your observations to yourself."

Irene. Oh Lord, Irene, flowers woven into her hair like she was a damn forest spirit out of those old Greek tragedies. It was like time had stopped for Arthur as he took in every detail. God, he was startled all over again by just how much he had missed her. She was in that dress, the one she had worn in Valentine. But wonder of all wonders, she appeared to be fully-laced this evening. Arthur swallowed hard, tearing his eyes away from the shapely curve of her hips. The way her corset held and molded her body into something devastating, a weapon normally concealed from him by men's clothing…

Well, he was a red-blooded American. Unfortunately right now, he had to try his damnedest to temper that particular truth about his nature.

"It ain't complex, Lemieux, and only an idiot like you, buddy, would try to make it so!" Ferdinand continued over what Irene had been saying, sloshing the liquor in his glass dangerously close to that beautiful dress. Irene's brown eyes were fairly crackling with restrained fury, color high in her cheeks as she endured being near this loathsome character. She looked magnificent. Arthur wished he could kiss her, right then and there.

"I will not deny idiocy sir, but perhaps now is not the time." The mayor tried to settle Ferdinand down by placating him, however the outspoken man didn't seem to get the hint.

"Typical pansy!"

"You are drunk, Ferdinand." Lemieux stated disapprovingly.

"I'm not drunk, you fool...but this man! This man loves damsels-"

"Ferdinand, your behavior is becoming unseemly." Irene said through clenched teeth. Arthur had a nasty feeling that he knew exactly what Ferdinand had been about to say before Irene cut him off. "Not to mention utterly irrelevant to the topic at hand. Must you constantly inflict your heinous presence upon polite company?"

"Hey hey, you are pretty drunk." Arthur chose that moment to intervene, draping his arm nonchalantly around the belligerent man's shoulders and pinning Ferdinand's arm behind his back after a momentary adjustment. "What's say you and me cool off?" He 'suggested' cheerily, strong-arming the drunkenly-protesting Ferdinand off to the gazebo at the rear of the courtyard. Giving the man a rough shove, Arthur stated (much more rationally than he felt like being at the moment), "sit down and calm down. Count to a thousand. Then, you can rejoin the party."

...

"Thank you sir!" Henri said sincerely, shaking Arthur's hand upon his triumphant return sans one loudmouth. 

"My pleasure." The tawny-haired man replied with a boyish grin. Lord, if she had thought he looked dashing before-! Irene was tempted to feign a swoon. Arthur had clearly been blessed by a trip to the tailor, of that much she was certain. The black suit coat accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist in equal measure, leaving him imposingly proportionate in a way that was incredibly tasteful. She was sorely pressed to keep her eyes from wandering, realizing vaguely that Henri was introducing himself.

"Henri Lemieux. I hope you are enjoying my party?"

"The mayor!" Arthur said with an air of surprise, as if he had not known. Irene didn't buy it for a second. Though she was grateful for his timely arrival, she had to wonder why he was here. Did Arthur Morgan have friends in high places?

"Allegedly!" Henri replied with a modest chuckle. "And you are?" 

"Tacitus Killgore, at your service." Irene blinked. That was unexpected. What an elaborate fake name, but he said it so confidently! "This is quite a place you've got here." Arthur continued the conversation, his drawl a touch off. Like he was deliberately attempting to soften it.

"It's not mine, and the city is horribly in debt, but we still can put on a good show." Henri gestured after a moment to the man on his right. "Do you know Evelyn Miller, Monsieur Killgore?"

"My Lord. The writer?" Arthur appeared legitimately awed now, shaking Mr. Miller's hand. Irene could understand that awe, Miller was a revered and respected author amongst the folk in the untamed wilderness of the new States. She herself had been simply soaking up the man's educated palaver like a sponge until Henri urged her to begin sharing her trials.

"Ah, and of course! Our unexpected but most welcome guest, Madame the Widow Irene Carson." Henri introduced her with an elaborate flourish of his hand, making her laugh. "She has been regaling us with the exciting tale of her return to life! It is fascinating to hear."

"Enchanté, Mister Killgore." Irene said, smiling and offering Arthur a quick curtsy. Again, out of fashion, and a bit difficult with the added restriction of her corset, but the quaint gesture had always been preferable to a nod as far as she was concerned. If only that bath girl hadn't been so thorough in lacing her!

Arthur bowed, took her hand and touched it to his lips chastely. "The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Carson." Her murmured, blue eyes boring into her own. Irene suddenly felt incredibly warm, despite her no-doubt constricted blood flow. "A return to life, you said? Have you been travelin' abroad then, ma'am?"

"Oh no sir, I'm afraid it's been nothing quite so delightful as that." Irene demurred. "Rather trying, in all honesty."

"Truly, it is a sordid affair. Her own husband, claiming she had perished!" Henri shook his head, looking appropriately distraught. "Ghastly. Then, Willie marrying that other woman so fast, and her turning out to be a murderer...well, it is like something from a cheap novel!"

"How awful that experience must have been for you, my lady." Arthur said softly. "Might I listen to the rest of the story, or are you weary of tellin' such a tale?"

"I'm afraid there is not overmuch left to tell, Mister Killg-"

"Please, ma'am, call me Tacitus." He insisted, his eyes bright with their secret joke. 

Irene couldn't help her smile in reply. "Of course, Tacitus. But as I was saying, there is not much to tell. I have spent most of my exile cowering in a cabin out in the mountains, shivering to death or roasting alive." She had tried so very hard to dumb down the tale, doing her best to make it seem like she was still the frail and fragile Mrs. Carson.

"It sounds like you have endured quite a bit of hardship, ma'am." Arthur's lips quirked upwards at the corner, his smile faint but still there. "It's a miracle you managed to survive! A delicate li'l thing like you, all alone out there in that dangerous wilderness." His voice dipped low enough to make her shiver. "Especially with such...reprehensible folk about these days."

Like me, his gaze seemed to say, the heat in that look reminding Irene of when he had kissed her at the stables.

"Exactly what I said, Monsieur Tacitus! Irene, you were so rash! I know that you believed you had no recourse, and I must apologize for my own complacency regarding Willie's abhorrent behavior, but surely there was another way!" The mayor scolded her.

"I am so very sorry, Henri. Next time I am kept prisoner in my own house, I'll be certain to send you a messenger pigeon." Irene retorted wryly, making Henri sputter as Arthur outright laughed. Ah, that laugh! She would have gladly borne her troubles in silence had she known such a delightful sound would someday grace her ears.

Irene was struck anew by the providence of her whole situation while she watched Arthur do his best to play at high society. She had not often been afforded the privilege to observe him, instead of the other way around. His blue eyes caught the amber light quite marvelously, his jaw shaded with stubborn stubble that gave him just the tiniest hint of wildness, of untamed danger. Enough to make him appealing to many of the women present. Irene wasn't sure if she should be flattered or concerned about the amount of time he was spending with the mayor and, by proxy, herself. 

She was growing increasingly lightheaded from the squeeze of her corset and was just about to ask Henri if she could impose upon his hospitality for a brief reprieve to adjust herself when abruptly, the butler approached to inform Mayor Lemieux that he had another phone call from the tycoon, Leviticus Cornwall. 

Henri waved the man off as fireworks began to erupt overhead. Irene, noting how Arthur watched the butler depart a touch more narrowly than one might in polite company, dared to place a hand on his arm. "Tacitus, my dear, you play your cards too openly." She whispered, her words making Arthur grimace. "May I ask you to escort me upstairs? I fear all this excitement has me feeling a bit short of breath."

…

"Tacitus-" Irene gasped his fake moniker at the top of the stairs, groping the wall for some kind of support. "I realize this is very forward of me, but I must beg for your assistance in loosening these damned--" She paused for air. "Lord, I fear I will swoon. This is so tight-"

"Okay, easy now." Arthur murmured, privately marveling at how large his hands looked on her cinched waist when he steadied her. "I gotcha', Irene. It's alright." 

She didn't appear to be exaggerating for his sake. The walk up the stairs had nearly done her in, it would seem. She was incredibly pale, and trembling slightly. He had assumed that she was just playing along for whatever reason, the two of them stalking the butler for fun or profit, but it was evident now that she had no such ulterior motives.

Arthur picked a door at random, immensely thankful that the room behind it was a parlour of sorts. Irene all but collapsed on the chaise, her fingers clumsy with the tiny buttons that ran the length of the front of her dress. Arthur rushed to assist after he made certain to lock the door, feeling a little frantic at the way Irene was wheezing for air.

"You're okay, you're okay, we'll get you loosened up." He tried to calm her (and himself), working on the next button in the line. "Front or back lacing, Irene?"

"Back." Her voice had gone pitchy. "I--she laced me very well."

"I know, shh, gimme' a minute." Arthur soothed, willing himself to relax. This wasn't any sort of terrible scenario, this was mundane compared to how his life usually was! How the hell was it that his hands were shaking more over getting a woman undressed than being shot at by the law?!

The two of them managed to peel the dress down over her shoulders far enough to let Arthur maneuver his hands in between her chemise and corset to loosen her laces. Slowly, carefully, he worked his way down, gradually slacking the binds. He didn't want to just undo the whole damn thing, that would leave her to endure the remainder of the party with her bosom unfettered and as appealing as that was to him, he knew that the gentry would tear her apart for it. 

"Any better?" He asked after a moment, relieved when she nodded. 

Then, "I didn't think you would actually help me." She admitted softly, holding her dress closed in the front. Arthur was stunned. "I assumed you were going to follow his retainer." Irene turned to look at him after a moment. "Why are you here, Arthur?"

Lord, he felt like a sinner on Judgement Day. Pinned by the weight of an angel's stare, all he could do was try to tell her the truth. "My...associates and I are...well, we need leads, Miss Irene. Senor Bronte, in exchange for our...services, cut us a deal for invitations to this ball. And uh, I suppose that's it." He said awkwardly. "I didn't expect you to be here, I figured you'd have headed for the Grizzlies by now."

Irene shrugged. "I thought long and hard about what you said during our last meeting. Me not taking everything that wasn't nailed down, that is." She squared her shoulders stiffly, trying to straighten her dress out. "I decided it was time to take back what's rightfully mine, propriety be damned."

Arthur put his hands on her shoulders, slipping the dress back down to reveal bare, freckled skin. He breathed her name, ducking his head to drop a kiss on the nape of her neck and feeling her shiver. His next words caught in his throat. How could he do something like that to her? 

A wealthy benefactor, Dutch had said, like it was an afterthought. Like she wasn't a person, but a resource. A tool.

Because that was all she would be to Dutch, Arthur realized grimly. A silly woman for them to string along, someone with deep pockets and a trusting heart. She wasn't Irene to Dutch or Hosea, she was the Widow Carson. A naive young widow, beautiful and lonely and (possibly) about to come into some significant money. The perfect target for a good old-fashioned seduction.

Lord, he had almost preferred feeling like prey earlier to this sudden cold understanding of how his companions (and even he himself, to a lesser degree) saw people like Irene. 

"You look beautiful tonight, Irene." He murmured instead. 

"Don't tease me, Arthur." Irene retorted sharply. "I am an utter mess. I look like a child playing dress up amongst all the immaculate gowns down there." She then sniffled, the noise almost too soft for him to hear. "I very nearly fainted dead away because I haven't worn one of these blasted things in almost a year! What kind of proper lady can't even endure the simplest of corsets?" 

"The kind that doesn't need one to turn every damn head in the room." Arthur said gruffly, a hand beneath her chin tilting her head back so he could see her face. Her brown eyes shone with frustrated tears. "You're beautiful, woman. Why the hell don't you believe it?"

"A majority of my marriage was punctuated by people who felt the need to inform me that I was attractive 'for my age', Arthur. I'm old, I'm nearly thirty. No man wants a wife that old. My father was hard-pressed to marry me off when I was twenty-four, can you even imagine what folk might say to a man who would court me in my thirties?" Irene shook her head despondently. "I...I don't know what I'm doing, Arthur." She confessed suddenly. "I am terrified. If I put effort into taking whatever might be left and it turns out to all be for naught, I don't know what I'll do!" Her hands twisted in her skirts. "I'll be back to where I was before." 

Arthur wasn't certain he understood what the issue was. She had seemed happy out in the wilderness. Hell, she had insisted upon her happiness. What had brought on this change, this desire for stability and financial security? He was thoroughly confused. "I don't know what to tell you, Irene." He said finally. 

"I know, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have even brought it up." Irene apologized. "It's hardly your concern, Mister Tacitus." She tried to tease, daubing at her eyes with her sleeve and then starting to button her dress back up. "Just the worries of a silly woman whose age is catching up with her, I suppose."

Arthur caught her wrist to stop her, pressing a kiss to the inside of it like he had done so many times before. Her pulse tripped and hammered beneath his lips, galloping wildly. "Irene, you are beautiful." He sighed, his fingertips grazing her exposed collarbone when he palmed her shoulders from behind. "Everyone down there knows it. I know it. You could have your pick of fellers downstairs if that's what you're so worried about."

"It's such a fleeting thing, Arthur." She whispered. "When it is gone, if I cannot reclaim any of Willie's estate...I'll have nothing and no one."

Arthur wanted to die. He wanted to grab her shoulders and embrace her and say you'll have me, God damn it! But he knew he couldn't promise her that, as much as he wanted to. Hell, getting truly involved with him would no doubt cut her life short. That fear was what kept him from speaking, no matter how badly he wished to assure her. Even after the tender moments they had spent together in the wilds, now, when it would have made a difference, he was unable to offer any sort of meaningful comfort. 

Arthur closed his eyes, cursing himself roundly. "You don't mean that, Irene. The mayor seems-"

"Henri was perfectly willing to overlook my abuse when Willie was funding his campaign. All of them down there were complacent." Irene interjected, her tone one of barely-bridled fury. "Politicians and the elite are of no use to me, Arthur, for I am of no use to them."

Fair enough, Arthur mused. "So what are you gonna' do, then?"

"I'm going to try and bring my case to the attention of the courts. Willie was an only child, which is the sole reason I may still have a chance to receive something for my trouble." Irene's shoulders slumped and Arthur dug his fingers in, silently working out a few of the knots she seemed to have created in her muscles. 

"I hope it goes accordin' to plan for you, then." He said finally. 

"As do I." Irene took his hand, leading him around to the front of the chaise. "I have missed you, Arthur Morgan." She said simply. Sweet and honest. 

He was a fool.

Arthur felt like cheap gold leaf as he greedily buried his hands in her hair, sending one of the vanilla blossoms tumbling to the floor when he did. He felt like a veneer of class spread thin on his thieving bones, he felt like a liar. This vision of a woman, this divine being who trusted him so readily...

This time would be the last. It would have to be. If Dutch found him out, if his pre-established closeness to the Widow Carson was discovered, Arthur knew that Dutch would tell him to bleed her dry.

And Arthur, the kind, loyal man that he was, would do it. Because loyalty was everything.

…

Arthur was troubled. Even through her own worries, Irene could see that. She threaded her fingers through the shaggy locks at the nape of his neck, whispering his name. "What's wrong, Arthur?"

"I...I can't keep doin' this, Irene." He confessed, those blue eyes stormy with emotion. "I can't keep draggin' you down with me. You deserve so much more than a man who you don't really know, a man who's here an' gone again. It ain't right."

"I don't much care what I deserve, Arthur Morgan." Irene said tartly. "If you want me, I am here. You have yet to cause me harm in any of our endeavors, which is more than I can say for my prior partner." She tugged at the back of his neck, bringing their foreheads together. "If you want me, Arthur, I am here."

"Irene," he grated out, cupping her face, "I'm a bad man. I've done a whole heap of turrible things. I ain't the kind of man that you should be lettin' anywhere near you."

"And despite all of that, I'm beneath you on a chaise in the mayor's upstairs drawing room." Irene replied dryly. "Honestly Arthur, I thought you knew by now that my intuition is quite dreadful."

"Irene-" 

"You are remarkably poor at displaying any sort of reluctance, Mister Arthur." It felt like icy fingers were creeping their way down her spine. Had he finally decided that whatever they were, it wasn't worth his time? She could hardly blame him, of course! She was a currently-penniless widow. She had offered herself freely in the past; he owed her nothing, just as she owed him nothing.

"Because I ain't reluctant!" Arthur exclaimed. "I'm...Christ, Irene, I want this. I want you, so much that it hurts. But the life I lead ain't got a chance in it for a happy, fairytale endin' where I get to live out my days in peace. I have people I need to take care of, and you have a life of your own to finally start livin'." He stated firmly. "So for both our sakes, we can't...continue."

"At the very least," Irene begged, her thumbs stroking the familiar scar on his chin while she peppered his face with light pecks, "may we still be friends, Arthur?"

"Irene…" Arthur breathed, tilting his face to the side and kissing her until she was dizzy. "You've given me so damn much, woman. Given me hope, and beauty, and music. My friendship ain't worth spit compared to what you've done for me."

Irene shook her head, blinking back her tears. "I'm the one that ought to be saying that, Mister Arthur!" She protested. "I wish there was more I could do to repay the kindness you've shown me."

"Miss Irene, all the payment I ask for is that you go and live your life to the fullest extent. Take tenfold from that son of a bitch what he took from you." Arthur swept back some of the curls on her forehead, the gesture achingly tender. "Do that, and you'll be paid up, alright?" He murmured.

Irene took his hand and kissed his knuckles, feeling the pronounced lines of old abrasions on the skin when she did. "Don't give up, Arthur. There is someone out there who will be worth it to you." She told him, her voice trembling a bit as she struggled to get the words out. "Someone who will see you for how kind and loyal you are and instead of taking advantage of it, they'll cherish it. Guard you close to their heart like a jealous little secret." Her smile was tentative, "that's what I would do, anyway."

Arthur cursed under his breath, shoving his thigh gracelessly between her legs. "Irene." He said her name and it was an oath, a prayer. Whether for himself or for her, she couldn't say. 

"Yes, Arthur?" Irene replied softly. 

"If you hear about me in the future, if…" he hesitated, clearing his throat as he drew his index finger studiously down the side of her face. "If somethin' happens, don't pay it any mind, alright? Remember me just like this. All gussied up in this frippery, lookin' like the world's most uncomfortable trained bear." He tried to laugh, but it sounded hollow. "Can you do that for me? Please?"

"As long as you remember me like I was in the wilds." Irene was pleased when he smiled. "All filthy, with twigs in my hair."

"The Irene of my dreams has always been the one from the wilderness." Arthur confessed quietly. "This is lovely, don't get me wrong." He continued, giving her skirts a playful tweak. "But you out in the forests, playin' your violin for the wolves an' howlin' at the moon...that's the Irene I think about." The man cleared his throat again after a moment, looking away. "Now, let's get you put to rights. Buttoned up and all that. I figure it'll be best if I go back first. Hopefully folk won't be too suspicious. Shit, I don't even know how long we been gone for." He swore, grumbling a little as he struggled to help her with the tiny buttons on her dress.

Irene giggled, feeling a bit hysterical. "Oh heavens, what they will think of me! My husband hardly cold in the ground and now I'm enjoying an absolutely scandalous rendezvous with a handsome stranger. I'll be the talk of Saint Denis for weeks!"

"Woman, if you don't quit your funnin'..." Arthur huffed, a wry grin pulling at his mouth seemingly in spite of himself. 

Irene rubbed her forehead against his own, smiling a bit wistfully. "Shall I ever see you again, Mister Arthur?"

"For your sake, I sure as hell hope not." Arthur replied bluntly. "Bad luck seems to follow the folks I hang around with."

…

He hadn't entirely lied. He did leave ahead of her. However, he didn't return to the party immediately. 

Instead, Arthur ducked into the study he had seen that butler enter when he and Irene were making their way up the stairs. A few minutes of pointed rummaging and a jimmied lock on the desk drawer later, Arthur Morgan (or rather, Tacitus Killgore) was the proud owner of various interesting, incriminating documentation. Leviticus Cornwall. Arthur barely resisted the urge to spit on command when he so much as thought the man's name. 

Footsteps passed by the door and he froze, pressing himself back against the bookcases until whoever it was had descended down the stairs. 

Hopefully, this information would please Dutch to the point where he would forget about Widow Carson. Arthur just wished that he could forget about Widow Carson. Irene. 

Maybe...maybe if she was still in the drawing room, he could explain. Maybe there was still time. It would be dangerous, of course, but she deserved the truth. She deserved to know why he couldn't promise her anything aside from a life of fear and misery. Shit, at the very least she deserved to know why he was cutting her loose!

Arthur left the study and retraced his steps to the drawing room, his heart in his throat and her name on the tip of his tongue. Irene--

But she was gone. 

The chaise was vacant, lonely in the cluttered room. Through the open French doors to the balcony, the sounds of the party below filtered in like something from another world. He stalled in the doorway for a moment, uncertain of what to do. An object on the floor by the chaise caught his attention and Arthur stepped forward. 

It was one of the vanilla flowers from her hair, the blossom sitting forlorn and abandoned next to the leg of the chaise. He scooped it up with all the care someone like him could muster, tenderly examining the fragile, bruised petals. Then, Arthur slipped it into the pocket of his suit coat.

Much, much later that evening (technically the next damn morning), when he was bedding down at Shady Belle, he delicately extracted the worn flower and proceeded to tuck it between two blank pages of his journal.

Irene, he wrote at the very bottom of the page, and then, in another life, if I was a better man, we could have been so happy together. Instead, I have to push you away to keep you -safe-.

What a fool I am.

The following page bore a loose, flowing sketch of her on the chaise, staring up at him while she clutched the front of her gown closed at her chest. The fierce look on her face that he had tried valiantly to capture on paper didn't hold a candle to the real thing. Irene Craft, he wrote, then scribbled out her name and instead put, -Politicians and the elite are of no use to me, Arthur, for I am of no use to them.-

Mayor Onry Lemieux's party.

Winter’s Cold: Part One

[shipmistress9]

HW2020 -- Bonus: Follow Your Heart -2

Okay, so... It was never planned to give this story more than one chapter. And I still stand by my original idea that I want people to imagine their own ending, the one they like best.

However, after talking it through with some friends, this version formed in my head. And it wouldn't go away until I wrote it down. So what you get here now, is one possible ending/sequel. If you don't like it, feel free to ignore it. :)

. o O o .

A harsh gust of wind blew across the sea. It was a cold wind that came from the north, rocking the small ship and ruffling through untidy auburn hair. Hiccup pulled his jacket closer around his neck as it made him shiver. He knew that he could go inside where it was somewhat warmer and sheltered from the wind… But he didn’t want to! He wanted to stay right here, standing at the railing at the ship’s prow and with his eyes cast out toward the island in the distance.

Time was a strange concept. Logically, he knew that it had been ten years since he’d last been here. But with everything that had happened since then, it simultaneously felt as if it had been only weeks and an entire lifetime.

What would await him there? Was his father still ruling the island? Was his grandmother still alive? And, most importantly… Was she still living there?

Hiccup closed his eyes and gulped. He’d already spent endless hours, days, weeks even thinking about these questions. But he wouldn’t get any answers, not until he set foot on his former home island again and sought them out directly.

As Berk came closer, Hiccup’s eyes wandered to that spot on the island he knew best; the shore at the northern coast. Smiling, he remembered all the times he’d stood there, waiting in excitement. He even thought he could see someone standing there right now, waiting like he used to wait. They were still too far away to see more than the vague outline of a figure, but that didn’t keep his mind from filling in details that, certainly, couldn’t be there. Like long golden hair gleaming in the light of the rising sun.

With a sigh, he shook his head. No matter how much he hoped for this, she wasn’t waiting anymore. She couldn't be. Not after ten years. Humourlessly, he laughed at himself. He’d made up countless scenarios in his mind over the last couple of months about how she might react to seeing him.; elated, overwhelmed, or breaking out in tears of joy that he wasn’t dead. But all of these ideas were just wishful thinking. Chances were that she wasn’t even living here anymore, and if she was then surely not because of him. She was beautiful, inside and out, and certainly had caught the eye of someone else by now. Someone who, hopefully, had made her happy.

But that wouldn’t keep him from at least looking for her, if only to let her know he was alive and to apologise. To see her one more time.

Being back on Berk was strange. He felt it the moment his foot touched the once-familiar ground, this weird sense of familiarity and foreignness all at once. He used to know these docks, knew every man working here. But now, the faces around were only vaguely familiar if even that, and instead of greeting him with friendly smiles, they barely even looked at him.

Well, he had changed, he mused. His hair had inevitably grown longer and he hadn’t bothered to cut it often. He had a beard now. And the peg leg, of course. Besides, it wasn’t as if anyone expected to see him. They all had to believe that he died ten years ago.

Mutely, Hiccup walked past them all. He could announce his return; that might even be the fastest way to get information. However, he decided not to. If he didn’t like what he found, if there was no place for him here anymore, then he wouldn’t stay. He didn’t even expect to stay…

Walking through the narrow streets of the town of Berk was just as strange as setting foot on the island had been before. It all looked eerily familiar, the buildings, the streets, the people. But nothing was quite as he remembered. The buildings were mostly the same except for fresh paintings and one that must have been rebuilt completely at some point. There was Gobber’s workshop where he’d bought countless tools and parts in the past, but the sign atop the door was new and the display entirely unfamiliar to him. And there was the innkeeper’s daughter, but she didn’t look the same anymore. Her hair had streaks of grey in it, she’d become a little rounder, and she had a small boy on each of her hands. Without a doubt her sons. Swallowing, Hiccup walked on without saying hello. Life had continued without him, of course, it had. People had moved on.

He was hesitant about where to go exactly. His father’s house would be an obvious choice, but… well, it hadn’t been the memory of his father or even his grandma that had finally made him come here. Made him remember. He took a deep breath and then walked on, out of the town and down a small and barely-used road. He knew where Helka Hofferson’s house was, after all. Maybe it was a far-fetched hope that her niece might still be there, but it was all he had.

The sun rose higher as he walked the short distance, warming his face and the air around him. It would be an unusually bright day for Berk. Hopefully, that was a good omen.

When he reached the small house, he paused. It was well-maintained with a garden and flowers in the windows. That was a good sign, meant that there was still someone living here. At least, he could hope for information. And it also looked different from what he remembered, younger in a way. The thought made his heart skip a beat, but he fought down the growing excitement. That didn’t have to mean that she was living here. It could be just anyone, moving here after Helka had given the house up for whatever reason.

Slowly and with shaking knees, he stepped up to the entrance door, almost tripping as his prosthetic caught on a stone. Gods, he couldn’t remember ever having been this nervous! What if a complete stranger opened the door? What if it was her, but arm in arm with her husband? Did he really want to have that image in his mind? Did he want it to replace the last memory he had of her, the one of her waving at him at the docks, with such an image?

Trembling, he leaned his forehead against the wooden door. He knew what he wanted, what he hoped for. A second chance with the woman who’d captured his heart and soul within merely a few hours. He longed for it, desperately, and he had no idea what to do with his life if that moment, that decision to leave with the Night Fury, really had ruined his one and only chance. He didn’t want his hopes to be shattered.

But not knocking and leaving now without a word made no sense. He’d come all the way to get answers – to this island and this house. Now, he just had to seize them. And maybe she wasn’t even here. Maybe someone else would open the door; a stranger. Maybe all he would learn today was that she’d moved away long ago.

Maybe his hopes and dreams wouldn’t get crushed in a minute.

He knocked.

Nothing.

Hiccup huffed. Okay, no crushed hopes yet… But what now? Should he wait here until whoever lived here came back? If it indeed was some stranger, then he would look like a creep. He’d look like one anyway... Maybe he should go to his father’s house first, after all. And come back here later. Or maybe not, depending on what his father might tell him. Sighing in resignation, he turned to leave when he heard the noises.

Footsteps.

A high voice calling something, female but unfamiliar.

A door falling close.

The noises came from behind the house where an ample garden used to be, as far as he remembered. Maybe there, he would find whoever lived here now.

Without giving himself more time to doubt or talk himself out of this, he walked around the building. “Hello?” he called to announce himself, but nobody answered him. Strange. He walked on, looking around but couldn’t see anybody. Although, no, that wasn’t entirely true. On this side of the house, a large window was set into the wall. And even though the reflecting sunlight made it hard to look inside, Hiccup could still make out movement behind the glass, a person moving about. And he could swear they had long golden-blond hair.

Don’t be silly, he chided himself, even as his heartbeat quickened. He didn’t dare to believe it could really be her, that he might actually see her again after all this time.

Without his help, his legs moved to the backdoor set near the window. He lifted his hand to knock, his head dizzy with too many emotions, and a lump formed in his throat as his knuckles rapped against the wood.

“Come in, honey. The door is open.

The response nearly caused his knees to give way beneath him. That voice! It was her voice, without any doubt or room for errors. He recognised it, the tone etched forever into his mind.

But… Honey?

With shaking hands, he opened the door and saw her.

She stood at a kitchen counter, her hands buried in soapy water as she washed the dishes. She didn’t even look up as he entered and just hummed under her breath to herself.

Rendered speechless and immobile, he could do nothing but stare at her. She hadn’t changed much; her curves were a little rounder than he remembered, softer, and her hair a shade or two paler. But she looked just as beautiful as he remembered, a serene smile on her lips and that inner glow still radiating from her like in that night in the tavern room.

“Astrid?”

Her name came out as nothing but a whisper, a weak gasp, trembling.

She paused in her movements, soapy water dripping off her hands. Then she turned toward him, surprise and confusion on her face – though not as much as he would have expected. She took a moment or three to silently look him over, her head cocked in thought before her lips twitched into a slight smile.

“Well, hello there. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

She spoke in a light tone, untroubled. It threw Hiccup off completely. This was her only reaction? Had she cared so little for him that his absence or return didn’t faze her at all? Not that he’d wanted her to hurt over his disappearance, but… but…

Bewildered, he just stood still and waited as she took in his appearance more closely.

“Huh. I didn’t expect a new look,” she said with a strange smile. “Appropriate though, I guess. Although, it makes sense after ten years, doesn’t it? You look…. older.  I like the beard. And you’ve gained some muscles, haven’t you?” Her smile became a little sad. “But your leg… You probably lost it when the ship sank?” She paused, eyes on his prosthetic,  “That looks oddly complicated. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like this.” She took a minute longer to look at him, then chuckled, shook her head, and turned back to washing the dishes.

Stunned, Hiccup gaped at her. He’d wondered about how she might react, but this was not what he’d expected. She… she had to know that he’d gone missing, right? She had to have noticed that he hadn’t come back. Or hadn’t she waited for him at all, not even a few weeks? Had the connection between them that one night and all his feelings been nothing but his imagination?

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. The only sounds he could hear were the clinking of the tableware and the thundering of his own heart. He’d come for nothing. He’d found her as he’d hoped he would. But he hadn’t made this journey just to see her, no matter what he’d told himself earlier. His heart and soul longed for more – but she didn’t care.

He shouldn’t have come in the first place...

He was just about to excuse himself and leave when something in her posture changed. Her grip on the plate in one hand and the brush in the other tightened, and she leaned forward, propping her weight up on her arms.

“Gods, I’m such a mess,” she whispered.

Hiccup cocked his head. He wasn’t sure whether she was still talking to him, even though there was nobody else around. Even when her eyes turned back to him, shimmering with unshed tears, it seemed as if she wasn’t really seeing him at all.

“Ten years…” she murmured, still as if just talking to herself. “Ten years, and I’m still not over you. You’d think I was stronger than that. But now, I see you even here, and… and I don’t even want you to go away. I should, but… but…” She broke off, choking on tears and more running freely down her cheeks.

And Hiccup understood. She wasn’t indifferent toward him. She’d missed him just as much as he’d missed her, enough so that… that she’d imagined seeing him? Frequently enough so that his appearance didn’t even surprise her?

He gulped. He could see it now, the soul-deep pain in her eyes. It made his heart break all over for her. Yes, the thought of her being indifferent had hurt. But her pain right now hurt so much more. Even as he stood right here, she didn’t believe it to be true…

“I don’t want you to go,” she eventually continued. Her voice was a little clearer now but still weak and quivering, brittle. As if she was about to break into a million pieces. “I want you to stay here. And I don’t care if people call me crazy, I just…” She shook her head, her eyes closed, then let it drop as she turned away from him again, her shoulders slumping.

“Gods, I wish you were truly here,” she sobbed. “I wish you were real!”

Her pain didn’t leave him unaffected, his face crumpling. He wanted to reassure her, but if she believed him to be nothing but a vision then just him saying so wouldn’t convince her. Hesitantly, he made a few steps toward her. She didn’t turn even as she must have heard his feet on the wooden floor and the rustling of his clothes, must have felt him coming closer. She didn’t react and only kept sobbing quietly, even as he stood just inches behind her.

Moving on their own accord, his hands landed on her hips and he leaned a little closer until his chest was almost against her back. Beneath his hands, she stiffened.

“I am real!” he murmured into her ear. Just these three words. Trembling, overwhelmed by emotions, he waited for her reaction.

There was a loud Clang! as the plate landed on the ground slipping from numb fingers. Keening, she leaned back against him. Her knees buckled and left her weight almost entirely on his arms for a moment, and even though he was still shaking, he held on to her as tightly as he could.

Then, before Hiccup could even react, she turned around and kissed him. It was a hard kiss, bruising. Her hands were in his hair in an instant, clinging to him and tugging almost painfully as she gasped against his mouth. But he didn’t have it in him to pull away. His arms held her as tightly as possible and his heart flowed over with joy, the fulfilment of ten years of anticipation.

Eventually, the kiss changed into something softer, her lips searching reassurance while her hands tried to connect his new appearance with the man she’d known before. He knew that’s what she did because he did the same; caressing her arms, her back and sides, feeling her hair, her softness, and strong muscles beneath her skin. Sweet reconnecting and curious exploring. He knew that he wasn’t the same man he’d been ten years ago anymore, and the same certainly was true for her, too. But during those minutes which felt like lifetime’s worth of bonding, that didn’t matter. They were together again, and that was all that counted.

“You’re really here,” she gasped against his lips after what felt like a small eternity. “You’re alive!”

Gulping, Hiccup nodded. “I am.”

She pulled back a little, her eyes searching his. They were just as beautiful as he remembered, deep like the sea yet warm and gentle like a summer breeze. He could lose himself in her eyes alone, and he didn’t even notice her frown. Not until she spoke again.

“But… but how is that possible? The ship… everyone knew you were dead. And where have you been? What happened?”

He sighed. “That’s a long story,”

“And I have all the time in the world,” she replied, chuckling. “Hiccup, I–”

An unexpected voice interrupted her. “I found something! Are you–”

Hiccup flinched. His head whipped around to where a young girl was staring at them, and he reflexively made a step away from Astrid; their closeness was not quite suitable for the eyes of a child. Astrid wouldn’t have it, though, held on to him as if to never let him go again. He liked that thought.

“Am I what?” Astrid asked, her mind clicking back to reality much faster than his. “What did you find, honey?”

Oh, so she’s who she’d meant before, Hiccup realised. Forcing his racing heart to calm down, he looked the girl over more closely. She seemed to be around ten years old and something about her face seemed oddly familiar. Had he met her before? But no, she would have been nothing but a baby back then.

The girl blinked, confused, but her eyes never left him, scrutinising him just as closely and her mind visibly working through options. “I… I found this mechanism in the book you…” she uttered, but then shook her head as if to clear it. “Did you say Hiccup? Mum, is… is that who I think he is?”

Mum?

Giggling like a little girl, Astrid nodded. “Yes, Zephyr. Yes, he is.”

Hiccup slumped, inwardly distancing himself from the woman in his arms. Of course… The girl’s face looked familiar because she looked like Astrid. She was her daughter! And whoever the girl’s father was, he wouldn’t be happy that a stranger had invaded his home and had kissed his wife.

The girl gaped at him with wide eyes, probably thinking the same as he did, but Hiccup couldn’t pay her much attention right now. His trembling hands once again settled on Astrid’s waist, but this time it was to push her away.

“She… is your daughter?” he asked, unnecessarily. By the Gods, he’d come in the hopes to continue where their lives had been separated ten years ago. But he wouldn’t stay to destroy her marriage, wouldn’t–

Astrid shook her head at his question. Her eyes bore into his, just as intense as he remembered, the softness of her smile spreading over her entire face. “No,” she breathed. “Zephyr isn’t my daughter.” She reached for his hands, placed them over her stomach, and laid hers over his. “She’s our daughter!”

Hiccup blinked. His mind took a moment to register what she’d said. Then his jaw dropped and his eyes widened as they flickered back and forth between Astrid and the girl. “Our...? But… but how… what…” Of course, he knew how and remembered every detail of that night. But it was too much to accept at that moment, too much to wrap his head around. That girl… sh-she was… was his daughter?

With a soft sigh, Astrid leaned against his chest. “That’s… a long story.

. o O o .

This was only the first part of the sequel. There's also a second part which is already written out completely. I just need to edit it a bit and will upload it in a day or two.

* - . - * - . o O o . - * - . - *

If you want to support me you can buy me a coffee. I love coffee 😊 (Ko-Fi)

[writethehousedown]

When the Sun Sets on Us: Chapter 3 (Scyvie) — Phryne

A/N: Hey y'all! I’m back with the third chapter of When the Sun Sets on Us, a beach town romance between hopeless romantic Scarlet and cynical about romance Yvie.

Last Chapter: Scarlet dumped five drinks and a plate of nachos on Yvie, so Yvie naturally agreed to a date with her.

This chapter: A classic boardwalk date.

Enjoy!

Scarlet was perched on the railing outside the restaurant, her hands gripping the bar as her feet swung, back and forth, back and forth, like a metronome. When Yvie saw her, all clad in her denim skirt and milky white crop top, staring off at the ocean in the distance as though she were transfixed, she felt her beating heart increase its tempo, as though it were intent on keeping time with Scarlet.

“Yvie!” Scarlet called out, hopping off the railing, running toward her. It was as though she had snapped out of her spell, like she sensed Yvie’s presence a few feet away. She pulled Yvie into a hug, her hands flush against Yvie’s back, before pulling away, leaving behind some kind of sun-kissed, champagne-tinged scent wafting in the air, something Yvie couldn’t quite place but found herself intoxicated by, nonetheless.

No, Yvie was not going to allow herself to be consumed by the all-consuming Scarlet. She had decided on this previously, more specifically, the moment Scarlet had suggested the date and Yvie agreed. She had also reinforced the notion that she was under no circumstances going to develop deep feelings for Scarlet every moment after — while walking back to the motel, while showering, while pouring over outfits to wear on the date, while begging her brain to please, for the love of god, let her think about anything besides being close enough to Scarlet to count each little sun-spot that graced her face and arms and hands and chest.

“Yvie?” Scarlet looked perplexed, dropping her arms back to her sides.

“Oh, yes, hi.” Yvie blinked, focusing her vision back on the Scarlet right in front of her, shooing away her intrusive thoughts.

“I asked how you are, silly.” Scarlet poked Yvie’s arm, the spot feeling as though it were consistently touched, consistently warm, even when Scarlet pulled away.

“Sorry, yeah.” Yvie shook it off. “I’m good, how are you?”

It was simply a date. And a date did not require real, deep feelings, Yvie reminded herself. She could simply have fun with Scarlet, enjoy their time together, and then part ways afterward. She didn’t have to get too deep, become lost in her silken little drawl as she described sneaking out of work early to take a shower because she smelled like french fries, how she saw a stray cat wandering out from under her porch when she came home. She didn’t have to indulge her impulse to tell Scarlet about the alley cats behind her apartment, paint her a verbal picture of her home, each brush stroke within it. Hell, they didn’t even have to hold hands. In fact, Yvie decided that they would not do romantic, deep-feelings-date things, like hold hands, for example.

Scarlet took Yvie’s hand, their palms clasped and their thumbs crossed.

Shit.

“Okay, so I’m gonna give you, like, the classic boardwalk experience,” Scarlet said, tugging Yvie to start walking with her. “Come on.”

Scarlet led Yvie away, the two walking steadily, leisurely, as Scarlet unclasped their hands, only to weave their fingers back together, the two interlocked, fingers laced tight. She looked up at Yvie.

Oh god. Not a minute into the date and they’re already walking hand in hand. She’s already fixated on the gentle swing of their connected arms between them. Her skin already prickles as Scarlet’s shoulder brushes against her arm, and she’s so keenly aware of the shorter woman next to her, connected to her, the physicality of moving and walking together, that she barely knows how her legs are still moving while her brain is this overwhelmed.  

The Scarlet pulled away. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

It felt like a cold burn, though Yvie had to be sure she brought it on herself, knowing the panic that must have covered her face, knowing just how visible she was with her feelings no matter how hard she tried to mask them.

Yvie gulped, struck with the inexplicable feeling that she was in trouble with herself. “No, it’s okay.” Yvie let out a long-held breath before taking Scarlet’s hand, their fingers interwoven again, Yvie feeling herself return to what now felt less like panic and more like a natural, sustainable state.

It wouldn’t be too bad to hold hands, Yvie supposed, her thumb wiggling out to rest on top of Scarlet’s. It was nothing more than holding hands.

The sun was dimming, dusting the sky and the sea in a battered grey, the neon lights for psychics, name on rice, and hermit crabs intermittently flicking on for the night.

“So,” Yvie began, feeling Scarlet look up to watch her speak, a thrilling intimacy. “What’s it like to live here? You know, like you live where people vacation. That’s wild.”

“I guess,” Scarlet said with a shrug. “I’m just from here, so I barely even notice it.”

Yvie’s fingers gripped Scarlet’s knuckles. They passed a stand selling fried desserts, just turning on their lights. “It’s just like whenever I visit somewhere, I always wonder about the people who live there for real, you know? It’s like I’m just passing by and you’re here all the time.” Yvie flattened her lip. “I guess it would be fun? I don’t know it’s like I’m just passing in a place you’ve had your whole life.”

Scarlet turned away, the tension between their arms growing as Yvie felt further apart. Then Scarlet laughed.

“Wow, heavy first date topics.” She continued staring off, right over the edge of the pier. “Like thoughts about living in a temporary place for most people you meet, bonus points for discussing the idea of emotional permanency. Go,” Scarlet imitated, looking back up at Yvie and cracking a smile.

“Oh my god,” Yvie groaned. “Do I really sound that pretentious?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s cute,” Scarlet reassured.

“So, you’re saying I do.” Yvie looked back down at her, only finding herself struck by the teasing smile of the girl who just called her cute. She held the word in her lungs like air.

Yvie tugged at her hand, needlessly pulling Scarlet closer, their elbows knocking together. They walked in silence for a moment.

“Yeah, it’s only a little fun to live here,” Scarlet started, staring down at the boards. “Like everything’s only open for a few months a year. And then it’s dead. Honestly, this is the first time I’ve been, like, on the boardwalk outside of work in at least two summers.” Scarlet stole a glance up at Yvie, the corner of her lip curling, letting Yvie know she caught her staring. “I almost forgot it was fun.”

Scarlet let out a slow, deflating laugh, her face falling on the exhale. “But yeah, it’s weird to live here. It’s like everyone else is coming and going as they please and you can’t, like you’re stuck here. It’s not a bad place to be stuck in, don’t get me wrong.” A sigh. “It’s just I think I’d rather be stuck somewhere else, somewhere bigger and brighter. I’d love to be in a city, under a billion lights, you know?” Scarlet looked up again.

Yvie nodded. “That makes sense. Just being permanent in a way you don’t want to be.”

That was, of course, the shorthand understanding of the deepest, most desperate desire to get away and find yourself in a place you’d never like to leave, which Yvie felt creeping up on her with every step they took together. It was a feeling, much like the feeling of Scarlet’s touch, or the smell of Scarlet’s perfume, that had wrapped itself around Yvie. The feeling of being with someone who’s whole life was here, folded in these sands, fitted between the splintering boards. The feeling that Scarlet everywhere around her. It struck like a dizzying, brilliant light, and it remained.

***

“Oh my god, I didn’t know they still had that,” Scarlet called out, pulling Yvie toward a midway game with a childlike sense of wonder. It was the one where you had to throw ping pong balls into goldfish bowls filled with colored water.

“I used to be so, so good at this as a kid,” Scarlet elaborated. “I can’t believe they still have it. I was, like, too good at this game. I had them all lined up in their bowls on the kitchen counter.”

“Do you still have them?” Yvie had finally caught up with her, now standing next to Scarlet at the game. “Or are they all dead?” Yvie immediately kicked herself for mentioning a slew of dead fish.

She didn’t want a relationship, no. But she also didn’t want to become some brunch story Scarlet would later tell about the girl she went on a date with who didn’t want to hold her hand and also talked about her dead fish.

Scarlet laughed, digging in her purse, producing three folded ones. “Super dead. We made them, like a mass fish grave. My moms said they’d fertilize the geraniums.” She handed the money to the Carny before turning back to Yvie. “I think the little headstone I made is still in our garden. Also, I think the fish haunt me.”

Yvie felt her smile crinkling her eyes. She shook her head. “No way. You couldn’t have been good enough for a mass grave.”

“Uh huh,” Scarlet whined, releasing Yvie’s hand to take the ping pong balls. “I’ll prove it.”

“Sure, babe.” Yvie snaked her hand around Scarlet, resting it on her bare waist, needing to feel the warmth of her skin once more.

Yvie let her eyes wander all around the tent, up at the strands of prizes hanging down from the ceiling, which under no circumstances she was going to accept, should Scarlet actually be exceptional at this game. Leaving with one of those big ass panda bears, a stuffed banana with a gorilla wrapped around it, or that blow up alien thing, would be far too much. Far too close to real date, real relationship territory. And frankly, she didn’t want a physical reminder of how she felt looking at the paling sky, the feathering neon light from the rides in the distance. A reminder of how she let herself indulge in the unequivocal closeness of touch, the way her left hand fingered with the sliver of exposed skin above the waistband of her denim skirt, how it felt soothing to simply touch.

“I won!” Scarlet tore her from her thoughts. “I told you. I absolutely told you!”

Scarlet did in fact have three ping pong balls in a row, floating in blue, purple, and another color she didn’t quite catch before Scarlet pulled Yvie in for a hug, her arms wrapped around Yvie’s neck, rising up on her tip-toes to whisper that spine chilling whisper, “I told you so,” right in Yvie’s ear.

Yvie held Scarlet out in front of her, her hands tighter than before on her waist as Scarlet came back down, feet flat on the ground, and Yvie desperately tried to come back down from Scarlet’s whiny, breathy lilt in her ear, desperately tried not to fixate on the warmth spreading through her core. She wouldn’t dare think about that happening again.

“C’mon, we gotta go get your fish,” Scarlet said, pulling Yvie’s hand off her waist and leading her over to the prizes.

“My fish?”

Yvie, who now held a fish in her right hand, whom Scarlet named F. Scott Fishgerald, reasoned that the fish was not a stuffed animal, so she was not in real date territory. The fish was, however, a living, breathing little bastard that she now had to take care of, because Scarlet named it and gave it to her, bonding Yvie to the fish.

Yvie looked down at the fish, who was bubbling and taunting her, reminding her that she now had a gift from Scarlet, a thing to take home and look at and remember the now inky night and its fluorescent glow.

***

Yvie shook herself out of it, spotting a cluttered storefront, canvasses spilling out of the entrance and into the concrete.

“I wanna go check that out,” Yvie glanced over at Scarlet, pointing toward the storefront.

“Ooh yes yes,” Scarlet said, so easily excitable.  “You’re in for such a treat, it’s all, like, garbage.”

“Garbage, babe?” Yvie asked.

A flush spread across Scarlet’s cheeks. Yvie ignored her impulse to brush her knuckle across Scarlet’s cheek, feel the heat rising off of her skin, warming Yvie from the outside in.

Yvie really had to stop accidentally calling Scarlet babe if she wanted to keep her feelings casual and her mind off of how cute Scarlet looked when she blushed.

Scarlet turned to the side to make it through the cluttered door, leading Yvie through the narrow walkways of the store, all lined with cheap beach: shorelines of only one shade of beige, white cresting waves from the shoreline all the way back; neon flip-flops that said live, laugh, love; imitation vintage Coca Cola advertisements printed on thin metal sheets; a display of pet rocks; a painting of a lonely red tulip in a sea of black and white tulips.

Scarlet let go of Yvie’s hand and spread her arms out wide, touching claustrophobic stacks of canvases on either side of her.

“Garbage!” She announced.

Yvie swallowed, immediately regretting this stop, feeling the paintings closing in on her, her mind wandering off to her art lessons, her professors, her paintings back home. It all made the air feel thick, viscous, something she couldn’t breathe.

“What’s going on?” Scarlet lowered her arms, looking Yvie dead in the eye, as though she already knew what the problem was but needed Yvie to confirm it. “Aren’t you enjoying the garbage?”

If she could help it, she wouldn’t laugh. But Yvie, of course, couldn’t help it.

“This is my future,” Yvie looked around the store once more, now noticing the paint splattered Pollock imitations; the singular umbrella and beach ball canvases; a stack of magnets that doubled as bottle openers. She gripped the fish tighter. “This is it. I’m gonna finish school and have nothing to do with my life after that. And if I want to do something with my art degree, I’m gonna end up making this knock off bullshit. And if I don’t, I wasted all my time and money.”

“Well that’s not true,” Scarlet replied, her voice soft, her tone firm. “I’m sure the people who make and buy this done even know it’s garbage. Like they’re people who are really excited to buy a picture of Marilyn Monroe with her skirt blown up, a puka shell necklace, and a pet rock, all in the same place.” Scarlet lent her a sincere smile, leaning against a table full of striped canvases. “You know it’s garbage because you do real art.”

“How do you know I do real art?”

“Because you’re always observing shit and you hate Photoshop.” Scarlet laughed, giving Yvie a nudge.

Yvie settled against the table as well. “Wanting to do real art doesn’t mean I’m going to do it.”

Scarlet tilted her head toward Yvie, looking perplexed. “It absolutely does mean you’ll do it.” She placed her hand on Yvie’s thigh, scooching closer so their arms were pressed together.

“You’re the only one who decides what you’re going to do. If you don’t want to do some capitalist garbage art, then don’t do some capitalist garbage art. You’re the only one who has control over you.”

Yvie laid her head on Scarlet’s shoulder, finding her voice mild and even, steadying, affirming.

Scarlet continued. “So, if you’re going to do it, you know, be a real artist, be happy, the only person who’s going to stop you is yourself.”

Yvie inhaled deeply through her nose and exhaled out her mouth, tilting her head up to steal a look at Scarlet, whose eyes were closed, her lips gently parted.

Scarlet was a warm soul, Yvie decided.

She laid her hand on top of where Scarlet’s lay.

She could have feelings for her, if only she were prepared for her heart to break so dearly.

***

Upon leaving the store, Scarlet announced that ice cream had to be eaten after a depressing conversation, on the basis of the full moon tomorrow and also her soul. Yvie could not, and did not want to argue with that reasoning, mostly because she found that reasoning exceptionally cute, especially as Scarlet blabbered on about the time she tried to make ice cream at home with her roommate. The two of them tossed the bag of cream, vanilla, ice, and rock salt back and forth until Scarlet threw the bag far too hard against the decorative swordfish — the one that came with the house and was apparently not budging from the wall — which caused the bag to explode.

Yvie nodded along, entering the store as Scarlet opened the door for her. It was endearing, how Scarlet went into a silly story that made her look foolish in the end, probably knowing how it would pull Yvie’s mood a few shades lighter than it was before.

“What do you think you’re getting?” Scarlet came up behind Yvie, peering over her shoulder to see which flavor she was looking at.

“Orange pineapple,” Yvie muttered, still staring at the ice cream in front of her, as though she were trying to figure it out. “Such a weird flavor.”

Scarlet hummed in agreement, “I think I’m gonna get it. Wanna split it?”

Yvie turned back to look at Scarlet, her face only inches away from hers, her heartbeat growing livelier and livelier at the proximity. Close enough that she could see the slight curl of Scarlet’s eyelashes. Close enough to know they shared the same air, same breath. Close enough to notice Scarlet’s lip gloss fading away, leaving behind only a few bits of glitter, sparkling under the fluorescents. In less than a few careless inches, she could—

“Yeah, uh, definitely.” Yvie’s words stumbled. “Let’s split it.”

She shifted the goldfish to her other hand. She was not going to kiss Scarlet. That, she decided, was a point from which she’d never return. She’d indulged her feelings against her logic, but that, that she would not do.

They sat together on a bench outside the shop, Scarlet curling her legs underneath herself, leaning in closer to Yvie, taking up her spoon.

“How is it?” Scarlet asked, holding the cup steady with one hand, scooping a bit of ice cream out with the other.

“It doesn’t really taste like orange or pineapple, it just tastes like orange,” Yvie replied, dipping in again, finding it hard to ignore the way Scarlet was practically sat in her lap, the innocent intimacy of sharing.

Scarlet went in for another spoonful. “I thought you said it doesn’t taste like orange thought.”

Yvie laughed at herself, lightly shoving Scarlet’s shoulder with her own. “I meant orange, like the color.”

“Honestly, I feel like orange should have different names,” Scarlet pondered. She licked off her spoon, pulling it out of her mouth with a pop. “Like, orange the color and orange the fruit should fight to see what’s going to be the alpha orange. Because right now I’m looking like an idiot in front of a pretty girl, just because orange and orange are the same word.”

Yvie held her spoon in place, trying to interpret what Scarlet just said, but falling short. All she could offer was a smile and a promise to herself that she’d spend all her time before bed turning those words over in her head: being addressed as pretty girl and the beautiful girl who’d spoken it.

***

Yvie handed F. Scott Fishgerald to a child, who was upset over losing the water gun race, who was worked up over not receiving a prize.

“We really are a couple of nice lesbians, huh?” Yvie chuckled, “You win a fish, we show the fish a good time, then the fish goes to bring joy to a child.”

Scarlet snorted, taking Yvie’s hand and leading her toward the Ferris wheel, which she insisted was absolutely necessary for a perfect summer date, a phrase that made Yvie bubble up inside the more she heard it and the longer she internalized it.  

“Please, you were probably gonna kill that thing anyway.”

Yvie held her hand to her chest, scandalized. “Excuse you, Scarlet? My most prized possession? F. Scott Fishgerald was going to die of natural causes in his sleep, surrounded by those he loved.”

Scarlet was overcome with laughter, bumping into a couple of signs as they entered the line for the Ferris wheel, Yvie steering her through the line.

“Like you were going to surround that fish on his deathbed.” Scarlet quirked a brow.

Yvie snorted. “Like that fish loved me.”  

The line moved quickly, much quicker than expected. Within minutes, Yvie found herself sitting next to Scarlet in the cart. Scarlet gripped the lap bar eagerly as they ascended, inching ever upward and ever closer to Yvie, until they were suspended above the blackened ocean and Scarlet’s head lay on Yvie’s shoulder.

“I feel very small,” Scarlet spoke against Yvie’s shoulder, nuzzling herself into Yvie’s faded t-shirt.

“I think it’s hard not to, Scar.” Yvie inhaled deeply, letting the air fill her lungs fully, clearly, before exhaling, if for nothing but to feel the fullness, the reminder that she was very little more than air.

She peered down at Scarlet, wrapping her arm around her shoulders. She brushed Scarlet’s hair out of her face, her fingers slowly brushing over Scarlet’s cheek. She took her time, as though it were a new land to explore, to cherish.

Soft skin. Sparkling perfume. Pouting lips. Open heart. Eager eyes. Silken voice. Warm soul.

And the curve of her cheek.

Yvie found herself disinterested in the ocean below them. The slightness of the waves could not hold her gaze like the slightness with which Scarlet looked up at Yvie and said, “the stars are out. You look to your right and you’ll see them.”

But Yvie did not turn her head to see the stars. She wouldn’t release herself from the vision of Scarlet lit by the bulbs that dotted the outside of the Ferris wheel. The light caught on her cheek. The tip of her nose. Her collarbone. Her jaw.

Above the world, all that is worldly, her worldly self, there was only Scarlet caught in the afterglow of neon.

Yvie brushed her thumb across Scarlet’s jaw before tilting Scarlet up to meet her gaze.

Scarlet’s mouth opens, her eyes blown out.

“Scarlet, I…” Yvie trails off, as though she had something to say. She had nothing to say. She had run out of words. She found herself without excuses, stipulations, or reason. She found herself leaning in closer. Their foreheads met. “Scarlet—”

“Please,” Scarlet exhaled, her hot breath against Yvie’s lips.

Christ.

Yvie inched forward, capturing Scarlet’s still open lips in her own, resigning that she will never find a word to counter a please spoken like a revelation

[loreweaver-universe]

Y’know, today I feel like talking about Disgaea, specifically my problems with Disgaea 5: Alliance of Vengeance.

Spoilers for Disgaea 1, 2, 5, and Makai Kingdom, I guess.

So, first off, let’s talk about...

The Narrative.

Disgaea 5 tells the tale of edgelord Squall Leonhart wannabe Killia, a former asshole who got redeemed by falling in love with the daughter of the only demon to ever give him a proper ass-thrashing, who spent his time teaching Killia how to find inner peace blah blah blah it’s actually pretty bland.  Killia speaks in a constant monotone, half-heartedly tries to get his rapidly accumulating party of Overlord-level demon pals to leave him the hell alone, and is generally just really goddamn boring.  It’s not to say this kind of character can’t be interesting--in fact, I name-dropped Squall earlier, and until Final Fantasy VIII went completely off the rails in the second disc he was a legitimately nuanced character and I was interested in seeing where he went.  Here’s the problem with all that, though:

The Disgaea series is a parody.

Now, full disclaimer--I’ve only played Disgaea 1, 2, 5, and Makai Kingdom.  I have Disgaea 3 and 4, but I haven’t been able to secure a PS3 to play them on yet, so I’m leaving those out of the discussion (though from what I’m aware those are parodies as well.)  However, of the four games I have played, Disgaea 5 stands out as being the only one of them to really take itself seriously.

Well, 2 did as well to a certain extent, but other than the looming issue of “we’re trying to off your evil dad, Rozalin,” Disgaea 2 takes itself about as seriously as Disgaea 1 did, and Disgaea 1 is a farce.

A beautiful, glorious, hilarious, one hundred percent intentional farce.

Laharl is a ridiculous creature.  He’s petty, narcissistic, and childish, and while there are serious story beats (Etna being blackmailed, that asshole Angel stealing Flonne’s protective pendant, etc) Laharl never stops mocking his foes, his friends, and the genre itself.  Disgaea 1, in short, is taking the piss, parodying the most ridiculous parts of anime and JRPGs (and, hell, American raygun gothic) with delightful glee...which is why, when things turn deadly fucking serious in the final chapter, it’s so goddamn heart-wrenching and effective.  That slow burn of Laharl growing to care about Flonne enough that he tears the Heavenly Host several new assholes to try to save her from their judgment (and, even in the best ending, has to talk himself down from murdering the head angel in cold blood because she wouldn’t have wanted him to take revenge for her sake) is one of the most effective tonal twists in the history of media, in my opinion: all of a sudden, it’s not funny anymore.

While Disgaea 1 lampooned the genre as a whole, Disgaea 2 takes a different tack, and lampoons common anime/JRPG character archetypes.  The hot-blooded, idiotically honorable melee fighter; the spoiled rich brat of a princess; the annoyingly perverted goblin of a third wheel (and, ugh, I wish that archetype would die already), the plucky little kids who are the least innocent characters in the whole crew other than the aforementioned perv goblin, on and on and on.  The goal may be serious, but the characters are almost as silly as they were in Disgaea 1, and I actually think 2 manages an even better balance of humor and compelling storytelling than 1, because not only is the romance between Adell and Rozalin natural, enjoyable, and endearing, the dramatic beats come along without undermining the sheer silliness of our protagonists until it can have the most impact.  There’s a moment in one of the later chapters where Laharl from the first game appears without warning, pissed off, heavily geared, and more than a thousand levels your superior.

(Yes, I said a THOUSAND levels.  For those of you in the audience who aren’t familiar with the series, the level cap is 9999, and you can reset a character to level 1, storing attained levels for bonus stats.  I’ll be talking about the grind later, don’t you worry.)

The encounter with Laharl accomplishes several things over the course of the two fights with him: it delivers a joyful reunion with the protagonist of the first game, which turns to terror when you see his stats, which turns to horror as you send your team into the meat grinder to die helplessly...and then it shows us that something is frighteningly wrong with Rozalin as she is seemingly possessed and tears this impossible foe apart effortlessly.  From there the story really kicks into high gear, and like Disgaea 1, transitions into a deadly serious final assault on Zenon’s stronghold, but unlike Disgaea 1 it’s not a shocking swerve in tone--the story’s been building to this over time, gradually reconstructing the genre it gleefully tore to pieces over the previous game and a half.

Makai Kingdom is a very different affair, and can actually be most closely contrasted with Disgaea 5.  In the Disgaeaverse, an “Overlord” is a very powerful demon who rules a pocket dimension called a “Netherworld.”  Laharl’s an Overlord, for example.  Makai Kingdom deals with a set of protagonists on a whole other level of power; these are the Overlords that other Overlords view as gods, and they essentially sit around on their asses playing card games and throwing popcorn at their TV.

I think you can see where I’m going with this.

Makai Kingdom is a return to Disgaea 1′s attitude--relentless silliness, mockery of itself, with a sharp turn at the end.  Whether it accomplishes this goal as well as Disgaea 1 isn’t all that relevant, but it is something we can compare to Disgaea 5.

Disgaea 5 starts off similarly--hideously powerful Overlord-level demons gather together, but the characters are...not exactly dour, but played straight, I guess.  There’s no parody, no lampooning; it’s very stock JRPG comedy (and “comedy”), with dramatic tension, a serious approach to its story and antagonists, and predictable story beats obvious to anyone who’s ever seen a mediocre anime or played a mediocre JRPG.  Hell, the main villain’s name is Void Dark, and not a single character makes fun of that!  There are some interesting designs, and I actually think Majorita is a compelling villain for Usalia, who I likewise enjoy immensely, but the story abandons almost everything that made the previous games’ plots entertaining.  Topple an empire, murder some baddies, get your homes back, save your dead love from the creepy brother with the incestuous undertones.  That’s it.  That’s all.  As a story structure, it works just fine, and as evidenced by my love for the rest of the series I absolutely think challenging established conventions is a good thing, but it doesn’t do so successfully enough that it stands out as a worthy entry in the series.  Where it does shine is in improvements to gameplay quality-of-life and beautiful animation, which brings me to...

The Gameplay.

Disgaea 5 improves the UI, adds all sorts of neat little quirks to character customization, and improves game control substantially.  It adds extra ways to gain stat points (like I said before, character levels cap at 9999 and can be stored for stat bonuses--this game also allows you to train stats for stat points via minigames) and is just generally more in-depth than its predecessors...at the cost of being stupidly easy to grind out.

Yes, I think an easier grind is a bad thing.  Let me explain: I have over ten thousand hours in Disgaea 2 alone over the last twelve years.  I picked the first two games up when Disgaea 2 was brand new, and have beaten the game dozens of times in the intervening span.  Most recently, about five years ago, I created a save file on the PSP port of the game, and I spend idle trips or the time I’m falling asleep grinding it out as kind of an idle game.

Literally everything you do in a Disgaea game gets you experience for something.  Weapon mastery, skill exp, character exp, you name it.  Hell, you can run randomized dungeons inside your items to level those up, too.  It’s incredibly satisfying and makes for a constant sense of progression--even if you don’t level up in a fight you’ve still gotten experience points for the skills and weapons you’ve used, making it stronger, more effective, etc.  My personal goal is to, eventually, have one of every character class maxed out on stored levels and every skill and weapon proficiency in the game, which is a deliberately impossible task because it’s just so much fun to chase it forever.

Here’s the other thing: the Disgaea series, due to the ludicrous level cap, is known for its absurdly deep pool of ever-stronger bonus bosses, stretching, yes, all the way up to the level cap.  The hunt for those is likewise extremely satisfying, and takes quite a while, especially since the campaign usually caps out at around levels 70-90.

With all this in mind, imagine my dismay when I realized I was blowing through skill and weapon exp and hitting the caps on everything in a tiny percentage of the time I was expecting.  To be fair, there is a “Cheat Shop” NPC who can adjust the EXP you gain up and down, which is neat, but I have to crank it down to literally single-digit percentages of normal to get the same amount of chase-time out of it.  This is not to say that the game should be inaccessibly grindy; in fact, Disgaea 1 and 2 aren’t.  The story campaigns in those games are perfectly completable with the normal skill progression and a small but admittedly grindy amount of extra leveling in unlocked areas.  It’s all the extreme bonus content that’s gated behind the postgame grind, and the huge ceiling on skill levels and weapon proficiencies means you’re constantly rising in power and challenging new heights.  I think that’s a fantastic reward for being dedicated to the game!  And Disgaea 5 in its default state takes that away.  I had a character capped out on all proficiencies, subclasses, and aptitudes within my first hundred hours of the game.

It was...disappointing, I guess.  All around, mostly; for every step forward it took, it also took a step back.  Ultimately, the story takes a backseat to my points about the grind, because the campaign in any Disgaeaverse game is literally about 2% of the game’s content.  Disgaea 5 took my grind from me, and that’s why I’m salty enough to have just spent an hour typing up a book report on its failings, I guess.

[funkymeihem-fiction]

My Lovely Assistant- Chapter 5 (Junkenstein Meihem) (NSFW)

“You…You tried to make me a stew? And it was so bad it killed me?” Mei folded her arms, long sleeves shuffling over her black claws. “Okay look, that was an easy mistake to make. And for your information, I poured my heart and soul into that stew! That stew was going to make you swoon! And uh…I guess it did, just really not in the way I expected. So that’s about half a success?” She looked at him, slowly pushing her glasses up her nose, and Dr. Junkenstein quailed a bit. “All right, a failure! We can count that as a failure if you like, turtle dove. I’ll give you that one. It wasn’t supposed to, ya know, off you.” “Open.” Mei had recovered quickly, with the potent new blood coursing through her system. And before Junkenstein could seem to blink or even welcome her back properly, he had been carried up to his room and deposited into the sick bed where she had been laying for so many days. Not long after, she had bustled in with a no-nonsense air and a tray with a steaming bowl of soup and crusty bread, which she had insisted on feeding him, sitting in a chair next to his sagging four-poster bed. Even now, he obediently leaned forward and opened his jaws, looking a little chagrined as the jiangshi deposited another spoonful of chicken and rice into his mouth. “You don’t need to,” he mumbled around the food. “Can feed m’self.” She pointed the spoon at him sternly. “The others say you have not been eating at all, worse than usual. And you were hurt, during the um…the plan. To help make me better…Thank you.”

He opened his mouth for more soup, blowing at the wafting steam before speaking around a mouthful of broth and meat. It was probably the heat from the soup that made his cheeks pink up, coughing lightly. “N-no problem, darl. I mean, it was an honest mistake for a gentleman to make, so I had to come up with an honest solution. Managed to get all the blood I needed to get you back up and ticking like normal. I don’t know what’s in the Witch’s blood, but the language thing is definitely a bonus. You know, if she gave me a little more, maybe I could-” He found another spoonful of soup cutting off his words as Mei leaned over. “No! You really shouldn’t bother her too much, she’s very busy…and you, um, did have one of your creations attack and wound her and her followers to steal their blood and…Why don’t you focus on getting better!” She smiled down at him, the dots on her plump cheeks stretching with the motion, little dimples appearing around her fanged lips. “And it is nice to be able to understand you a little better. Or well, I’m still not sure I understand you, but…” He wilted visibly. Mei smiled again quickly. “But that’s all right. I knew you were strange and brilliant right after meeting you. You woke me up and after hundreds of years, I was suddenly surrounded by such odd, amazing new things, all made by one person? I knew you were very special…even if you are a little difficult to understand sometimes, even with language. And you need to take better care of yourself. Open.” She spooned in the last of the soup, pausing before tracing one claw along his pale jaw. “And, you weren’t afraid of me. You’re the only human I know who surrounds himself with monsters and doesn’t see them as monsters.” “Who could ever see you a monster, love? Now my other creations, I’ll admit, they might be a bit of a hard swallow. Mostly Scarecrow. Especially Scarecrow. But you? Sure you’re a little pale and maybe a tiiiiiny bit clammy, but really, so am I. We both got sharp chompers, but they look real good on us! And you may be an undead creature living off stolen blood and the essence of the living, but honestly, I’ve eaten worse. You’re a real good cook, by the by.” She gave him another little smile, this one a little more sly with her fangs glinting. “I wish I could say the same, but that stew…” He groaned and leaned back against his pillows. “You’re gonna dog me about that one, aren’t you?” “Well, you did kill me. Again. And you don’t even understand how hard it is to kill one of my kind. It’s almost impressive, even if you got it wrong,” she nodded. “I hear that a lot, actually.” “But you did bring me back again, and almost killed yourself doing it.” She leaned to adjust his covers, examining the bandages over the massive cuts on his chest, placing her gloved claw against his ribs to trace the wound and felt his lungs flutter a little beneath her touch. “How are you feeling?” “Oh, everything’s apples, now that I know you’re back. And with your soup and all. You sure know how to make a bloke feel better.” Her dark eyes slanted towards him a bit from behind her glasses. “If…you want, I could make you feel even better? Maybe celebrate a bit? Help you relax, if you’re feeling up to it? We could-” He smiled back at her, patting his stomach. “Oh, I couldn’t eat another bite, but thanks. Honestly, I feel ace. I’ll just finish up some of the work around here. Be a sweet peach and get me my lab coat, eh?” Before she could stop him, he held his shoulder and eased up out of the bed, movements still sluggish as he started pulling on his shirt and fresh clothes before she could really voice her disagreement . “Argh, have you seen the thing? Where’s the thing?! Oh there, it is. Gotta start making things up to the Witch and the others so they don’t just off me in my sleep one of these nights, eh? Darl, coat?” With a bit of a disappointed look, she reached up to start draping his lab coat around his bony shoulders. “I meant…er…Right away, Dr. Junkenstein…” ***

He kept making silly mistakes; putting in two drops where it should have been one, misplacing papers under other papers, or losing things altogether. True, he’d always done that, and very frequently- but this was worse than usual. The exhaustion must have been getting to him, but with Mei back and everyone else angry at him, he had a lot to do to make sure their plan of attack went off successfully enough that they would forget his folly. Even if this was another successive night without any rest and some of the last zomnics were turning out a little odd, and he’d nearly burnt his remaining hand of a few times, this was more of a matter of pride. Nobody would doubt Dr. Jamison Junkenstein after all this was over… “Doctor? Doctor?…” A snore escaped his nostrils and he startled awake, abruptly realizing his head had been drooping perilously close to one of the sharp metal bits scattered around his table. Through the fog in his brain he heard that familiar voice calling to him from somewhere up the stairs. Pushing his chair away from his lab table with a screech, he ambled towards it, the metal of his peg leg thunking and echoing up the stairwell. “Huh? Is everything all right, sugar pea? Honey bee? Soy sauce bear? Uh…Rice and beans?” He held his spinning head for a moment as the pet names started to go off the rails. “Mei? Where you at, darl?” There was a little noise behind the door of his study and he tilted his head as he opened the door, squeaking noisily as he peeked in before moving inside. He saw nothing, standing in front of the roaring fireplace and scratching at his wild hair. “You in here? Mei, did you need me? If you’re in here, just say aaaaaaAAAUUUGGGHHHH!” A shape coalesced out of the darkness from the top of the book shelf, her powerful legs springing her almost off the ceiling as she descended on the shrieking scientist. She bowled him over, knocking him flat onto his back on top of the animal hide rug in front of the hearth, bringing him to the ground even as her arm wrapped around him to cradle his wounded upper section. He fell backward, sprawling out his wiry form as he struggled to lift himself onto his elbows, goggles reflecting blue light up at her and almost hiding his shocked expression. Lifting herself up from where she sat astride his midsection, she curled a delicate claw around their straps and went to ease them up and off his head. “Nǐ hǎo, doctor.” His face grew steadily redder, starting from his cheeks and spreading outward to splotch his skin down around his ears and neck. “H-hehe! Well, you sure got me, love! Wh-why don’t we just-” She dropped his goggles off to the side with a little thud, tightening her knees on either side of him. “You like me, Dr. Junkenstein?” “O-of course I do! You’re the best assistant I ever had, and I promise you that once I rule this place, we’ll do all sorts of proper things together like dates, chocolates and flowers, normal things like-” “I like you too. But I am not normal,” she said gently, bending her elbows so she leaned down atop him. “We are not normal.” He swallowed noisily. “Okay, point there. Uh, guess I never really done this sort of thing before…I mean, I have! Lots of times! With all sorts! Just a little startled, was all, not used to ladies physically jumping on me and- nnnggghhh-” His voice changed into a high-pitched gurgle as the jiangshi sat back, sliding herself along his slender torso and grinding down before sitting up just atop his groin. “We don’t need flowers or chocolates. I’ve been trying to tell you this whole time that I like you.” She tilted her head down at him, lips pursing a bit petulantly around her fangs. “I like you a lot. I want…just you. Is that too much? Do you want me to stop?” His arms flew around her of their own accord. “No! No, I like you too! Just, I was trying to do things the right way! The way you deserve! And then I sort of killed you and all, and then had to bring you back and thought they might kill me for it, and I thought you’d be mad and I’m kinda tired and everyone’s pissed at me, and I just-” Her clawed glove’s finger suddenly came to rest on his lips and he stared up at her, a drop of sweat rolling down his temple. “Kiss?” She asked gently, and he nodded dumbly as she removed her finger and replaced it with her own lips with no hesitation. Dr. Junkenstein’s eyelids fluttered slightly, his fingers tightening slowly against the fabric of her robes. He’d had a few stolen kisses in his youth, back before the villagers had started to avoid him. When had that been? How long had he been locked in these lonely halls? He vaguely remembered blond hair and a green dress, a quick press of the lips and a grope on the bottom behind the tavern before she’d lost her nerve and made an excuse and fled. He couldn’t really remember much else. Maybe it had been a little warmer, with less fangs and less tongue, but also far less enthusiasm. Mei’s mouth tasted like strange spices on top of the iron tang of even stranger, otherworldly blood, and she showed no signs of stopping or fleeing. He made a little noise, and her head tilted as she deepened her kiss further, and he realized he was supposed to open his mouth and kiss her back. His mechanical arm seized around her shoulder, pulling her down towards him, and he felt her grin against his lips. She was liking it! She was liking it, and he was definitely liking it, and her mouth tasted so good once he got used to it all, and maybe he was using just a little too much tongue and there was just a little too much saliva, and for a moment he panicked when she drew away. But after a moment he realized it was to let him breathe, sucking in air through his open lips, down to lungs he hadn’t realized were aching. Greed got the better of him, and he lifted his head to try and follow after her, cupping the back of her head to bring her back down. They kissed again, then again, and again; and then there was a sharp sensation in his lower lip and the taste of blood- his own blood- overwhelmed him. He jolted back a little, his tongue moving to the little pierced area on the inside of his lower lip, and Mei looked on the verge of panic as she sputtered, “Sorry! Sorry! I’m sorry!” and tried to pull away. But the mad doctor merely stared up at her for a moment before dragging her back down, kissing her again, and her eyes shot open as his fangs closed down on her lip as well. She did not bleed, barely felt the sting of his sharp canines, but it seemed to startle her for a moment before melting into his grip. When he managed to finally draw back again, a smear of red across his lip, he looked up at her breathlessly, head falling back against the animal skin rug. “Uh,” he said. “Th-that’s…that’s real nice? You were wantin’ to, this whole time?” She nodded. “Hell’s bells, I’ve been an idiot.” She nodded again, but smiled. “Well…I wanted to do more than that?” The jiangshi sat up, legs still astride his hips, and his eyes nearly fell out of his head when he saw her clawed gloves move to the front of her robes, starting to undo the snaps of the crane sigil upon her chest, twisting and pulling at her buttons. A very undignified noise like air squealing through a pinched balloon came from out of his nose, watching her every move. They’d always looked ample, bound under that embroidery of the bird, anyway, but he never thought she’d be here like this, with him, pulling her robes open and unbinding the cloth that wrapped around her chest…until they finally sprang free, falling from the cloth bindings and bouncing in an impossibly soft, fleshy manner right in front of his face. His pupils dilated, and for a moment he thought that he could feel his nose bleeding as well as his lip, from some wild misfire inside his head as all his brainmatter tried to cram together at the front of his skull, near his eyes, trying to get a look. All thoughts of gentlemanly manners were driven from his mind. Breasts…Big, beautiful, bouncing breasts… Mei blinked down at the unmoving man, a string of red-tinted drool running down the side of his mouth. Adjusting her glasses, she went to take his hand, frozen on the side of her ribs. He didn’t even seem to notice as she carefully peeled the glove from him, her fingers curling around his before gently guiding his hand inside the front of her open robe. The first touch of his skin against her chest almost seemed to electrify him, his hand jolting in her grip. But she stayed firm, and another brush of his hand against hers soon made it clear that he was not only allowed, but encouraged. His hand slid inside the draping fabric, tracing the curve of her chest as he shuddered beneath her. “Soft…soft, soft, soooo soft…” he mumbled, still drooling as he brought his other hand into play, massaging and squeezing, not even daring to blink, like she might disappear in that split second if he even once closed his eyes. She merely ran her pink tongue along her fangs, leaning down so he could bury his face into the top of them. His pointed nose huffed audibly as he nuzzled into her cleavage, his fingers still rubbing into the plush flesh on either side. Her hips were grinding down on his, a slow back and forth as she rode him. Combined with her strange kisses and the feel of those amazing breasts, his trousers were feeling unpleasantly tight, the pressure in his groin even stronger than the feelings he got when he saw electricity surging through metal, or a nice big explosion, or the rush of triumph and discovery on a successful new invention. Those were pants-tighteners all right, but this?… Why was he even wearing pants, especially ones that seemed several sizes too small all of a sudden? The mad scientist almost whimpered when she pulled him out of her chest, but she shushed him, laying him out on his back on the animal hide, the fire crackling merrily behind her and outlining her form in red light. Despite her shadowed features, he could see the glint of pearly white as her fangs lengthened from out of her gums, hanging over her lower lip. Dipping down next to his ear, she whispered one soft word. “…Bite?” He nodded. Mei’s claws reached up to grasp his hair, pulling his chin up and baring his long neck. Her mouth opening wide, she aimed for the pulsing vein beneath and bit down, her fangs piercing into his pale throat. Junkenstein’s jaw dropped, unable to make a sound beyond a tiny wheeze as his eyes flickered shut, darting wildly beneath dark lids. The beating of his heart thudded loudly in his ears, a potent mixture of nervous adrenaline, and trying to make up for the lost essence that was being drained down the hungry jiangshi’s throat. She suckled audibly at the flesh, purple and red bruising appearing under her tongue and teeth as she devoured him. The sluggish twitching of the man beneath her was hardly unusual, but what was unusual was his…eagerness. Far from afraid of the monster atop him, he blindly curled one arm, his hand grasping onto the back of her head and pulling her into him. His lips made wordless shapes, mouthing “More…more…more…” She gave him more, even as she took more from him. The mad grinding against him continued, the bulge tangible even through the fabric of his trousers and lab coat. He twitched and kicked out one leg, his hips surging up against her all on their own. The friction! The friction and the overwhelming sensation of the biting melded together until he was a mindless thing beneath her, unable to stop the upward motion of his thrusting hips, planting his foot and peg against the ground to brace himself and lift up into her. Like a damn brainless animal, humping uselessly away at her, that’s what he was. He pulled her hips down, clawing and grasping at the top of her pants. Had to get them off. No fabric. No more anything separating them. He could figure out what to do on his own, just let instinct guide him. Give him more… More…more…more… “Nnnnghhhaaah!” It was a strange sound, guttural and wild. Probably him making it, then. He wasn’t sure anymore. It didn’t matter anymore. And then she gave one last hard suck to his throat, and he wasn’t even aware of what happened when his vision whited out, and something tightened and then was set loose all at once. His vision was white, then gray, with little tinges of red on the edges, and then black. ***

He awoke some hours later, feeling more drained and relaxed than he could ever remember feeling. The roaring fire warmed his body and helped soothe the tingling in his limbs, and when he shifted them, he felt movement against his side. Mei lay cuddled against him, leaning to press soothing wet kisses against his neck when she felt him awaken. Her robes were closed and buttoned, chaste as ever, and she rested her chin on his shoulder to look at him adoringly as he turned his head. “How are you feeling?” she asked softly. He giggled deliriously. There weren’t really words he knew to describe it, so he muttered something about being ‘okay’ as he lifted his fingers to touch at his neck. There they were, two tiny and rapidly-healing puncture marks on his neck, lovingly cleaned of any more trickles of red by the doting jiangshi. How long had they been laying there? It must have been too much there at the end, on top of his prior exhaustion, too many feelings and too much everything at once. But it felt all right. More than all right. “Er…did we?…” The jiangshi’s fangs were tiny and cute again as she offered him a sheepish little smile. “I didn’t want to hurt you…you’re still all cut up and tired but…” She trailed off for a moment, cool lips pressing to his forehead. “I wanted you to feel good. And I was so hungry for you, was it too much?” “Nah, nah, it was…” Junkenstein groaned a little as he started to roll to face her, but a strange look came over his face. Mei blinked at him. He looked a little shocked, then disgusted, then thoughtful, then disgusted again, then happy, and then finally…embarrassed. “Er, Mei? Could you do me a favor, darl?” She nodded quickly. “Anything! A blanket? More soup? Fresh bandages?” He winced at the cold stickiness beneath his lab coat. “Bottom drawer in the- Well, you already know where they are. Could you er, fetch me a pair of fresh trousers and underthings, please?” He looked away, face burning red. On cue, her face reddened as well, his own hot blood surging through her in reaction. “Oh!” she exclaimed, hopping upright and hiding a little grin. “Right away, Dr. Junkenstein!”