#not quite yet realizing that rain is a cracked and bloody mirror of him but getting there

[warlordfelwinter]

i know it's a culmination of all the factors that go into gale falling for rain and rain, yk, loving him for him and not his magic and talking him out of dumb shit and constantly trying to get him to see that mystra was/is using him etc etc

but the timing of gale realizing it all after their night in the weave is so funny. like rain was just such an incredible lay that gale found his will to live

[vulturhythm]

let us waltz for the dead - three

part one - part two

- - - - -

They say never to trust the devil's silver tongue.

To do so is to sign away your soul.

They say not to wander alone.

To do so is to never be seen again.

- - -

The scream echoes out in the corridor, piercing loud and harsh and cruel until, abruptly it dies.

It dies, and Geralt is rigid, his eyes fixed on the bloody glass.

He blinks.

It's still there.

Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet. There's an ache, low. A memory.

A memory that's not entirely unwelcome.

The hallway is silent now, and so, he doesn't feel quite as much guilt when he takes the time to pull on his trousers and undershirt before he heads for the door. After all, the notion of facing his death unclothed is not one he finds appealing.

He isn't entirely certain what he expects when he opens the door - a grisly scene, perhaps, or even a rat on the floor, startling some maid.

He was not expecting to see merely Renfri, standing rigid a few feet away from his door, her eyes wide and haunted.

"Renfri?" he says, his voice rough with sleep. She seems not to hear at first. Geralt frowns, turning his head to follow her gaze down the hall...

... down to the mirror mounted on the wall at the far end.

Geralt's frown deepens.

Of all the people he would imagine to be afraid of their reflection, Renfri would never rank among them. Really, he wouldn't have imagined Renfri as afraid of anything, and yet, here she is, staring down the length of the hall as though it's done her harm.

"Are you okay?" Geralt asks, almost hesitant. He feels as though he's missing something here.

This time, Renfri starts, turning to look at him with eyes that quickly go bright with a forced smile. "Yeah," she says, almost breathless in her haste to reassure him. "Just got startled by my reflection, that's all. Happens a lot." She waves away his dubious glance. "I came to see if you were up yet. Breakfast is ready downstairs."

Geralt is quiet at first, his gaze still skeptical, but Renfri doesn't seem to care, her eyes already drawn back to the mirror at the end of the hall, as if she doesn't quite trust that it's merely her reflection in the glass, nothing more. "Thank you," he says. "I'll be down soon."

Renfri nods; it can't be just his imagination that says she looks almost relieved to be dismissed. She turns on her heel to head back down the hall for the stairwell, and Geralt stands in the doorway, looking after her until she starts the descent.

He turns to look toward the mirror then.

His face gazes back at him.

He hadn't seen his reflection's head turn.

- - -

Maybe ten minutes pass before Geralt heads downstairs, having retreated into his room to dress. He'd spared no attention to the mirror on the vanity.

The first floor is dimly lit, only a few candles lit on shelves and counters; even the fire flickering in the hearth seems dull. It's odd, disconcerting, but Geralt gives it scarcely any thought. He's growing accustomed to the strange ways of the Black Dog.

Renfri stands behind the bar, polishing a glass decanter. She lifts her head when Geralt approaches, and the smile she gives is pasted on. "Breakfast on the house," she says by way of greeting, nodding toward the platter on the bartop. It's a pleasant little spread, breakfast meats and breads and eggs. "No need to thank me. Don't see much point in charging you for food when you've no other options."

"Thank you," Geralt says as he takes his usual seat, drawing the platter closer to himself. He watches Renfri through the corner of his eye as he takes his first bite, watches her hands move with near-mechanical precision.

She moves like one who's seeking diversion.

Silence passes between them for one, three, five minutes at the least, silence apart from the storm still raging against the tavern walls. The winds sound less violent today, and it seems to Geralt that the rains are calmer, too. He says at much when the quiet grows too oppressive, immediately startled when Renfri jumps as though shot.

The decanter falls from her hands.

It shatters on the floor behind the bar, glass spraying like blood from a wound.

Geralt winces as the shards clink to the ground.

"Are you - "

"Fine," Renfri says, her voice panicked. She backs away from the corpse of the decanter, and Geralt knows he's not imagining the haunted look in her eyes. "Sorry. Just got... startled. That's all."

Geralt watches her, worried. Something is not right.

Renfri is motionless, gaze on the floor - no doubt on the shrapnel, though Geralt cannot see.

"Let me help clean it up," he says, breaking the silence far more gently this time.

His words seem to jar Renfri from her shaky reverie, but she shakes her head, glancing up with eyes that plead for help and a face that demands isolation. "No," she says, though Geralt can sense the pain the denial causes her. "No, you're a guest. I'll take care of it."

Geralt is quiet.

Renfri's gaze falls once more.

He watches as she lifts a hand, brushing it across her temple as though to wipe away an impending ache.

"I'll take care of it," she repeats, softer now - soft and faint.

She turns away.

"Just... enjoy your meal."

Geralt watches as the woman slips around the counter, as she walks through the doorway he can only guess leads to the kitchen.

Though he sits, still and waiting, Renfri doesn't return.

He finishes his breakfast in silence.

- - -

The rain has lapsed into temporary quiet by the time he retreats upstairs.

His eyes are on the floor as he climbs the stairs, but the sound of movement in the hallway draws his gaze up once more.

Geralt stops.

There's a young woman standing at the end of the hall, dust rag in hand. Her back is turned, but Geralt can make out brown hair beneath the frilled headband typical of a maid. Her servant's dress is plain, but even at this distance, it looks tattered at the hems; the white trim is faded.

He stands at the top of the stairs for a beat, taken aback by the presence of yet another in this strange tavern, watching the maid clean the surface of the mirror hanging on the wall.

A good thirty seconds passes before the maid seems to glimpse his reflection, and she jumps, whirling to face him.

The rag falls to the floor.

She appears shocked.

"I didn't mean to scare you," Geralt says quickly, his voice unwilling to work at first. "I'm sorry."

The girl simply stares, though her shoulders slump back into relaxation.

"I didn't realize there was anyone else here," he goes on, though it sounds idiotic even to his own ears. Of course a functioning tavern and inn would have a maid, even if the Black Dog is far from normal.

The maid tips her head to one side, and the smile she gives is forced.

It's almost worrying.

Geralt's words are softer when he speaks next. "I was just coming to get my coat from my room," he says, uncertain how to interpret the maid's silence. "Am I in your way?"

The maid shakes her head, stooping quickly to pick up the rag that had fallen at her feet. She wraps her fingers tightly into the old fabric; the fidgeting doesn't escape Geralt's notice, but he knows better than to breathe a word.

Geralt clears his throat.

Something is off.

"I apologize," he repeats, taking the few steps toward his door, though his sidelong gaze remains on the maid at the end of the hall.

He knows he doesn't imagine the way she tenses.

Geralt hesitates with his hand on the doorknob.

The maid turns away, back to the mirror.

Geralt has no idea what to make of it.

He slips into his room, heading straight for where his coat's hung up on the corner of the washroom door.

He spares only a brief glance to the mirror.

It is just the same as before.

The maid is gone when he leaves his room.

It's only as he shrugs his coat on and descends the staircase that he realizes he hadn't heard footsteps down the hall.

- - -

The rain is still at a pause by the time Geralt steps out from beneath the tavern's awning. The air smells heavy, almost cloyingly sweet with the aftermath of the rain, but beneath it all is the stink of mud and hay from the stable. Geralt wrinkles his nose with mild disdain, though he breathes in deep regardless.

Somehow, even the moist air is more pleasant than that of the Black Dog.

The stable interior is quiet when he pushes open one of the heavy wooden doors, leaving it open for the overcast glow to spread inside. Roach lifts her head from where she'd been nibbling at the hay, turning bright eyes and pricked ears his way. "Hello, Roach," he greets, his tone soft.

His mare nickers, returning her attention to her meal immediately.

"No gratitude," Geralt muses, crossing the stable floor to approach her stall. Beneath his feet, the old floorboards creak and groan, louder than he remembers from before. He pauses when one splinters under his weight, looking down.

The floor is solid enough, built on firm earth.

The rain must be damaging the wood, he reasons.

Before he can give the splintering wood any further thought, a loud, echoing snort demands his attention.

Geralt lifts his head.

The huge black stallion is all but glowering at him from the stall across the corridor.

... The stall across the corridor.

"Why, oh, why, do they keep moving you?" Geralt asks aloud, turning to lean his back against Roach's stall door. He folds his arms across his chest as he holds the bastard's cruel gaze, surprised to realize he's, well, smug. "Wait a minute... I think I know."

As if he knows what Geralt plans to say, the stallion stamps a hoof, heavy enough that Geralt hears wood cracking yet again. The stallion's head is bobbing now, nostrils flared wide as he stares Geralt down.

"I think it's because you're a biter," Geralt says, distantly aware that he should feel foolish for talking like this to a horse. "I think it's because you're an evil fucker - crazy, to boot."

The horse screams.

Geralt flinches in spite of himself when the stallion rears partway, when those feathered hooves slam down hard enough for the crack of wood to echo loud.

He knows he's imagining the way the floor beneath him feels as though it shifts, nearly gives.

"Never were taught manners, were you?" he asks aloud, watching with growing disbelief as the stallion's thrashing only increases - head tossing, hooves pounding, haunches bucking. Foam sprays from bared teeth, and the whites of the devil's eyes flash bright as he screams.

At his back, he hears Roach snort, and he looks over his shoulder to his mare, who has turned to face the goings-on. Pushing aside his newfound trepidation with some unease, he tears his attention from the manic stallion. "Is he this mean when you're alone?" he asks her, turning fully to run a hand down her brow.

Roach nickers once more, shoving her head into his palm.

Geralt croons to her, low, reaching into his coat pocket for one of the carrots he always carries. She eats it from his hand with the ferocity of a starving hound, even though Geralt knows damn well she's been eating nearly nonstop. "Greedy," he murmurs, continuing to stroke her brow.

Roach snorts in reply.

"I know," he sighs, tipping his head to rest against the mare's own. She draws back to nose into his hair; he endures it with a weary smile. "The rain's stopped for now, but knowing our luck, it would storm all the harder the moment we decided to leave. Besides, the roads are no doubt washed out in the lowlands.... no point in leaving yet."

Something changes.

It takes him a second to place.

The stallion has gone silent.

Geralt looks back over his shoulder.

The stallion is simply... standing.

Standing, head held high, eyes black and brutal and cold, ribs heaving with every roaring breath.

Anxious distrust coils tight and wicked in Geralt's chest.

He knows, more truly than he thinks he's ever known a thing, that he needs to leave.

"Not normal," he says, low. "You're not normal."

The stallion doesn't react.

- - -

Geralt spends another few minutes in the stable.

He doesn't last any longer than the time it takes to brush the straw from Roach's coat. He can't stand the stallion's presence any longer.

He pauses as he walks from the stable's heavy double doors, taking the time to give the area a more proper onceover now that the rain has ceased for the time being. In the half-light of the overcast day, the area seems less immediately ominous.

The forest encroaches quite near to the property, thick trees growing from the wet earth as near as three feet from the stable's outer walls. The clearing directly in front of the tavern is large enough to support two or three carriages at once, if angled correctly, but even still, it manages to feel almost claustrophobic, sheltered from the narrow trail going through the woods... the trail that, even from here, Geralt can see is virtually nothing but murky water and mud.

He can't begin to fathom what the trail is like in the lower points.

Geralt sighs, turning for the tavern's main door once again. He pauses beneath the awning, his hand on the knob, however - for his attention is caught by a small wooden sign, staked into the landscaping at the opposite corner of the building.

"Gardens," it reads, quite simply, beneath a carved rose. An arrow points around the building, following a narrow path he notices now that he's not seeking shelter from the dark of night or unbearable rain.

A bit of exploration never hurt.

So, deciding there's no true harm in taking advantage of the temporary lull in the storm, Geralt turns from the door, following the path.

It's paved in cobblestone just like the area beneath the awning, wide enough for a single person to move comfortably alongside the tavern's edge. Small shrubs are planted along the path's edge, and though the leaves are water-bowed, Geralt can imagine them to be quite beautiful when not half-drowned.

Behind the tavern, the path opens up into a large area - a cobblestone courtyard of sorts, nearly half the size of the tavern's bulk, stretching out toward the forest. Geralt pauses at the path's end, gazing about.

From the path's end, the shrubs are replaced by a low stone wall that wraps around the courtyard's perimeter, waist-high. At the far end, the wall is broken by a wrought-iron gate with an arch that peaks merely a foot higher than the wall, one that - judging from the ivy reaching from the wall to coil among the bars - hasn't been opened in quite some time. Geralt can see the cobblestone paving continues through the gate, leading out into the forest.

Two stone benches sit on opposite sides of the courtyard, facing eachother. Geralt's gaze lingers on the one closest to himself. It feels... almost lonely.

In the center of the courtyard are two identical plots of earth, split down the center by the paving that leads toward the gate. Rose bushes grow tall and nearly wild in each plot, blood red blooms and earth-green leaves beaded with raindrops. Growing closer to the rich soil are smaller plants - pansies, ivies, exotic grasses of which Geralt doesn't know the name.

Geralt tips his head to the side, his gaze following the path a particularly adventurous ivy frond takes - creeping from its bed, stretching out across the cobblestone to climb up the wall. It is this frond that weaves itself among the wrought-iron bars.

He doesn't quite know why this plant in particular catches his interest, nor why it holds it so firmly.

It is movement that finally snaps him from his botanical reverie.

Wolf-gold eyes snapping up sharply, he goes still when he sees what had caught his attention.

Standing on the low stone wall is a black dog.

It's a massive brute, for all that it looks like a hunting hound - closer to a wolf in stature - with thick fur that grows longest in a ruff about its neck.

Bear hunter, Geralt realizes distantly.

The dog is motionless where it stands, gaze locked on Geralt's own.

Its eyes are dark, nearly the black of its fur.

As Geralt watches, its lips curl.

He feels, more than he hears, the growl - feels it vibrate deep beneath his ribs, between his lungs.

Feels it in the air all around him.

Feels the way the plants between he and the hound seem to draw away.

Just as Geralt recognizes the feeling growing in his chest as <i>fear,</i> the growl stops short.

The hound goes silent.

Its gaze has shifted now, moved to something behind Geralt, up higher on the tavern's wall.

Geralt turns his head, starts in surprise when he sees the maid from earlier standing at a window on the second floor. Her eyes... though they're not turned to him, they look - feel - cold.

When he looks back, the hound is gone.

He stands there, quiet.

He doesn't know why he's surprised to find the maid gone, too, when he looks back up at the window.

- - -

Geralt isn't entirely certain what possesses him to approach the wrought-iron gate, apart from curiosity.

He treads carefully over the sprawling ivy fronds, stopping in front of the gate to peer toward the forest beyond. He sees no sign of the black dog, though that's not necessarily a surprise; hounds can run at quite the clip when they're in the mind, he knows. Wonder where the brute came from, he muses idly, turning his gaze to the stone wall itself. The dog would have had to hop up from the ground on the other side, which... Geralt leans forward enough to give the mud a closer look.

Odd.

No pawprints.

Before he can dwell on this too long, the distant sound of wind chimes draws his attention away. Geralt looks toward the trees once more.

The forest's edge sits back a short ways from the garden's edge, the earth rising in a slow, gradual arch to peak in a knoll atop which the trees sit. Even though the tree cover is dense, the trunks all close together, Geralt can tell that the ground beyond is uneven, too, all rolling hills that make it even more difficult to see beyond the dark of the treeline.

The cobblestone path beneath the gate leads off into the trees, disappearing from sight over the crest of the nearest knoll. Curiosity nags at the back of his mind, and he hesitates at first, looking down to the ivy growing thick and winding among the bars of the gate. It feels wrong to disturb the plant that clearly invested so much time in its growth...

"No one here to see," Geralt muses aloud, heaving a sigh as he swings first one leg, then the other, up and over the wall. It's just low enough that he has little difficulty.

Well. No one apart from the maid, if she's still there.

He pushes the thought aside, straightening up and heading along the path... privately shocked at how much darker his world becomes once he's beneath the cover of the trees, tall and imposing around him. They're just trees. Nothing more. Regardless, he cannot shake the feeling of being watched.

The wind chimes seem to be off to the left a ways once he passes the crest of the knoll, but the path continues straight. Geralt pauses, frowning off into the shadows. The brush is flattened and cleared aside, almost like an animal's hunting trail, leading toward the source of the noise. A look ahead along the paved path shows that it only leads farther into the woods; curiosity nags at him, but he doesn't fancy getting caught out here when the storm resumes.

Decision made, he turns off the cobblestone, following the downtrodden brush where it leads off into the woods. Much to his relief, he only has to go a short ways before the source of the sound comes into view. At the crest of another knoll is a massive oak tree, its roots rising high from the ground to create a tangled knot above the muddy earth. There's a hollow of sorts beneath the trunk where it grows at an angle, the roots splayed enough to bare the vulnerable underside.

Even without the rest, the tree on its own would be an imposing sight, but Geralt's attention is drawn by something else.

The limbs of the tree are adorned with wind chimes of every variety - simple metal rods, small silver-plated shapes, even some jewels hanging among the more ornate arrangements. There are simple shapes crafted of sticks and twine; there are small animal skulls hanging from lengths of beaded string; there are larger bones dangling closer to the trunk.

Geralt's stomach twists when he sees scraps of decaying flesh and matted fur still clinging to some of the larger bones - ribs and femurs and the like, no doubt. Animals, at least. Poor things.

His gaze moves down, down to the hollow at the base of the tree - the hollow beneath the gnarled roots. His confusion only grows when he sees that the oddities do not stop in the branches of the oak.

What looks to be a dog's skull rests in the damp earth, the brow painted over with streaks of mud in the shape of a cross. Its maw is propped open by a short stick through the mouth, keeping sharp teeth bared. Geralt frowns when he notices the two front canines are missing, frowns harder when he sees the arrangement of stick-and-twine figures around the skull, laid there in the earth. Some are merely geometric, squares and triangles and diamonds, but others are crudely fashioned in the shape of nondescript animals - spine, legs, neck, head, tail. Others, still, are human.

Geralt steps closer, crouching low in front of the strange shrine - for, he realizes now, that is what he has found. A shrine, an altar... a memorial. "Who are you for?" he asks the hollow eyesockets of the hound.

Only the wind chimes answer him.

- - -

He loses track of time, kneeling there before the oak tree shrine. The air feels still, dead.

Alone.

It's only when Geralt feels raindrops patter onto his head and shoulders that he finally straightens, peering up through the thick canopy. The sky has gone dark, nearly black. The storm is returning, and judging from how black the woods around him have become, it will be worse this time around.

"Great," he sighs aloud, turning to head back to the tavern with his head ducked low. Not for the first time, he wishes his coat had a hood. It would make this whole ordeal a sight easier.

Though he keeps an eye out for any sign of the black hound, the walk back is uneventful.

By the time he makes it back beneath the shelter of the awning at the front of the tavern, the rain is heavier, beating down on his shoulders and bowed head. Grimacing as he pushes open the door, he stops on the mat just inside, letting the worst of the rain drip back off of him before he ruins the wood.

Geralt doesn't realize there had been talking until, without notice, the tavern falls quiet. He lifts his gaze from the floor, pausing when he sees Renfri and Nivellen standing behind the bar. Renfri is reclining against the counter itself as Nivellen wipes a tankard clean, but they've both gone still, looking at him.

For a wild, brief moment, Geralt feels as though he's intruding.

"See the rain caught you," Renfri says, breaking the strange little silence. "Out visiting your horse?"

He shakes his head, clearing his throat as he approaches the bar. Nivellen gives him a pointed look, his gaze going from Geralt's face to one of the stools - one that, Geralt sees, is a couple of feet down from Nivellen himself. Alright, then.

As Geralt sits down - directly in front of the both of them - he turns his gaze on Renfri, ignoring Nivellen's irritated frown. "For a minute. Went for a little walk after, until the rain started up again. The gardens at the back - they're beautiful."

Something flickers in Renfri's eyes, and she looks toward the stairwell door. Before Geralt can follow her gaze, she's turning back to him. "Yeah, they're impressive. Can't take any credit for them, though. Have to talk to Holly for that."

Geralt feels, more than sees, Nivellen go tense, just at the edges of his vision. "Renfri - "

"Not that she does much talking nowadays," Renfri goes on, speaking louder over Nivellen, her glare harsh.

The feeling of intruding is back, more intense than before. Geralt looks between the two, between the stubborn edge in Renfri's eyes and the exasperated frustration in Nivellen's own.

He isn't surprised in the slightest when it's Nivellen who gives in, shaking his head and going back to wiping off the tankard that had been neglected in his hands.

Renfri gives a satisfied sigh, turning to face Geralt properly, her arms folded on the counter as she leans closer to say in an undertone, "Don't mind him. I don't know if he's ever woken up on the right side of the bed."

Geralt huffs out a single, quiet laugh. "That path," he says, jerking his chin to indicate the back of the tavern, "the one that goes out through the woods? Where does it lead?"

"The one from the gardens leads to the hunting grounds," she replies. "Bit of a long walk, though, and it's a winding trail. Don't think anybody ever actually used it, to be entirely honest. Guess you haven't seen it, but there's a wider path going from the rear of the stable. Heads the same way, and it's just dirt, but it's a quicker journey."

"Maybe because it's meant for horseback," Nivellen mutters.

Geralt sees Renfri's body jerk, and he hears Nivellen curse, sidestepping from the foot the woman no doubt sent flying to his knee.

"Like I said," Renfri says with a sigh, "wrong side of the bed."

Geralt likes her.

He thinks, as his gaze drops a little lower, taking in the low neckline of her blouse, maybe he would like her a little more, if Jaskier wasn't lurking somewhere in the tavern.

When he looks back up, Renfri is giving him a slow, sly grin, but she shakes her head. Geralt merely shrugs, another quiet laugh escaping. She's an odd one, but... in a good way. "There's an oak tree," he says aloud, changing the subject with customary ease, "off the path out in the woods - "

Nivellen goes still, and Renfri's face shutters off immediately.

Geralt is nothing but bewildered. "... You know the one, I take it?"

"The one covered in all sorts of chimes and pendants and pagan things?" Nivellen grouses. Geralt blinks.

"I hadn't placed them as pagan, but - "

"All that stuff is set there by troublemakers," Renfri interjects, and she pushes herself back upright, the moment of easy companionship between her and Geralt gone in a flash. "People just going through the forest. They see things left by others, decide, 'what the hell?' Just kids, no doubt. No point in paying it any mind."

"People come through these woods often?" Geralt asks dryly, no longer trying to conceal his disbelief. He can't imagine their reactions would truly be this strong if it was merely an issue of trespassers. "I didn't see another house or village or farm on the way through - this tavern is the first thing I came across for miles."

"People travel quite the long way to make trouble sometimes," Nivellen says, and there's a harsh edge to his tone, one that brooks no further argument.

Geralt frowns.

Something - many things - are not right.

There's quiet between them for a moment, Renfri's eyes averted, Geralt's on the cloth in Nivellen's hand.

It's Renfri who breaks the silence, turning away and clapping her hand down on the bar loud enough to make both men jump. "Why don't you head back up and pass the time to dinner?" she says, her voice too loud for the topic. "Not much point in sitting around and talking all day, I don't imagine."

Geralt knows a dismissal when he hears one.

"I'll see you again soon enough, I'm sure," he says as he stands. Renfri simply nods, her gaze already sliding away; Nivellen ignores him entirely.

Unable to shake his unease, Geralt retreats back upstairs.

- - -

He no longer has the energy to be surprised when he finds his mirror intact, untouched.

He is, however, surprised to find a small, leatherbound black book sitting on his bed, atop a heavy black cloak. There's a pencil, quill pen and inkwell laid beside them.

Geralt stands beside his bed for a few seconds in silence, taking in the odd little gift. Jaskier, perhaps. He can't imagine Renfri would have done this, and he knows better than to think Nivellen ever would.

Finally, he picks up the book, running idle fingers over the uneven surface. When he opens it, he's met with a small note scrawled in clumsy ink on the first page.

Stay in your room at night, no matter what you hear.

Geralt's frown deepens, and he turns the page. It, and all the ones beyond, are blank, made of heavy, good quality paper; meant for an artist, no doubt. He's never considered himself much of one, and he wonders what about him made Jaskier believe this to be a fitting gift, but he isn't about to turn it down.

He sets the book aside, lifting the cloak that was laying beneath it. It's thick and heavy, clearly meant to withstand cold temperatures and inclement weather, and - he notices with no small amount of pleasure - it has a hood.

He'll have to thank Jaskier later.

No sooner does this thought cross his mind than he realizes he's counting on seeing the strange little thing downstairs tonight.

It's only been two nights, and he's already got you enamored. Pathetic.

Geralt sighs, crossing the room to hang the cloak up on the rack beside the dresser. He spares himself the briefest of glances in the healed mirror, frowning when he sees how haggard he looks. His hair is still damp and matted from the rain, and there are circles beneath his eyes, all the more pronounced on his pale skin. For all that he enjoys Jaskier's company, it's clear it's been taking its toll on him. Perhaps a little more rest might be in order... or, he muses, running his fingers through his hair and grimacing when he feels a knot in the strands, a damn bath.

He opens the washroom door, looking toward the claw-footed tub tucked away against the wall. Although the washbasin in the counter has a working faucet, he sees nothing of the sort near the tub. He'll have to find somebody to draw him the water, no doubt, and he hasn't the faintest clue where to find the maid from earlier. Nivellen would just as soon kick him out, and Renfri, well...

Geralt can't help but feel as though he's irritated her somehow.

Resigning himself to remaining unwashed for at least another day, he turns away. If Jaskier gave him the sketchbook and media, he likely expects Geralt to make use of them. A glance at the ornate clock sitting on the windowsill shows he still has an hour or so to waste away before dinnertime.

With a sigh, Geralt settles down against his headboard, reaches for the book and quill, and sets to idle work.

- - -

By the time Geralt sets it all aside to head downstairs, he's finished what he thinks is a respectable sketch of the black hound he'd seen out in the gardens. It's no great work of art, that much is certain, but he takes some private pleasure in the finished product.

There's a minute part of him that hopes Jaskier will be... what? Proud? He scoffs at himself as he heads downstairs, pushing the thought aside. Jaskier may not even be in the tavern's lobby, he reminds himself, and he lifts his head, looking for Renfri in her usual post behind the bar, ready to serve him a meal of one sort or another.

Instead, he sees Jaskier.

Geralt stops short, momentarily taken aback.

The young man is sitting at the bar, his back turned; Geralt can see a glass of what he thinks is brandy in his hand, if Jaskier's constant remarks are any indication. He's dressed the same as each night before, and barefoot like always, too.

Pushing aside his bewilderment, Geralt slips easily back into the strange, half-dazed headspace even Jaskier's presence seems to put him in. "Wasn't expecting to see you here," he says aloud, breaking the peaceful quiet of the room. Jaskier turns to look over his shoulder, and his face brightens with a smile that makes Geralt's heart warm. "Here for dinner?"

"Mostly here to drink," Jaskier replies with a laugh, nodding for Geralt to join him. Geralt does without hesitation, though he comes to stand behind Jaskier, the brush of his hands on the young man's waist tentative at first. Only when Jaskier leans back to rest his weight on Geralt's chest does Geralt hold him properly, gripping his waist firmly, but no less gentle. "Yourself?"

"Well," Geralt starts, resting his face in the unruly brown locks at the back of Jaskier's head and breathing in deep, "I had planned on food."

Jaskier makes a gesture, and Geralt reluctantly lifts his head, though he sets his chin atop the little thing's head, finding himself entirely unwilling to move away at all. Only now does he notice the platter of roast meats and cheese; it looks as though it's already been picked through. "Help yourself," he says, but even as he speaks, he's picking up a little piece of chicken, holding it back for Geralt to take.

Geralt only just manages to resist the - frankly absurd - urge to eat it straight from his fingers, instead freeing a hand to take it the normal way. The chicken is impossibly tender, its juices bursting onto his tongue with flavor that makes Geralt nearly melt as he realizes just how hungry he truly is. "I know better than to guess Nivellen is the one cooking all of this," he remarks, soft and wry.

Jaskier laughs, leaning his head back to rest it against Geralt's shoulder as he picks up another piece, pork this time. "That bastard wouldn't know good food if it bit him in the ass," he replies, watching with rapt blue eyes as Geralt takes the morsel. "He knows his way around a bar, but that's about as far as his talents go."

"What about you?" Geralt asks, deciding to leave one hand free for the sake of eating and wrapping his other arm more firmly around Jaskier's waist. He feels the younger man shiver when his hand slides across his chest; something stirring low in his groin, he holds him more firmly to his chest, taking courage from the way they're alone. "What are your talents, apart from those I've experienced myself?"

The strange little thing merely shrugs, taking another sip of his drink. His head is still thrown back onto Geralt's shoulder, and those eyes haven't left Geralt's own once. "If you're asking whether or not I work here," he says as he lowers the glass, turning his head enough to nose against the side of Geralt's neck, "the answer is no. Not anymore. I prefer to keep my talents to myself these days. Surely you understand."

Geralt gives a hum of acknowledgement, far too distracted by the feeling of Jaskier's lips moving against his skin to pay much attention to his words. While the other man is distracted, he reaches for the glass of brandy sitting neglected on the bartop, taking a drink of his own and wincing immediately - mixed in with the liquor's taste is something else, something coppery, something almost like -

"Geralt," Jaskier says, drawing him back from - from... what was he worried about? "Geralt, look at me."

Blinking the strange haze from his eyes and feeling nothing but confusion when it doesn't clear he obeys.

The glass is empty, in Jaskier's hand. Jaskier's eyes are on his own, and Jaskier's mouth -

Blood, dripping from the lips that are shaping themselves around his name.

Geralt flinches, almost recoils.

He blinks again.

The blood is gone.

The blood is gone, and so is the - the...

There was something on the counter, just before... he remembers...

"Geralt," comes the blue-eyed man's voice again.

It takes more effort than it should to drag his gaze from the empty bartop back to Jaskier's face.

He doesn't look... worried, no, not really. More... pleased.

He blinks.

Jaskier looks concerned.

There's a shadow at the edges of his vision, off to the side.

He knows better than to look.

"Geralt, focus, can't you?" Jaskier is saying, and now he's laughing, nudging Geralt's ribs with his elbow.

Geralt pauses, huffs out a breath with the impact.

He must have zoned out for a second there.

"I'm plenty focused," he says aloud, closing his hand around the other man's arm when Jaskier goes to elbow him again. It's easy enough to trap that arm against Jaskier's side, to run his other hand up along the little thing's stomach, his chest, his neck... to fit his fingers around the base of Jaskier's throat. The pressure is light, teasing, barely even there, but his intent is clear. "I didn't realize assault was acceptable now."

Jaskier gives a sound that's almost like a purr, leaning his head back farther. It's as good an invitation as anything. Geralt leans down, noses into the side of Jaskier's neck as he squeezes his throat properly, thumb and forefinger pressing firm into the flesh on either side. "Didn't realize ignoring me was, either," Jaskier murmurs, but his voice is ragged, breathless already.

The moan he lets out when Geralt pulls his arms back to pin them against his lower back sends a rush of lust through Geralt's veins. Jaskier's fingers curl into fists between them, brushing against the bulge of Geralt's shaft through his trousers; with the same energy as if he's made an incredible discovery, Jaskier shifts to palm him, awkward angle be damned. The pressure of the heel of his hand makes Geralt's breath catch, and he sets his teeth to the side of the pretty little thing's neck, murmuring, "Didn't realize this counts as ignoring you."

- - -

Geralt is certain he's never seen a creature more beautiful than Jaskier is right now, pinned with his back to the wall, Geralt's hand firm around his throat as he works one thigh between the younger man's own. Jaskier is panting, both hands clenched tight in the fabric of Geralt's undershirt; his eyes are glassy, dazed, so fucking needy it makes Geralt ache.

"Gorgeous," he breathes out, surprised by how deep and rough his voice has gone; he leans in to fit his teeth against Jaskier's collarbone, bared by the way his chemise is undone and pulled aside. Jaskier's hips buck onto the muscle of his thigh, and he whines aloud when Geralt bites down, tastes blood beneath his tongue. He licks over the beading little wounds, drinks in Jaskier's moan like a dying man. "God, the sounds you make - "

" - would be a lot - a lot louder if you'd get on with things," Jaskier spits out, and there's just enough malice in his tone to make Geralt falter, but the little thing's hips are rolling steadily, grinding his cock along the length of Geralt's thigh, so he chalks it up to impatience and nothing more. Customary, honestly, he doesn't know why he's surprised.

Geralt draws back just enough to make Jaskier whimper with the loss, squeezing his throat one last time before he lets go. "Bed," he tells him lowly, fumbling with the fastenings of his own shirt as he backs off. Jaskier all but falls away from the wall, sucking in a gasp of air now that he's truly able, but he doesn't listen at all, instead pressing right up against Geralt and craning to capture his lips in a kiss that tastes of brandy and blood and -

- don't you dare leave -

- leave, run, get the fuck out -

- don't you fucking dare -

- of brandy and desperation.

The groan Geralt gives almost aches as it starts in his chest, and he gives up on his undershirt, finding a grip on Jaskier's waist as he backs them both toward the bed. He feels hazy, his world almost spinning, though he's got no clue why. When the edge of the bed bumps into the backs of his knees, he drops back, pulling Jaskier after him into his lap, unwilling to break from the kiss for more than the second it takes to make sure their teeth don't clash as he settles back. Jaskier is just as eager as always, nearly clawing at his chest in his attempts to get the undershirt out of the way, and Geralt hisses when nails bite into his bare skin.

"Easy, darling - "

And then, just as quick as he'd pounced, Jaskier withdraws, and there's such hate in his tone when he says, "Don't fucking call me that," that Geralt gets whiplash.

Right. He'd forgotten.

He gentles his hands on the little thing's waist, smoothing them up under the fabric of his chemise to trace along the bare skin beneath, watching as Jaskier shivers despite his tension, his eyes going glossy. "I forgot," Geralt murmurs, leaning in to breathe the words against Jaskier's lips. "Forgive me, sweet thing, I truly didn't mean to."

Jaskier draws in a breath, and Geralt feels him tremble again. The younger man is leaning closer, seeming entirely unconscious of it, too; when he gives in, when he seals his lips to Geralt's own with a low and reedy moan, Geralt knows he has been forgiven. He lets his grip go firm again, guiding Jaskier to lay back flat on his back with as much grace as he can manage when he refuses to break away.

The other man arches into him when Geralt settles above him, moans aloud into their kiss when Geralt runs his hands back up beneath his chemise to swipe a thumb across one nipple, to rake his nails lightly down planes of quivering muscle and heated flesh. When Geralt's fingers reach lower, palming Jaskier through his undone trousers, Jaskier bucks, keens aloud, nearly sobs his name.

Geralt breaks from the kiss to trail his parted lips down along the length of Jaskier's throat, sucking his fresh mark atop the ghosts of bruises from the nights before. Jaskier whimpers and whines so prettily with each kiss, splays his legs wide when Geralt pulls his trousers down enough to work two fingers inside him, and something in Geralt snarls with desire when he feels how wet he is even now, how much of his seed still lingers in Jaskier's slender frame.

"So fucking beautiful," he breathes out against his skin, crooking his fingers up as even as he splays them wide. It takes a second try before his fingertips brush over the nerves inside Jaskier, but he knows damn well when he succeeds, because the younger man arches from the sheets with a moan far too loud for the tavern, both hands flying up to tangle tightly into Geralt's hair. "God, look at you, you're so fucking beautiful..."

Jaskier's voice is cracked and broken, but there's still enough of his spirit, his fiery, impatient spirit, to make Geralt laugh, low. "Be more beautiful with your cock inside me, Geralt, please, I don't need anything more, I can take you now - "

It's the desperation in his tone that makes Geralt cave, though he so truly wants to lay Jaskier out one night, worship his body as he deserves. Geralt murmurs something in reassurance, withdraws his fingers even though it makes Jaskier whine. "Easy," he tells him softly, drawing back just enough to get his trousers undone and off. He isn't surprised in the slightest when Jaskier just about ignores him, already hooking his thighs up around Geralt's waist even before Geralt begins to press inside. "Easy, love, relax..."

But Jaskier is moaning aloud, his fingers weaving tightly into Geralt's hair once again to pull him down for another wet and messy kiss, and he's already rocking back even though Geralt's barely got the head of his shaft inside him, and, fuck, he feels amazing, wet and hot and tight, and -

Geralt gives up on thinking.

He knows there's not much point.

- - -

Afterwards, they lay together, Jaskier held close with his back flush to Geralt's chest, Geralt's arm tight about his waist. They're both nude, only the blankets drawn up around their waists keeping them covered. Geralt's face is pressed lightly to the back of Jaskier's neck, and he alternates between simply resting and leaving gentle kisses there, reveling in the quiet, breathy laughs he earns each time.

It's as Geralt traces idle patterns onto Jaskier's bare stomach that he remembers. "Oh," he mumbles, his voice hoarse with exertion. "Thank you, by the way."

Jaskier gives an inquiring hum.

"The gifts you left me," Geralt clarifies, heaving a sigh as he settles more comfortably into place and closes his eyes.

"What gifts?"

He pauses then, frowning.

"You weren't the one who left them?"

Jaskier shakes his head, the motion made clumsy by their position. "What were they?"

Geralt could simply be imagining it, weary as he is, but he thinks he hears a hint of tension in his tone. "The cloak hanging over there," he replies, gesturing vaguely with his hand, "and a little art book."

Though his eyes are still closed, he can feel Jaskier lift his head, no doubt to look over at the cloak.

He can definitely feel Jaskier go rigid.

"Burn it," he says abruptly, and there's no trace of kindness in his voice. "Immediately."

Geralt frowns, leaning back enough to open his eyes. Jaskier is pulling away from him, sitting upright. He's gone incredibly tense, and Geralt thinks he's never seen him look so distraught. "Jaskier," he says, reaching for his waist again. "What's wrong?"

When Jaskier strikes his hand away, Geralt freezes, torn between confusion and hurt. "Burn it," he repeats firmly. Jaskier pulls away entirely then, standing up and starting to redress. Geralt sits up to watch, clueless as to how he's meant to react. "I mean it. I won't speak to you until it's gone."

"Jaskier," he tries, moving to the edge of the bed, though he doesn't make another attempt to reach after the younger man. "Jaskier, it's merely a cloak, what's - "

Jaskier laughs, sharp and bitter, as he tugs his chemise back over his head and turns to leave. "Don't concern yourself with why. Just do as I say."

As he yanks open the door and slips out into the hallway, Geralt sees blood matting the back of his hair, bone bared white and clear in the dim flash of lightning.

He blinks.

As he yanks open the door and slips out into the hallway, Geralt sees his hand come up to his face as if swiping away tears, though the motion is soon aborted.

The door shuts with a heavy click.

Geralt sits alone.

The floor is cold beneath his bare feet.

- - -

Geralt can't remember falling asleep when he rouses, at first unsure what awakened him at all.

He lays there, still and alone, painfully aware of the empty space beside him, of the empty space in his arms.

With a sigh, he rolls onto his back, gazing up at the canopy overhead. There is no moonlight tonight, but lightning flashes often, thunder rolling deep and cruel just overhead.

It's because of the thunder that he doesn't hear the snarling until it grows louder still.

Geralt pushes himself upright in a hurry, staring toward the door. There's a light on in the hallway, just as always; he can see it through the crack beneath the door... but it's not all he can see. There's shadows, too, shadows that can't quite make up their mind what they want to be, drifting and curling as if they're alive.

Lightning illuminates the room, and, for an instant, the shadows disappear.

For an instant, the shadows are at the corners of his eye, twisting within the mirror, gone when he looks.

The snarling continues.

The shadows beneath the door have taken shape when his attention returns - four identical narrow columns, blocking out the light in a row.

Slowly, Geralt stands.

He picks his trousers and undershirt up off the floor, pulling them on almost in a dream.

He crosses the room to the coatrack, and now it feels as though the snarling is within his bones themselves, as if it's rattling against his ribs, screaming to be freed.

Even the warmth of the heavy cloak about his frame does nothing to abate the dread.

He moves slowly to the door.

When his fingers brush the doorknob, all goes still.

He glances down.

The shadows are gone.

Geralt breathes in once, opens the door.

[jilyismyeverything]

“That’s a Good Look For You” Oh, Bollocks (Jily)

Another favorite chapter of mine I think i was starting to pick up James’ quick wit in this one :)

fanfiction.net

The gaudy pink draperies fluttered next to Lily as she stared out the window of the banquet hall, sipping her champagne. She glanced back over her shoulder into the ballroom with a frowned, spotting Petunia and Vernon schmoozing with the tall, curmudgeonly man with the bushy mustache who was her new brother-in-laws boss. Her sister’s bony shoulders stood straight as she chatted with the boss’ slightly round wife, whose large hair almost blocked Lily’s view of Petunia. She lifted the glass to her mouth only to find it was empty. Her eyes rolled as she began the walk back to the open bar. Skirting the edge of the ballroom, she dodged various wedding guests as she finally reached the bar. 

The bartender looked up to see the familiar redheaded sister of the bride approaching the bar for her third--or was it fourth?--drink of the night. Propping his elbow on the bar he asked, “So, what’ll it be? Champagne again?” 

Lily took a moment to ponder the decision, eyebrows crinkling in thought, before responding. “No. Not enough buzz. Hit me with… a scotch. No rocks.” She set her empty champagne flute down on the bar with a clink as the young man turned to pour her scotch. In a moment he was turned back around with a lowball glass clinking in his hand. She took it from him, stared at it for a moment and then took a swig, scrunching her face as the liquor burned in her mouth.

“Thanks,” she said, nodding at the bartender as he gave her a slightly concerned smile. She stumbled a bit as she walked away from the bar only to be caught by a pair of strong arms.

“Ah, Lilyflower! I was wondering where you’d wandered off to! I was trapped in the midst of a stunningly fascinating conversation with your father. Explaining to me all the different types of fir trees, and which one is best for Christmas.” She faced him and sipped her scotch once more. 

“Woah, I see you’ve moved on from champagne. Are you… sure you want to keep drinking? At Petunia’s wedding?” His disheveled hair swayed as he moved to keep her from stumbling into a portly uncle as he passed by. “Why don’t we move over here…” He pulled her toward an empty table along the edge of the room, and upon reaching it and being downright assaulted by the vibrant pink frills decked with white roses, she stopped abruptly.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“What?”

“I said, no, I don’t think I want to sit down. I’vehaden-ough of this bloody wedding!” Lily hiccuped her way through the outburst, tossed back the rest of her scotch, and slammed the glass onto the table. She turned on her heel, leaving James to jog to catch up to her.

The seventeen year old boy glanced around, looking out for his girlfriend’s parents as he matched her pace. He was not quite sure they were aware that the open bar had served their slightly underage daughter, and was quite sure that upon a drunken display from Lily, his brilliant early impression on them would be ruined. 

“What’re you doing Lils?” he asked as she led them, or led herself rather, towards where Petunia and Vernon were still greeting guests. She only stopped once, briefly, to take yet another flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, sipping it as she walked determinedly toward the newlyweds. James attempted to extricate the glass from her hand but failed as she swerved it away from him to take another drink. 

“I’m going to give my sister a piece of my mind, dammit! Where does she bloody hell get off on not including her own sister in the wedding party?” She turned and he barely stopped himself in time to avoid a collision. She spoke again, softer this time, and a tear began to roll down her rosy cheek. “I was supposed to be her maid of honor… All those years ago, before all of this wizarding business, we had it all planned. And it wasn’t any of this pink nonsense that Marge pushed on her. It was… beautiful and classic… and I was part of it.” James reached up to stroke her cheek, wiping away the small tear. 

“Now, her whale of a husband’s sister has hijacked our plans and wormed her way in, and I’ve barely gotten an invitation! Who the blooming hell does she think she is replacing me with Marge! No.” She brought the back of her hand to her face, wiping away the snot and tears and gently swiping her fingers under her eyelids to catch any runaway makeup. “No. I’m going over there right now and I’m going to make her look me in the eye and TELL me where it all went wrong. What I bloody did to deserve this.” 

She started off towards Petunia, James following quickly behind. The champagne glass teetered dangerously in her left hand and before it happened James saw it, but he was just a step too far away to prevent it. The broad, obnoxiously pink shoulder of Marge Dursley swung out into Lily’s path and before anyone could move the champagne had been flung down the front of her gown. The liquid soon spread downward, leaving behind a large darker spot in the deep blue material of Lily’s dress. The redhead stood frozen as the behemoth of a woman turned to assess the casualties of her wayward shoulder. Upon seeing Lily’s shocked expression and the growing spot on her gown, a smug smirk crept onto her face.

“Sorry, dear,” the large woman said snidely. “I didn’t see you there. I do hope the stain will come out.” 

The woman waddled away revealing Petunia, clad in her slim wedding dress looking apathetic and displeased. “James, would you mind escorting my sister somewhere where she can... clean up?” the thin woman said quietly, the words cutting the air like darts.

“We may just be off then, if it’s all the same to you. A lovely party, and congratulations. To you both,” he added awkwardly acknowledging the presence of the groom who had wisely chosen to stay out of the silent conflict, instead tossing Lily a disdainful look. 

“Thank you,” Petunia said brusquely, turning back towards her new husband and the relatives who were still lined up to talk with the happy couple.

Lily stepped toward her sister but James stopped her, whispering, “Please Lil, let’s just go.” It didn’t take much for the determination in her eyes to drop into defeat, and she slowly walked with him away from her prudish sister. 

The magical couple said their goodbye to Lily’s parents, referencing the time and an early train as their meager excuses. Lily’s heart cracked a bit at her mother’s expression, as it was one that seemed to finally acknowledge the severe distance between her two daughters. With a firm handshake for James from her father and a tight hug for her from her mum, the teenagers were off, back out to the front of the banquet hall.

Looking out into the cold night, they realized it had begun to rain. The two of them were still blocks away from the nearest safe point of apparition in the small muggle town and Lily let out an exhausted laugh at the utter disaster of the evening. Finally, James grabbed her hand and together they sprinted out into the downpour.

-

Upon arriving back at James’ mansion, where they were staying the night before returning to Hogwarts, Lily stopped in the entry to look at herself in the gilded mirror there. Her dripping red hair, her soaked dress, makeup running down her face. She sighed as she watched James step up behind her. 

“Well, at least the rain’s gone and blended in the champagne,” he offered in an attempt to lighten the mood. Unfortunately for him, his comment only prompted more tears from his still-drunk girlfriend as she began to push her fingers through her tangled hair. 

“Hey, hey, hey…” he said softly, wrapping his arms around her as he spoke. “Tonight was a terrible situation. I can’t even tell you how mad it makes me, the way Petunia treats you. But what I can tell you is that I love you, and I’m always, always, going to be here for you.” He brushed the hair out of her face and tilted her chin up with his index finger. “And, for the record, my wedding plans fully involve you. And absolutely no trace of the color pink, so…” 

She began to smile as he pulled her in closer and pressed a kiss to her rain-soaked temple. “Thank you, James.” He smiled as she grabbed his hand and began pulling him toward the large, wooden staircase. “That’s a good look for you actually, the whole ‘rain and champagne soaked evening wear’ look? You know, very mysterious. ‘Is it alcohol? Is it rainwater?’ Leaves everyone interested in the story you know.” She laughed for the first time that evening at his terrible humor and nestled into his side as they made their way up the stairs.

[real-fanta-sea]

MICHAEL APPRECIATION WEEK Day 7: Free choice

For this day, I have prepared something special - this fic was laying around in my drafts for almost a year and I’m so happy to finish and publish it!

The name is The leap of faith and happens after Michael falls to his dead during ending B. It is rather heavy and lacks happy ending + there is a mention of attempted suicide and canon death. It is not graphic, but some of you might prefer not to read about it and I think it’s fair to warn you. Oh, and the pairing mentioned is Trikey. For those of you who prefer AO3, click here to get redirected to the work. For the rest of you guys, just click on “keep reading”. Hope you’ll like it! 😊

The thunder rumbles through the air, vibrating everything in a deep and untamed matter.

“Michael! Let’s just-” 

Michael looks up, trying his best to look tough while somewhere deep inside, he is scared shitless as the same thunder echoes through him. He’s holding desperately, palms sweaty, onto his life. Franklin, holding his forearm as hard as he can, let his mouth gape open in a shock. Finally, a true, fucking human emotion.

A few heavy, ice-cold raindrops dampen Michael’s forehead. This all feels too familiar, he thinks to himself. This time, though, he won’t wake up with a jerk, sweat pearling up on his back. This time, there won’t be anything else than a void, sucking him in. He won’t stare back at steel grey sky as it dissolves into his perfect white bedroom ceiling. Not this time.

Another lightning illuminates his final scenery. Michael peers at depth down below his feet and then back up to a familiar face. Franklin fights with himself - he can see it in his sharp sculpted face. The rain falls heavily now and drenches his cheeks, and the moist reflects red and white signal light high above their heads. How the hell did he end up this way? Here, up above his concrete grave? Up here, hanging down the chimney railing, with this snake of a friend being his last straw between life and death? And then, the sudden realisation washed over him like a cold tide. And then, without a blink or a second thought, he lets go. A pair of hazel eyes, troubled, terrified, torn and lost, sink down into darkness. “I won’t leave you, Mikey!” is a distant echo of a raspy, terrified voice in between the rain and thunder. “I won’t leave you, Mikey!” A fraction of a grin passes Michael’s lips “But hell was I more than ready to leave you…” is his last thought as he lets go and let the gravity pull him down.

“MICHAEL!”

The world slows down with the first agonizing beat of his heart. Raindrops around him freeze in place, fire red and shiny like a scattered bloody diamonds carrying his weight. A flash of lightning illuminates the terrified face above him, hand outstretched, desperately trying to reach for him but also knowing damn well it’s too late. Michael looks around him. Everything perfectly sharp and visible, tinted scarlet and blue, with every edge glowing wildly. The weightless eternity of his existence, just hanging above the ground in between his heartbeats.

Ba-dum

A flash of bright white light blinds him for a second before he realizes where he is. The smell of an old truck, speeding on a dirt road is something hard to forget, especially when the smell attacks his nostrils so violently through an open window. Michael looks around him. The insides of the truck are darkened against the painfully bright sun reflecting the crisp green and warm ochre outside. The fuel tank is almost empty, the gas pedal glued to the floor. A photo of a nameless naked girl printed on a car scent card, swaying in a breeze under the passenger seat. Plush dice furiously swinging from side to side on the rearview mirror. All of this is oddly familiar.

Michael dares a look in the rearview mirror. He stares into a pair of bright blue eyes, full of determination and perhaps a bit of fear. He could swear he knows them too. A strand of dark hair combed back neatly, falls down to them, making him blink and swing it right back. He looks at his hands and sees no ring, only a rim of the leather sleeve of his jacket. Inspecting it further, he sees a couple of sewn symbols as it hangs nonchalantly by the sides of his muscular torso. He grins stupidly as his eyes follow lines of muscles sticking up against a tight white fabric of his tank top. He continues to check himself as the engine roars and hot air breaks apart on his windshield. His jeans are as tight as his top, and sneakers just as worn out as they should be to still be called fashionable. “Wow, this can’t be me” he grins as he checks his face in the mirror again. No wrinkles. No worries. No assassins after his ass. Just a pair of bright, ocean blue eyes and a cocky smile of a kid who hardly knows what future lays ahead.

Michael laughs as he pushes the gas even further, stomping on it like a fucking maniac. The engine groans with pain but accelerates anyway. Suddenly, there is a horn ripping apart the perfect memory. Michael looks into a mirror curiously, frowning his perfect eyebrows, a faint wrinkle haunting his forehead. A second truck, with the same roar and even greater speed, emerges from the turn behind him and by the looks of it, the driver is furious with him.

“Oh shit, here we go again… Just perfect!” he swears below his breath and takes a sharp turn right just as the truck reaches the back of his own vehicle. There is a high pitched screech as the truck turn in top speed, trying it’s best not to fall oven, rolling on only one set of wheels before falling back on all six with an angry thud sound. “I must find the damn plane, it should be around here somewhere, fuck” Michael swears and feels a couple of sweats drops pearl on his forehead. He looks back into the mirror. The truck is behind him. Closing in. There is a familiar shine of a gun in the dark behind the windshield. “FUCK!”

Another turn. Another screech. Sweat. Curse. Heart racing. Heat. Engine roaring. Plane. Where is the fucking plane?

Michael literally flies over the top of a ditch as he desperately tries to land the truck on wheels and not on its side. There is a glimpse of shiny metal in the distance suddenly and his heart races. This is it. Just to get there before the jerk gets him. He bites his lip and stomps on the gas again, furiously, desperately. The metal of the plane shines again as he gets closer and he looks for a man he was supposed to meet. Somewhere down in his guts, there is a fear mixing with anticipation and stirring his insides like a bloody blender. He can’t wait to see him and be saved.

A pair of slender jeans-clad legs twitch impatiently in the shadow of the plane. There he is.

If it wasn’t for a fact he could destroy the plane, he would have never braked so hard and just circle around to get the look again and again forever. He could, in fact, do it - this is his memory so he could do whatever he fucking please - but everything feels too real, including the young man leaned back on the wing of the plane.

Something in his pose is so captivating Michael can not quite put his head around it. The man’s elbows are supporting him, placed on a grey painted wing. Leather aviation jacket with a maple leaf sewn on it, wrinkled on his shoulders which were as wide and strong as his chest showing below his a worn-out t-shirt, yet slender and elegant as the line of his body run down to a perfect waist, accented by a belt of his jeans. One hip slightly raised as he relaxed one of his long legs, probably to even the weight of his heavy boots. Michael inhales deeply and gulped down something that feels almost like… Well, he can’t name it, but the look is captivating. The man looks in direction of the other truck, so Michael has a couple of seconds to study his face. It is framed by a thick mane of brown hair, and aviator shades, too big and dark to see his eyes properly. His nose as sharp as his cheekbones and jawline, with a trace of baby fat still there, giving him a dangerously adorable look. Where Michael loses it are his lips - full and with cupid’s bow curved in a perfectly kissable way, almost unreal for a man to have. Compared to his thin line of a mouth, these lips are angelic. Something deep inside of him awakens with a roar and the feeling of warmth fills him up completely, as he looks at the young man’s face again.

“Trevor…” he hears himself whisper. “T…” as tender as the letter can be, escaping his lips all over again to numb the sharp pain in his chest. What exactly is this feeling? Did he always feel this way about Trevor? Is his dying mind playing tricks on him?

He loses himself in a plump curve of Trevor’s lips for a moment once again before he’s torn from this perfect world with a wild screech of brakes and violent blow of a horn.

“Come out right NOW!” A hoarse voice calls from the other truck as a middle-aged man does his best to get out of the driver’s seat. Michael caught the sight in the mirror. While he takes a deep breath he kicks the door open and jumps out of the truck. 

“What’s your problem, old fart?” he yells, as cocky as he possibly can to cover how fucking frightened he really is, puffing up his chest, putting up a toothy grin and holding onto his hips to appear larger. “Can’t get it up so you drive all the way here to beat my ass for fun?”. The old man clenches his fists, squaring up his shoulders and cracking his neck. Michael blinks a couple of times as he watches the familiar figure step out of the shadow of the truck. As the man moves closer, Michael’s cocky grin freezes and slowly twists into pure horror. The man raises his head and if there ever was a bit of doubt in who it was, it vanished right into a face of the impaling summer sun.

It’s the older version of him. De Santa part of his soul, peering right back at him through a familiar frown with all the self-hate and beast-like cruelty written all over his wrinkled face. Michael’s mouth opens and closes in a shock. Is this who he has become? He can still remember all the things he did in his life as if his old self got caught up in the young body. He remembers, gets glimpses of memories, but it’s not the same thing as to face who he inevitably grows to be. De Santa looks him in the eyes as if he knows exactly what he is thinking about with an evil grin. As fast as he can, without blinking, De Santa raises his gun and points it right at Trevor.

Michael gasps. “What the fuck are you doing, you prick?”

Trevor flinches and presses his back against the plane with a deep growl.

“Put that down or I’ll make a pudding out of your brain right fucking now!”, Trevor utters with the only gun he could retrieve from the plane in a second, which, to Michael’s eternal amusement, is a fucking flare gun. De Santa shows a couple of teeth as he grins at Trevor. “The only thing I want is a second to talk to my little friend here. Don’t be stupid, Trevor, and give me a chance to make things right for both of us” The man with a flare gun raises his eyebrows and lowers the gun a few millimetres before raising it again. “Fuck, I don’t know where you heard my name or who snitched it but I swear to god if you botch this job you won’t see the sun up tomorrow you cake filled fuck face!”

Michael chuckled as he heard Trevor give his older self familiar names. He really let himself go too far to be called fit and made a mental note not to waste his second chance in life to eat the hate away. De Santa seems pleased as well, a heartwarming smile crossing his lips before they are solid and serious again. “Michael, I know what you felt back then, and what you feel now. I know you are going to chase it until you lose interest and leave a broken shell. Wasn’t it your... our favourite pastime after every game? Get a girl, get the most of it for a week and then ditch her without a second thought?” Michael blinks and searches for rusty memories. With eyes wide and lips pursued, he nods. “You see Trevor there? He’s not a stupid cheerleader you can play like a fiddle. Even now, with this badass facade of his, he feels something for you.” Trevor fidgets uncomfortably and Michael catches with a corner of his eye how Trevor swallows and lets his lips part for a second. Fucking Bingo.

“And you feel it too. That is a serious business, Michael.” De Santa pauses to raise his gun again. “You know what happens in future, don’t you? Say a word and decide - should I kill him and let you forget, get a normal life with normal wife and normal kids, the one you’ve always wanted…” he pauses to turn to Michael now, who instinctively raises his hands and stumbles a couple of steps back with a gun pointed at him “or should I kill you both to get this Shakespearean shit over with before it even begins? We both know too well what he means to..to us.” Michael exhales and feels the world slow down once more as he watches a tear roll down De Santas expressionless cheek and turns to Trevor. The wind plays with Trevor’s hair and his hands shake as he throws down his shades. A pair of amber eyes, wide with awe, pierce him with the same question. Growing old with or without him? Can he bear living without his precious punk? Can he let all the memories slip right out of his mind and fill it in with a long line of one night stands and even longer lines of coke? Oh, and why does his chest clench so much? Could it be...love?

Michael inhales carefully and turns back to De Santa, with time raging in the normal speed now. “Kill me. You know too well I could never live without him by my side.” A hot blow of wind carries a sound of a trigger, sudden and unforgiving. Michael blinks and watches a flare screw into De Santa’s eye, as he pulls the trigger too. The bullet licks his ear and jams with a hiss into the truck behind him. A high, blood-chilling scream pierce his ears and adds to wild pounding in his ears. Right before his wide eyes, De Santa’s body is fighting inevitable, hands trying to pull the flare out, only to help it dig deeper. Burned flesh and skin shed dreadful black shreds onto the dirt below their feet. Deep grey smoke fills the air with sweet stench and cries right out of hell. And then, silence and a pair of terrified amber eyes, vanishing into another flash of light.

Ba-dum

Michael opens his eyes to see a mouldy ceiling of a random motel, illuminated with a mix of orange, pink and blue neon light splattered across the room. His body feels hot but exhausted at the same time, gradually allowing him to sink back to full consciousness. He looks around, blinking to get rid of heaviness on his eyelids. Stark naked, his skin shiny with sweat, brilliantly white, glowing with reflections of light as a perfect opposite of the damp dark sheets.

Michael turns to his side, instinctively looking for a pack of cigarettes. He has always had one ready on a nightstand wherever he went and remembers this too well. He has always smoked after sex, he realises with a smug smirk and almost makes it to the pack before a pair of tanned arms wrap around him. A deep “Mikey...don’t leave me” comes from behind him, half snore, half sleep talk. Michael freezes for a second before turning around to make sure the deep, smooth voice belongs to the man he thinks it does.

Just as he remembered, Trevor stretched his arms in his sleep, for once looking peaceful and even angelic in all his content and innocence. He looks like a child, curled up on his side, hair in his mouth, stuck to open lips with a string of saliva. Eyes shut, barely moving, eyelashes long and shaking to the rhythm of his own light snores. “Mikey” Trevor whimpers again and curls even more, clutching the blanket, brows knotting. “Shh… I am right here,T” Michael whispers, and as gently as he can, brushes the lock of hair out of Trevor’s mouth. Trevor smacks his lips and smiles sincerely from his sleep. “I love you, Mikey...”. Michael jolts a bit but tries his best not to wake his sleeping companion. Was this even the same memory, or is his dying mind making a damn fool of him? Has Trevor actually said that? He blinks a couple of times, supporting himself with his elbow on his side as he brushes Trevor’s cheek absentmindedly with his fingers. With wide, serious eyes, Michael observes the goosebumps on Trevor’s arm, showing with each end every careful stroke of his fingers. Trevor’s snores and low mumble gives him the strength to continue down his neck, fingers outstretched, tracing smooth skin below his fingertips. Trevor moans from his sleep when Michael’s fingers gently brushed past his nipple. “You always had a soft spot here, T” Michael whispers under his breath and let his aching heart rule him for once. All the uneasiness and tense are suddenly gone as his tongue circles around his lover’s chest. The skin below him is salty and hot, and the taste lingers on his tongue, driving him mad. His hand wanders down the outline of Trevor’s body, tracing down his abdomen to find what he is looking for. Trevor’s cock welcomes his hand with a jolly throb and fit into his palm much better than he would ever admit. “Mmm” Trevor moans and arches his back, biting his lower lip “so much for sleeping with a horny cupcake beside me, huh?” and greets Michael with a toothy grin “Ready for round two, pork chop?” Michael chuckles, stroking Trevor slowly but firmly “I was born ready, baby” and let himself be pulled into a kiss.

The room dissolves around them as Michael seals his lips with Trevors, and some kind of force pulls them both up, right into the star painted indigo sky. His lips desperately caress and sucks Trevor’s and his tongue explore and swirls with a hunger he has never felt before. Just the kiss, just the taste, just the sensation is enough for him to forget who he became, where he belongs and what he was about to do in a couple of years in this reality. It is just his lips and Trevor’s lips under the moonlight and everything feels right in the centre of this universe.

He pulls back eventually, gasping for air, licking his lips frantically not to waste a bit of the heavenly taste of his lover’s lips, fading back to the stained sheets. Trevor pants below him, lips curved into a toothy, genuine smile he has only seen once or twice before. Michael can not help but smile back, cupping Trevor’s cheek with one hand, running his thumb alongside Trevor’s lower lip. Trevor purrs deeply under his touch, staring right back to his eyes. Michael feels something building up around his heart - a heat that could only mean one thing. “I love you too, Trevor” he exhaled, voice deep with honesty. With a smile, he watches the change in Trevor’s expression, eyes dark and wide, mouth open in shock. “What did you just…” Trevor gulped, tears collecting in his eyes as he crawls away from Michael’s touch. Michael’s chest suddenly hurt as if someone squeezed it. “Shh, I mean it - trust me, Trevor. Just trust me, baby, ok?” Michael whispers with a smile still playing around corners of his mouth, but not as certain as it was a second ago. Trevor jerks and jumps of the bed, retrieving slowly towards the window.

“Why are you always like that, Michael? So fucking full of lies” His voice trembled as much as his knees. Michael’s eyes look his body up and down, and only welcoming part is his dick, twitching, helplessly calling for a fondling hand “Why do you do this to me?”

Michael blinks a couple of times, trying hard to remember what he did to earn this reaction. As far he knows, this was one of those nights they spent together, drinking or drugging, crawling on top of one or the other, riding the hell out of the high, bodies twisted into a hot, sweating mush. It won’t hurt to ask, right? 

“Trevor, calm down. What the hell happened to you?” his voice firm and certainly more annoyed than he had meant it to be. Trevor puffs up, clenching his fists. “What happened to me? WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO ME?” Michael stiffens as a shockwave of Trevor’s angered roar washes over him, leaving him speechless.

“Are you serious? You have a fucking audacity to ask me what happened with that knocked up tramp waiting for you at the altar now? What the fuck am I to you then, huh? Am I just a fun old cheap bitch you fuck after a score? A toy you toss away when it doesn't comfort your taste anymore? Or.. or a dumbass to do all the dirty work for you just for a meaningless fuck?” Trevor’s voice trembles again, but only to gather enough strength to rumble through paper-thin walls again. “I am not stupid, Michael. I can see the pattern. You get high, you tell me you love me, fuck me and then you sober up and get on with your oh so great denial only to do it again and again. You dance around in your pathetic suit pants, killing anyone calling you a faggot! Oh, and while you are at it, you knock up a hooker and marry her just to show everybody you are a good old boobs’n’snatch family guy. Do you want your American dream family with a coke-snorting bitch and a batch of white trash bastards? Well then be my guest and get the fuck out of here, Michael”

Trevor kicks the door open, spitting his name out with a sting of disgust that lingers in the air long after it is said. A familiar blue haze of Michael’s anger pierces right through him and floods his system. With clenched fists, he springs up. “Okay, whatever, dipshit. Just make sure you are not late tomorrow” is what escapes Michael’s lips, without him even noticing. Something constricts his chest as he pulls up his jeans and throws his t-shirt over his head, facing Trevor. There are wet trails on his cheeks for sure, but something dark creeps behind them. Michael looks up to see two broken mirrors of amber eyes, staring back at him. For once, he feels the urge to fight the memory and stay. Stay a little longer. Cup Trevor’s face in his hands and tell him he won’t ever leave his side. Tell him he means what he said and they should elope, riding scooters hand in hand to the sunset. Trevor’s sob brings him back to reality as he approaches him carefully. “Trevor, I’m sorry…” is the last thing he utters before the memory fades in the familiar explosion of white light.

 Ba-dum

Michael blinks as he opens his eyes, looking around. He hardly recognizes the surroundings - judging by the scattered tombstones, people hunched down dressed in black and a thick layer of snow, he is somewhere up north, and on a goddamn cemetery. With all the white around him and heavy snowflakes falling down from a steel-grey sky, he should have been frozen solid at least 15 minutes ago, but somehow, he feels fine. Weightless even. There is something odd in a way people pass him by, without noticing him standing there, walking right onto him “Hey, watch it!” he hisses as an old lady walks right through him, leaving but a swirl of air where an outline of his torso was a second ago. Her sniffs and crunches of fresh snow under her shoes fade out into a deepening silence. She didn’t even notice, did she?

Michael looks at his hands, terrified. They are... translucent? What the hell happened to him? Is he a ghost? Michael’s eyes widen and his mouth fall open. Did he die already or what? With a deep breath of crisp air, he once again raises his head and scrutinizes his surroundings. His head feels like it might explode with all the wild ideas and questions swirling inside it. Has he ever been here before? The place seems familiar. Why is he here? Is it somehow significant? Michael inspects the closest tombstone on his right and chuckles lowly. Of fucking course. This was his grave. Michael fucking Townley’s grave.

This is where the boy from the nameless Canadian airfield lays along with his dreams and ambitions, dressed in his old football gear. What’s left is a ghost, a memory, levitating in the air, thinking about what went wrong with his life to end up like this. Hated, hunted, betrayed by a man he considered his son, left by the one he called brother. 

A muffled sob from behind him makes him jump and turn around. A tall man in a stained thick coat looks right trough him and brushes his nose with a hand dressed in an old fingerless glove. Michael stares at him in awe - what the hell is Trevor doing here? If he is right in his assumption and the grave is still too fresh, the place would be swarming with FIB agents, waiting for those stupid enough to come his grave. Michael raises his hands to place them on Trevor’s shaking shoulders, but in his new form, his palms go right trough them only to fall back to each of his side. “GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE, TREVOR!” He tries as a feeling of panic raises within him. The taller man not even flinch. “TREVOR!!!”

The only answer he gets is the sound of teardrop crash landing in the snow beneath his feet. It is the first time Michael notices the broken posture and his shaking chin, with a stream of tears flooding it. It is the first time he sees Trevor truly broken. It is the first time he sees what Trevor meant when he told him he loved him.

“I know you hate it when I’m crying Mikey, but I… I just can’t help it” Trevor uttered in a high, shaky voice. “I’m just so sorry!”. Michael instinctively jumped when Trevor fell to his knees where he would stay if he had a real body, not holding back anymore. “I’m so sorry Mikey! This is all my fault!”

Even in his current form, Michael’s chest tightened. He has never admitted he hated to see Trevor cry only because it hurts him a great deal, and now with his closest friend kneeling broken on his alleged grave, the pain comes uninvited and sits on his back as heavy as a fucking mountain. 

“If I… If I stayed... if I was the one who helped Brad you could…”

“No, Trevor. If you stayed, you would be dead. Don’t blame yourself for my fuck ups.”

“It’s funny, I can almost hear you now, you know?” 

Michael freezes on the spot. Could it be... “Trevor, T, can you hear me?”

A low chuckle escapes Trevor’s mouth before it is muffled by sobs once again.

“Yeah, I know, it’s bullshit. Of course, I cannot hear you. I am just imagining things, I guess... I just want to hear your voice once again. I want to hold you and kiss you one last time. Remember that time,” Trevor blows his nose and takes in a deep breath, finally getting a grip of his crying “Remember when we stopped by a lake in the middle of nowhere, and you wanted to go swimming? How we planned to stay for a night but ended up camping for a whole week? I’ve never told you how beautiful you are in the morning light - I just called you a fatso then and you smashed my head with a pan.” Corners of Trevor’s mouth twitch with a shy smile upon the memory. Michael just watches him, desperate to hold him close and never let him go. Of course, he remembers the summer of ‘89 and the glint in those amber eyes whenever they watched him. He remembers the bubbly laughter, flat beer and the smell of campfire in Trevor’s hair when they made love.

“Remember how we drank so much we started slow dancing at midnight and the sky reflected in your eyes? That was the first time I told you I love you. You laughed and shrugged it off. But I meant it then and I mean it forever.” Trevor’s tears easily tear down his weak self-control and make his fists hit the ground with crushing force. “You told me I had no idea what love is, but I do, Michael, I DO!” A sudden yell made a couple of other people increase their pace and turn around in fear. “AAAARGH, I LOVE YOU SO FUCKING MUCH MIKEY IT TEARS ME APART!! I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT YOU!”

Only now that Trevor hunched over the grave has Michael noticed a rope, resting stuffed into one of Trevor’s coat pockets. Oh no. Oh fuck. What is he going to do? Is he really going to… “TREVOR!”

The man in question just let tremors run through his body, hunched over the grave.

“TREVOR! DON’T TELL ME YOU WANT TO HANG YOURSELF!”

The only answer is the man slowly rising to his feet, chin pressed to his chest, dirty hair falling to his eyes.

“T, PLEASE, I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME!”

Trevor turns his gaze from the tombstone to an oak and its bare branches, standing mortified in the far end of the cemetery.

“NO, T, DON’T DO IT! I AM RIGHT HERE, PLEASE T!”

Corners of Trevor’s mouth twitch in what could be a smile, but Michael knows deep down it is relief. With the love of his life dead and gone, the world turning its back on him, with no future whatsoever, Trevor wants to go down the path of the last resort, the path Michael dreads.

“T, PLEASE!! I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU PLEASE DON’T!”

An easy, tired smile settles on Trevor’s lips. 

“Today is different, Mikey. I think I really hear you now - it is as if you said you loved me and wanted me to stay. But we both know I can’t love a whisper in the wind. You are here now and in a second you are gone. As always.”

Trevor takes a few steps, crunching of the fresh snow piercing the darkening sky.

“I want to be there with you, to see you and feel you the way you let me when we were young and high.”

Snow under Trevor’s feet listens in fear of what is it about to witness. Michael reaches out but fails to get hold of his friend once more. Trevor’s shoulders tense for a second before relaxing once again with a heavy sigh.

“Please don’t try to stop me, Michael. I have nowhere else to go. I need you.”

Trevor’s steps grow frequent as he inevitably approaches the tree and halts right in front of it, his fingers brushing over the smooth cold bark.

“Goodbye, Mikey. For now. I’ll see you in a few.”

Michael’s panic rises to levels he didn’t think were possible. He knows he can’t help Trevor, he knows he can’t reason with him but fuck him if he does not try to save him.

His eyes frantically search for someone, anyone he could call and alarm. The cemetery is almost empty. The only sound is the soft swish of snowflakes and screeching of Trevor’s boots as he climbs the tree to fasten the noose. There must be someone here - Michael knows his grave is the perfect moth trap - and fuck him if he’s wrong but there is a familiar figure leaning against the metal fence. “Oh shit, it can’t be…”

Dave Norton has just returned from his afternoon break with a cup of steaming coffee and a fresh issue of Los Santos Times when a strange touch of ice-cold air on the scruff of his neck makes him shiver. It’s not like he’s not used to long hours in freezing temperatures, but this one is oddly different. He puts down his cup and traces the back of his neck with hot fingers, but the snowflake he is searching for is nowhere to be found. “Oh well, whatever. Just a wind.” He thinks as he grabs for a cup when is suddenly tumbles over and spills all the coffee into the snow. In many years he has been an agent, Dave learned not to be surprised by a lot of things. Tax evasions, sex scandals, terrorist threats. It all shaped him in a twisted way and let him harden enough to act cold and precise in any situation he happened to be in. But this shit, it surprised the fuck out of him. He didn’t even touch the cup! There is absolutely no logical explanation of why it would bounce up and spill like that except for something grabbing it and letting go. Suddenly, the cold sensation was back and made little hair on his neck stand up in fright. Turn around. Look behind you. Turn around and look now. Those words bounce inside his head as if it was a pinball board and someone stubbornly added more and more balls to it. His head throbs, fighting the intrusion to no avail. In one bright flash of white light, a simple sentence appears right before his eyes: Turn around PLEASE!!

Ok ok, he’s turning NOW and… oh shit…

Michael has never felt this spend and tired in his life. He can barely see the outline of his own ghostly body now as it slowly dissolves into the void. Even if he wanted, he would barely give a fuck with the scene right before his eyes.

Dave stands below Trevor, forcing him up and back onto the branch. Trevor’s reddened face is damp with tears and his voice is hoarse when he shouts at Dave and begs him to let go, kicking a couple of times. Dave grabs for his gun and cuts the rope with a couple of shots that echo through the dark and bounce from one grave to another. Trevor falls into the abused snow below him with a loud thud and curls up in a fit of pained cry that makes Michael feel like shit. It is all his fault. The dark purple ligature mark in place of Trevor’s future “cut here” tattoo screams at him accusingly what his own mind has offered him so many times he stopped counting.  He always put himself first and made people who cared about him miserable. If only he could lay beside him if only he could comfort him, if only he was given a chance to tell him how much he loved him, how much he cared, how sorry he was for things to come to this end. His final thought before he dissolves in the crisp air is of a pair of warm amber eyes looking up at him with so much love and care it makes him shiver. “Please forgive me, T.”

 Ba-dum

A flash of bright white light led him back to his body this time. A roar of thunder kick-started the time. The shining diamonds of the raindrops hit the ground with a final splash before glazing the concrete with a red light covered wet coat. Up above him, Franklin curses. What a nice kid. “I forgive you,” he thinks as he braces himself for the impact. “I have the death I deserve” When Michael feels the cold touch of death on his back and draws in his lasts breath, the pure white light shines back in time with his racing heart, each flash brighter than the one before. All the pictures of his life run before his eyes - the first time he saw Trevor, the first time they kissed, the birth of Tracey, her first laugh and first uncertain steps, Jimmy’s first words, years of denial, broken promises drowned in whiskey and his recent flashbacks. He is about to die with a regret, Michael notes with a bitter taste on his palate - and that would be to make all of this right. If only he was strong enough to see past his beliefs and just let things happen as they were meant to be. If only he could turn back time, hug Franklin and let him handle things the way he wanted, call Amanda and let her go figure out her own happiness, give his children enough money to go to college and live on their own and then run into the pair of arms he sorely missed. If only he could tell him how sorry he was and how much he truly meant to him. He would hold Trevor close right there, in his ramshackle, grim-soaked trailer, stroke the summer heat out of his hair and whisper his feelings right into those beautiful ears. Yet another strike of thunder reminds him of what happened in the cemetery and the last teardrop escapes his eye and slips down his cooling cheek only to join millions of its kin on the ground as he exhaled one last time.

I love you, M. “I love you, T.”

[antihero-writings]

Oswald has a nightmare about executing Lacie and she comforts him? :D

Notes:

Hey @el-of-the-daleys! So sorry this took so long!! I really hope you enjoy it!! <3

I actually am planning on adding to this fic something that wasn't in/is a little different from the prompt for a second chapter, haha!! 

Since I wrote a scene fitting this prompt in “The Things He Left Unsaid”--(actually I believe that scene is why I was given this prompt?? Because you liked that scene?? Correct me if I’m wrong!!)--I wanted to go somewhere different with the scene/prompt this time. I started writing it...but it ended up being too different, and not actually fitting the prompt XD So I had to go back and write something that fit the original prompt, haha!! Don't get me wrong, I really like this chapter, I think it turned out really nice!! But I still liked what I originally wrote too, and think it takes it in a creative direction, and fits as a second chapter, so I plan on doing just that and finishing it and adding it as a second chapter!!

Anyways! I hope you like what I came up with!!

To others reading, I love getting prompts, and Pandora Hearts is my favorite series, so if you want me to write something for Lacie and/or Oswald, Pandora Hearts, (or anything really!), I'd be delighted!! 

I'd really appreciate if you could leave me a comment and let me know if you enjoyed this!! They really do motivate me to keep writing, and make my entire week!!

Dismembered Duets (Ch1)

A song cut through the moment. Each note a twinkling, golden light falling about the atmosphere.

His sister was dancing in her room. A purple butterfly fluttering about her garden, bringing life to all the flowers around her. Her song. Her dance. Sheer wonderful absurdity, pollinating this black and white world.

And the puppets smiled in reply.

He wanted to join her, to dance and sing too…But something was keeping him back. Something physical, or something spiritual, he wasn’t sure.

A beautiful, gentle melody to sing him to sleep …Yet, as she continued, he found there was something dark, distorted, something…perhaps a little mad within it;

The harmony, every few seconds would cut with a dissonant note, like a misstep on the piano. An error of the foot.

As she kept going, the song, the dance, sped up, and the lapses became more frequent, though she didn’t seem to notice; just kept dancing as if this was all part of the plan.

And when the notes slipped, reality would crack. Or, more accurately, the cracks in the world—that is to say the chains holding reality together—would bleed into his vision.

He wanted to join her. To take her hands and twirl her around. Be her brother, her protector and confidant, in that beautiful insanity. To feel it too; for the notes to tickle his arms, wire his movements, to take root in him, to know what she felt as her voice rang and ran out.

He knew he shouldn’t. He surely couldn’t. The dance was not his. Not his to join. Not his to take and taint.

Still, he couldn’t just stand on the sidelines.

Oswald took a step forward.

A chain unlatched. A chain he didn’t even know was there. The sound wrapped around her right wrist, keeping her hand in place. She hung her head, looking at him, a smile etched on her features that—like the music—was just a little bit mad.

His mouth opened in horror. He took another step forward, this time to try to help her, to untie the chain—

With a loud clank a new chain wrapped around her left wrist, hanging her other hand in place.

“Lacie!” he cried, and decided taking it slow was the problem; he ran as fast as he could to her.

That only made everything happen in seconds: a chain around one leg, then the other, and her body flew upwards like her partner in the dance was lifting her into the air, and he knew they weren’t going to let her back down…

—(Was he her partner? Why were his movements chaining her? He didn’t want this)—

The next pierced her abdomen, and another through her chest, one through her leg instead of around it—blood flocking to each in turn—and the last, wrapped around her neck, though it didn’t slice through it.

By the time he arrived at her side it was too late. As he stood below, she hung there, her blood dripping onto his cheeks like the first drops of an intense rain.

But she didn’t yell or scream, or cry, or even ask what was happening. It was like she knew this was going to happen from the start. That smile stayed on her face, and it was more than a little mad now. An almost-maimed beautiful thing on her brother’s lonely, metal strings.

He stared up at her in horror, those violet eyes shimmering, pooling with red. He wanted to scream and cry, to run for help, to say something, anything at all, but no words came to him, none would adequately do the job, so silence was his pick of poison.

As the blood dripped onto him, instead of falling to the ground, it trickled and slithered onto his back—as if it was a living snake, with a mind of its own—and dove beneath his skin.

He cried out and pain, falling to his knees as knives jammed into his back. He didn’t even know where he was, what he was doing, or who he was for that matter—

—Was he Oswald; Lacie’s brother, who wrote songs in his spare time? Or was he Glen, without a second to spare, in charge of the whole goddamn world?—

When the pain subsided, sense and memory returned. He tried to lift his arm, to get up, to help his sister—she needed his help—

But his hand was too heavy to lift—

No, not his hand...for what he saw raise feebly in its place was a blackened claw…with the other end of the chain resting in its grasp.

He gasped, let go. But as it clattered to the ground, the tiles began to give way, all converging on the spot, collapsing beneath him. But before he could fall into the void something gripped his ankles and lifted him up until he was hanging upside down beside her, a fly caught in this twisted web, waiting for the spider to devour him.

An ugly sound reverberated around him, like a bubbling cauldron full of the worst poisons. It took a moment for him to realize it was Lacie laughing.

He jerked his head to look at her, to see her face, his sister’s beautiful face, twisted into a dollish, painted sneer.

No, it couldn’t be her laugh. Her laugh was the sound of butterfly wing beats on summer days, her laugh was the sound of a brook in spring, the wind rushing through the leaves in autumn, the fire crackling in winter—

She reached out and wrapped one of the chains around her arm, and pulled hard, enough that her brother, on the other end, was lifted up by the ankles until he was hanging upside down in front of the mirror on the mantelpiece.

Something told him not to look. Something very sensible. He listened: shut his eyes tight, refusing to look, to see it.

But he heard giggling to his side, a giggling that got closer, and soon he felt the dolls crawl over him. He tried to shake them off, but two made their way onto his head. They put their tiny porcelain hands on his eyelids and pried his eyes open, as Lacie whispered softly,

“You can’t look away from this, nii-sama.”

He almost yelped in shock.

It was him…but not him. A twisted, grotesque version of himself. His expression was marred with drops of red, like clawmarks across his handsome face. Speaking of claws, his hands had turned into the blackened, talons of beasts, and they were bloody.

And, worst of all, black as the night sky on a starless evening, four, great, feathered wings had erupted from his back, so big they obscured much of the room from view.

Was this him? No. It couldn’t be…Certainly not. What could have caused this? …How long had he been like this?

“If you wanted to play, Glen,” said that demented smile, the words no longer soft, “you could have just asked.”

And the puppets laughed in reply—

—(All except the black rabbit, who looked altogether too sad to join in)—

The toys climbed onto the chain holding him up, and jumped up and down on it as if it were a trampoline snickering as it started yanking him back and forth.

“Wait!” he yelled when he realized, too late, what was about to happen.

And as he swung into the mirror, cued by the sound of shattering glass only in his mind—

The sweet chorus of reality came in.

A twenty-year-old Oswald shot up in bed, his shirt sticking to his chest with sweat, his violet eyes piercing the dark like spears, trying to hunt something far from this room, all the while trying to temper his breath, his heartbeat, his dismay, to keep his prey from noticing his presence…and failing.

He’d been dealing with these sorts of sleep-induced traumas as long as he could remember—(No, calling them nightmares didn’t quite cover it).

Sleep was meant to be peace, but, spending so much time controlling his reactions, pacifying his hopes, his fears, when he relinquished his control to the night it could only bring all those pesky little humanities to the surface.

Knowing one day you’ll be sending your sister into nonexistence isn’t exactly a lullaby.

Knowing one day he’d be someone else, Glen, in charge of the world, and unallowed to deal with such human things as nightmares, unable to run to any sort of guardian for comfort from the demons didn’t help them go away today.

His breath remained heavy on his chest, feeling too warm and too cold at the same time.

The room was far too small.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed, marching out the door without a second thought, or changing his nightclothes.

Fresh air was what he needed. An escape from this oppressive place.

The nightmare echoed like a resounding gong throughout his head, its images repeating, its emotions resounding.

No, he couldn’t let this consume him.

After all. It would all be real some day.

He didn’t know how fast he was moving; if he was walking calmly, or running, but at some point he found air. The world outside smelled like daffodils and peace. The courtyard, it was once called, in some time far from now. At last he allowed himself to pause, take a deep breath—

And he heard singing.

He froze, his eyes widening.

He waited, sure this was just an addendum to the nightmare, that before long the notes would slip, become that mad melody…but they didn’t. They remained the gentle tone of a true, sane song. One of his own compositions, if he recalled.

He let the music pull him slowly along like a lifeline to a ship, until he saw Lacie in the middle of the courtyard, twirling around in her white nightdress, singing without a care in the world.

Of course she was up at fifteen in the morning singing. What normal person would be?

She dipped and swayed like a bird in the air.

He didn’t dare take a step forward. Didn’t dare try to join her. From the sidelines he interrupted;

“What are you doing up?”

“Asks my brother, who’s wandering around in his nightclothes.” She didn’t miss a beat, and continued dancing, despite the halt in music.

“Who could sleep with you singing like this?” He folded his arms.

She grinned, and it was that playful, mischievous—but still sane—thing. “I’ve only been singing for a few minutes, and your room’s on the other side of the manor. You can’t possibly have heard me.”

He didn’t reply, only looked away.

“Having trouble sleeping, Ni-sama?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“Please. You think I don’t know my brother well enough to know he doesn’t stroll around at midnight for fun?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Soo, my dear brother had a widdle nightmare.”

“Stop.” He said like the word itself would force her to obey.

“Ahh so a nightmare about me.” There was no hint of fear, or inclination of obedience in her.

His eyes widened.

“The usual, I presume?” She may well have been talking about what he wanted to order for breakfast.

He looked down and spoke softly. “…Yes.”

She walked up to him, and without warning, lunged for his hand.

“What are you doing?” He ripped it away, holding it up high.

“Dance with me.” She looked up at him with puppy dog eyes, resting her head on his chest, the grin on her face lined with mischief.

His eyes lidded. He pushed her away, before folding his arms over his chest; keeping them behind bars.

No. He shouldn’t. Besides, he didn’t want to; he wasn’t any good at dancing anyways. He’d just step on her toes, or worse.

She tugged on his arm, trying to free it from its bind.

“Pweease?”

He looked away, not budging.

This dance belonged to her. His part was merely the song—a song to which he never wrote lyrics. It wasn’t his place to dance to it. Only admire from a distance.

He didn’t want to chain her.

“Preeeeetty please?” She blinked girlishly. “What if I promised to do something for you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Will you clean your room?”

She pouted. “…Fine.”

He allowed his hand pardon.

She snatched it before he could give a caveat, or even try to protest. Her skin was cold against his sweaty fingers…but not an unwelcome cold. It was the kind of cold that was gentle, that could bring him back to reality.

The wind rushed by as she pulled him along, until they were beneath the colonnade, where the air was cooler, and fireflies were blinking in and out of focus.

He was pretty sure this was what it would feel like to be taken away by the fae folk.

Upon arriving, she stopped abruptly—(he almost ran into her)—and held out her other hand. He rolled his eyes before accepting it. Grinning, she began to pull him along into the moves, putting one hand on his back, and the other on his shoulder.

“You’re leading?” He frowned.

“I’d be pleased to follow your lead,”—she took a step forward, and he stepped on her toe, causing a smirk to spread across her features—“But something tells me you’re not up to the task.”

He glowered at her.

The notes spilling from her mouth as they swayed and spun back and forth, traveling through the pathways in the colonnade. …He stepped on her toes a number of times.

“You’re so stiff, nii-sama,” she noted. “You just need to loosen up.”

“Maybe I’m stiff because my sister is forcing me to dance against my will.”

She sighed fakely. “I guess my room will just have to remain a pigsty.”

He tried to loosen up.

Lacie didn’t continue the music for a moment, simply looked through the columns into the sky. “The stars are beautiful. It’s like they’re waving at us.”

He cast his gaze there too.

The sky was calm, the air fresh…it was hard to remain anxious out here, holding his sister’s hand.

“Yes.” He replied absentmindedly, then paused before speaking, “You never actually answered my question.”

She grinned slyly. “‘What am I doing up?’…Let’s just say you’re not the only one who the demons have an affection for.”

[slothgiirl]

forever isn’t for everyone part 11

We sit down at a McDonalds. The Chinese theater visible from the window. 

I can't help but notice that bags under his eyes are gone as he sits across from me. Cheeks flushed red, for once his skin wasn't quite so pale.

While the first floor is still moderately trafficked by people, both families and people out for a fun night, the second floor is devoid of anyone other than us. A fact I'm sure Alex was counting on. 

"What the fuck," I utter, taking a seat across from him. There were no other words, as I tried to wrap my mind around the idea that-that vampires exist and that Alex was apparently one. I fixed my gaze on his bambi eyes, trying to reconcile the imagine imprinted into my mind of crimson irises. 

"El," Alex tries, clenching his jaw as he rests his palms on the plastic tabletop. 

"No," I shake my head, not daring to take my eyes of Alex. "Just-just explain this . . .I don't know." There probably wasn't anything he could say that would rationalize this, that would make me stop freaking out. 

I think of all the time we spent together, in the night, in the dark. 

He reaches a hand out towards me, an openness to his expression, movements slow. His lips cracked open, a tad bit, as if he's trying to think of the right words to say. 

I flinch. 

Seeing the blood, the girl, all over again. Blood on his mouth, on the lips I had kissed so eagerly once upon a time. 

Alex pulls back, curling in on himself, shoulders hunching over, letting his hair fall into his eyes without reaching to push in back. He frowns, his gaze falling from you to the table. It almost makes me feel bad, but then I remember how we had left things. It takes all the sting out of his expression. 

"Just-just start somewhere," I ask him. I can't take this tension anymore. Maybe it'll help. 

Having some context. 

"Alright," he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes as he takes a deep breath. "Alright. Guess I gotta start somewhere." Alex runs a hand through his hair, before meeting my eyes once more.  

"I-uh. . .I met Miles ah couple of years ago. He'd just gotten into London. With tha band." Alex sits up straighter. Swallowing thickly. "I-I dunno. It's Miles. There was this girl playing a tune. And I was there by me self. . .I've been by me self for a decade by then. Miles just. . .just uh was suddenly there. It was easy from there."

"And you told him," I fill in, unable to keep the hurt out of my voice. I don't know if I would have handled it any better if he'd told me before. And it wasn't my secret-I wasn't entitled to anything. 

But god had I fallen for this man. 

Even now, I keep waiting to hear something that will clean the slate of the last few months.

Maybe if he just wipes it all away. . .

It's a nice thought, but it wouldn't be real. 

"Miles," Alex pauses, bringing his hand to his chin. "Miles figured it out. A couple of months later. Guess it was pretty suspicious that I never go out in the day." He laughs humorlessly.

For the first time, you wonder how old he actually is. When was the last time he'd seen the sun rise?

"Well now I feel stupid."

"No," Alex cuts in, his hand reaching to grasp mine once more, his touch as electric against my skin as it was the first time, even a brush enough to set me aflame, "no. You weren't stupid El. I could see. . .I could see you start to put things together. And-I didn't want you tah know. I wanted. . ." His cheeks turn scarlett, as he ducks his head down. 

"I thought we could have more time together El," he states, looking up through his eyelashes, "Without any complications."

And wasn't that the understatement of the year. 

The truth was I had begun to become suspicious, and if we hadn't, if he hadn't been an ass, I probably would've put things together. I mean if Miles could, then do could I. 

"You still didn't have to be an ass," I note, looking at my hand, held in his. 

"I'm sorry," he utters, his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand, "it was stupid but I thought if you hated me, you'd never want to see me again."

"You underestimated my professionalism," I retort, smiling sadly. 

"That I did," Alex nods, the edges of his lips turning up, eyes twinkling in the harsh fluorescent lights. 

"When-you still haven't explained the whole dracula thing," I point out, because there was no way my feelings, whatever that mess was right now, was going to distract me from the fact that bloody vampires exist. 

Alex laughs bitterly, lips curving into a sardonic smile. "That's certainly one way to put it."

I shrug, pulling away, and crossing my hands against my chest, tasing a brow and stating, "well?"

He nods. "It's. . .its ya know. . .blood and chance encounters."

I roll my eyes. "How can you be such a good writer and so bad at storytelling."

"Just give me a moment love," Alex smiles, the bite softening, "it's-its just a lifestyle by now. I've got to drink a bit of blood every few days. Can't go out in the sun." He frowns. "I loved summer days. Loved the warmth of the sun, just made me feel happy ya know. After months of rain."

"I'm sorry," I tell him, trying to imagine never feeling the heat of the sun, waking up and knowing I could finally wear a dress without ten layers. 

"It's alright," he states, "I've had entire lifetimes to get over it."

"So you're really an old man underneath the baby face," I note, smiling despite the turmoil of emotions, of loss and want and just feeling completely lost as I try to come to terms with this.

He chuckles, "I do still get carded outside of London pretty often."

"And you're really?"

"I was born in 1811," he admits. 

"Wow," I gasp, eyes widening. That would-he was more than two hundred years old. "How did-how do you even end up a v-vampire?"

Alex shrugs, "I was never trying. Dracula hadn't even been written yet. It just sort of happened."

"Alright but how? Wait no go back," I tell him, "Dracula hadn't been written! Did people know about vampires like the whole twilight craze?"

"More of a folklore thing. They were still going around about witches. . .," he looks up thoughtfully, "guess witches were all the rage back then."

"So you can brainwash people. . .what else?"

" 's not exactly brainwashing. Just suggestion. I can't. . .I cant make people do anything they don't want to do. And they all like forgetting the nasty bits."

I frown. "You mean the part where you drink their blood?"

"Yeah," he smirks, "that part. They just want to have the good time." I purse my lips. Thinking back on all the times we'd spend together. All the nights. 

"I never-I never did it tah you El," Alex whispers, "I would never. . .I love you. I know ya probably don't want to hear it right now, but I do."

I look away, eyes stinging as they fill with tears. It's Alex and a month has done nothing to-it's still too soon and shit. It's not something I want to deal with when all I can see is Alex's blood coated lips. "Just tell me more."

"I can't do any of that bat shit. Or mist. Complete fookin lies. So is sleeping in a coffin. But-but the mirror thing is true. Rare. . .now. Silver backed mirrors aren't too common. The sun will burn me. Bram Stoker made the garlic and crucifix bit up. I have fangs but nothing noticeable."

I raise a brow, my gaze immediately going to his mouth. 

"I'm careful. Can’t tell unless you’re up close and know what to look for," he laughs, noticing my stare. "And my eyes turn red when I. . .uh-feed. As I'm sure you noticed."

"Alex-," I start, breaking off as I realize I have no clue what to say. What to do with this information. 

"El," he says, his gaze steady. "ya don't have to dea with any of this. Just say the word-"

"I'd rather know." I think about all the people I've ever known. I don't think I've ever met another vampire. Looking back, Alex's habits stick out, when you know what to look for. Not having any food. 

"El. I do mean it. I love you."

"Please don't."

He sighs, "it was wrong of me to think we could make things work. That we could have something normal when I’ve long left that behind. It was selfish, but I can't make myself regret it."

I swallow thickly. "I need time to think."

"El?"

"Please," I tell him, "I need time to think. You can't just-you can't expect me to know what to say."

"Alright El," he smiles softly and it's like my heart is breaking all over again. His brown eyes, that weren't actually brown at all. 

I lean in, "can I see?"

Alex's gaze flickers around the second floor. Still as empty as when we had sat down, the voices of customers downstairs drifting up. Then his gaze meets mine, first the hazelnut colour dusted with flecks of gold, then in a blink, the dark crimson colour, like a vintage garnet, deep and rich and absorbing in all the light. 

My hand reaches to him. Fingertips ghosting the skin of his cheekbones, resting on his temples, seeking him out with a desire that has not abated. His eyes flutter shut.  

Unmoving in my touch. 

I must be insane, to have seen him, to have him bare before me and still want him all the same. 

This time, when I lean in, I tilt my head to his, meeting his lips with mine. It's no, intense nicholas sparks moment of reunion, of the scene before the credits when everything works out, just a quick kiss on his lips. 

The surprise is clear in his features, Alex's eyes blown wide. 

"We should start over, without world changing secrets."

He nods, a tiny bob if his head, his lips still touching mine. Neither of us willing to pull away first. "Anything you want El."

[my-happy-little-bean]

Figment of My Mind

pairing: none~ warnings: mild swearing, body horror, death (though it is implied that it is imaginary), bloody imagery, mentions of poison, mentions of thunder storms, mentions of fire/allusions to burn-out, slightly unsympathetic!patton / morally grey!patton, unsympathetic!janus, remus, & virgil words: 3334

summary: Roman tries to make the right choice, but falls into something much more than just “wrong”. 

Or: the one where Roman chose neither the wedding or the callback.

a/n - hello, it is i, bean; posting some rough, angsty horror at like 1 am because that’s !! just !! where we’re at right now! working on everything but the thing we’re supposed to be working on! 

i was heavily inspired by the song “figment of my mind” by bruno major (someone pleeeease make an animatic with this song it’s great), so that’s what the lyrics are! it was also written to make @wisepuma23​ and @thesocialbookwormishere​ proud lol – they’re such talented beans, and i wanted to hop on their angsty train to horror town lol. 

i’m sorry if this isn’t the happiest journey, but i really enjoyed writing something! it reminds me of that angst i wrote for patton when “can lying be good” came out – ah, the good ol’ days of bean angst lol. 

enjoy!

[read on ao3~]

–– 

“i traveled into deep space to see what i could find a purple angel led me to the universe inside.

welcome to the real world not the dream you left behind.  that was all a figment of your mind.”

–– 

When Roman left his room, the stars in the sky were only still forming.

It was late at night. Thomas (and by extension, Patton) had already gone to bed in tears. They have been doing that all week.

Logan had confided in him a few days back, confessing that he wasn’t sure why Patton was crying. Patton had nothing to lose with the verdict Roman made. In fact, he still won in some ways. He had theorized to empty, static-filled ears that perhaps Patton’s tears were just a reflection of Thomas’ emotions; a normal reaction everyone dramaticized to illogical extents.

Then he theorized idly that maybe Patton was crying because he felt like he was wrong the whole time.

(Roman didn’t leave his room for two days straight after hearing that.)

They didn’t have much left for Roman nowadays, and neither did Thomas. The days crept closer to dreaded April 13th and no one made a sound. Nothing was being done, nothing was being made. It was as if everyone was haunted by Roman’s decision; as if the sound of the gavel was echoing everywhere he stepped. 

And then, as April 12th ended– when Roman finally thought it was all over–

he realized that neutrality in a war was the enemy.

(In a moment of hypocrisy, Patton yelled at him, “Dishonourable.”)

So that was why he was here, sneaking out through the hidden door of his room and into the Imagination. He moved swiftly across the fields of nighttime fog and dew-covered grass to the giant, steel gates guarding The Dark Side.

Or, the other side. 

(It hurt less to think of himself like an ‘other’ rather than...well, that.)

He stood before the towering gates. It made sense that he felt like he was crossing paths into the dark forest Disney movies warned him about. A streak of lightning cracked across the sky like splintering glass, and every three minutes, a maniacal cackle shook the ground at beneath feet. 

Leave it to Remus to be so dramatic. 

It’s been a while since you’ve seen him, he thought wearily, gripping the hilt of his sword just in case. Would he even let you near him?

And then, a bitter thought: There has to be some family who will. 

Suddenly, a cold hand grabbed his shoulder. Lightening screamed with him as he turned on his heel and whipped his sword tall in front of him. 

“Show yourself, vil–”

Then, his vision cleared. 

It was suddenly raining in the Imagination, and Virgil stood in it, drenched.

“Virgil,” he hissed, slowly lowering his sword. “I could have killed you.”

“Can’t die.” The words came out as a low rumble, one that shook the earth beneath them in a different way. “Not real, remember?” 

“But you– but we’re–”

Virgil shook his head, waving a hand in front of him with a smug smile.

“Relax, Princey.” The old nickname pressed itself into Roman’s arm like a curse crawling on doomed lands. “Just some dark, 3 am humour.”

It wasn’t much reassurance, but Roman didn’t care. He was already clinging onto it tightly, never wanting to let it go.

“What are you doing here, J.D-lightful?” 

“Trying to figure out what the fuck you’re up to.” Virgil leaned forward, almost cockily. “What are you doing here?”

A pause. Roman forced his stare down at the rotten dirt below him. 

“I’m going to fix everything,” he muttered. 

Virgil skipped the first obvious question. “And you think Remus is going to help with that?” 

“I think something there will.” Roman pressed his feet into the ground with a snarl. He gripped onto the hilt of his sword even tighter. “If I go now, Remus will never even need to know.” 

Roman noticed how Virgil grit his teeth and clutched the sleeves of his gridded hoodie as if it’d swallow him whole and make him disappear completely. 

“What do you even need in there?” 

Roman turned his back on him as another crack of lightning shattered the glassy sky above them.

“Remus controls intrusive and destructive thoughts,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “And what is the only destructive thought plaguing all of us right now?” 

The answer hung between them, dead as the grass impaled by the ends of the metal gates.

“What if Thomas had gone?” 

“So you made a decision then.” Virgil’s voice, despite its venom, held an edge of worry. “A bit too late to figure out what the right choice was, no?”

Roman huffed, standing tall despite the fact that his words made him shrivel. 

“If you’re just going to stand there and be completely unhelpful,” Roman growled, walking towards the gate and grabbing the handle, “I’m just going to take my leave now–” 

“Wait.”

Roman stiffened at the layered tone of Virgil’s voice. He spun around to face him against his will, being forced to look at the hooded side. 

Virgil suddenly stuck his hand out, and Roman saw a glimpse of dark eyeshadow painted in thick layers over itself under his eyes.

“If you cross, you know what’s going to happen, don’t you?” 

Roman blinked. “What?” 

“You– do you even know what you’re getting yourself into?” 

“Not the point of an adventure, is it, Marilyn Morose?”

Virgil groaned. “I should let the damn thing eat you alive, Jesus Christ…” 

“Seriously, what are you talking about?” 

Virgil waved his hand, still outstretched. 

“Let me take you.” Another bolt of lightning pierced the sky. Roman felt as if it was going to fall on him at any second. “If you can survive with me, you’ll probably leave with what you really wanted.” 

Roman stared at his hand, as if the offer in it grew legs and was crawling up that inky checkered sleeve. Virgil’s words seemed to swarm in his head, and he didn’t quite understand what he was saying, but something told him that he needed to listen.

Virgil’s hand floated between them like a paranoid ghost.

And so, with a deep breath, Roman took it. 

–– 

“we flew amongst the patterns, impossible designs they’d been there the whole time hidden by my eyes

if i’d had a body it surely would've cried but tears were a figment of my mind”

–– 

Roman felt himself fall apart when he touched Virgil; as if Virgil was passing sharp sparks between their palms, and those sparks were finding cracks in skin Roman didn’t even know existed.

It felt as if his entire world flipped vertically, the ground defying the laws of reality and throwing him, somehow, onto the floor at the other side of the gate. 

Roman couldn’t even feel Virgil’s hand anymore. Instead, he just felt lightning stab his chest and blur his vision, a swirl of purple, yellow, and green swimming in front of him.

Then, it all stopped in an audition room. 

Virgil was nowhere to be seen, but Roman could feel him everywhere. He made himself believe that it was just because Thomas always felt this way before an audition.

Maybe it was the monotone filter of it all. Everything in the room—the camera, the table, two chairs, the walls—were various shades of black and white. 

And he was standing, stuck, in front of the empty chair. He still felt dizzy from whatever hellish trip Virgil had sent him on. He wanted to stumble on his feet just to make it feel more real, but he was rooted on the ground, completely still.

Then, lightning struck the two chairs and when the smoke cleared,  Deceit and Patton were staring at him, 

their eyes crossed out in yellow, drawn-on dashes. 

“SING.” 

Roman felt himself reel back at Patton’s voice, and a piano– out of sight, out of mind– began to play. The moral side had leaned over the table and slammed his fists into its surface, dark cracks in the wood blossoming from the contact. The noise was so loud, yet useless in muffling the haunted ivory keys, which played a hollow echo of Roman’s favourite audition song.

Fuck. 

Deceit said nothing, but he did smile at Roman in that kind– no, deceitful way he always did.

Did Deceit always have that line near his lip?

Roman shook his head. Forget Deceit. This audition wasn’t what he wanted. This was Thomas’ dream. This is what they had to choose. Mary Lee and Lee would surely understand, and so would Patton. He was selfless all the time, he deserved this. Deceit was right. 

In fact, Patton, in a fabricated moment of clarity, could possibly understand that now. Perhaps his command was actually encouragement; encouragement Roman missed oh-so much. 

Roman cleared his throat, straightening himself up. He could suddenly feel the ghost of Thomas mirror his movement in a lag. 

The role didn’t even need Thomas to sing, but Roman did as he was told anyway. Maybe he had to play along to hold this decision in his hands and save everyone. 

He smiled bravely.

“When you come home to me, I’ll wear a sweeter smile, and hope that for a while you’ll–” 

“FAIL.” 

Roman blinked. But he was perfectly in tune with– 

“FAIL!” Patton screamed at him again, lunging forward over the table, which split in two. The sound of the piano above them began to eerily croak.

“Patton, I–” 

“YOU FAILED!” Patton pointed at him as the accusation slipped his lips. Yellow poison leaked from the corners of his snarl and the piano went out of tune into a mess of sharps and flats. 

Deceit sat still. 

“DISHONOURABLE.” “WRONG.” 

The words suddenly began to layer over each other in what felt like an infinite descending tone.

“YOU SIDED WITH THE VILLAIN AND–” 

“HOW COULD YOU LET HIM GET AWAY WITH–” “WHAT KIND OF HERO–”

Roman finally tore his feet from the ground in shock. When he looked down at what initially bounded him, he saw yellow snapdragons coated with blood from his ankles, which was now pierced with thorns. The red and the yellow was so sharp– too sharp– in the midst of the black and white of the audition room.

On the broken piles of flowers he stepped away from laid the ghost of Thomas; on his knees and shaking.

“–FAILS?”

He felt tears slip down his cheeks and freeze into sharp crystals digging into his skin. In front of him was a broken dream, a broken man, the wrong choice–

And in the corner of his eye, Roman watched as Deceit grinned;  the line extending his smile cracking. 

Out through the cracks leaked blood. 

–– 

“i was shown a few things I'd been getting wrong she told me i’m a good man and have been all along

by the way I heard her say, ‘there’s no such thing as time it’s all a figment of your mind’."

–– 

Roman’s scream ended when he was flipped upside down,  now standing at an altar with a bouquet of yellow carnations.

The tears from the audition room were no longer piercing his skin, but they lingered as static in the form of a sticky residue. He was very certain that he was going to kill Virgil once he got home. This black and white world was somehow too bright, too daunting. 

And he left him alone in it.

Roman focused his vision on the new sight in front of him, holding his bouquet tightly like some kind of chilling reminder. 

A bride and a groom were walking away from the altar, their backs facing him. People were in the crowd, throwing the same yellow carnations into the air. It was a happy sight, despite the monochrome tinge. Violins sang brightly in what felt like the perfect photograph. 

Perhaps this was the choice Virgil was talking about; the one he’d leave with; the one he really wanted. Yes, he could want this. Maybe he even needed this.

Because at the end of the aisle was Patton, black and white with a sharp grin. 

Another layer of violins was placed on top of the pre-existing ones. 

“kiddo, i’m so proud of you!”

Roman’s breath hitched, holding the bouquet tighter. Mary Lee and Lee were already gone, yet everyone kept throwing their flowers. 

“you’re so good.  so good.”

“my hero.”

Roman broke into a wide grin. This decision felt so close. Patton’s voice felt like a rush of summer air in the midst of a cold, winter night. The words felt like they were close– so close– to carrying Roman on his back closer towards this decision; like they were already spinning the hands of the clock back and–

Patton suddenly became blurry in his vision, and a green figure appeared beside him, 

holding a dead Thomas by the neck.

Shit.

A familiar cackle cut through the illusionary Shepard tone created by the violins, which once played a sickly sweet melody in his ears. Roman looked at Remus, horrified, and then at Thomas. 

Thomas was wearing his wedding outfit — Roman recognized it because he helped choose it, of course. And it was beautiful. 

But at its seams were falling ashes; crispy burnt ends to such a beautiful suit. 

And Thomas was white as a sheet, slowly crackling away in embers where he hung.

Remus’ grin was made of bloodied pearls, his white streak cracking and spreading in patches to other parts of his hair. He threw the Thomas corpse– was he really dead?– onto the ground and pulled back his morning star by both hands, ready to strike–

Then Patton stepped between Remus and Thomas, holding his hands over his face to catch the spikes of the morning star before it could finish its swing down. The violins shrieked with Patton and Roman watched as his hands began to bleed upon contact. The flowers were still being thrown, as if to celebrate this horrible victory.

Patton, struggling against Remus' persistent force, let out a heartbreaking sob.

“...how are we still being hurt?”

“why is he getting worse?” 

“he shouldn’t be here, thomas is good–”

“–because you chose this –”

Roman’s heart broke when Patton stiffly met his eyes.

“what more are you going to do to stop this?”

Roman started to run towards the horrid sight, almost against his will. The violins hung above him, the chords pulling him back by his wrists, still attached to the bouquet of yellow carnations.

And he was screaming; screaming Patton’s name and crying as the petals of all the flying flowers slashed sharply at his face. The aisle seemed to make itself infinite, as of stringing Roman along on a treadmill moving too fast. 

He could see the outline of Remus amidst the slowly-paling flower flurry; bright green with a thick red puddle pooling around his feet. He saw the outline of his grin, blood dripping from each tooth.

Patton’s voice was barely a whisper, yet was loud enough for it to echo all around Roman’s head.

“you’re not doing enough.” 

“he has to be stopped.”

“stop this, hero, stop–”

And when Roman finally reached the end of the aisle,  Thomas was nothing but ashes on the floor. 

Patton stepped towards Roman, who slowly backed away. No no no no no–

Then, Patton grabbed the bouquet he was holding.

Roman gasped and looked down. Patton was bleeding red, palms cracked with scars and holes from Remus’ weapon. 

He at least tried to save Thomas, Roman suddenly realized. What did I do? 

Patton’s hand pierced the thorny stems of the carnations and his blood mixed with dripping green venom. 

His tearful eyes met Roman’s.

“...what did you do?”

The air around Roman thinned. He looked over Patton’s shoulders and saw Remus, grinning and holding up his bloodied morning star. 

It was on fire, and it caught onto the white cracks in his hair.

––

“waking with eyes closed from technicolor dreams crystal kaleidoscopes were singing blue and green

realer than real in front of me if only you could see what i could see”

––

Roman was fa(i/l)ling. 

He was stuck in a spinning kaleidoscope; and circling him were shattered fragments of the horrible decision he made– the decisions he could make. 

The memory of Deceit’s blood-soaked smile in the audition room. 

The sight of Remus grinning with fire crackling embers in his hair. 

The thought of Patton, glitching into two with his hands holding his head, being torn apart.

The view from below the towering gate (the lightning shattering the glassy sky)

and Virgil, standing in front of him with white cracks in his eyeshadow, pulling his hand back from Roman

to wrap himself in his old hoodie.  

The violins had stopped and the piano had paused. What did this mean? Roman tried to hold himself around his feeble body — if he even had one right now. 

No. He shuddered if he even could– no he was real. He was here, he was real,  and he was failing. 

Anxiety crawled through the cracks in his vision. He was straining his eyes trying to look at each fragment of his mistake. What did he need to do, what did he want to do, what was right, what was–

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

NO! Anything but this, he wanted to plead. This wasn’t it, he was supposed to be good– he couldn’t fail– what has he done?!

Suddenly, each fragment snapped and cracked in front of him, the kaleidoscope shattering piece by piece. 

And reflected in each broken shard was Roman.

Paranoia’s voice echoed in his ears: 

“Then why did you leave with this?”

––

“i slowly found my body, color began to fade i heard a piano playing a knowing serenade

this world feels backwards to my open eyes ‘cause it's all a figment of my mind.”

––

“–atton, if you touch him, you run the risk of–”

“–ET ME GO! ROMAN! ROMAN, WAKE UP, PLE–”

“–fucking stupid, how could he be so–”

Roman gasped, feeling himself seize up and face darkness. His head suddenly ached and he rubbed the spot he hit as he heard a low grumble from his left.

“Roman!” Patton. Roman shuddered. Patton’s sobs made him want to keep his eyes closed even more. “Roman, open your eyes, you’re home.” 

“Patton, you mustn’t alarm him.” That was Logan. “And Virgil, are you okay? See, this is why I told you not to stand so close...”

A part of him was reassured to hear logic return to him. The nightmare must be over then, right?

He blindly grabbed to his left, as if to apologize to the side he hit, and felt stitches crossing in small x’s on fabric. A sigh of relief; there was Virgil. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” Virgil’s voice sounded so distant, yet so clear. “You could’ve gotten hurt, going there alone–”

“Now what did we say about alarming him.”

“Roman.” Patton’s voice stung the most, an echo of the hell he just fell through. “Roman, open your eyes. It’s me– it’s us.”

And so Roman obliged, like he always did with Patton. 

…

When Roman opened his eyes, he saw that he was back in his room, lying on his bed, staring at a blurry, white ceiling. As he sat up, Patton’s sobs grew louder and Logan’s breath hitched. 

Virgil stayed quiet.

“What is it?” he asked groggily. Patton dissolved into more tears. Roman watched as Logan, sliced in half by navy blue and grey shards, held Patton close. 

“Guys?” he asked again. He looked at Virgil and frowned. Some patches were grey, why were they–

Roman gasped, pushing past his family and turning his back on their grief. He made his way to the mirror in the corner of his room, tearing the hair in front of his eyes aside. 

And staring back at him in his cracked mirror were irises split in half. 

Black and amber.

-

click here for a new and improved masterlist of all my writing if you’re interested ^v^

[theotherbloodfart]

Token Pt 3

This is part 3 to the request made by @craftygoateeprincess. Part 4 gone be a fluffy just fyi

WARNING: VIOLENCE

“Now, how have you been, little Ellie?” Pennywise's grin is demonic, the words slopping out like the saliva, as he brings his hands forward in front of his chest, touching every finger tip to its opposite on the other hand. He walks forward and to the side of her, stalking her, forcing her to scramble to her feet in order to be able to face him and keep him in her line of sight.

Then, without warning, and faster than she can fathom, he is directly before her. He plops onto his bottom with a soft silky sound, his finger tips still touching. She’s looking down at the cracks on his forehead within his receding hairline as he slowly angles his face, now smooth and devoid of any malice, to bring his now periwinkle blue eyes to meet her own eyes. As if he’s openly trying to appear less threatening.

“I’ve…….. Been alright.” On impulse, she drops to her own bottom before him, mirroring his actions as she touches her fingertips together and rests her chin on the tips of her thumbs. He looks visibly taken aback by this action.

“Did you miss me, Ellie?” His brows are raised and his face tilts slightly with this question.

“More than you’ll ever know. And…. We gotta look pretty silly sitting like this, in the middle of the street.” Ellie stiffles a giggle. Pennywise merely gives her a dour look.

“No one shall come.” His tone isn’t threatening, but quite calm. “Why have you come back to Derry?”

She thinks about lying. She really does. Thinks about some socially acceptable and meaningless answer. Then dismissed the thought just as quickly. He’ll know she’s lying anyhow. “You, Pennywise. I came back to see you.”

“Foolish.” The answer is rapid fire and caustic, but Ellie feels no ire.

“Why?” she questions. “And what about you? Do you ever think about me? I think about you a lot. You saved my life. And I’ve never forgotten.”

His face is completely blank for several moments. “I was going to kill you, Ellie.”

She should probably feel afraid. Yet, she doesn’t.

“But you didn’t. You saved my life. And you saved me again this night. And I thank you, Pennywise.” Throwing caution to the wind, she lurches forward onto her knees, wrapping her arms around his neck, burrowing her face into his neck ruff. It is more stiff than she remembers. But his reaction is just the same. She feels the weight of his long arms as he drapes them over her shoulders, resting them on her back. He’s not returning her hug. But he’s not outright refusing it either.

Releasing him, she stands, brushing dirt off of her ruined pants. Turning her back to him in a blatant show of trust, she stands her bike up. It’s surprisingly unharmed. She mounts it, turning her head back to him, fully expecting him to be gone. But he’s still sitting, cross legged, his hands now folded in his lap.

“I’m gonna go home now. Will I see you again?” She can’t help the hopeful tone in her voice.

“Yes. Yes I think you will, Ellie.” His voice is raspy and dark.

…………………………………………………

It watches her pedal away, It’s mind clouded and thoughtful. What is wrong with this human? She is clearly defective. Not an ounce of fear. Not even discomfort. The girl had been FAR more afraid of that sniveling weak whelp It'd peeled off of her than she was of Itself.

It tilts It’s head curiously at an emanation of the girl’s scent still in this area. It wafts from an object in the gutter.

………………………………………………

As the weeks go by Ellie can’t seem to get RID of the clown.

He just appears out of nowhere. Sits and watches her. Not engaging in conversation more than answering her questions. And even these answers are caustic and clipped.

“Where did you come from?”

“You could never understand.”

“Do you have a true name?”

“My name is Pennywise.”

“This could not have POSSIBLY always have been your name.”

“You could not possibly pronounce my true name, child.”

Ellie never loses interest tho. He’s fascinating. And SO distracting. And eventually he begins to ask questions.

“Why do you do that?”

“Put on makeup? Because I like the way it makes me look.”

“It makes you look like one of those nocturnal mammals.”

Ellie stops and turns, raising a brow. “You BETTER not be talking about a racoon, Mister MoreMakeupThanADragQueen.”

“This is just my face, Ellie.”

The way her heart flutters at hearing her name coming from him makes her mess up her eyeliner wing.

Each day, the feeling of being with him never fades. Never goes stale. She’s always just as thrilled to see him as she was the first time.

This is how her mind is occupied when she goes to peddle her bike across the street one night, during a red light. And this is how her mind is occupied when a drunk driver ignores this red light…..

……………………………………………

It studies the soft object in It’s hands. Squeezing the thing softly and sniffing it and studying it. Reaching out It’s mind to comb her thoughts as It often does now. Her thoughts are on It. They nearly always are. It cannot understand her obsession. It cannot understand It’s own fascination with her. Squeezing the object again, thoughtfully, It examines this fascination.

It has never received such attention before. Has never felt this feeling of adoration from any being. Only fear and repugnance. It supposes It should end her. Free itself of her. Yet, the thought of NOT seeing this inquisitive creature anymore…… of NOT listening to her voice as she talks about her day, as she queries It of the silliest things……… of NEVER seeing another being's eyes widen and nostrils flare with inherent pleasure at It’s presence……… the empty idea is distasteful.

It is now that her thoughts spear into It’s mind of their own accord. FORCING their way in. As if she is CALLING for It. It drops the object It has been holding, closes It’s eyes, and focuses all of It’s will upon her mind.

FEAR. The first It has ever felt from her. And the images are so FAST. One moment she is humming, kpop she refers to this kind of tune, and watching the concrete of a street, now wet from a recent rain, glisten by to the glow of a street light. The next, she���s looking at 2 lights. Brighter than twin suns. Bouncing along like inferior deadlights. An engine snarling as terrifying as any sound It could make. And then pain. Searing awful pain. It is concentrating so hard on what she’s seeing that It’s own gloved hand reaches up to clutch the silk at It’s belly in response. Then her mind is dark. Not sleeping. Not dreaming. Not conscious.

When It’s eyes snap open, they flash the purest crystalline blue. It has never felt worry. Has never wanted to PREVENT any act of negative import upon another being. But this rapid and thoughtless end…… this will not do. Must not happen.

A brief glimmer of will transports It to her side. It ignores the screech of brakes applied to tires. Screams of shock and terror at It’s instant presence matter not one wit to It. The drunk driver stumbling out of the car is nearly invisible to It, his apologetic cries and mumbling the equivalent to the clicking of ant legs and just as insignificant. The only thing that holds It’s attention is her broken form slumped upon the concrete.

Striding over to her, It kneels, touching her shoulder. The fingers of his gloves come back glossy with blood. It places It’s hands upon her side and pulls her to her back. She’s slack jawed and very pale. It can hear her fluttering and weak heart. Can see a large bloody wound upon her stomach. Watches the life force pouring from her.

“Hey! I’m sorry! She came outta nowhere, I swear!” the drunkard touches the clown’s shoulder.

Placing both palms protectively upon Ellie, Pennywise whips his face around, his eyes blazing vermilion, his jaws flayed impossibly wide, and sinks innumerable fangs into the forearm of the man. The sickening snap of a dislocated elbow joint is heard as the clown jerks his face away again, a large chunk of the man’s flesh coming with it. Then only shrill screams are heard as the man stumbles away, clutching his injured arm to his chest. Pennywise spits the meat out as if it tastes of shit.

Ellie coughs and splutters beneath It. As It nuzzles her cheeks, the foreign blood on It’s cheeks mixing with hers, It does not realize that the pitiful mewling and keening sounds It is hearing are coming from It’s own chest. They flutter up to the heavens to mix with the wailing of approaching ambulance sirens.

Pulling It’s face back, It calms as It begins to assess her more clinically. She is bleeding. She is dying. This simply will. Not. Do. It can only destroy. So It must destroy the blood.

The screaming of the bystanders behind It annoys It and disturbs It’s concentration and with a careless flick of It’s bloody hand, the adults freeze and stare complacently. A quiet and solemn audience to a very dark miracle.

Placing It’s fingertips upon the gash in Ellie’s stomach, It focuses on her blood vessels. On each and every torn and flawed capillary. And WILLS the bleeding to die. WILLS the destruction of her injuries.

…………………………………………….......

Ellie is floating, adrift in a sea of pain. But even this is nothing compared to the eruption of FIRE within her belly. The exquisite agony of FLAME blooms here like a blazing flower perched upon the slopes of hell itself. She screams, yet her jaw does not move. She weeps, yet her eyes are dry. She is motionless in a torrent of blazing DEATH, yet she does not die.

And then, even her consciousness goes numb. Swirling into the stream of stars surrounding some unfathomable interdimensional world she cannot comprehend. Resting in a dream where she is laughing and tapping the noses of these stars. Sitting in the silken lap of a silent protector. She leans into him and forgets all.

When her eyes finally open, she sees the white ceiling above her hospital bed in muted light from her bedside table lamp.

She learns that her survival was impossible. That she should have bled out there in the street. But, for some reason, all of her major bleeding points had been…….. Cauterized. And for some reason, none of these logical minded surgeons are questioning this poignant information.

But none of these things are what she remembers the most. All she can focus on, even as they are telling her these things, is the dirty clown plush on her bedside table. It smells of sewer and looks as if it has been handled quite a bit. She thought she’d lost it during her conflict with Webby. Thought she’d lost it to the gutter. But here it is. Mottled and grimey and adorable as ever. She could not possibly know how often Pennywise has clutched at it while thinking of her.

When she gets out of the hospital, she rushes home, knowing she’ll find him there. And she’s right. As she bursts thru her front door, she sees him standing in her living room, hands behind his back. Standing stiffly, as if he’s done something wrong.

And she just doesn’t care. The joy inside her chest, wrapping around the burn scars upon her belly, is nearly painful in it’s intensity.

“Pennywise….” She feels tears prickling in her eyes.

“Ellie.” His periwinkle blue eyes meet hers.

“I love you.”

[ilovemesomekillianjones]

Holding On to Pieces of Us - Chapter 3

SMUT advisory! @spartanguard I am so excited to see what you have up your sleeve for this chapter. Thank you @hollyethecurious for beta services rendered. @kmomof4 CSSNS fucking rocks, thank you! I put in my cut line!!!!!! **Edited to include what @spartanguard had up her sleeve! Go check out her fabulous manip here. 

Ch. 3      Rating E      8.5k words     ao3     ffnet   Tumblr:  ch. 1    ch. 2

Emma was woken by loud pounding on her door and two concerned voices yelling her name. Rising from the couch she squinted at the blazing sunlight filtering in through her window. “Coming!” she shouted with annoyance.

“Oh my god, Emma! Where the hell have you been?” Mary Margaret’s words were as strong as the hug she wrapped Emma in. “We’ve been so worried.”

David hugged both women, sighing in relief, “Thank god, you’re okay.”

“I’m fine guys.” Emma broke away from the group hug, and sheltered her eyes while walking to the window to draw the curtain.

“Where were you?” Mary Margaret pressed.

“Wait, how’d you know I was back?”

“Your car is in the driveway,” David said as if it should be obvious.

Emma’s eyes went wide, before quickly schooling her features. “Geez, I’ve been gone like a day. I went for a hike after my appointment and got stranded in the rain, I decided to find high ground and rough it.” She immediately regretted mentioning the appointment when she saw both of their eyebrows raise in expectation.

“So? What’d they say?”

“I have uh… it’s just a vitamin deficiency. In fact, that reminds me, I have to go pick up my prescriptions.”

“Come out with us for breakfast, first?” Mary Margaret asked.

“No, I can’t, I have to shower, when I got home last night I went straight to bed. I’ll catch up with you guys later, okay?” She wasn’t trying to be rude as she ushered them toward the door. But she had to figure this out. How the hell did she get home? How was her car back? How much time had she lost?

“Alright, we can take a hint,” David said, throwing his arm around her shoulder and giving her a half hug. “Dinner tonight?”

“Perfect.”  

“Our place or yours?” he asked.

“Mine.” Emma slapped a smile on her face, ready to agree to anything just to get them out of the house.

“And never, ever do that to us again. Call or text… or something.”

“Got it, mama bear,” Emma ribbed Mary Margaret. “Who knew I’d have such wonderful parents as an adult, after a childhood with none.”

“I’m going to start taking that nickname as a compliment,” Mary Margaret laughed.

Emma just rolled her eyes, smile still firmly in place until she shut the door behind them.  

“What the hell?” She was more confused than ever now. She’d finally gone completely off the deep end and created that alternate universe where it was just her and Killian, but she had also blocked out a complete period of time where she would’ve had to drive herself home.

Deciding to investigate, she walked out to her car, but not before donning her darkest pair of sunglasses. “It’s so fucking bright,” she muttered, the irony was not lost on her that the weather was in direct opposition to her current mood.

Opening up her car, she sat down in the driver’s seat and was immediately assaulted by his scent. It was just as strong as her imagination had conjured last night. She was about to go back inside when she noticed that the seat was scooted too far back, she pressed the toggle to adjust it to her settings.

Reaching over to grab her jacket from the passenger seat, she startled slightly as she remembered she also wasn’t able to account for how she’d come to be in different clothes than she’d worn yesterday.  When she lifted the jacket a piece of paper fell in her lap, picking it up Emma was bewildered to see Killian’s unique handwriting.  

Swan,

Please forgive me love, I did not want to leave you last night. I have been away from you for too long and I was ill prepared for your presence. I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to control myself. As promised, I will return to you tonight.

Yours,

Killian

“Oh my god! It was real?” Emma’s free hand flew to her neck, praying for the mark upon her body that would further prove he existed.

Grabbing all her belongings that had been magically waiting in her car, including her phone Emma raced back into the house.  Her heartbeat was frantic as she approached her bathroom, hand still caressing her neck.  When Emma looked in the mirror and revealed the area, she was exhilarated to see two faint puncture marks. She didn’t even care if it was insane. Killian was alive! Well, technically undead, but he was still in this world.

There was so much to do. She started with a long, hot shower where she washed away the grime from her wilderness trip and the anguish of a year. After dressing in leggings and a tank top, and primping for the day, a day where she would see Killian, she cracked open her laptop. She researched everything she could about vampires, searched the world wide web like an addict, until her stomach audibly protested its neglect over the last two days.

Steak, Emma thought. Steak sounded beyond divine. She didn’t really feel like sitting out at a restaurant by herself, yet she didn’t want company, at least not the company of anyone who was available. Running to the grocery store she bought a family size pack of boneless ribeyes and headed for home. She pulled out all she needed to prepare one of her favorite steaks, thinly sliced garlic inserted into slits in the steak, marinated in worcestershire and barbecued to medium well.

The moment she set to her task though she felt as if she was going to lose her lunch, a lunch she hadn’t eaten. Chalking it up to being over hungry, she forewent the prep.  Emma practically skipped outside to light the barbecue and threw the slab of meat on the grill. It smelled divine as she waited impatiently for it to finish cooking. Medium will do, she thought as she plated up her very plain steak.

Emma cursed her impatience as she felt the sting along her skin from standing too close to the barbecue for too long. As she cut into the steak though, she realized she couldn’t have been standing there too long as the steak was rare, not medium, or medium rare, but rare rare. And it looked delectable.

She practically moaned when the first bite graced her palette. It was so tender and juicy… and bloody. Her eyes popped open, having closed them in delight of the first taste.  “No way,” she murmured. Sensitivity to the brightness of the sun, aversion to garlic, skin tingling after standing outside, eating a bloody steak? “Am I…” Emma’s hands shot to her mouth where she felt her teeth, no fangs, she thought with an air of disappointment.

She laughed out loud at the absurdity of her situation. Either she was experiencing some post bite symptoms, or she was psychosomatically exuding vampire traits.  Either way, what the ever loving fuck? She’d been ready to call it quits two days ago, now she had a renewed vigor for life, or whatever she would be living with Killian.  Because yes, she already knew her answer. She wasn’t going to live without him for one more moment, she was going to embrace a future with him, even if it was different than the one she’d hoped for a year ago.  

Emma spent the remainder of her day researching more about vampires and tidying up her place, even the bedroom that she hadn’t slept in for a year. She had every intention of bedding her man tonight, she would’ve last night if given the chance.  She freshened up and dressed for the evening while the sheets finished drying, then made the bed. Dusk was settling outside and her body tingled in anticipation. She chuckled when she heard the knock on her door.  He was earlier than she’d have thought was possible for him to be out. But perhaps so long as the sun wasn’t shining, he was okay, or maybe he was just as impatient as her.

“You don’t have to knock, you’ve obviously taken to coming and going as you please,” she called out as she walked to the door.

“Hi!” Mary Margaret and David greeted enthusiastically.

“Hi,” Emma croaked, after staring blankly at them for a good five seconds.

“And what do you mean coming and going as we please?” Mary Margaret questioned.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure we were more than entitled to stop by this morning after you went missing,” David added. “And we’re invited tonight!”

“Right, of course, “ Emma said. “I thought you were somebody, uh, nevermind. My mistake, you are most definitely allowed to check up on me, and yes, I did in fact invite you over tonight.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. What could she tell them, she couldn’t say she forgot, or wasn’t feeling well. She was all dolled up, hair, some light makeup, a dress, heels. Shit!

“You’re so dressed up... oh my gosh! Do you have a date tonight? You look like you’re ready to go on a date. Oh my god, she has a date,” Mary Margaret gushed. “I’m so happy for you, Emma! Let us get out of your hair.”

“I don’t have a-”

“Give her the wine, David. Maybe she and this mystery man want to get a little liquored up.”

“I don’t-”

“Do we know him? Nevermind, details tomorrow! Let’s go honey,” Mary Margaret told David all but pushing him back through the still open door.

“I don’t have a date,” Emma yelled, then softly added, “as such.” Because really, how was she going to explain that she was going to see her missing boyfriend who was now a vampire? How was she going to explain that her friends weren’t going to see her again? She wasn’t questioning her decision, of that she was one hundred percent decided. But the finer points, the particulars, those were going to take more thought than she’d even thought to consider.  

“You got all dressed up for us?” David asked suspiciously.

She wasn’t going to lie to them, but she didn’t feel like just busting out with the truth was going to help matters either. David would have her 5150’d before Killian got there. Turning swiftly, she headed to the kitchen where she uncorked the bottle of wine, took out three glasses, poured every last drop evenly between them, promptly handed her guests their drinks then drank deeply before either could offer up a toast.  

“Look, I don’t know how to possibly say what I need to say without you both thinking that I need to be committed. I’m just going to have to show you. But while we wait, let me tell you about my appointment.”

“You’re kind of not making too much sense, Emma, are you sure you’re okay?” Mary Margaret asked.

“I’m sure I am going to be,” she answered cryptically.

“What are we waiting for?” David asked.

“You’ll know it when you see it, of that I am sure.”

“Ooookay,” Mary Margaret drew out her word as though she already thought Emma was crazy. “Then while we wait for the big reveal I want to hear about these vitamin deficiencies and what the doctor is doing to fix them.”

“Well we still have to eat right? How does steak sound?”

The Nolan’s both nodded their heads signaling that steak sounded great. “I’ll go light up the grill,” David said. He barbequed the steaks while Emma and Mary Margaret prepared a salad and roasted potatoes.

After some small talk about office gossip and the latest cases while dinner was prepared, the trio sat down to eat. “So, Emma, what’s the news?” David asked.

“So, it turns out I don’t have any vitamin deficiencies after all.”

“Well that’s good news,” Mary Margaret beamed.

“I actually have stage four brain cancer,” Emma said, cutting into her steak and avoiding eye contact. She didn’t want to see their pity, but this could hopefully bolster the support she would want from them when it came time to tell them when, why, and how she was leaving them.

Mary Margaret’s fork and knife clattered to her plate and she fixed Emma with a stern glare. “That’s not even funny!”

David just stared at Emma, mouth slightly ajar, silently assessing her demeanor.

“It’s not supposed to be funny, M. It’s not a joke.” Emma spoke in a low voice before glancing briefly at her friends pain filled eyes.  Hopefully Killian would get there soon so she could tell them that despite her diagnosis, she was not sentenced to death.

“What are the treatment options? When do you start? How can we help? We’ll have to talk to HR to get you taken off the rota-”

“David, I, uh, I’m not going to seek treatment, it won’t be nece-”

David stood up from the table so hastily that the chair flew back and tipped over hitting the floor with a clatter. “What the hell do you mean you’re not getting treated? Over my dead body!”

Mary Margaret began to sob loudly in her seat as David stood with his hands on his hips, face red with anger. This was not at all how she had seen things playing out. Where the fuck is Killian? “As I was saying, treatment won’t be necessary.”

“Why the hell are you just giving up?”

“I’m not giving up. I… I promise this will all be explained in just a few minutes.  Let’s just finish our dinner.”

“I’ve lost my goddamn appetite,” David cursed, causing another loud sob to burst from Mary Margaret who could count on one hand how many times she’d ever heard her husband curse. He calmly turned around, picked his chair up off the floor and pushed it in, then walked outside.

“Oh, Emma,” Mary Margaret sniffed, “please tell us what we can do to change your mind.  You just have to get treatment. Not even trying is like giving up hope.” Reaching her hand across the table she squeezed Emma’s. “Back when Killian... disappeared, I- I don’t remember everything. But I remember that whatever happened snapped something inside of me, I broke… but David came to see me everyday, and then you came to see me. And I knew I had to fight. I knew I needed to hope for the best. Believing in the possibility of getting better could be a powerful- holy shit! Daviiiid!!” Mary Margaret screeched at the top of her lungs.

Emma listened as her friend started in on one of her hope speeches, when suddenly Mary Margaret paled, cursed, then screamed for her husband, all right before her eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted right out of her chair before Emma could do anything.  

“Bloody Hell!”

Emma’s head whipped around toward Killian’s voice, “Thank goodness you’re here!”

“Maybe I should come back at a better time?”

“NO! This is the perfect time. The shit has hit the fan, David is ready to haul me to the hospital to receive involuntary treatment, and Mary Margaret is about to preach hope like never before.”

“What the hell is going on?” David shouted running in from out back. “What is the scream- Who… I… Wha- Emma, what the fuck? Is this why you’re all dressed up?”

Emma couldn’t help it, none of this was good, but it wasn’t bad either, she giggled. “I told you, you’d know it when you saw it.”

“This isn’t funny Emma, my wife is passed out, and you’ve taken to finding a stand in for your dead boyfriend. No offense,” David added cordially, looking at the man in black leather.

“None taken, mate,” Killian smiled.

“Wow, you really do look just like him, and you got the accent down. Is it real, or did she ask you to talk like that?”

“I assure you, it’s real.”

“David!” Emma chastised. “I didn’t ask him to do any such thing. This is Killian, the real Killian.” Emma was now on the floor with Mary Margaret’s head cradled in her lap. Her friend was still out cold.

“Enough, Emma. Do you have any idea what this could do to her if she wakes up and this rent-a-Killian is here, do you even remember what happened to her when he disappeared?”

“Of course I remember,” Emma snapped. “I remember every painful moment of the last year.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“I’m not doing anything. He’s real, David, and I don’t care if you believe me. I can explain everything if you’d give me the chance.”

“Fine, but I want him out of here for when Mary Margaret wakes up. I don’t want this putting her back in the hospital.”

“Fine,” Emma answered petulantly. Apparently not everyone was going to warm up to this development as quickly as she had. “Can you wait in our room, just for now. Please don’t leave though, Killian?”

“As you wish,” was all he answered before he vanished from the spot he had been occupying.

Emma rolled her eyes, “He always did have a flair for the dramatic, wouldn’t you say?”

David didn’t answer. He was frozen in his spot, jaw hanging open, eyes wide as saucers.

“Close your mouth, you look ridiculous.”

David snapped his jaw shut then scrubbed both his hands over his face and through his hair. “Just what the everloving fuck is going on, Emma!”

“Keep your voice down! Your wife is going to have a meltdown if you don’t get your foul mouth under control.”

“She’s already having a meltdown! Explain. Now.”

Emma stood up and grabbed Mary Margaret below each arm, “A little help?”

David grabbed his wife’s ankles and they moved her to the couch. Returning to sit at the table, they stared at each other for a moment before Emma began the whole tale. Everything from her hallucinations that weren’t hallucinations, to Scarlet’s arrest, to her diagnosis, to her trek into the woods, to the discovery that Killian was their vigilante killer, and finally to what he was and what he could offer her.  

“Now if you need more proof that it’s really Killian, then you’re going to have to talk with him. I’m sure there are things he can say or do that will convince you.”

David’s jaw was having a hard time staying in the correct position tonight. He felt as though he might need to physically hold it up. Either Emma was completely mad, or the world as he knew it was changed forever. He looked over at his sleeping wife, wondering if she’d be able to handle this development, and was startled to see she was awake with silent tears spilling down her cheeks.

Rushing to her, he knelt down by her side and slid one arm under her back and one under her knees. “Come on, it’s late, let’s get home.”

“No,” Mary Margaret whispered. She sat up and looked first at Emma, and then at David.  “I want to know. I need to know if it’s him.”

David sat down next to his wife, and wrapped her hands in his. Looking at Emma with a pleading look in his eyes, he beseeched her one final time. “I want to believe you, Emma. Really, I do. But if this is some kind of hoax, or twisted reality you’ve created, I’m begging you to stop it now.”

“I swear to you both, it’s not,” Emma vowed, while walking over to take a seat.

“Are you sure, hon?” David asked Mary Margaret who nodded her head vigorously in response. “Bring him out then.”

“Okay.” But before Emma could even call his name, he reappeared, this time sitting on the loveseat along the opposite wall of the couch, right next to where Emma had sat down.

“Oh!” Mary Margaret yelped, hand clutching her chest.

“Sorry, Snow.”

Mary Margaret’s sharp inhale morphed into a slightly hysterical laugh. “Oh my gosh! It’s him!”

“What?” David and Emma asked in unison.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Emma started, “I know it’s him, but what the hell happened in point five seconds that has you convinced?”

“He called me Snow.”

David and Emma shared a confused look.

“It’s an inside joke,” Mary Margaret said. “When David took me to Cabo for a week, I came back bragging about my tan. Killian laughed at me and said I was still white as snow. He even went so far as to show me that his arms were still tanner than mine and he hadn’t even had to leave dreary Maine for it. Ever since then he’s called me Snow.”

Emma laughed at the simplicity. “Well there you go Sir Skeptical, your wife is a believer. And here I always thought he was making fun of you because you always get so excited when it snows.”

Looking at David, it was apparent that he was still a bit unsure.

“Come on, mate. What do I have to do to convince you? Your favorite drink is the daiquiri, even though you rarely order them because you don’t want the guys to laugh at you. You have a thing for fairies, Tinkerbell, Crysta, even the fairy godmother in Shrek. You prefer loose fitting boxers to boxer briefs because you don’t want your boys to suffocate, oh and you... eh, you like that thing the wifey does… you know with her pinky fing-”

“Alright, that’s enough Jones!” David’s blush shot from his neck to the tips of his ears.

Mary Margaret burst out laughing, while Emma had a look of distaste on her face, “TMI Killian, but you got him! He’s a believer.”

David finally let out a chuckle. “Of all the shit you know about me, you chose to start with those?”

“You could’ve stopped me at anytime, Dave.”

“I’m starving,” Mary Margaret cut in, “let’s eat and you can tell us all about the past year.” She sounded so enthusiastic one would think she was talking to a friend who’d left to explore the world.

The four settled at the table and Killian regaled them with his tales from life as a vampire. Although he left no detail out, he did make sure to censor the gorier parts.

“Lately I’ve been exploring Cartographer’s Bluff. Do you remember that portal I told you about Swan? When we took our first camping trip?”

Emma nodded, while Mary Margaret and David looked at him cluelessly.

“I’ve heard rumors for years that there’s a portal to another… realm, a place where a diverse spread of supernatural beings live. It’s why the maps we look at show more land than we see when we are hiking.  That land does exist, but it was cursed, locked away beyond a portal that isn’t visible to the human eye. Supposedly the supernaturals lived in secret among humans for years, but over time people started to suspect something otherworldly about the community in general and so they decided it best to go into hiding to protect themselves.”

“Have you found it?” Emma asked.

“I did, it’s a very faint field protecting the area, but I can see it. I haven’t had the nerve to crossover.”

“Why not?” David asked. “Don’t you want to see what else is out there?”

“Of course, but I guess a part of me always wished, or hoped that I’d be with Emma again. I don’t know if the portal is open to come and go as I please, or if I’d be trapped there forever.”

“You’ll always have me now.” Emma reached out for his hand and squeezed it when he laced their fingers together.  

“Ha!” Mary Margaret exclaimed. Placing her hand on top of both of their hands she smirked at Killian. “Guess you can’t call me Snow anymore, seeing as I’m waaaay more tan than you now, and I didn’t even have to leave dreary Maine to do it.” She laughed heartily as she mocked his own words.

“It would seem you are correct, it only took my death to achieve this feat,” he deadpanned.

Mary Margaret’s laughter immediately ceased, and her eyes turned down sadly.

“Snow, it was a joke. Please forgive me, it’s too soon for such flippancy.”

“No, it’s not that. I just… it made me realize that your solution to Emma’s condition is to make her a vampire. Does that mean that you two will leave?” The woman’s big green eyes filled with tears again as she contemplated losing her friend.

“We haven’t thought that far in advance,” Emma said hurriedly, trying to head off a huge discussion before she and Killian had a chance to discuss it themselves. “I promise you both I won’t disappear again without telling you where I’m going.”

“Emma and I still have a lot to figure out, but you guys will be the first to know outside of us,” Killian added.

David and his wife both nodded their heads solemnly, taking their friends at their words. After finishing dinner, cleaning up, and the reiteration of promises, the couple took their leave. They were wise enough to know the couple needed this time to formulate their plans.  

As soon as the door shut Emma turned to Killian and launched herself into his waiting arms. “Don’t ever fucking do that again!” She hugged him with all her might and relished the feel of his arms wrapping strongly around her.

“Oi! Such language. You kiss me with that mouth?”

“You’ve never complained before.”

“I suppose not. Now what is it I’m not to do again?”

“You are never to disappear or magically poof me away and leave without a word again.”

“It was for your safety. I was having a hard time controlling myself with you, always have.”

Emma looked up at him with a seriousness in her gaze, but momentarily found herself lost in the bright blue hue of his eyes tonight. “Your eyes are so blue tonight, they were pale yesterday.”

“I wasn’t properly prepared yesterday. Tonight my thirst is quenched I suppose you could say.”

Emma huffed, and broke from his embrace.

“What is it?”

“How? I mean, you didn’t drink that much from me last night. I don’t want you to… you know. You don’t, like… I mean… are there others?”

Killian just stared at her as she continued to stumble over her words. “What is it you’re asking, Swan?”

A rosy shade of pink colored her cheeks as she realized she was going to have to come right out and ask. “Are there other girls?”

“Other girls for what?”

Emma rolled her eyes at his obtuseness, silently cursing him for making her a jealous brat. “Do you drink from other females?”

Killian burst into laughter, his eyes alight with love for this girl.

Emma’s mouth dropped open, then she spun on her heel and stormed to the bedroom.

“Wait up, love.” He got to the door just as it was slamming closed and stopped it with his foot. Emma was laid out on her back, arms folded across her chest, staring at the ceiling.

Laying next to her on the bed, he took it as a good sign that she didn’t tell him to leave, or even turn away from him when he slowly crooked his arm across her stomach. “Emma Swan, are you jealous?”

She growled in irritation, but still didn’t turn away. “No,” she muttered petulantly.

“I think you’re jealous,” he crooned.

“Well what the hell do you expect, I mean you were hard as a rock last night when you drank from me. You think I want you doing that with someone else?”

“Mmmm I was,” he growled, splaying his hand across her stomach, “but you know what darling? I was hard as a rock because it was you.”

Emma turned her head, “Yeah?”

He nodded his head. “After I left you here last night, I knew I couldn’t see you again without first quenching my thirst. Remember the stockpile I have at the, what did you call it? House of horrors? I drank my fill before seeing you tonight so I could control myself.”

Emma giggled at the title and at assuming the worst. How could she so quickly forget the mini blood bank he had back at his place.  “Sorry,” she whispered sheepishly. Turning her body toward his she scooted further into his embrace.

“Nothing to apologize for. I imagine I’d feel the same if you were to let someone else taste you.”

“Well, you don’t have anything to worry about, I don’t know any other vampires.”

“Maybe I wasn’t talking about that kind of tasting.” Killian arched his eyebrow and licked his lips.

Emma watched as he transformed from man to vampire, his fangs clicking into place in the blink of an eye. Her heart rate soared, but not out of fear. As surreal as this all still was, she was turned on by his fangs, as was proven by the swirl of want she felt between her legs at the thought of him tasting his fill of hers.  “Oh, that’s only for you.”

“Only me? Even after a year?”

“I don’t know if I’d have ever moved past you, Killian. I might’ve become an old spinster. But I assure you, after only one year, yes, only for you.” Leaning in, Emma touched her lips to one fang, then the other before taking his mouth.

Killian groaned into her mouth when he tasted her tongue on his. He tightened his hold at her lower back and kneaded her flesh, wanting to feel more of her. “Your soft, wet, mouth tastes just as delectable as I remember.”

He’d always loved to kill her with words. She felt that familiar swell low in her belly, and she pressed into him further. “What else do you want to taste?”

“Everything you have to give.”

Their eyes mirrored each other’s, beautifully colored irises, blue versus green, barely visible around wild pupils.  “Take it,” she whispered. Before she could take notice, Killian transported, where he had been laid beside her he was now standing next to her side of the bed. Emma took the hand he offered her and stood up with him.

He removed his black leather jacket, then took both Emma’s hands and placed them on his chest. She didn’t need to be led further, Killian had always enjoyed when Emma undressed him, with her eyes and especially with her hands.

Slowly caressing the planes of his chest, down to his abs and then back up again, Emma pulled the shirt from his jeans at the same time, then set to the task of unbuttoning it. With each new bit of skin that was exposed she felt new want blossoming. Her hands caressed his pecs, fingers skimming through his thick chest hair, then moved up to his shoulders to push away his shirt.

Even though he couldn’t blush, she saw a shy modesty bloom under her scrutiny.  He still had his tells, she noted as his hand came up to rub at the back of his neck. A sure sign he was a little shaken. “Just as gorgeous as I remember,” she murmured. Moving forward, Emma inhaled deeply at his neck then feathered light kisses along the column of his neck as she deftly unfastened his belt. “I missed you so much,” she whispered into his skin as she unzipped him.

“I missed you too, my love.” Taking her face between both hands he brought her mouth to his to cement his words.

Emma slid his pants down his hips and thighs while he kissed her senseless. She felt his hard length against her stomach and couldn’t help the giggle that stole from her mouth.

“What’s so funny?”

“No blood, no heartbeat, and now no knickers? I seem to remember you had quite the collection of those hot little boxer briefs that packaged everything so… deliciously.”

“Perhaps I forewent my knickers for your easy access.”

Emma laughed again, “Good idea. Goddamn you look so good. You’re just missing one thing.”

“And what would that be?” He quirked his eyebrow as she unfastened the necklace, his necklace, she wore.

“I want you to have it back, now that you’re here to stay.” Emma stepped behind him and fastened the necklace for him. She kissed his neck and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I also want to feel it drag along my body when you’re on top of me,” she whispered into his ear.

An involuntary shiver coursed through his body at her seduction. Then she was gone, the warmth of her body no longer pressed to his, and he found himself desperate for her touch.

When she walked back around him, she faced away from him, toward the bed, then swept her hair upward with both hands signaling Killian to unzip her. The dress fell to the floor seamlessly, and she whipped back around to face him, without warning she jumped up and clung to his body. He caught her as if she were a feather. “So it’s true what they say? Vampires have super strength?”

“Aye, there are many things that are different about me now, Swan. We could discuss them all at great length if you’d like?”

“Uh-uh, not right now. We have more important matters to attend to.”

“Such as?”

“Shut up and get inside me, Killian Jones.”

“As you wish.” He laid Emma out on their bed and crawled between her thighs, then kissed her lips once, before setting to leisurely teasing every inch of her body. He ran his lips down her neck before feasting on her breasts like a man starved, all the while inhaling deeply, her scent like a lifeline.

Just as she’d wanted, Emma could feel the delicate drag of the pendants on his necklace along her throat, then down her sternum as he kissed his way down her body. “Hurry up,” she whined. “It’s been a year,” she added when he chuckled at her impatience.

“Don’t I know it,” he murmured. “Let me enjoy these a bit more.” He sucked and teased his fill before moving further down her body, finally settling where she wanted. Killian massaged her hips, up and down her rib cage, then placed his mouth upon her.

The moan that emerged from Emma would have embarrassed her if she wasn’t busy being so impatient and greedy for his mouth. She fisted her fingers into his thick hair, encouraging his actions.  

Killian hummed his approval into her folds when her delectable taste graced his tongue. He worked her quickly, but expertly, his tongue seeking everything she had to give. He brought two fingers to her entrance, soaked and ready to be penetrated and slid them in without warning at the same time as he sucked her clit between his lips.

“Yes,” Emma gasped at the sudden but welcome intrusion. It’d been far too long, and she was on the brink of utopia from just one thrust of his digits. She bucked her hips to meet the curve of his fingers, the wet slide music to her ears. The sound of sex had always been a turn on for Emma, and after a full year, it was as though the sense was heightened.

Killian added a third finger to her divinely swollen flesh and delighted in her cries of passion as she immediately came. “That’s it love, let me hear you.” He coaxed her through her aftershocks, waiting patiently for her to come down. “Hearing you get off is second only to watching it, Swan.”

“Then allow me to come again… for your pleasure.” She smiled like the cat that got the canary, before adding, “Tell me how you want to watch me come.”

Before Emma could process a thing she was straddling his waist while he lied out on the bed. “What the-”

“Super speed,” he shrugged throwing his hands behind his head.

“So that’s true too. What about super stamina?”

“Oi! My stamina was always super.”

Emma collapsed onto his chest in a fit of giggles. Her vampire boyfriend was still a drama queen. “Oh, Killian. That wasn’t a complaint.” She braced her hands on either side of his head and pushed up so she could look down at him. “I never had any complaints in that department,” she purred as she slid her still wet folds up and down his length. Emma watched as his eyes rolled shut. “You like that?”

“Fuck yes, you’re so warm and wet. I want to feel you wrapped around my cock, love.”

She kissed him briefly then licked and gently bit her way along his jawline. “As you wish,” she murmured into his ear.   

Killian’s eyes sprang open as he didn’t want to miss a moment, she just felt so good. He watched as she braced her left hand on his chest and gripped his shaft in her right to line him up to her. His cock strained as he felt the warmth of her entrance, and he swore she was teasing him. “Ride me, Swan.”

Hearing those words brought back a flood of memories, so many nights spent making love. Torn between slamming home and making him beg, Emma slowly sunk down onto him until he was fully sheathed. She didn’t move, she needed to adjust to the way he stretched her, she also wanted to savor the full feeling she’d been deprived of for so long.

Killian didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes again until he felt her forehead rest on his. He brought one hand to her hip and the other to the back of her head. “I love you, Emma.” He punctuated his words with a fervent kiss, hardly giving her a chance to answer.

His words and ardor spurred her to action and she withdrew her hips before gliding back home again. Emma alternated between kissing him and watching him. The muscles of his body moved smoothly under his skin as he guided her hips. She got lost in the way his arms flexed, his stomach tensed and settled, the tick of his jaw, and she thought watching him in the throes of passion might be the most gorgeous thing she’d ever witnessed.

Killian moaned and whispered encouragement and obscene words to her as she worked herself closer to another peak. He was mesmerized by the way her breasts bounced as she rode him, but only when he could pull his eyes from her expressions of heat, happiness, and wonder that all made their way across her face. He knew the moment she reached that crescendo, when she threw her head back in ecstacy and called out his name. And again, hearing her come undone was second only to watching. Pumping into her still, Killian’s orgasm started to crest through him and he was inundated with a maddening desire to bite and feed from the woman who’d just thoroughly ravished him.

Emma watched as Killian’s release took him. He was beautiful, but something was just slightly off. His eyes paled a shade, and he looked slightly feral. Then it dawned on her. “Drink,” she commanded. And once again she found herself in a new position without experiencing how she got there.  She was laid out on her back and Killian was poised above her now, still thrusting deeply into her. She didn’t say anything, but only swept her hair aside and offered her neck.

Without another moment’s hesitation Killian sunk his fangs into her tender flesh and pulled deeply from her thrumming vein. Her breathy moans had him fucking into her harder, as he realized she loved his bite. The swell of her walls against his cock had him seeing stars until he finally let go and let the pleasure take him on a ride.

The moment her skin was pierced Emma entered a state of euphoria. She felt pleasure course throughout her body, settling in every nerve ending. The way his fingers grazed her skin was perfect, the way his chest rubbed against hers was perfect, and the way he stroked against her clit with every thrust was perfect. Her whole body tensed as she sensed Killian’s orgasm, and then a wave of pleasure like none she’d experienced before swept her up with him, and her body relaxed as gentle wave after wave washed through her.

Not for lack of want, Killian withdrew his fangs from her neck.  “That was…”

“What ha-”

They both chuckled at the utter fuckstruck tone to their voices, and Emma collapsed against Killian’s chest.

Running his hands through her hair he enjoyed the warm press of her skin against his cool body. “You are so warm. I’ve missed you so much, my love. Tell me you’ll stay with me forever?”

If he had a beating heart it would have stopped at her hesitance to answer. Taking in a deep breath he didn’t technically need, he tried to find his center again. “I understand. I didn’t mean to pressure you, please know that I will accept any decision you make.” He kissed the top of her head, then rolled them so they could get comfortable.

There was something off with the way her body rolled so listlessly as he moved them. “Emma, are you quite alright?” Brushing her hair away from her forehead he saw that her eyes were open, but glazed as if she wasn’t seeing. “Emma, love, wake up,” he shouted as he shook her gently. Killian checked for her pulse, but even with his heightened senses could only detect a weak and fading pulse. He couldn’t comprehend the thought of losing her after he’d only just got her back. But he couldn’t fathom turning her without her permission either. “Please, wake up. Tell me what to do,” he pleaded. Holding her limp body tightly to his, he prayed to any god who might hear him for Emma to wake.

“Emma!” Killian was sitting up in bed holding her tightly with his forehead rested on hers. She was still breathing but it was shallow. He pressed his lips to hers and a broken sob spilled forth. Emma’s whole body jerked in his arms as she struggled to inhale.

“Breathe love, just breathe,” he soothed her.

“What happened?”  

Killian still had her held tight in his arms, unwilling to let her go. “You tried to leave me, you were barely breathing, and your pulse was almost nonexistent.”

“Why are you bleeding?” Emma brought her hand to his face and brushed her thumb across the drops of blood on his cheek.  

“Shit, sorry. Will you be okay If I go to the bathroom to clean up?”  

Emma nodded her head. “I’m fine. But why are you bleeding, did I hurt you?”

“Of course you didn’t.” Killian stood up from the bed and raked his hand anxiously behind his ear.

“There’s that blushless blush,” Emma teased as she watched him. “What is it, bashful?”

“I thought I was going to lose you,” he whispered. “Crying is a messy affair when you’re a vampire.”

“I’m not going anywhere, all you would have to do if I was dying in your arms is turn me, then there’ll be no getting rid of me.” Emma stood up off the bed and held her hand out to him, “Let’s get cleaned up. If that’s what comes out of your eyes when you cry, I’m sure I need to bathe after what we just did. Unless you’re ready for round two.”

“I’m always ready for you, but we need to talk first.”

“Fine,” Emma sighed, knowing that serious Killian with his good form, morals, and integrity was going to make an appearance.

~CS~

“Are you hungry?” Killian asked as he dried his body.

Emma watched his naked form as he toweled off, her eyes were quite focused as she enjoyed the show. “Only for you,” she murmured as she slipped on her silky robe.

“On the contrary, I can hear your stomach,” he chuckled.

“Stupid vampire hearing,” she muttered while drying her own hair. “I can eat anytime, I’d rather make up for the last year by having you again.  I haven’t gotten to... you know.” Licking her lips she crudely gestured a blow job, then smiled devilishly as he began to harden before her.

“Naughty vixen,” he smirked, “I promise you, once we’ve talked, if we move forward together-”

“What if, Killian?” she interrupted. “There is no if, only when.”

“Well then, after we talk, when we move forward together, you’ll have an eternity to suck my cock.” He waggled his eyebrows at her scandalized expression, while throwing on a pair of his old worn sweats.

Emma feigned offense before bursting into giggles. “I love you, you filthy animal.”  

“Come on.”

Before she could make another attempt to lure him back to bed, he poofed them to the kitchen where she was sitting on the counter watching him practically warp around the kitchen while preparing her pancakes, eggs, and sausage. She was almost dizzy.

Once he’d prepared her plate he swooped her up and transported them both, food and all to the back patio. “Now we talk.” He sat her in a chair at the small dinette and sat across from her.

“Talk, talk, talk,” Emma rolled her eyes before scooping a bite of pancakes into her mouth. “Mmmm, just as delicious as I remember,” she commented through a full mouth.

“So classy.” He watched as carefree Emma returned. She’d been such a shell of herself over the past year.    

“Shut up!” she laughed, punching him in the arm. “Actually don’t shut up, you talk all this talk you need to talk, and I’ll eat.”

“As you wish. All the things I am about to say aren’t to discourage you, but I do need to say them, because I want you to really think it through before you make your decision.”

“Okay, I’m all ears.”

“No more food to start, you won’t be able to enjoy those light and fluffy pancakes, nor your beloved garlic steak. No sunlight... tanning, the pool, the beach, all gone. A warm body will be a thing of the past, and no more beauty sleep, not that you ever needed it. You won’t be able to be around humans for a long spell, it’ll just be you and me.”

Emma reached across the table and entwined her fingers with his. “I don’t see the problem with any of that. I would give up food, sleep, my warmth, my heartbeat, the sun, moon, and stars to be with you.”     

“Fortunately you wouldn’t have to give up the stars, Swan.” Killian squeezed her hand lovingly as he gestured toward the star laden sky with his other. “We can always enjoy this. Alas, those are the more superficial things. We would never be able to stay anywhere forever if we intended to live among the living, they’d realize we were different if we maintained our youthful good looks for too long. You’d have to watch every human you love die, eventually. And… no babies.”

Emma contemplated his last two thoughts as she pushed around the bits of food left on her plate. For the majority of her life she hadn’t wanted kids, she’d never had a mom and was quite sure that she didn’t know the first thing about how to be one. Only once Killian had come into her life had she even considered kids, they’d discussed it a time or two. Ultimately, had everything worked out happily ever after, they probably would’ve had a couple kids. But now, the fact was, she wasn’t going to have kids either way, she probably didn’t have nine months left to try, and she could handle that.

“David and Mary Margaret,” she murmured, they were a different story. Her eyes watered as she thought about them growing old and eventually dying as she and Killian would remain never changing.

“I can… enthrall them, I suppose you could say.”

Emma stared at him blankly.

“You know, enchant, glamour, hypnotize them.”

“To do what?”

“To forget. Everything about us, it would be as if we’d never existed in their minds.” Killian watched silently as an array of emotions flitted across her face, a bit of sadness, some nostalgia, and even the hint of a smile.

“No, I can handle it. I don’t want you to… mess with their minds. Wait! Have you messed with my-”

“Never love,” Killian cut her off, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Emma stood up and tugged on Killian’s hand. “C’mon.” She led him to their swinging loveseat.  After guiding him to sit criss cross she sat opposite him so they were facing each other. Grabbing both his cool hands in her warm ones she laced their fingers again placing them in her lap, and looked into his eyes.   

“I know you may think I am being quick to jump, and flippant, but Killian, I know in my heart that I’m making the right decision. Some might think me weak for not moving past your death, but the fact is, I could have moved on, I just didn’t want to. I had no desire to live in a world without you in it. You were, are the greatest and only love of my life, I had no desire to move past that. I would have lived out my life however I was able to navigate without you, but now I don’t have to, and nothing you can say or do will change my mind.”   

“Gods I am blessed, if a demon like me can be blessed.”

“You are not a demon,” Emma whispered, wiping at the bloody tear that traced the curve of his cheek.

“Knowing all that you know now, I don’t understand how you can still love me so unconditionally, but I swear you won’t regret it for even a single moment of our eternity.”

“Good.”

Pulling Emma into his lap he threaded both hands into her hair and pressed his forehead to hers. “I love you, Emma Swan.”

“Prove it. Take me back to bed.”

“One track mind,” he chuckled.

“Better yet, who needs a bed. Take me right here, vampire.”

“You’re amazing, Emma.”

“I love you, Killian Jones, enough talking now.”

Tagging: @onceuponamirror @teamhook @artistic-writer  @courtorderedcake @jarienn972 @therooksshiningknight @ultraluckycatnd @resident-of-storybrooke @captainswan-shipper88 @winterbaby89 @cssns please let me know if you’d like to be tagged, or removed from the list. 

[short-grumpy-and-useless]

3rd person POV

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

Harry Potter's day started out like any other. Well, for him that is. That morning the neighborhood was silent and the sun shone brightly over the residents of privet drive as the early-birds started to move around, though most were still asleep. Such was the case with the inhabitants of number 4.

The night before Vernon Dursley had beaten a certain undeserving inmate of the dwelling into a bloody pulp. But then again, that really wasn't a surprise as it happened quite often. So today Harry woke up to horrendous pains all over his body and someone shaking his shoulder frantically. 'Oh god, mmpphh, everything hurts, my whole body is on fire! why are they shakin' me so hard?! Why would anyone be awake at this unholy hour?' And that's when he heard an all too familiar voice. "Harry! Harry, wake up!" whisper-yield the chubby boy kneeling in front of Harry as he shook him again, though more violently this time. Harry groaned and sat up, trying to wipe a sticky, gritty substance from his face. He sat there disoriented and, frankly, quite grumpy trying in vain to get the foul stuff off his face, when it didn't come off he pulled his hand away to look at it. What he saw there made Harry wake up fast and put his stomach in knots. Some of his fresh and dried blood was mixed into a sickening concoction of thick, rusty-red colored, lumpy liquid dampening his already grimy fingers.

Harry wanted to throw up his non-existent dinner as he looked at the floor around him to see it drenched in liquid of the same color. It was his blood and there was a lot of it. Harry sat there wondering how he was even still alive. "Harry are you ok?" Harry gave him a disbelieving 'did you really just ask me that dumb-ass question?' look. "I mean I know that you're not but you were looking really green for a second there." "Yeah, I'm fine Dudley. Just forget it." he said to the newly named Dudley.

Dudley cast him a skeptical gaze, his blue eyes that usually looked like the clearest of seas lapping at the shore of a tropical island, now clouded with worry. "Fine. But, we need to clean up this mess before Vernon gets his ugly ass out of bed and has a cow," he paused thinking for a moment. "And a horse, and a goat," he added. "Hell, he'd probably have the whole bloody farm if he saw this." Dudley chuckled, brushing his corn-silk, blond hair out of his face, gesturing with his other hand to the floor, then to Harry, and finely to himself.

Harry frowned. "But what if he catches you helping me? Then he'll punish you and I can't let that happen, no matter what, you're too important for me to let that happen an-" "Harry, calm down, breath! nothing's going to happen just let me help you. Then you can go take a quick shower and change." After a few minutes of breathing slowly, in and out, Harry finely calmed down enough that he could talk. "You have to go back upstairs. Right now! I will not take the chance of you or Petunia getting hurt. Not again. Do you understand." Dudley let out a heavy sigh, but agreed. "Yeah, I understand. Remember you only have about an hour to clean and shower before that pathetic excuse for a human-being wakes up and continues his reign of terror." he sighed in a defeated voice, knowing there was no arguing with Harry when he went into this mind set, or as Dudley liked to call it, his 'momma bear mode'. With that Dudley quietly, yet somehow sulkily, padded up the creaky stairs as to not wake Vernon.

As soon as Dudley was out of sight Harry ran to the kitchen as fast as he could and grabbed a wash cloth and a bottle of cleaning solution from under the sink to clean the floor. As quickly and quietly as possible he ran back to the sitting room and skidded to his hands and knees in front on the massive, sticky puddle and dumped half of a gallon of cleaner on the carpet and started scrubbing it furiously, running back to the kitchen to rinse his rag every once in a while.

After a good twenty minutes of scrubbing the stain, it was finally gone. He put all his cleaning supplies away and remembering to stay quiet, he quickly ran up the stairs and into his room to grab his toiletries and some extra clothes before toppling into the bathroom and taking a fifteen-minute shower, being careful of his injuries. He scrambled out of the shower, dried himself, and began pulling on his clean clothes, that were honestly more like rags or potato sacks than anything.

As he was getting dressed he accidentally looked into the mirror, which he usually tried to avoid. His eyes skimmed over his appearance and he realized that this beating must have lasted a lot longer than he had thought. He had bruises and cuts all over his body. Not a single inch of his pail, paper-y, scared skin had been left without a mark, not even his face, which his uncle Vernon usually tried to steer clear of to avoid suspicion. Harry was much to skinny and short for his age, you could see it in the way his skin clung to his bones and how you could see his ribs, or how he was quickly approaching his fifteenth birthday and he was barely reaching 5'4" in height, which was about four inches below the average women's height. His emerald green eyes, which were usually faded at the best of times looked to be more the color of a rotting green apple. His wild pitch-black hair that has always been a messy rats nets now had chunks missing from where his uncle had taken a pair of kitchen shears to it.

Looking at his reflection he realized that he was lucky to have survived the night and that his magic was the only thing that kept him alive. Harry tore his gaze from the horrific image reflected in the mirror and finally finished getting dressed. He snagged his cracked and bent, round, wire rimmed glasses off the counter, then sprinted out of the bathroom and to his room to wait for his aunt to come and get him so he could make breakfast before starting his chores.

__________________

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

*Time skip to that afternoon*

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

That morning had been hell. Harry hadn't gotten a chance to wrap his most severe wounds so throughout the day they would randomly re-open and start gushing blood. Thankfully his uncle had left for work before this happened the first time otherwise Vernon would have beaten him even more. It was hard to do his work with his injuries and tiredness, but he refused to let Dudley or Petunia help and risk getting them in trouble, or at least he tried to refuse but he ended up loosing the argument because he was too weak from blood loss and malnutrition. To top it off he had accidentally burnt breakfast that morning while preparing it so Uncle Vernon was already pissed when he left for work.

Just then he heard a car pull into the drive way, the car door slam closed, then the front door as Uncle Vernon made his way into the house bringing with him the strong smell of alcohol. 'Oh no!' Thought Harry, 'He's back early! And drunk to boot!' Vernon stumbled drunkenly into the sitting room where Harry had been cleaning and stopped in his tracks, because there before him was his son, Dudley, helping Harry dust the China cabinet against the far wall.

Vernon swelled up, turning purple with rage. "What do you think you're doing, helping that useless boy with his work!" He thundered as he stomped across the room to where they stood. Harry and Dudley both shrank away from the furious man. Harry stepped in front of Dudley as a meager form of protection as Vernon reached them. Vernon grabbed Harry by the scruff and tossed him against the wall. As he hit the wall his wounds re-opened again, staining his clothes crimson with blood. He groaned and hurriedly scrambled to his feet, rushing at Vernon in a last ditch effort to stop him but Vernon simply picked up a vase from the cabinet next to him and smashed it against Harry's skull. Harrys head exploded in pain as a fresh wave of blood pored out of his scalp. His glasses flew off his face, and he fell to the floor, nearly unconscious but still able to see fuzzy shapes through the haze blurring his vision. The blurry blob that was Vernon Dursley stomped towards Dudley, raising his fist and brought it down on his cheek. Dudley fell to the ground and curled into a ball trying to protect his head and vitals while blow after blow rained down on him.

After a couple more strikes Vernon stomped over to Harry, leaving a black and blue Dudley whimpering on the floor. He grabbed Harry by the arm and dragged him out side. Vernon tossed Harry out in to the backyard at the edge of the woods, which was connected to the back of the property. Harry just lay there as he heard the door slam, too weak to get up. He registered that the sun was setting in the back of his mind. 'Oh, it's a full moon tonight, how pretty." He thought just before loosing conciseness.

—————————————

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

     *A two hours later*

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

Harry blearily opened his eyes as he slowly regained consciousness and sat up, letting out an animalistic whine from the pain. He painstakingly got to his feet and hobbled over to the back door to look in the window, not daring to even try to go inside. Through the back window he saw Vernon passed out on the couch with a bottle of whiskey in his hand, Dudley huddled in the corner of the room covered in dried blood and bruises, and Petunia no where to be found. He sat there for a while and just watched, getting lost in thought.

He was suddenly snapped out of his pondering by a low growl coming from the side of the yard where the trees and shrubs were thickest. He spun and stumbled away from the tall bushes that lined that side of the yard as a form of fencing. Harry quickly backed up all the way to the other side of the yard and into the tree line to get away from a large, almost horse sized black shape that was stalking him from where the bushes and the corner of the house met.

Harry slowly backed away from the looming figure and towards the large trees at the end of the frigid yard. The shadow only followed from a distance, still snarling and snapping. Then all of a sudden it lunges and Harry, pumped full of adrenaline, took off, running deep into the woods.

Flashes of trees, branches stinging his face and arms, rocks and roots trying their hardest to trip him, the hot breath of the beast behind him hitting the goosebumps on the back of his neck. Suddenly he burst into a clearing and spun, facing what he could now see in the silver pools of moon light was a werewolf.

Harry's breath came faster, his heart bea t picked up, adrenaline flushed through his veins, fear became clear on his face.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and school his features into a poker face. He could do this, Remus had taught him how to handle situations like this. He took another breath and studied the large wolf and by the look of it, it was an Alpha male, so he needed to go the submissive rout.

Harry slowly got down on his hands and knees, never braking eye contact. Then he tilted his head back, baring his neck to show his submission to the Alfa, just like Remus had told him too. The dark mahogany wolf wearily approached him and lightly at first, began sniffing along his collar bone, then he buried his cold, wet nose in Harry's neck, snuffing and snorting, trying to get a stronger whiff of his scent.

Suddenly Harry began to loose his balance so he tried to adjust his footing and a twig snapped under his foot. It surprised the Alpha causing him to go on the defensive and snap. He sank his razor sharp teeth into Harry's shoulder, mangling it. Harry let out a blood curdling scream as the wolf's hot drool mixed with his blood as it ran down his side and the venomous curse began to spread through his veins.

The spooked wolf released him and bolted into the night leaving Harry slumped on the ground. As another wave of agony washed over him he lost consciousness.

Again.

For the umpteenth time that week.

But oh well, at least he was still sane, right?

Right?

———————

Hi this is a continuation of the prologue I posted a couple months ago. I hope you liked it and I should be posting the next chapter soon. If you liked it please like, comment and share( but please don’t post on another app/website without my permission). Thanks for reading!

~Nico Phantom

[impala-dreamer]

Not Gonna Leave You

SPN FanFic

~When the hunt turns bloody, Dean stays by your side...~

Dean x Reader

1,246 Words

Warnings: It's Flangst. Angst with a smooth fluffy finish.

A/N: Thanks to @idreamofhazel​ for reading it over. I don't know what this is. I needed angst and it went all fluffy on me...

“You just sit tight, OK? Y/N! Look at me Sweetheart. You’re gonna be fine.”

Your eyes fluttered back open as Dean laid you down across the backseat of the Impala. Green eyes. So pretty. Like spring grass after a rain. No, that was too bright. They were a darker green. You couldn’t think of what they reminded you of, what name you could give to the color. Your head grew fuzzy again, your vision blurring as you tried to study on his face. You brought your hand up to cup his cheek, smiling as the world danced around you, shapes and colors falling in and out of focus. “Dean, you’re so pretty.” Your tongue was heavy and your words slurred. You laughed at the sound of your own voice; it seemed distant and unreal.

Dean’s face filled with panic as he watched your eyes begin to roll again. “Y/N! Hey, stay with me,” his voice pulled you back, giving you something to cling to. He pressed his flannel to the gaping wound in your stomach, attempting to staunch the blood flow. You’d already lost so much, he wasn’t sure how much longer you would hold on. “Listen to me.” He grabbed your hand and placed it on the shirt, pressing down. You winced with pain as the pressure sent a shock through your system, making you gasp. “You need to hold this.”

“It hurts,” you whimpered, pouting like a child in your dizzy haze.

“I know Sweetheart, just do it for me, OK? I gotta drive.” He pulled away, backing out of the car quickly.

You yelled and reached for him, “Don’t leave me Dean!”

“I’m not leaving Y/N. I won’t leave you.”

The door slammed and you stared up at the roof, tired again and desperate to fall asleep. The engine roared to life, and the tires squealed as Dean pulled away, speeding down the dark road. The car swayed, the bumps in the road rocking you gently. You closed your eyes for a second, just to see how it felt.

“Talk to me Y/N!” Dean called to you, trying to see your face in the rearview mirror. His knuckles blanched as he gripped the wheel; his heart beating loudly in his ears.

“Christmas tree,” you said with a tiny laugh.

“What?”

“Christmas tree. Your eyes are the color of a Christmas tree. So pretty. I wish I had green eyes. Mine are plain and stupid.” Your head rolled to the side on it’s own. It was hard to control your neck suddenly. Your gaze fell to the cracked black leather seat, and you followed a line from bottom to top, wondering just how many miles this old car had traveled.

“Your eyes are beautiful Y/N,” he answered, trying to keep you talking.

“Dean?”

“Yeah Sweetheart, I’m here.” He sat up, pulling himself closer to the wheel as he flew down the highway, on alert for signs for the hospital.

You sighed, another wave of sleepiness passing over you. “Do you think Cas will be able to visit me in Heaven?”

He turned around quickly, looking over his shoulder at you as fear ripped through his gut. “What? No!”

“Yeah, you’re right,” you laughed quietly as your eyes returned to the ceiling. “I’m probably going to Hell anyway. Hey, at least I’ll know some people down there.”

Dean growled, clenching his jaw and pressing the gas pedal to the floor. “You are not dying Y/N! Just hold on!”

“It’s cold in here. Put the heat on…”

“Y/N!”

~

The sun was shining brightly, blinding you with harsh, white light. You tried to raise your hand to shield your eyes, but you couldn’t move; something was holding you down, keeping your hand at your side. You wiggled your fingers and tried to pull away but you were stuck. Slowly you opened your eyes, peering into the painful light.

It wasn’t sunlight. Two long florescent bulbs hung above your head, encased in a plexiglass box. As your pupils closed, adjusting to the brightness, you looked down from the ugly drop ceiling to the thing holding you down. It was Dean.

His hand was wrapped around yours, his forehead pressed to the top of his own hand as he slept. You smiled and took in the rest of your surroundings, realizing he’d made good on his promise to get you help. A glance at the monitor by your bed confirmed your vitals were good, and you took a deep breath, making sure everything was working. You wiggled your toes, flexed your free arm and cleared your throat. You’d be fine.

“Psst…” You pressed your tongue to your teeth and called to Dean, not wanting to jar him awake. Poor guy had been through enough during this hunt and you knew he was exhausted. But still, you were going to need your hand back eventually. “Dean.”

His head popped up instantly and he sucked in a deep breath, his eyes rushing immediately to your face. A look of relief washed over him and he stood up, pushing away the chair to move up the bed to look you over. “Hey, how you feeling?”

You licked your lips and croaked, “Thirsty”

He laughed and turned away, bringing back a cup of water. He pressed it to your lips and you took a tiny sip. “Thanks,” you smiled. “You look like shit, you know that?”

Dean took the cup from you and sighed, “You should see yourself.” Slowly he sat back down and ran a hand down his face, wiping away the remains of sleep. He looked worn out and done; dark circles lined his eyes and his cheeks were shadowed with the beginnings of a beard.

“Why don’t you go get some rest? I’ll be fine,” you offered, tilting your head to see him better.

“Nope.” He grabbed your hand again, closing his warm fingers around yours. “I said I wasn’t gonna leave you, and I’m not.”

“Dean, I’m OK.”

He shook his head, refusing to listen. “Just shut up Y/N. You’re not getting rid of me.”

You sighed and tried again, “Dean,”

“No. Just stop it!” He scolded, “You almost died, don’t you realize that? I’m not going anywhere. I’m gonna sit right here whether you like it or not and that’s the end of it. I’m not gonna lose you.”

You agreed, silently. There weren’t any words you could say really. You smiled, grateful for his stubbornness, for his comfort, his caring, for him. He looked up at you again, his green eyes shining with wetness as he fought back his emotions; he really did care for you, you knew that, and the feeling was more than mutual. He was everything you’d ever wanted, and a few things you didn’t know you had. Dean Winchester had saved your life yet again, and this time you’d be sure and let him know how much you appreciated him. This time, you’d tell him everything.

“Hey Dean,” you started, suddenly nervous, but determined to try. “When they let me out of here, would you wanna… buy me a drink sometime?”

Dean chuckled, “Y/N Y/L/N, are you asking me out?”

“It’s quite possible. But I’m also on morphine, so…” you shrugged, grinning like a fool as he teased you.

“Yeah, I’d love to buy you a drink sometime.”

You smiled and looked away, trying not to blush too hard. “Cool.”

“Yeah, cool.”

  Forevers: @1-800-misha @amanda-teaches @arryn-nyxx @atc74 @autopistaaningunaparte @ayeeitsemry  @bea789 @because-imma-lady-assface @babypieandwhiskey @blanketmadeofstar @brewsthespirit-blog @britt-spn @buckysmetallicstump @bulletscrossbowpie @charliebradbury1104 @chaos-and-the-calm67 @chelsea072498 @cici0507 @clairese1980 @collectivekiera @cosmicpeanuthologram @createdbybadappreciation @cyrilconnelly @dannnyphantomm @dancingalone21 @deadinside-muser @deanxfuckingadorablexwinchester @demonangelimpala @docharleythegeekqueen @dustycelt @evyiione @faithfulpanicmoon @feelmyroarrrr @flowermisha @freaksforthewin @frenchybell @fuckyeahfeysand @gemini75eeyore @ghostkitty1103 @hamartiamacguffin @impalaimagining @im-super-potter-locked @inmysparetime0 @jpadjackles @jotink78 @kristaparadowski @kas-not-cas @katrodriguez99 @lavendellove @love-kittykat21 @luciisthebest @maddieburcham1 @mamaredd123 @mogaruke @megafrontliner311 @megansescape @mija-novella @milkymilky-cocopuff @mogaruke @mrsbatesmotel53 @mrswhozeewhatsis @my-life-is-here-soo @myfand0msandm0re @mysteriouslyme81 @naadestiel @notesfromalabprincess @notnaturalanahi @obi-wan-my-only-ho @pain-of-artifice @percussiongirl2017 @percywinchester27 @petrovadixon @pinknerdpanda @poukothenerd @riddikulus-obsessions @riversong-sam @sam-winchesters-long-locks @sarahgrace-1989 @scxrchy @smoothdogsgirl @spectaculicious @spontaneousam @summer-binging-spn @superbasementflower @supernaturallymarvellous @supernaturalyobessed @tennesseewhiskey-and-pie @thecynicalnerd @the-latina-trickster @therewillbeblood @tom-is-in-my-tardis @typicalweirdbookworm @thegreatficmaster @vine-colored-assbutt @whatareyousearchingfordean @wi-deangirl77 @wvnchxstxr @xxthevampirediariesexpertxx @yearoftheweasley @youtubehelpsmesurvive @@yvngkinggchristyy

The Dean’s List:  @anokhi07 @assbutt-fan @bringmesomepie56 @deangirl-withanimpala @delessapeace-blog @ellexirmalfoy @just-a-touch-of-sass-and-fandoms @leather-moccasin-hero @msdooos @mskitty416 @ruprecht0420 @soullessbabee  @tmccarney @torn-and-frayed @twoboys-and-afallenangel @vesperlady04   

[acenancy]

I don't know if you take prompts but if yes, I'd love a ff about the first Bellarke kiss. I hope that we get it in s4. How do you think that could happen?

Even though I’m answering this 7 months late…YES, I do take prompts. Lmao I’m so goddamn sorry. I just could not think of a way to write this for the life of me.

Also, this is actually NOT how I think a S4 Bellarke kiss will go down. However, I do think it will be…happy, if you know what I mean. I have yet to see one of Clarke’s first kisses be a happy thing. So, happy is kind of what this tried to be.

Like Petrol Soaked Paper and Fireworks (She Burns)

(ao3)

Fandom: The 100Pairing: BellarkeWords: 3874

The apocalypse isn’t as bad as Bellamy thought it would be.

Sure, the rain hasn’t turned black yet and the only cancerous lesionthey’ve come across is Jaha on his soapbox, but just knowingThe End is neigh should be enough to dampen moods, at the very least.

Which it has. Plenty of Arkadians have thrown their hands in the airand called it quits; they drink themselves into stupors, start brawlsfor the smallest reasons, spend entire days crying inconsolably intothe dirt.

It’s fair to say the news is devastating to pretty much everyone.

But truthfully? Since the moment Bellamy hit the ground, everyday hasfelt like his last one. Somehow, against all odds, it never has been.So this? The end of the world? It’s not the end of the world. This isnothing new. It’s just another fucking obstacle that needs to beovercome so his people can move on and get lives already.

Bellamy means that in the nicest way possible. Really.

Some people, however, have heeded his advice prematurely. They’vechosen to avoid jumping the hurdles to salvation and skipped straightto the victory party. Or maybe it’s a pity party. Bellamy isn’t surewhat to call it when you’ve given up on survival and decided tosimply…live. Is that what losing hope is? Accepting your fate andembracing every punch life throws your way with a bloody smile onyour face?

Bellamy understands the appeal, sure. Plenty of times he’s wanted tojust end the fight, let the universe have its way with him. “Gowith the flow,” Octavia would call it. The notion remindsBellamy of a boy, on his knees, begging a vision to kill him; of agirl, under a tree, not letting him surrender.

Bellamy never considered defeat until that night. He hasn’t eversince. The fight is ingrained in him like a bullet. It wakes him upin the morning and sets him moving, working, never contemplatingotherwise.

They say as long as there’s a will, there’s a way. Sometimes itfeels a will is all Bellamy has anymore. But he firmly believes thatyou can only have a will when you have hope to fuel its fire. ForBellamy, Hope happens to be sitting right in front of him, hangingonto his hand, the warmth of her cheek pressed firm against hisknuckles.

The apocalypse isn’t great. It’s not horrifically mortifying yet,either. What’s worse right now, for Bellamy, is seeing ClarkeGriffin sagging against him, her spirit wavering along the fine linebetween anger and despair.

“Do you still have hope?” she’d asked him

A gust of breath slips from her nose between his fingers.

“We’re still breathing,” he’dsaid.

Bellamy inhales, heavy and deep, when her lips part just theslightest against his hand.

Yes. Yes, he still has hope.

“I wish they did too,” Clarke mumbles against his skin. She tiltsher head so her chin rests against the back of his hand and she cansee him. “Do you think I was wrong?”

Bellamy knows what she’s asking. Was she wrong in telling Jasper tosettle down? To stop throwing ragers in the woods, sneaking awayrations of alcohol for the oddly happy nihilistic portion of Arkadia?No, Bellamy doesn’t think she was wrong. Jasper is wasting valuableresources and he’s putting himself and others in danger. He’sbeing stupid. Bellamy isn’t opposed to seeing Jasper happy again,but he needs the kid to find another way.

On the other hand, Clarke and Bellamy have bigger fish to fry than arowdy delinquent these days.

“I think we need to pick and choose our battles,” Bellamy tellsher, “and what Jasper does in the woods is the least of our worriesright now.”

Frustration flashes in Clarke’s eyes for the briefest of momentsbefore she casts her gaze to her feet. “I know,” she says. “Iknow. I just- I want-” Unable to get the words out, Clarke dropsher hands into her lap, shaking her head at the floor.

Bellamy sits on his haunches in front of her. He slips his hand alongher cheek, fingers light at the nape of her neck. His thumb sweeps agentle path across her cheekbone. “You want to look out for ourfriends.”

Clarke’s eyes, boring into his, roll dramatically before runninghome to Bellamy’s again. “Yes,” she huffs. “Like you don’twant to?”

Bellamy snorts. It’s impossible for them not to care about people,especially the people they fell from space with in a fiery tin can.You can’t break bonds made like that. Bellamy will watch over thosekids until his dying breath, even when they’re wasting their own.

“I don’t want them to give up,” Clarke concedes, shouldersshrugging stiffly. “After everything we’ve been through, aftereverything we did to get here…I don’t want them to let it allgo.”

“Maybe, if we do this right, they won’t have to.”

Bitterly, Clarke laughs. “Will anything we do even matter if theydon’t want it? If they don’t want to be alive?”

Holding her gaze, Bellamy leans in closer to her. “I don’t thinkthat’s the issue, Clarke.” Eyes desperate, Clarke watches him,waiting for him to say what she needs to hear most. “I think theywant this – the ground, their people, good times. To live.They just don’t believe they’ll ever have it again. So they’retaking it now.” Bellamy watches Clarke’s shoulders fall as sheexpels the air that’s been winding her up. “And that’s thedifference between us and them,” Bellamy presses on, “webelieve.”

They’ve leaned into each others’ spaces, Bellamy realizes. Theblue of Clarke’s eyes is piercing, freezing him. The rosy blushrising along her cheeks dances in Bellamy’s peripheral vision. Heknows, if the moment were right, he could close the distance betweenthem. He could press his lips against hers and take the next step inthis dance they’ve been ambling through since the Drop Ship. Theycould change the game right now. From the way Clarke is looking backat him, Bellamy can tell she knows it too.

Not here, though. Not now. Maybe not ever.But Bellamy hopes.

“Hey,” Clarke says. Her voice is quiet but sure, enough to breakthe weighty silence between them, “you want to go to a party?”

Bellamy ducks his head to hide the stupid grin devouring his face. Itdoesn’t work. When he peeks back at Clarke from under his lashes,he’s relieved to see his smile mirrored on her face.

“Why? You giving up?” he teases.

There’s no chance in hell she ever would.

“No,” Clarke says. She stands strong and ready to her feet. “Justgiving in.”

–

Jasper throws his End of the World parties sporadically, deep in thewoods, skirting the line between Arkadia and Grounder territory. Youcan always find them if you track the iron stench of moonshine andthe belligerent hooting that should attract vicious predators butmostly scares them away. Raven says the parties are a good timethough she’s only been to one of them, for an hour, and left whenMiles tried pouring liquor on her brace to make the squeak go away.

“Other than that? Fun,” she’d said, then, “Clarke would havea blast.”

Bellamy wasn’t sure if Raven was being sarcastic or not.

Clarke always claims she doesn’t know how to have fun, but bothBellamy and Raven have been privy to the rare moments when she’slaid down her armor and let loose. Fun radiates from Clarke in waveswhen she allows it to; flipping cups, tossing coins, cracking jokes –it all comes natural to her. It’s jarring, perhaps, to those usedto seeing the seriousness she wears like a second skin, but onlybecause she lays back so well. Who would have thought?

So Bellamy doesn’t think it’s far fetched to say Clarke islooking to enjoy herself tonight. It’s been a rough few weeks,after all, and though she’s never completely run away from herproblems, she has been known to hide from them when she needs to.

And what better place to hide from the end of the world than in thevery middle of it, surrounded by earth and humans and life livedfully?

“Come to shut us down, Officers?” Jasper greets when Bellamy andClarke trudge into a clearing.

There’s a bonfire blazing in the center, people sitting on logs,drinking around it. On the far side of the clearing is the rover,parked between two trees, music blasting from its speakers as loud asit can play. People hover near it, grabbing drinks from the trunk,dancing to the beat of the sound.

“How’d you get my car?” Bellamy barks.

“Last I checked, the rover is property of Arkadia.” Jasper leansforward, peering at Bellamy mischievously. “Do you come here asArkadia, my king?”

“We come as friends,” Clarke declares. She announces it, likefriendship is official business and not a refreshing drink at the endof a long day.

“Ah, friends,” drawls Jasper. “I didn’t realize thetwo of you remembered how to be friends.” He lifts his cupat them, wagging a finger between Bellamy and Clarke. “Even to eachother. If you know what I mean.”

Bellamy growls. “Watch it.”

Jasper raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, hey, we’re allfriends here!” Slowly, he backs away, smirking deviously as hegoes. “Just don’t be narcs, ‘kay?” With that, he turns hisback on them, stumbling to Monty and Harper who are wrapped aroundeach other by the fire.

Unperturbed, Clarke jerks her head to the rover. “Come on.”

The stares they receive just for being at this party don’t gounnoticed by Bellamy and Clarke. They’re aware that by now, to mostpeople, they’re viewed differently than most. They’re held apart.Bellamy supposes it makes sense. They took charge of the delinquents,and they eviscerated Mount Weather, and then they rescued theirentire people from a soul sucking A.I., and now? Now they’vetasked themselves with saving the human race. It’s not usual, no,even for your typical “hero”. But Bellamy still feels normal.Normal enough that people shouldn’t be watching and whisperingevery time he and Clarke happen to be near them. The whole thingmakes Bellamy’s skin itch. Part of him wants to take Clarke’shand and get the hell out of dodge, hide away forever. Mostly though,he wants to walk across the grass and grab a drink with his bestfriend, no worries, just like everyone else.

Stopping at the back of the rover, Clarke leans her weight againstBellamy’s side. “Relax,” she whispers. “Ignore them.”

Bellamy scoffs. “Ignore who? Everyone?”

She looks around, then back at him, lifting one lazy shoulder.“Yeah.” Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

With great effort, Bellamy trains his eyes on the barrel of moonshinebefore them, away from the crowd, and rolls the discomfort off of hisshoulders. “I’m gonna need more than one drink if you want me todo that.”

Thrusting a tin filled to the brim in Bellamy’s hands, Clarkelevels him with her eyes and says “so have more than one,” andclinks her cup against his.

And have more than one they do.

Despite having built up a tolerance to moonshine over the last year,it still only takes one drink for Bellamy and Clarke to becomepleasantly wasted. The eyes that were following them melt into spotsat the corners of Bellamy’s vision, and it’s with ease that heand Clarke step away from their secluded corner at the edge of theparty and move to sit with the delinquents. Maybe they’re all toodrunk to remember they haven’t gotten along in months, or maybeit’s simply this easy to fall back in love with old friends, butBellamy and Clarke have…fun.

Harper is goofy – something Clarke never had the chance to learn –and constantly has everyone doubled over with tears in their eyes.Jasper and Monty recount their adventures on the Ark, and Bellamy canalmost imagine he was with them if he tries to. Miller has just theright type of morbid humor to bounce off of Clarke’s and Bellamy’s,and even Bryan jumps into the conversation, enthralling everyone withthe story of how Miller was arrested while sitting on the toilet.

It’s only one more round of drinks before Jasper pulls Clarke toher feet, spinning her in a clumsy circle. Bellamy can only assumethey’re supposed to be dancing.

Half joking, he asks Monty how much Jasper has had to drink.

Proudly, Monty smiles, pointing to where Jasper is dipping a laughingClarke. “Eight cups,” proclaims Monty, grin stretching wider, “ofstraight water.” He must be amused by the look of surprise onBellamy’s face, because Monty laughs when he says “he’s notthrowing life away anymore, Bellamy. He’s grabbing it by thelapels.”

Jasper has one hand in Clarke’s and the other on her waist as hedrags them around the clearing, singing comically at the top of hislungs. Still shaking with laughter, Clarke can barely hold herself upas she falls against him, occasionally trying to sing along. Bellamywatches her, entranced. The glow of the fire highlights her in theshadows of the night, the embers of the flames flickering around herlike stars. Moon rays ignite the dark, break through the trees, andilluminate her, following her every move.  She’s always beenbeautiful, but like this, letting go, smiling on Earth with theirfamily, Bellamy has never seen her more radiant. She owns the dirtaround them and the grass beneath her feet; she sprouts straight fromthe ground, same as the trees behind her; she blows with the wind andshines like Polaris and Earth spins around her as though she’s thesun. Clarke sets the world in motion. She sets everything in motion.She moves him.

Miller coughs, dragging Bellamy’s attention away from her. “Youshould too, by the way,” he suggests. Bellamy squints at him,confused. Miller elaborates. “Grab the world by the lapels.” Hiseyes dart to Clarke, then back to Bellamy, and he raises his eyebrowsto make his point clearer.

Loving Clarke has never been about making a move, though. It’s beenabout standing at her side because she stands at his, about trustingher with everything, least of all his life; it’s about reachinginto the darkness and holding out a hand, guiding each other backinto the light. It’s a love peppered with soft touches and tightembraces, with understanding looks and dry teasing. It makes them thegreatest allies and the best of friends, and sometimes, when it hasto, the worst of enemies. Always though, no matter what, lovingClarke and being loved back, is everything they need, exactly whenthey need it. Having Clarke’s body against his isn’t necessary toprove that. All he needs is her heart and his, beating together, forthe world and for each other. That’s it.

“Don’t need to,” he tells Miller. Over Jasper’s shoulder,Clarke’s eyes catch Bellamy’s. The smile she wears is gentle andwarm and only for him. “The world and I grabbed each other by thelapels a long time ago.”

–

It’s cold on their trek back to Arkadia. Bellamy’s jacket isdraped over Clarke’s shoulders despite her promise that she’llmurder him if he freezes to death. He insists his buzz is enough tokeep him warm. It doesn’t hurt that Clarke is tucked into his side,sharing her heat, too. Bellamy pulls her closer, arms wrapped aroundher shoulders. He hides his smile into his collar when she reachesfor the hand dangling over her chest.

“I’m sorry I dragged you to the party,” Clarke apologizes.

“Sorry?” Puzzled, Bellamy looks down at her. “You didn’t dragme, Clarke. I said I would go.”

“Only because I wanted to.”

Scoffing, Bellamy leads them through the gates of Arkadia. “I don’ttake orders from you,” he reminds her.

She pinches his side where her hand rests on his waist.

“I don’t regret going,” Bellamy assures her. “I had fun. Morefun than I’ve had in a while.”

He senses Clarke’s apprehension as she shifts her body against him.“But you wouldn’t have gone if I didn’t want to go.”

“Would you have gone if I decided to hang back?” Bellamyasks.

Clarke hesitates, and that’s all Bellamy needs to know her answer.“No,” she admits.

“I didn’t mind going, Clarke,” Bellamy reiterates. “Like Ialready said, I’m glad we did. And I wouldn’t have if I didn’tthink we needed a break.”

“Did we need a break, though?” asks Clarke. She slips outfrom under Bellamy’s arm, turning to face him. She lets his handfall between them.

They’re standing outside the dilapidated station that leads totheir quarters now. The only thing disturbing the darkness shroudingthem is the burning torch hanging on the wall, flames licking thenight sky over their heads. A harsh gust of wind blows, sending itslight dancing down toward them. The glow it casts cloaks Clarke,haloing her head like a blazing golden crown. It matches the fire inher eyes and the sight sets one starting in Bellamy’s chest.

“Did we really need to go to one of Jasper’s parties?”she asks again. “We have so much mapping that needs to be donebefore we meet with the Glowing Forest Clan. Rationing, too. After wewasted all of last week dealing with Ice Nation, we can’t affordto shirk our responsibilities anymore. We can’t do this again,Bellamy.”

He fails to remember a time they ever did. “I think we should,”he says.

“Should?”

“Should shirk our responsibilities more.”

Bellamy takes a step closer to her, farther into the light of thetorch, sharing the warmth it bestows upon  Clarke.

With her eyes, she levels him, and warns him with his name.“Bellamy.”

“Clarke,” he mimes her. “What exactly is the point in doingwhat we’re doing?”

Her eyes practically bulge out of her head. Clarke blinks at him,baffled, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “To saveour people, Bellamy.”

“Why?” he prompts her.

Her voice is loud when she answers him, angry. “So they can live.”

“Yeah.” Bellamy points to the woods, in the direction whereJasper’s party is still raging on. “That is what livingis. That is what you fightfor every single day.”

Clarke stares off into the distance where Bellamy directed herattention. She soaks in the trees and the land and the sky like shehasn’t seen them in a lifetime; like she knew them once, but forgotthem, and just remembered how much they fill up her heart.

“We did need tonight, Clarke.” Bellamy’s voice is soft, almostlost on the wind. “We needed to remember why we do what we do.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” Clarke confesses. Hermouth flounders around words she can’t quite squeeze out yet. Hereyes are glassy with unshed tears. “I don’t even know who I amanymore.”

This side of Clarke is not new, but it isn’t one people see often.Clarke, so confident and sure, losing faith in herself and cracking.But, like she is for him, Bellamy is there, always, to catch herpieces as they fall and put them back together.

“You’re Clarke,” he says simply, “and you’re standing inthe cold with me, having an existential crisis. Sometimes you try tosave the world.”

Clarke battles the smirk struggling to inch across her face. Raisinghis brows at her, Bellamy waits for her to give in and let it. Whenfinally she can’t hold her smile back, Clarke scoffs at herself forlosing. Bellamy can’t bring himself to feel bad for her. His wordsgot through, after all.

“That was one of your more sub par motivational speeches,” Clarketells him.

Offended, Bellamy frowns down at her. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Whatever.” She crosses her arms over her chest, looking up athim with small wonder. “I don’t know what I ever did to makeBellamy Blake nice to me.”

For a moment, he considers answering sarcastically. That’s when witabandons him. Nothing about Bellamy and Clarke has ever been a joketo him, after all. And she’s done everything. She’s doneeverything for him, to him, with him. She had the nerve to challengehim, and she surprised him, and she showed him the world in anentirely different way; she rescues him from his demons, every secondof every day, and lets him return the favor; she thinks about him,cares about him, and she made him do the same for himself. Clarke haschanged Bellamy, completely. She ignited a spark in his soul, onethat was always there but dimming, and taught him how to make it rageuntil it set his world aflame in a fiery inferno, fueled by purposeand possibility.

Bellamy sags before her, melting. “You gave me hope.”

It’s not the answer she expected, he can tell. Her arms fall to hersides, mouth falling open; her eyes swell with emotion once more.“Bellamy…”

Like he hasn’t just confessed she set his world spinning, heshrugs.

“Bellamy,” Clarke says again.

She inches closer, cautiously, minutely. Her eyes never leave hisonce. Not even when their chests are brushing, and they’recentimeters apart, and he can feel her breath fanning across hisskin.

“Bellamy.” His name is barely a hush falling from her lips, butit shoots heat down his spine, straight to his toes.

Clarke’s rests her hands on his chest, sliding them feather-lightup to his neck. The air escapes Bellamy’s lungs in quick, shallowspurts.

“I only have hope to give,” Clarke says, breathing her wordsstraight into him, “because you gave it to me too.”

Bellamy doesn’t believe he’s heard anything quite as unreal andearth shattering in his entire life. Somehow, he’s acquired theunique ability to inspire a belief in something more in people. Heknows this. He’s used it as a weapon. He’s sent innocent peopleto their deaths with it. Though, Clarke would remind him, he’ssaved just as many with it, too. But he’s always thought Clarke,who lives on a totally different plane than a typical human being,was impervious to him. It’s the most beautiful and terrifying thingin the universe to learn she’s not.

“Clarke.” Bellamy chokes out her name like it’s strangling him.He can’t resist from framing her face in his hands, savoring thewarmth of the blush on her cheeks. She lets herself fall into him.

Breath mingling, noses bumping, they savor the brush of skin on skin,tangling themselves together. Bellamy counts the erratic beats of herheart besides his, waiting until they’re lazy, content. He openshis drooping lids to catch her eye.

It’s a question – are you ready? Should we really take this leap?

The corners of Clarke’s mouth tick up into an answer.

Then, under the light of the moon, beneath the flames of the torch,with love kindling deep within their hearts, they do.