#the tags were a mess holy shit i'm never writing so many tags on phone ever again

[zellk]

I have begun to ponder about Lana and Rena in Hades II... All the witches stuff suddenly makes it so fucking easy to add them in.... Hopefully some art to come about all this will come......

[billhaderlovebot]

to kiss the skin that crawls from you - barry berkman

this is an au in which the shade of the blood depends on what kind of person you are. the blood is black if you do bad things etc etc.

tagging @a-second-hand-sorrow ily

---

cuts and scrapes were normal in childhood, and the frost-white blood that flowed from them was equally as normal.

it was in childhood that the blood was the purest.

the purest white, like snow.

it didn't stay that way, though.

in adulthood, when thoughts and deeds were less than innocent, the shade of blood would change accordingly.

evil things would darken the blood, your mother had always said. evil things would make your veins run black. black like the soot in the hearth, black like the raven.

and you knew she was right.

because you'd seen it.

when the mumbling, shaking, erratic man who your mother had always kept you away from had sliced himself open in the street, blood like coal pouring from him, you had seen it.

as it ran down the asphalt and pooled in the gutter, you watched, in morbid curiosity, before your mother shut the drapes.

it wasn't until later, much later, that you had learned of the many bodies that man had buried.

your own blood, now, was still white, not as pure as it was when you were growing up, but that was to be expected.

you had nothing to fear when you fell and scraped your hands or cut yourself while cooking, because whatever you bled was acceptable and nowhere near dark enough to indicate you were dangerous.

you knew a startling amount of people, though, who were reluctant to do anything that could result in the breaking of the skin.

when they did happen to cut themselves in front of you, you chose never to judge the varying shades of grey they would bleed. blood tore whole families apart. everyone has a past. everyone makes mistakes.

everyone.

even him.

he had captured your full attention from the moment he had shuffled into your coffee shop, looking lost and apologising quietly every time he brushed shoulders with someone.

he was also very, very attractive, but that wasn't the point.

it was late, really late.

he leaned against the counter, pulling out his wallet, and uttered his first words to you.

"hi, uh... black."

"sorry?"

"no, shit, sorry. um, black. coffee. please. can i... get one?" the man exhaled loudly, frustrated with himself. he looked fucking exhausted.

his soft, red rimmed blue eyes met yours for a moment, and you almost melted into the floorboards.

you blinked.

"rough night?" you asked, breaking the tension as you turned around to the coffee machine, flicking the switch.

"y-yeah, i... yeah. working on a scene for, um, my acting class. had to go to a difficult place."

"oh yeah?" you pulled down one of your biggest cups from the shelf, remembering how tired he looked.

"uh huh. it's great, though. the class. my teacher, uh, gene cousineau, he's a little much, but he says i have potential, yknow?"

looking over your shoulder, your stomach fluttered at the sight of his soft smile.

"i'm sure you do." you said, and a comfortable quiet settled over the shop. the only sound being the whirring of the coffee machine, the late night chatter of the last people in there, and the interesting man pulling up a stool.

the man, who you later learned was called barry, finished the large coffee in four gulps, placing it back down on the counter with a resounding clink.

he didn't make a move to ask for another, nor did he get up from his seat. he just... sat.

made him another coffee, however, because you were a barista and it was late and he was gorgeous and very tired looking.

"fuck! you're bleeding." barry exclaimed. you had handed him the other coffee, not even noticing that you'd sliced your finger on the foil of the coffee-bean bag.

"oh." you examined the small cut, wiping on your apron the white blood that had slid down into your palm. it hadn't hurt any. "it's fine. it's only blood." you shrugged, furrowing your brow slightly at his wide eyes.

"yeah... yeah, sorry. you're right."

you fell more than a little bit in love with him that night. his soft blue eyes and the way he spoke like he was being careful of something. the way he walked around as if he felt it was his job to hold everything up.

you wanted to just... hold his hand. and tell him it was going to be okay. whatever it was.

you also wanted him to jump your fucking bones, but you pushed that down and asked him if he wanted anything else to drink.

he said no, but yet he didn't leave. he spoke to you instead. asking tentative questions about your life and your family. you noticed how he stiffened when you asked him about his own, so you chose not to pry any further.

instead, you got him to laugh. a real, genuine laugh.

and your heart might as well have fallen out of your throat and landed on the table. holy fucking fuck, what a sound, that laugh.

it was a silly anecdote from your college days that shouldn't have made him laugh as hard as it did, but, regardless, it was wonderful to hear.

for the next couple of hours, you mopped the place while barry messed around with the jukebox and shot not-so-encouraging remarks from where he was perched on a table.

"mop harder, you fucking goose." was an interesting one.

"can i get your number?" he asked, at the end of the night when he was helping you close up. it was 3am.

you grinned, popping open a sharpie you used to write names on to-go cups and holding out your hand for his arm to write on.

he seemed to stop working for a second, starting blankly at your open palm. then he got it, and slid his arm into your hand, wrist up. he was warm.

you scribbled your number on the soft skin of his forearm, and smiled up at him.

and then you leaned forward on your tip toes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

he blushed. hard.

"call me when you need a hug." you said. "because you look like you could do with one."

barry nodded, shooting you one of those small, barely-there smiles and heading out of the door.

not twenty-or-so seconds later, as you were hanging up your apron on the small metal hooks behind the counter, your phone buzzed in your pocket.

"hey. it's barry. from the coffee shop."

---

you'd been in love before, sure, but not like this. never like this.

"what're you doing, bear?" you mumbled in sleepy agitation, shifting as barry wrapped his arms around your waist, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder.

"m'just... i miss you."

"i'm right here, bear." you whispered, smiling despite yourself and leaning into his warmth.

"yeah but... i love you." barry kissed the nape of your neck lazily, holding you just a little tighter. not long after, his breathing evened out, and you knew he was asleep again.

much like the night in the cafe, you just about vomited your heart out.

it had been a while since then. almost six months.

six months of soft kisses and hard kisses and a lot of hand holding and 2am kitchen dances and lazy, sleepy early morning sex and barry being 110% interested in everything you had to say and running lines for his acting classes and you were in love with this man.

and that's why it was so hard for you to accept that there was something wrong.

because there was. but you loved him so much that it would've taken a gun to your head to get you to admit it.

it was around two in the morning, and you were dozing on your couch, a half empty beer bottle balancing precariously between your limp fingers. you couldn't quite remember what you were watching, but the dull crackle and mumble of the television and its meaningless, drawling voices alerted some deep, far away place in your head, not letting you completely fall away into sleep. it had been a long fucking day, right?

but something was off. even now, leaning back into the throw pillows, a blanket wrapped tightly around you, something was wrong. it wasn't only the tv that kept you from sleep. something sinister was afoot.

what it was, you didn't know, but you were about to find out.

when barry shuffled into your apartment, you almost didn't notice him. the only light in the apartment drifted slowly from the salt lamp on the shelf above the toaster, and his tall stature cast a looming shadow across the small apartment.

when you did notice him, it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. he did this a lot, coming over late to chat or run lines or have sex or watch tv, and you loved it. he had his own key.

what wasn't normal, however, was the blood.

the blood, unstaunched, grotesque upon his light grey sweater.

the blood that stained his trembling fingertips and came pouring from an open wound on his forehead.

and, suddenly, you were painfully awake.

the blood. sticky. hot.

black.

the blacker the soul, the blacker the blood, girl.

"barry..." it didn't sound like your voice. it was too small. like that of a child. "barry, what the fuck."

not him. not him. not him.

good god, please, not him.

but it was there, bleak as a bee.

tar-black and dripping, stark against the now sickly white kitchen tiles.

"baby, i-" his voice broke, no, his voice shattered. and then he was crying. he was fucking sobbing in your kitchen. such strangled sounds.

against your better judgement, against the poignant twisting in the pit of your stomach, you kicked off the blankets, stumbling over the couch and into the kitchen, where he stood, wrapping his arms around himself as if it would keep him together.

so you did it for him. you took him in your arms and held him so fucking tight. barely registering any of your actions and blinking away the tears that welled in your own eyes, stinging. biting.

"don't say a fucking word." you said, voice muffled by his blood-stained shirt. "don't."

---

when you kissed the tears from his cheeks, you tasted the blood.

barry hadn't needed stitches, thank god, but you had got him into the shower, cleaning the last traces of oil-black from his skin, pressing kisses along in your wake. barry was silent, allowing you to dry him and dress him and pull him into your bed, his head on your chest.

"not you." you said, allowing tears to fall. "i won't fucking lose you because of this."

"i'm... a bad person, baby."

"i don't fucking care."

"babe-"

"no. you're gonna go to sleep, 'kay? and tomorrow, you're going to tell me everything, and we'll deal with it then."

"why are you doing this for me?" he asked, his voice quivering.

"because i love you."