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zorostitties · 3 months ago

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Samsara; 1

⤕ She was plagued. Shadows loomed over her mind. She was alone in a world where no one dared to look into the occult. She missed the faceless man from her dreams, the one her soul longed for. She wanted to meet him again. He was plagued. Alucard had loved countless times. There was one love he was never able able to forget, however; the one that was ripped away from him. He knew they could never meet again.

pairing: alucard (castlevania) x (f) reader

genre: reincarnation, angst, romance, smut, hurt/comfort

warnings: violence/blood, explicit sex (mild in this ch), mental health issues, blasphemy (?), reader is a girl kisser, lowkey ableism (use of the r word), century xix misoginy

rating: 18+

word count: 7k

A/N: hello world!! first of all, thank you so much for giving this fic a chance!! <3 - this is loosely inspired by nosferatu. - takes place a few decades after nocturne, so century xix. - you're 27 in this fic which is still young but not TOO young bc i don't like the idea of a 300+ guy with a barely teenager - i chose a bunch of random european last names, but i won't specify which country they're in because uh. don't wanna. please don't think too hard about actual history when reading this fic for the sake of, you know, fantasy. As usual, feedback is MUCH appreciated!! Let me know your thoughts!! Enjoy <3

⤕ Masterlist ⤕ Also on AO3 ⤕ Taglist open!

SAMSARA; noun. The cycle of life, death and rebirth.

• • •

It was a perfectly normal morning in the Saint-Clairs’ manor.

The spring weather was perfectly normal – a comfortable temperature; perhaps a bit chilly at the hour, but it would definitely get warmer later on. Perfectly normal birds chirped their melodies, the breeze played with the perfectly normal trees on the backyard. You had just eaten a perfectly normal breakfast, wore a perfectly normal attire – light tones, hair carefully tied up in a perfectly normal bun, almost no rouge on the lips.

You could hear your little nephews playing outside. Perfectly normal. The nannies had trouble educating them, but well, considering their age, that was perfectly normal. Your brother-in-law had already left to his perfectly normal office in the city to take care of his perfectly normal real estate business while your sister was probably reading some of her perfectly normal books.

Everything was perfectly normal.

You just had to prove to Dr. Becker that you were perfectly normal, too.

Your posture was flawless – your hands resting politely over your lap; your expression serene. The wooden crucifix pendant hung from your neck proudly to give a sense of… well… normality. Dr. Becker had already taken his book from his leather suitcase. He sat across from you, legs crossed, adjusting his glasses over his eyes. His suit was perfectly normal. His gray beard was perfectly normal. He read his past annotations in silence for some seconds before lifting his gaze to you and opening a tight smile.

“How have you been these past two months, Miss Salles?” He asked.

His voice was calm and welcoming as usual. All odds considered, you didn’t hate this man. He was just doing his job based on what he believed… well, what everyone believed. You managed to open a small smile.

“I have been feeling very well, Dr. Becker. I believe the airs of the countryside really do me good.”

The doctor chuckled lightly and scribbled something in his notebook. “Oh, I believe you. The Capital is… noisy, isn’t it? And can smell quite bad.” He grimaced playfully.

“It certainly can.” You imitated his chuckle in a demure way.

“So…” He was still scribbling, eyes down. “How have you been spending your time?” His green hawk eyes were upon you again.

“I spend most of my days with my sister.” He took notes. “We’ve been apart for a long time, so… a lot of catching up to do.”

“For sure.”

“We go to church together on Wednesdays and Sundays. We do our prayers in the evening.” He took a quick glance at the crucifix on your chest before taking more notes.

“How do you feel being surrounded by other people during the masses?” He was looking at you again. “Any… sudden discomfort?”

That was his polite way of asking if you’d been panicking in public again.

“No.” That wasn’t a lie. “The church we go to is very calm. Mostly elders.”

“Good. As I have advised.” He nodded whilst taking more notes. “What else do you do?”

“Horse riding. I’ve always loved horses.” Dr. Becker nodded again and smiled.

“There’s some magnificent horses here, aye? I’ve taken a quick glance at the stables. Mr. Saint-Clair sure has great taste.”

“He does.”

“And a lot of space to ride, too. This is great. Being in touch with animals does wonders to the spirit.” More notes. “What else… have you been doing?”

“I spend a lot of time with my nephews, too.” The first time you opened a genuine smile during this conversation. Dr. Becker smiled too while taking more notes.

“They’re sweethearts, aren’t they?”

“Little devils they are.” You giggled. “But yes. I play with them when they’re not studying. They’re wonderful.”

“Your sister told me of the great relationship you have with them. You’ve always liked children, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

There it was.

The way Dr. Becker’s smile tightened. You’d been through this too many times to know what was coming next.

“I’ve come to know you like to tell them stories, too. Mr. Saint-Clair told me… of the bed time stories. About a… how was it called…? A vampire hunter. A witch. And a vampire prince.”

If you were a little less used to this type of interview, your serene expression would have faltered. Your nostrils would have widened in anger. Fucking Julien. Of course he’d think you were hallucinating to his children.

“They’re just bedtime stories.” You shrugged lightly.

Dr. Becker took a deep breath. “Yes, of course, Miss Salles. But… you do understand my concern here, don’t you? Vampirism… and the likes of it… have always been a recurring topic to your panics.”

You scratched your forehead. It was becoming hard to hide your discomfort.

“My nephews are boys. I tell them stories of bravery and heroism. This is the type of tale they like to hear.”

“Sure… but…”

“It’s called imagination, Dr. Becker.” You opened a tight smile. “I know my brother-in-law isn’t quite familiar with the concept, since he’s always so busy with work. But that’s just what it is.”

Maybe you went a little too far.

Dr. Becker looked at you in silence for maybe three seconds. Then, more notes. These notes took longer this time.

“On the topic of imagination. Your sister told me you didn’t have any night terrors these past two months. This is great news.” He looked up at you again. “Have you been taking your medication properly?”

No.

“Yes.”

“Any… nightmares? Strange dreams?”

Yes. Every night.

“No. My sleep has been silent… peaceful.”

“What a relief. Any apparition?”

Many.

“Not at all.”

More and more notes.

Dr. Becker looked to the desk resting behind him and took some papers. “You still paint a lot, I see.”

“Yes. The landscape here is beautiful. It’s impossible to not feel inspired.”

The doctor analyzed the paintings with care. Horses… Hills… Flowers… A portrait of your four nephews… All perfectly normal. All painfully boring. They didn’t like when your paintings got more free or abstract.

“You are very talented, Miss Salles.” That was a compliment, but deep down you knew it wasn’t. “Painting well” was a talent that many crazed women had. “Very beautiful.”

No blood or vampires or witches or demonic symbols is what he probably was scribbling in his notebook.

Dr. Becker put the paintings aside again and looked at you. Really looked at you, analyzed, scrutinized.

“I want you to be honest with me. Brutally honest.” Dr. Becker tightened his eyes. “How are you truly feeling?”

Horrible.

I have migraines. I have nightmares. I feel shivers all the time. I know something bad is going to happen. I have been dreaming of him more than ever. My heart aches whenever I think of him.

But you’re not going to believe me.

So you smiled.

“I feel… at peace. I don’t know if it’s my sister’s company, or the food, or the Spring that makes me feel better. But… I feel that my prayers are finally being answered this time.”

Dr. Becker watched you. Analyzed you. Scrutinized you.

His gaze softened.

“This is wonderful news. I have been praying for your recovery as well, Miss Salles. God is definitely hearing; He always does.”

More notes.

You hoped he was signing your perfectly normal certificate this time.

Your older sister was a perfectly normal woman.

She was your opposite in many ways. Clara always fit. Demure, well-educated, a good Catholic from birth; she always excelled in her studies, she always did what was expected of her. Clara was a good child. She became a coveted lady. She caught the eyes of a fabulously rich man, as was expected of her. She married such man, dropped the Salles last name and became Mrs. Saint-Clair. She gave birth to four perfectly normal and healthy boys, as was expected of her. She was still beautiful and took care of her appearance well despite the four pregnancies, as was expected of her.

All perfectly normal.

But despite everything, you loved her.

She loved you – which was very surprising, considering the general idea perfectly normal people had of you, including your parents. Clara was never embarrassed of you, never wanted to hide you from the face of Earth… though, for most of the time, her feelings didn’t really matter.

Clara was the one who always tried to convince your parents that you were perfectly normal too, despite the fact that you much obviously weren’t. The times you spent not being hospitalized or in boarding schools or in convents (which were just asylums for rich women) were mostly thanks to her efforts – that is, until you’d have another panic attack or night terror or premonition and your parents would want to hide you from society again. This cycle repeated over and over again since you were… eight? Nine? You didn’t even remember.

As soon as your father died a year ago, Clara didn’t wait a week to take you out of the convent. Not only was she the oldest daughter and heiress to the Salles fortune, no one would dare argue with Julien Saint-Clair’s wife. She kindly took you to her home… well, you even tried to live by yourself at the Capital for a while until that happened and you had to come back.

The past six months had been good. Except for… well. Your problem. But you became quite good at pretending you were normal, so good that even Clara started to believe you.

“The appointment was good, I suppose?” Clara said after dinner, when the kids were already put to bed. She sat beside you on the couch with that hopefulness you were used to. “Dr. Becker said you made progress.”

You nodded. So you had succeeded.

“It’s like I told him. The countryside does me good. You and the kids do me good.” You playfully elbowed her side. Clara smiled and sighed.

“I’m so glad to hear that, sister.” She caressed your hair softly. “I’ve never seen you so… calm.”

Oh my dear, you have no idea. You were anything but calm. Your dreams and premonitions became more frequent over the past two months for no reason. But no, you weren’t going to tell her that – not only because Clara was perfectly normal, so although she loved you, she also thought you were insane, therefore you wouldn’t try to explain anything to her. And… you already caused her enough trouble. You didn’t want to bother her with what plagued you anymore, not now that she had her own family to care for.

“I feel calm.”

Clara rested her head on your shoulder. You stayed in silence like that for some moments.

You loved her. You loved her so much. There weren’t many people in his life who treated you with normality or even kindness. While your parents were alive, you were just a freak. A failure. To your religious mother, you were possessed; to your father, you were retarded. To the both of them… you were nothing but a problem. But to Clara, you were a sister – and she made her sons see you as an aunt. You’d always be grateful for that.

Clara played with the embroidery of the skirt of her dress absently.

“I was wondering.” Her voice was quiet and hesitant, which immediately made you feel tense. “Do you still dream of… that man?”

You froze.

“No.” Lie lie lie lie lie. You frowned. “Why are you asking me this all of sudden?”

She shrugged. “Don’t know. I was just… remembering how you used to talk about him when you were younger. Those seemed to be your only good dreams. Right?”

You looked down, hoping she wouldn’t notice the way you gulped.

She was… partially right. Most of the dreams involving him were good. The faceless, nameless man that lived in your head and plagued your nights.

His voice was deep. Husky. Most times, serene. For some reason, you couldn’t see a face… just strands of long, golden hair. A scar crossed over his chest. Kind, reassuring words. Sometimes banter. The warmth of hugs. The heat of kisses. The ringing of laughter.

You’d dreamed of this man since… always. It almost felt as if you knew him. As if he was real.

And that’s precisely what plagued you.

You knew your problem wasn’t insanity – at least, not by the usual conventions of men. Every doctor, every priest, every nun, all of them tried to convince you that your shivers and terrors and dreams were just in your head (or, well, caused by Satan); they tried to make you not believe anything. But you knew they were wrong.

Because the things you saw and dreamed of happened.

You dreamed of your mother’s death five days before she went. You saw her die. You knew she’d have a heart attack at three in the morning, you knew she’d die on bed by your father’s side. You were locked at the convent at the time; you tried to reach for your parents, send them a messenger or a letter or anything, but the nuns simply dismissed it as another insanity fit. No one cared what you said.

She went exactly like that.

When you were nine, you saw your sister fall off a tree and break her arm minutes before it happened – you were on the other side of the house at the moment. The nannies were scared when you told them. Your father brushed it aside.

You knew the Mother Superior from the convent would die choking on an olive seed approximately two weeks before it happened. You didn’t warn anyone – they wouldn’t believe you anyway… and you hated her. You dreamed of your sister’s first pregnancy a month before the good news came. You dreamed of Julien Saint-Clair years before they first met, though Clara judged it was just a coincidence. There were so many more occurrences like that; you had premonitions of trivial things, like what you’d have for dinner tomorrow, or much more serious things like the mentioned above.

There was not a single time when these premonitions didn’t come true.

Which leads you back to that man.

Just why did you keep dreaming of him for years?

For a long time, you foolishly waited – hoped – he’d miraculously show up; a prince on a white horse to save you from your torture. But… you never met him. You never met any of the people that appeared in the dreams he was involved… like the redhead witch. The blue eyed, dark haired warrior.

These dreams were detailed. They were disconnected, like different pieces of a puzzle. Over the years, you managed to thread some sort of… timeline of events that you kept written on a secret journal. Sometimes they ended abruptly. Sometimes, you dreamed of them the entire night.

Your dreams usually depicted future events. These premonitory dreams were short, made you wake up with your heart racing. So the dreams with this man felt… different.

They felt like memories.

But how could you remember something you’d never lived?

You didn’t know. In fact, you understood very little of this problem. You’d never found anyone that actually sat down for a minute and listened to what you had to say without assuming you were insane on the spot. Your family discouraged you from speaking; the Church disapproved any of it, as “magic” and “seeing the future” were “demonic”. So all you could do was sit alone inside your own head and wonder.

You hated all of this. You hated that Clara of all people mentioned him. Just thinking of him made your heart tighten as if you were under physical pain. The man of your dreams… for a long time, you considered him a friend, the only one you had. When you were locked in the asylum that disguised itself as a convent, having not a single person to talk to and being constantly scrutinized, not receiving a visit from your parents for years… as you slept, all you had was him. The serene voice of the faceless man who seemed to love you despite everything.

It didn’t make sense to love someone that only existed in your own head.

You sighed. You weren’t insane, and you weren’t an idiot. Clara wouldn’t touch such subject out of nowhere.

“I am going to ask you again,” you spoke quietly but seriously. “Why are you talking about this all of sudden?”

It was Clara’s turn to sigh.

She straightened her back and turned her body in your direction slightly. Clara held both of your hands, resting them over her lap between you. She avoided your gaze at first.

Here it comes.

“You know I want you to be happy more than anyone in this world, right?”

“I do.”

“You know I love you more than anyone in this world too. Right?”

“I love you too, Clara.” You tightened your eyes slowly.

“And I want you to find love in your life. I… I hope it to be as kind and good as the one you described in your dreams when you were younger.” Your stomach started to twist. Oh no. “And… the kindest, purest love that exists is the love of a mother.”

No no no no no. You knew where this was going. You wanted to vomit.

Clara looked at you and smiled.

“I never thought I’d love anyone as much as I love my babies. Sister, my life… my life became complete with them in a way I can’t even describe. It’s the love of Mary. The love of our Lord.” She hesitated before proceeding. “I believe… I believe this type of love can complete you, too.”

You stiffened.

“Clara. Be direct.”

She gulped.

“Julien… Julien has an associate. A bachelor. He showed great interest in you–“

You immediately let go of her hands.

“Oh, right. Julien.”

“Sister, please…”

You couldn’t help the angry grimace that covered your features, the way you tapped your foot on the floor nervously, the crossing of arms. Julien. Of course he’s been looking for a way to get rid of me. You didn’t hate him – how could you? He actually loved Clara, he gave her four beautiful boys. But you knew he was similar to your father in many ways. He was perfectly normal after all – and you were a problem.

“Listen to me.” Clara continued in a pleading tone. “He’s a respectable man. I’ve already researched his entire life… I’d never let you marry someone indecent.” She hesitated before continuing. “We all knew this was going to happen some time, didn’t we?”

You refused to look at her. Yes, it was childish. Yes, you knew she was right. But it didn’t make anything better.

Clara reached for something on the cabinet near the sofa. It was a silver locket, slightly bigger than a common one.

She offered it.

“His name is Alfred Zardini.”

You took it and opened it reluctantly.

And you almost dropped it.

“He looks fifty!”

Clara took both of your hands forcefully, making you look at her. Right then, she wasn’t talking like a sister – she was talking like a mother.

“Sister. I know this might sound cruel to you, but we must be realistic.” You didn’t like that tone. Not at all. “Mr. Zardini might not be in his prime, but he owns half of this country’s ships. His family is traditional and respected everywhere. The life he can offer you is more than comfortable; he’ll make you a queen. Do you understand how blessed you are? How many women must be fighting to become Mrs. Zardini? And he showed great interest in you!”

“Oh, how extraordinary that any man would willingly court the Salles freak. How blessed I must feel!”

Clara choked on her own words.

“T-That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s exactly what you meant. Didn’t you ask me to be realistic?”

You got up and held your own head, feeling your breath get ragged. You walked from side to side, facing the carpet. You could feel Clara’s embarrassment and guilt fill the room – yet, you refused to look at her.

The Salles freak. The retarded daughter. You knew how people talked about you – sometimes they didn’t even bother talking behind your back. They talked about your night terrors, your hospitalizations, your insanity fits. They whispered and side eyed you. They made these whispers bigger than they actually were.

She’s been a burden to her parents. Now, she became a burden to her sister.

Mr. Saint-Clair is brave for letting her live among his children. Crazed women like that can become very dangerous.

Poor Mr. and Mrs. Salles! They didn’t have a son, and their second daughter is invalid. That’s why Clara is so kind; she always worked to keep this family together.

These were things you heard with your ears and with your mind. That’s what they thought of you. That’s why you avoided attending any social events, no matter how hard Clara insisted.

Were them all even wrong?

“You are not a freak. Don’t talk about yourself like that.” Clara said.

“Does what I think of myself matter?”

“Of course it does. More than anyone else.”

You stopped for a moment and looked at her.

Your dear, dear sister. You knew she was trying her best – she always did. You knew taking care of you wasn’t easy. Yes, you woke up in the middle of the night screaming; sometimes, being in the middle of any crowds was unbearable, made you want to scream and rip your hair off because there were so many emotions and so many thoughts flooding into you. Yes, you knew that dealing with your visions would be scary to anyone perfectly normal.

You knew she was right.

You were twenty seven. You were a famous freak. The fact that this Mr. Zardini was even remotely interested in you was a miracle.

Julien saw you as a problem to be solved, an expense to be cut. Clara was the heiress to the Salle’s estate – and you knew she’d let you live the most comfortable life money could offer – but Julien was responsible over Clara. He owned the estate. He didn’t want to spend more money on you… so he found a substitute.

That’s why he’d been so adamant with the evaluations by Dr. Becker, you finally realized. He really wanted you to have a “perfectly normal certificate” to assure Mr. Zardini that you weren’t that crazy.

Was he even wrong? Shouldn’t women get married at some point? You couldn’t live in their home forever. You were a burden. You always were.

This would never change.

You sighed deeply. Your head hung low.

“I apologize, Clara. I’ve been ungrateful.”

“No!” Clara got up immediately. “No, you’re not. Don’t apologize.”

“I just got surprised. That’s all.” You couldn’t look at her in the eye. “I… I’ll go to bed and we’ll talk about it better tomorrow. Okay?”

“Sure. Sleep well.”

Maybe it looked like Clara wanted to hug you, but you couldn’t bear physical touch right now – so you turned around and left.

Your heart raced. Your mouth was dry. You wanted to cry – oh, please. Not right now. You ran through the corridors, not wanting to be seen by any maid so they could spread even more rumors about you.

You spent years locked by your parents in different institutions. Now, after only a year of freedom… you’d have to be locked to a man again?

You were about to reach your bedroom when you heard a whistle.

You stopped on your tracks.

“Auntie!”

It was Pierre, peeking at you from a breach on his door. He smiled excitedly.

You gulped, immediately swallowing the tears, and smiled too.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“You didn’t finish the story! We want–“

“–To know the rest!”

Oh. It was Gabriel too. They were all awake.

You really, really didn’t want to… but their little faces lured you in. You could feel their excitement vibrating in the air around them, making everything feel lighter.

How could you resist that?

You sighed and entered the room. They squealed in joy.

The four boys were reunited in Pierre’s bedroom, the oldest; he was ten years old. You sat on his large bed, and the others followed.

“Before I continue, I have to ask… which of you gossipers told anyone about our bedtime stories?”

“It wasn’t me!”

“Me neither!”

“Uh… I don’t remember…”

“Oh, sure. No one is to blame.” You crossed your arms, pretending to be angry. They all giggled. “Listen to me. Our stories are secret, aye? Otherwise they’ll lose all the magic.”

“Right, right! We won’t tell anyone!”

“So… where was I…?”

“The warrior and the witch crossed the magic mirror!” Gabriel remembered.

“Ooooh. Right.” You rubbed your hands excitedly. The four boys watched you with widened eyes and giant grins. You had dreamed of these events many times. They were as clear as day in your mind – almost as if they happened yesterday.

Almost as if you were there.

“The warrior and the witch crossed the mirror in time to save the vampire prince. Fire, the witch conjured; chains, the warrior swung. The flames surrounded them, engulfed the black castle in chaos. It was hot, so hot! Hotter than the hotter summer you can thing of. The castle felt like hell on Earth. There were monsters everywhere… and a powerful magician upstairs planning to do something terrible.”

“And what did they do next?” Little Leo asked, his eyes gleamed.

You smirked mischievously.

“What do you think? They fought.”

“Are you seriously hiding here?”

He peeked at her through his lashes.

She stood beside him with her arms on each side of her waist, gazing down at him disapprovingly. It was lighthearted, however. He knew it. The hem of her dress was dirty with mud, as well as the apron around her waist. Her hair, mostly hidden under a colorful scarf.

He liked it. When she looked disheveled and annoyed.

He closed his eyes again and hummed.

“Just five minutes.”

“They’re looking for you. They want to know where the tools are.”

“I already showed Greta.”

“Well, you clearly forgot about that part.”

“Can’t they just… search?”

“The basement is the size of a city. They won’t find anything.”

He sighed again.

“Just five more minutes.”

“You can’t be serious–“

His next movement was swift. He sat up, grabbed her wrist and pulled her with him; his back hit the soft grass under his body. Her head rested over his chest.

She was shocked for a few seconds.

“This was low of you.”

“I know.” He chuckled. His deep voice reverberated in her body. “Just five minutes. I’m serious.”

She sighed, but didn’t move.

He knew that soon, everyone else would find out about this clearing. It was hidden behind thick trees and tall boulders, just a little space in the midst of the dense woods, relatively far from the castle… and the newborn village. These people knew how to navigate inside a forest. Soon, this clearing wouldn’t be a secret anymore. But for now… it was just his bubble of peace, his breath of fresh air from the many voices out there.

That was being more stressful than he first assumed.

“I’m not used to so many people.” He confessed quietly. “They can be loud.”

“I know.” Her voice was as quiet as his, matching his tone. “I’d say you’re doing a great job, though. For a sheltered prince.”

“Of course I’m doing a great job.”

She punched his side playfully.

“Cocky bastard.” He laughed.

“The way they come to ask me things all the time… and make questions and… and Belmont…”

“Trevor can barely walk. He’s still severely injured.”

“His presence annoys me. I can feel his reek from miles.”

“Oh, God.” He couldn’t see it, but he knew she was rolling her eyes. But she laughed. He laughed, too.

She looked up for the first time, resting one of her forearms over his chest. She put a strand of golden hair behind his ear softly. He loved her touch. He loved her warmth. He loved her eyes. Loved, loved, loved.

“Everything will work out in the end.” She said softly. He chuckled.

“It’s already working, my dear. Because you’re here.”

He loved the way she was so fierce and outspoken, but would still open a shy smile whenever he said something like that.

“That was low of you,” she repeated. He held her chin softly, his voice dropping even lower.

“I love to play low.”

He captured her lips on his. They were soft, sweet, as they always were. It rapidly progressed from a small peck to a deep kiss, as it always did. He entangled his fingers around the back of her hair, as he always liked to do; she sat on his lap with her legs on each side of him, as he knew she would do from the start. His hands roamed her body. It spread fire through her skin, to her core, as it always did.

And then, he was sat, with her still on his lap; his lips kissed and licked and sucked on her neck, while it was her turn to grip his hair – as she always did. She bucked her hips on his repeatedly, deliciously, as she always did, igniting every nerve of his body. She was quick to unbutton his pants. She always was. She smiled mischievously when her hand gripped around his hot, hardened member, earning him a soft grunt, guiding it towards her throbbing entrance. She always did.

She always felt amazing. Hot, wet, tight – tight tight tight tight. He loved the sweat dripping over her face, neck, cleavage, the format of her lips. She loved his moans and his whimpers, the obscenities that erupted from his deep voice, his pleasured expression, the blush over his face and chest; he almost looked in pain. He looked glorious. He always did. He locked his strong arms around her waist, as he always did, while she rode him relentlessly, feeling every centimeter of him inside of her, melting and shaking at the way he filled her so perfectly.

They took much more than just five minutes.

They always did.

Alucard stared at the wooden ceiling for a long, long time.

He shouldn’t have slept. He’d been avoiding it for months, just resigning himself to quick naps when his brain couldn’t take it anymore. Well, that was a quick nap. He didn’t expect to dream during it.

To remember it.

He massaged his own forehead, letting a deep groan escape. Shit. It was getting worse. These… dreams. He didn’t know why. Quite honestly, he didn’t want to know why. If he investigated the cause, it meant he’d have to think about it, and he didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to remember it.

But Alucard wasn’t in control of his subconsciousness, unfortunately.

He sat on the bed, feeling his entire body heavy and tired, and pushed his hair back. The lighting from outside indicated night was about to fall… which meant he had an unpleasant task ahead of him. He didn’t have time to think about anything else. He came here for a reason. To lay on bed and brood over the past wouldn’t help him.

Alucard came to this city to hunt.

So he got up and washed himself.

He had been tracking this prey for months, the wicked magician that refused to die. He had many names over the years, but Alucard first met him by the name of Gael. The sick fuck obsessed with immortality. Alucard ignored him back then, but he knew better now. That man became far more powerful and dangerous than he could ever imagine. Ignoring him was a mistake.

Alucard didn’t know what the hell he was doing in the countryside, living among the rich. More importantly – Alucard didn’t know where he was. Gael was a master of disguise; that is why he was able to successfully hide from Alucard for so long.

Quite frankly, the half-vampire was sick of him.

It could be because Gael was a hateful murderer, because Alucard didn’t like him on a personal level, or because he was just very annoyed overall. Sleep deprivation was really starting to get to him. That linked with all these dreams…

Alucard made a conscious effort to never dwell too much into the past. As an immortal, he knew very well how dangerous it could be, how it could poison his soul. Of course… he cherished the ones he loved during his life. He was grateful for the marks they left. But some memories, some people just hurt way too much. Were too unbearable to take.

Like her.

Fuck. Just the thought of her made Alucard feel a sting right in his heart.

How long has it been? Two… three hundred years? In his mind, it felt like yesterday. Why were his memories so vivid? He didn’t remember every moment of his life with such clarity – and he was grateful for that.

But her?

The color and the texture of her hair between his fingers. The warmth of her skin. The sound of her laughter. Every conversation, every disagreement, every joke, every hug, every fight. Every good morning. Every good night.

He remembered everything.

He never forgot her. How could he? Alucard didn’t want to erase her existence from his life; he’d rather feel the agony of longing than the emptiness of never having met her. Even so… to think too much about her hurt, because it didn’t only bring the good memories. It brought the bad ones, too.

It brought back the farewell.

So, he decided to keep her… hidden in his mind, but at the same time, always there. She came back from time to time over the years – a smell that reminded him of her, a flower that matched her hair color, something he knew she’d find funny. Even after all these years, she stayed.

But these vivid dreams didn’t let Alucard remember her in a good but distant way.

They made him miss her. Miss her bad.

So bad that he was starting to lose focus.

He stared at himself in the mirror while adjusting his cravat. The curse of immortality kept him the same, except for his hair that completely lost their golden color over the years. Perhaps that made everything worse. A constant reminder that everything had an end; everything went. Everything forgot.

Alucard didn’t.

He sighed deeply and attached the sword in his belt.

There wasn’t time to think of any of it.

He had to hunt.

The ceremony hall of the Saint-Clair’s manor was crowded.

Well – as crowded as a high society ball could be. Prestigious families from all over the city came over, wearing their most impressive attires; an explosion of colors, silk and diamonds. Soft music played by a very competent band filled the halls. Conversations, laughter, the smell of wine and champagne… all very luxurious, all very proper.

Alucard would rather tap dance barefoot on broken glass than be there.

But he didn’t have much of a choice – not when he knew Gael would attend.

The stench of his magic was everywhere, made Alucard want to vomit. All of these humans, innocently walking around and talking, had no idea of the creature that loomed over the hall. Because that was what Gael became – he could barely be categorized as a human anymore, let alone a vampire. He was a thing. An entity.

He was disguised.

He could be anyone.

Gael was smart. He imbued his presence everywhere, and did so well that everyone smelled like him – that old lady, that waiter, that musician… all of them. Alucard couldn’t simply attack. He had to gather information; he had to wait.

And no, he wasn’t trying to hide himself.

He knew the quick glances people took at him – some not so quick – and the whispers. The blushing. Alucard was taller than almost everyone else, it was impossible to go unnoticed. Not that he cared. He wanted Gael to see he was there. If Gael stayed, Alucard would find him one way or another; if Gael tried to flee, it would make Alucard’s life even easier. His absence in the city would stand out like a sore thumb. It’d be even easier to track him.

Unfortunately, that meant he’d have to behave for now.

He wouldn’t be able to hunt the way he wanted. No… he’d have to be polite and small talk. Because for these people, he wasn’t Alucard.

He was Duke Tepes.

“Mr. Tepes!”

Alucard turned around to see Julien Saint-Clair approach with a broad smile. The man hadn’t changed much since the last time he saw him three years ago… maybe his hairline was starting to recede. Alucard was glad to not know him for that long, otherwise Julien would find his unchanging appearance strange.

None of these people suspected Alucard wasn’t human, of course.

Mankind was changing rapidly. After Erzsebet Bathory’s failed attempt to rule the world decades ago, vampires got scared (for lack of a better word) and decided to hide more than they ever did. So, slowly, the fear inherent to humans was fading; the rise of technology, of easier global travels, of new discoveries, made mankind not look into what they couldn’t see anymore. Mothers didn’t warn their children about the dangers of the night. Fathers didn’t carry silver knives for protection.

This newer generation didn’t even believe vampires or magic existed.

Which was both good and bad. Good because it became easier for Alucard to simply blend in; when they looked at his pale skin or prominent fangs, they didn’t immediately assume he wasn’t human, because that would be illogical. At the same time… it made humans more fragile. How could they protect themselves against something they didn’t even believe existed?

In other words, Alucard had a lot of work to do everywhere.

Including there at the Saint-Clair’s manor.

He gave Julien’s hand a firm shake. “It’s an honor to see you here, my friend.” The man said. “Did you have a comfortable travel?”

“As comfortable as possible.” Alucard offered him a tight, humorless but polite smile.

Julien chuckled. “Yes, I believe coming all the way from Wallachia can’t be easy. Here, let me introduce you to some of my friends…”

Oh, there were so many excited to meet the Duke of Wallachia. Such a mysterious man. I heard he’s fabulously rich. I heard he owns a diamond mine. I heard he’s hard to approach. I heard he’s single. I’d like to be the mother of his children.

Alucard wanted to die.

It was hard to divide his attention between these empty conversations and finding Gael. The stench – it was disgusting. The pressure of Gael’s presence was like black mud dripping from the walls, from the tall curtains, made the marble floor sticky; every person present was drenched in this black mud, their teeth were dirty with it, their expensive attires drenched – but no one else could sense that, and that made Alucard go insane. How blind did humanity become? How can they not feel this?

Why did I let Gael get so powerful?

He silently stood in a circle of men – all rich heirs to different types of fortunes he didn’t care about – absently watching the champagne bubbles play inside the glass he held while they talked about… oh, he wasn’t paying attention. Any strange voice… any disturbance… his ears traveled far. He needed a hint. Any hint. Anything–

The man beside him gasped softly and looked back. Alucard didn’t remember to his name. It immediately caught his attention.

“Look who just arrived,” the man said, not necessarily at Alucard.

It seemed that the entire hall stopped for a moment to watch. It was weird.

Alucard frowned and turned around towards the entrance of the hall–

And the world stopped.

It stopped. Went silent. Went empty. Like reality itself cracked in front of his eyes.

Alucard couldn’t breathe anymore.

There were two women entering the hall.

They looked alike, probably sisters. The one that looked the oldest and had a large smile walked in front; she wore a deep purple ball gown. Pretty pearl earrings and a necklace decorated her skin. Julien Saint-Clair rushed to grab her by the arm, and Alucard immediately understood that was his wife, hence the commotion; she was the Mistress of that house.

But he didn’t pay attention to her. Not at all.

The woman walking behind her.

The younger one.

She wore an emerald green dress that let her shoulders and collarbones apparent. The tight corset, puffy sleeves and skirt had golden lines weaved into them. A diamond necklace sat over her collarbones with matching earrings. White embroidered gloves covered her hands.

Alucard could pretend that his breathing halted because the newcomer was beautiful – more beautiful than any other woman in the hall.

But that wasn’t the truth.

It was her.

The same the same the same. She looked the same. Exactly the same as the woman from his memory, the woman he saw as clear as day in his dream earlier that day. The woman that never left his mind. The woman that he loved with every fiber of his being.

The lover that died over three hundred years ago.

Alucard blinked, tried to recompose himself. No, this can’t be true. Stop that. It’s just… she’s just similar– no, not just similar; she’s identical. He felt his fingertips shaking as if a magical attack had pierced his soul, managed to crack his nonchalant façade. How can it be? How can someone be so similar to her…?

She wasn’t stained by that black mud, Alucard noticed. The only one that didn’t reek.

Gael. You have to focus on Gael. Stop that.

All of it happened in the course of three seconds.

“Sweet mother of Jesus,” the man beside him said under his breath. “That’s a sight for sore eyes.”

“Has she ever been this beautiful?” Another man whispered.

“I don’t even remember seeing her since she was fifteen.”

Alucard tightened his eyes slowly. So… he wasn’t the only one paying attention. Why was everybody else so shocked?

Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask–

“Who is she?” Alucard asked.

The man gave him a knowing smile.

“Miss Salles. Mrs. Saint-Clair’s younger sister. She’s a jewel, ain’t she?” The man chuckled. “But you don’t want that kind of trouble into your life, no matter how pretty it looks. Trust me.”

Alucard’s quirk of brow was enough of a question. The man took another sip of his champagne.

“That pretty thing is crazy.” The other men beside him giggled. Alucard didn’t like that… not at all. “I mean… clinically insane. She brought so much trouble to the Salles Family that I don’t even know how Mrs. Saint-Clair managed to save her reputation from her sister’s shadow.”

“Well, Alfred already made sure to keep her out of everyone’s reach.” The other man beside him said. “He’s going to court her.”

“Mr. Zardini?! I didn’t know that.”

“My wife knows it all.” He giggled. “Well, looking at her right now… the man might be a genius, aye? I bet a bit of insanity is worth it if he gets all that in the end.”

“But isn’t she too old already? Can she even bear children?”

Alucard felt more and more disgusted.

He wasn’t listening to their futile talks anymore. He tried not to, but his eyes unconsciously traveled to her figure again. Ms. Salles stayed closer to her sister; although she had a small smile and offered polite curtsies, he could see she was immensely uncomfortable. Almost like she wanted to run away.

How could she not, when all of these people were whispering absurdities about her?

He felt bad.

God, she is identical. She really is.

It wasn’t the first time Alucard met people similar to someone he met or loved in the past. How many Trevors and Syphas and Gretas had he already encountered? But… but like that? Identical like that?

Was she really all that identical, or was his mind playing tricks on him?

Maybe if he got a little closer… maybe if he heard her voice…

No. No no no no. That’s not why you’re here. You came to hunt Gael. He’s certainly in this hall with you. He has to be captured. He has to be stopped.

Alucard looked around. The musical group began a different tune, and couples started to walk to the center to dance. Gael. You must find Gael. He can be anyone. Pay attention, sharpen your senses; focus, focus…

“Look. Zardini is going to make a move.” The man beside him caught his attention again. They watched in expectation.

A tall bearded man that looked to be in his fifties slowly crossed the hall. He wore an imposing and expensive suit. His chest was filled, his chin was high with confidence.

He made his way towards the younger Salles sister.

Towards her.

And then, Alucard forgot about Gael.

He forgot how to control his body. He placed his glass of champagne on some waiter’s tray. His feet walked on their own. He crossed the hall at a nonchalant, yet speedy pace.

Alucard stopped in front of her before Zardini could.

The world stopped.

Identical. Identical. She’s identical.

Alucard didn’t let his astonishment show.

His face was a mask of serenity; in his lips, a small lip tightened smile. Her eyes widened. She let a small gasp of surprise.

The entire hall stopped breathing when Alucard bowed politely, his left arm behind his back, his right hand offered to her, and said:

“Ms. Salles, may I have this dance?”

#alucard x reader #alucard #castlevania #alucard castlevania #adrian tepes x reader #adrian tepes #adrian fahrenheit tepes #castlevania netflix #castlevania nocturne #alucard x you #castlevania x reader #alucard tepes #alucard tepes x reader

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buddierecs · 10 months ago

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outsider pov buddie fics

these fics have a mixture of outsider pov, most from the 118 family tho all of these are general audience, teen and up or not rated (no smut) make sure to kudos/comment on these amazing works :)

paralytic narcolepsy guy hates buckley & diaz by: eightpackdiaz "paralytic narcolepsy guy is forced to listen to buckley and diaz talk to and about each other in his unconscious presence over the years. he insists he fucking hates them. but then he also accidentally helps them get engaged." word count: 5.4k important tags: 5+1 things, idiots in love, getting together good luck, babe by: hattalove "sometimes, when you've had a bad week, all you want is a romantic evening out with your wife over terrible pizza, and what you get instead is some kind of intricate gay ritual happening two tables away from you." word count: 2.1k important tags: crack, social media, jealous!eddie diaz jeep talking by: daisies_and_briars "a ride in the backseat of buck's Jeep with buck and eddie in the front gives chim new perspective on his brother-in-law's strange dynamic with his so-called "best friend.' and chim is sick of them being so oblivious." word count: 2.2k important tags: chimney han pov, oblivious!chimney han the sincerest form of flattery by: canadadry "in which brad torrence only almost passes out, and observes the aftermath." word count: 1.7k important tags: brad torrence pov, bobby nash is evan buckley's parent, 8.03 fic

actually, truly by: milenadaniels "helena (and ramon) tries to find a way back into eddie's life and doesn't know what to make of finding buck around every corner she turns." word count: 14k important tags: helena diaz pov, post season 4, homophobia, pre-relationship, hurt!eddie diaz, therapy i'll call you mine by: coupe_de_foudre "5 times ravi witnesses eddie and buck fake a relationship, and the one time he realises they were married all along" word count: 9.1k important tags: 5+1 things, ravi panikkar pov, fake dating, fluff, misunderstandings, idiots in love does your firehouse know? by: allyasavedtheday "after chimney accidentally discovers buck and eddie are together they ask him to keep it a secret for a few weeks while they settle into their relationship. It goes about as well as expected." word count: 7.5k important tags: chimney han pov, secret relationship, crack a simple kind of love by: woodchoc_magnum "in which christopher watches as eddie and buck slowly fall in love." word count: 15k important tags: christopher diaz pov, pre-relationship, getting together, buckley-diaz family maybe it's the way you lean on his shoulder by: allyasavedtheday "in which naddie realises there might be more to buck and eddie's relationship than she'd originally thought." word count: 4.1k important tags: maddie han pov, feelings realisation, domestic fluff another man's child by: georges1982_96 "a 5+1 fic of chim realizing buck is chris's dad and buck gradually stumbling on the same realization" word count: 18k important tags: chimney han pov, 5+1 things, ptsd, medial trauma, homophobia, ableism, soft!buddie, protective!evan buckley don't need to be related to relate (don't need to share genes or a surname) by: champagne_for_breakfast "the one where bobby realizes he is somehow buck's father, eddie's father-in-law and christopher's grandfather all at the same time. and he may just be one conversation away from calling eddie out and making him kiss buck." word count: 10k important tags: bobby nash pov, idiots in love, getting together, bobby nash is evan buckley's parent shapes and spaces by: prettyunhinged "five times christopher calls buck his dad to other people, and the one time he finally gets to say it to buck." word count: 14k important tags: 5+1 things, christopher diaz has two dads, oblivious!buddie, getting together, team as family, fluff

#buck x eddie fic #buddie fic #buck x eddie #buddie fics #buddie fic rec #eddie diaz #evan buckley #911 abc #911 show #911 fandom #evan buck buckley #buddie 911 #buck x eddie fanfics #buddie recs

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babyrubysoho · 4 months ago

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I was stoked to be invited to contribute an illustration of young, monster-hunting Aziraphale to this epic GO fic, The Serpent and the Owl! Many thanks to the fabulous writers and map artist of my chapter, and to the editing team❤️

If you like vast, heart-crushing fantasy stories spanning thousands of years, please do check this fic out!😍

TSATO Volume 3 - Grief of a Dying Sun (5958 words) by anna_bird, sixbynine, babyrubysoho, TheScholarlyStrumpet, Kotias, GroovyNightStrawberry, MxTHRTN, GaiasEyes, dbacklot99 Chapters: 1/8 Fandom: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub (Good Omens), Agnes Nutter, Gabriel (Good Omens)

Additional Tags: Reincarnation AU, happy ending eventually, not in this part though, Angst, Angst with a Bad Ending, Hurt No Comfort, not that they don't try, Crowley is the Leviathan, the fall of atlantis, Aziraphale hates Crowley or at least convinces himself he does, Self-Harm, Suicide, Murder, Monsterfucking, Twincest (implied), face fucking, whipping/self-flagellation, Voyeurism, Hate fucking, physical fighting, very minor blood/other bodily fluid, Hemipenes, Fisting, Minor Character Death, Ableism, disability slurs, Depression, some brief suicide/death ideation, Oral Sex, Fist-fucking, threat of injury to eye, Arguing, Cruelty, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Rimming, this volume is the definition of literary scorched earth, Gaiaseyes was here, the Angst Throuple was here Series: Part 4 of The Serpent and the Owl Summary: Aziraphale, Champion of Atlantis, was raised to believe that the monster known as Crowley is a grave menace to his world and his city. Brought into training to destroy the beast, he develops a sense of hatred, based on the myths and legends he is told. He is under the influence of two conflicting voices: the monarch Gabriel, who wants Crowley destroyed, and Agnes, who recognises Crowley as a threat but attempts to temper Aziraphale's hatred. Their first encounter certainly isn't going to appease his view of the monster — Crowley as a Leviathan, wreaking havoc on his city. This cements his hatred and drives him to train only harder. During his training, he starts seeking historical records and sees Crowley in many forms, until the beast slithers into his dreams. An infatuation and eventual obsession takes hold, the dreams are visceral and sexual, and Aziraphale is heavily conflicted. During his training, Agnes continues to try to temper Aziraphale's hatred. She studies Crowley's history, she makes notes, keeps records. Agnes becomes a confidante of sorts for Aziraphale, but he never fully reveals the extent of his obsession nor the true nature of his dreams…

#good omens fanart #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale fanart #ineffable husbands #good omens art #babyrubysoho art

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steviewashere · 7 months ago

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My Mind's Got Legs, Running in Circles

Rating: Teen and Up CWs: Eddie Munson Has OCD, Eddie Munson Has ARFID (If you Squint), Compulsions (That Could be Viewed as Harmful/Self-Harm), Negative Self Talk, Internalized Ableism, Minor Panic Attack, Food Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Eddie Munson Whump, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, Good Boyfriend Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Takes Care of Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Trusts Steve Harrington (Which I Feel is a Very Important Tag), Hopeful Ending, Happy Ending So, probably 90% of this is taken from personal experience—via my life the last seventeen years give or take. I wanted to divulge into the grittier, nastier parts of the whole inner-monologue, and a focus on Eddie having resulting effects from eating something he was unsure of, but I've been struggling a lot recently and just couldn't bring myself to write it. So I went with the sweeter, fluffier route. Maybe I'll come back to this version of Eddie, but as of right now, this is what I offer. Also on AO3 (locked, so make sure you have an account)

🍗—————🍗 He’s biting his tongue.

It’s just a plate of dinner. Dinner that Steve made him. Homemade and neat and hot for the taking. There’s just one problem with it. A big, fat problem.

Among the green beans and the warmed dinner roll and the steaming mashed potatoes, there’s a chicken breast the size of his fist. The chicken is dressed up with a crisp brown outside, flakes of pepper, and a light slathering of garlic sauce. In itself, the chicken isn’t the issue—not yet, at least.

Eddie can’t muster the courage to take a bite because he didn’t watch Steve make it.

That’s been something with him his entire life.

He isn’t sure what really set it off. The dire need to always be in the center of the kitchen, or just outside of it, peering around the corner to see hands flip and toss and slather. It used to drive his dad insane. His six year old son hanging out at his knees, big eyes gazing unblinking at the skillet on the stovetop, tugging on pant legs when the meat was still a little pink.

Before it was just his dad in the picture, his mom used to sit by and teach him all about the cooking process. How to wash the cutting board, to avoid contamination. To always wash his hands, to avoid contamination. Use a different turner in the pan, to avoid contamination.

That word had always struck him like a firm backhand. He’d always been curious, too smart for his own good. And his mom had dictionaries, so he soon learned what it meant. To be contaminated. The contamination that was always talked about, though, was to prevent getting sick. “You always hate being sick, Ed,” she used to tell him, “so make sure to be super duper safe with your food. Okay sunshine?”

He made habits of it. Washing his hands between each step. Then washing them when even a droplet of sauce stained his index finger. Scrubbing away the raw chicken strands on his cutting board, scrubbing harder because he swore there was a piece, just one more piece, there’s a piece and there’s a piece and—he did it until his hands were lobster red from the hot water. And the hot water was good for killing bacteria, so washing his hands became excruciating, but safe. He was always prepared with three or more turners lined up on clean paper towels at the stove. Dish washing liquid on hand.

Another thing that really stood out, and it only stood out once he got real fucking sick, was the part where food sometimes is just served bad. With little or no control over it.

There had been one time—one time—where he went out for breakfast at the local diner. His mom sitting across from him in the booth, their plates saturated with syrup, cheesy eggs on the side. He’d eaten all he had because it had tasted fine, tasted good, tasted perfect. It was safe and it was good and his mom was there smiling at him all sweet, the lights weren’t too bright and the table wasn’t sticky like he hated and the waitress was real pretty.

But then he started puking. And once he started, he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t keep down water, couldn’t muster the appetite for something as bland as toast. His mom got sick, too. There had been the scary hospital with the too bright lights and too many smells, the doctors who talked too loud and the nurses who pressed too hard on his tender head. An egg recall—he didn’t know what that meant, he got too curious again, and then—

Eddie Munson stopped eating eggs.

And since eggs came from chickens…

Eddie Munson stopped eating chickens.

And when he stopped eating chicken, his mom got concerned.

So he ate it for her, learned to like it again little by very little. He still doesn’t like it, still doesn’t enjoy it, but he can keep it down at least. But if the eggs made him sick, then the chicken could, too. If the chicken was pink, even the slightest bit, then he couldn’t eat it.

Couldn’t eat the chicken, couldn’t eat the egg. Couldn’t because his brain wouldn’t allow him to; not some written rule in an uncovered handbook; not a dictation from some government practice; not the conspiracy theorist that used to live up the road. No. It was his own brain.

And what if other animals could make him sick?

Beef couldn’t be pink. Pork couldn’t be tender. Milk couldn’t be past the expiration day by even a minute after midnight. Cheese can’t be moldy, no matter how much his mom said blue cheese was delicious.

Then, things spiraled. Really started to spiral.

Bread was made of animal product. And bread could get moldy. If one piece was bad, then the whole loaf was bad. “Oh, baby, you can just cut the bad parts off,” his mom would say, “it’ll be alright. Plus, saves Mommy money, too.” But the bread was bad. The bread was really bad.

There were bad foods. There were good foods.

The cons list was longer than the pros.

He was skinnier than a string bean, even when he went through puberty. He insisted on packing his own school lunch, even if it cost him more. He insisted on skipping Home EC because he didn’t trust the other students to truly follow safety guidelines. He insisted on watching when Wayne cooked, when Hopper invited him over for a barbecue after Spring Break, when Mrs. Henderson had him over for Christmas.

And he usually watches Steve, too. Steve knows that, at least Eddie believes he does—because he should, shouldn’t he? They’ve been dating for a little over a year now, been friends a while longer. He himself knows that Steve will let him cook if he needs to, but Eddie trusts Steve for the most part. Can trust him to make food, under a gaze of course. But Steve has told him that he doesn’t mind, enjoys the company.

But chicken.

He’s biting his tongue. Even as he cuts through the left side of the breast, slow and meticulous. If it’s too messy of a cut, he won’t be able to see the inside. If he can’t see the inside, he can’t judge the color. No say of what the color is, then he isn’t sure about putting it in his mouth.

Steve’s across from him, already dabbing away at sauce on his lips, teeth grinding against each other as he chews. Eddie is still cutting the meat.

“Y’alright?” Steve asks him around his mouthful.

Eddie briefly glances up. “I’m fine,” he shorts. The knife finally makes contact with his plate, screeching against the porcelain. His fork piercing the freed slab, holding it up close to his face, under the light in Steve’s dining room. The only plus side of this house is the lighting, bright and shiny and perfect for Eddie to use. Usually.

He spins the fork.

It’s pink, a part of him notes, it’s still pink don’t put it in your—No, see, it’s white, that same part says, it’s white right there. It’ll be white everywhere, Steve made it.

Steve cuts his own food again, takes another hearty bite.

Eddie turns the fork once more.

But what if it’s just this one piece that’s perfect? What if Steve didn’t cook the rest of it long enough? He audibly takes a deep breath, his chest filling with it, stomach flipping. Eddie scrapes the piece off his fork, knife dictating it to one side of his plate, and he begins to cut up the rest of the chicken.

“Was that piece not”—

“I’m just checking,” Eddie rushes out. His wrists work faster through the next piece. Turning it. Pink. Next piece. Faster. Flipping it. Pinker. He rests his forearms against the table, wrists going limp over his plate, face tilted towards the ceiling as his eyes close and he breathes again.

Distantly, he calculates the rattling of his chair from his leg bouncing. The tick of the clock. Steve’s chewing. And chewing and chewing and—

He picks up the first piece of chicken and inspects it again, cutting it into smaller, more individual chunks.

What if Steve purposefully didn’t cook it right? What if he’s mad at you for something and this is how he shows it? What if he took the only good piece? What if he didn’t wash the turners and the cutting board and the—

“Ed?” Steve calls out to him. “Do you want me to check, baby?”

Eddie minutely shakes his head. Mumbles, “No, I got it. Don’t worry about it.”

Did he wash his hands? What if he didn’t wash his hands before washing the green beans? And the rolls? Did he heat them up in the same pan as the chicken? The mashed potatoes, do they have chicken in them? The chicken is touching your mashed potatoes right now. The pink chicken is touching your fresh mashed potatoes. Keep cutting the chicken, it’s hard to see if it’s white. What if it isn’t white at all? The chicken is touching your mashed—

He chucks the utensils down onto the table. Hands flying up to cover his eyes, fingers tensing into his hairline. His legs jitter under the table, stomach backflipping into his ribcage, mouth drooling like he’s nauseous. The heels of his palms press hard into his eye sockets, hard enough he can’t see anything aside from the brown-black that exists there. And his breaths wheeze out of him, shaky and unsure.

The rolls could be moldy. Did you check to see if they were moldy? What if Steve cut off the moldy parts? Mold rolls and pink chicken, he must be really mad at you. You did something. The chicken is probably touching your mashed potatoes still, don’t eat the potatoes. The potatoes could’ve been moldy, you didn’t see the potatoes Steve used. What if it’s all moldy? Steve is eating it, though. Steve is eating it. Steve is eating the moldy food and the undercooked chicken. Steve is going to get sick. He’s going to get sick. You’re going to get sick. Steve is eating it and eating it and he doesn’t know, he can’t see it like you can. You’re crazy, you’re just being crazy. It’s moldy. All of it is moldy. It’s raw. The chicken is raw and it’s touching your potatoes. They’re touching. Steve is eating it. Steve is eating the chicken. Steve is eating it. He’s going to get sick. You’re dramatic, just crazy. You’re being crazy. He can’t see it like you can. He’s eating it. You’re crazy. Crazy, you’re just—

“I can’t,” Eddie chokes out, words clogged in congestion and sniffles. “‘M sorry, Steve. ‘M sorry, I’m so sorry,” he weeps softly. The sanctuary of his palms is the only retreat he has from this mild breakdown, tears wetting his hands. Over his caught breathing, he can distantly make out the sounds of Steve setting down his utensils, scooting his chair to Eddie’s side of the table, setting himself in close and warm. “I’m sorry,” he hiccups, “Steve”—

“Shhh,” Steve whispers, “Ed, it’s alright, I promise. It’s alright, baby.”

Blearily, he looks up from his hands, the wood of the dining table. “I can’t—It’s—I can’t eat it, Steve, I can’t do it. I don’t know…”

Steve keeps his hands to himself, twisted nervously in his lap. His eyes are calm, but there’s a gentle crease between his eyebrows—the sure sign of concern. “Is there something I can do to help,” he asks in a hushed voice, “maybe I can check your chicken for you?”

He sniffs, darting his eyes to the plate. “Um…I…I”—underneath the table, his legs begin to jitter again, erratic and upset—“did you wash your hands? No…no you, I trust you, I swear, but I don’t know if you did and I didn’t see you when you were cooking and I just”—

Without moving his hands, Steve gets in a tad closer, leaning against the edge of the table. There’s a softness in Steve’s stare, that concern from earlier mingling with care. Voice quiet, “I’ll go wash my hands right now, Eds. And I’ll come back with a new knife and fork and I’ll check the inside of your chicken. Is there anything else I can do for you right now?”

“No,” he murmurs, “no…not yet.”

The chair creaks as Steve moves, quick and nimble to the kitchen. Distantly, the sink turns on, the soap dispenser pumps, and then the water is obstructed by his hands. He begins a countdown from one hundred twenty in his brain, each number careful to the heart of his metronome. They’ve done a dance like this before. One hundred fifteen. If Steve finishes up too early, Eddie will call out for him to start over. One hundred ten. And the number will restart in his brain, two minutes and counting. Just as he did for himself as a little boy, lobster hands and tears in his eyes, the lemon scent of hand soap stark and true to his nostrils. The sink is still on, though. So far, so good. Eighty-five. Steve’s getting better at it now. A part of Eddie is worried that he’s caught on, that he’s well aware of the weird timer inside of Eddie, trembling and counting, ticking like a bomb. The other part knows that Steve is just being considerate, taking care the way he needs to, the way that’s asked of him. That he takes care of his people, would lay down and die right now if Eddie asked him to. Seventy. Not that he would. He loves Steve too much for that. Sixty-three. He loves Steve a whole hell of a lot, how his brain works, how he manages to just meld to the course. Nobody has ever taken the time to learn the odd intricacies of his brain, has ever taken note of how he cuts his food, the way he grills until things are burnt, hands washing until they turn white by pressing with his fingertips. Forty-seven. Something wriggles in him, pesky and ugly, growling alive that Steve will get tired of this dance. The steps. That he’d realize that Eddie really is just a nuthouse. A basket case. The crazy person that everybody’s warned him about.

His inner dialogue is intense. Needy. A monster of a beast. It’s got fangs and claws and leeches where it can—always. Knows what food shouldn’t look like, an amalgamation born for Eddie’s eyes, the trick of light, the glisten of his fork against the white flesh insides of his chicken. Twenty-six. He wishes that this part of him would hide, dissipate, maybe even die altogether. Lord knows it would save him the time, the energy. That he’d appear healthier, fuller in his flesh, his skin no longer dull or pale. He’d be alive and well, make it through his day with not a care in the world. He could be…a little bit more normal. Fifteen.

That’s just his conscious, though. Steve tells him that everybody is weird. Odd.

Unfortunately, Eddie doesn’t believe him most of the time. Not everybody sees the world he does. Steve sure doesn’t. No matter how much he claims to love Eddie—not that there’s really any doubt just how much—he’ll never understand what it’s like to be him, to live in his skin, to have a constant slew of thoughts that interrogate him until he crashes and burns, asleep and restless for a few hours.

Zero.

Steve comes back into the dining room, his hands still glistening from the water, a new set of utensils in his grip. He settles down in his chair again, drags Eddie’s plate close to him, and sets himself up for the slice and dice.

“Okay,” he murmurs, “how about you watch me cut the chicken, Eds. Anything you think I’m doing wrong, or maybe you need me to check again, I want you to tell me. I want you to tell me to stop, to look over again, or tell me what you need.” Steve’s eyes are on him again, aflame and caring. “Anything at all, Eds, I want you to tell me. Okay?”

Silently, Eddie merely nods in understanding. And then, no further words, Steve begins cutting the chicken into smaller pieces. Every few chunks, he stops to scan each and every piece. Holding them directly to the overhead light as if he’s interrogating them, ready to slap them silly if they say one thing out of line. When he’s satisfied and Eddie doesn’t speak up, Steve sets the chicken back down and moves on.

For the most part, Eddie’s satisfied with how Steve goes about this. He’s not doing anything wrong, not really. Maybe going a bit too quick with a couple pieces. But he reminds himself, intently, that he trusts Steve. He trusts Steve wholly—trusted him with his life at one point, this isn’t anything different. Maybe a lot less intense and a whole lot silly, but Steve treats it as if he’s putting pressure on wounds, as if he’s gearing to lock his elbows and perform CPR.

But then—

“Wait wait wait,” Eddie rushes. Steve stops, just as he said he would. “That one”—he keeps the urgent tone in his voice, no matter how much he wants to squash it—“that one looks pink. It’s wrong, Steve. I can’t—that…that one is bad.” Humiliatingly, the burn of tears is fresh behind his eyes, his lids tight and heavy at the same time, he’s exhausted from it.

Instead of arguing or protesting, Steve simply looks at it again. Rotating it slowly, meticulously. Holds it to the light. Squints. Then, he clicks his tongue. “It’s not pink,” he decides, “but it’s definitely off-white. Maybe that part is a little dry, so the meat doesn’t look as fresh.” He scrapes the piece off the fork, setting it isolated on the edge of the plate. “Do you want to eat it still? Try it again?”

Eddie sucks in a slow breath. Eyes set to the plate, that one dumb chunk of chicken. His pulse rabbits against his throat. Legs ready to twist off his hips and go running for the hills. Wishes that the floor would open up and swallow him whole. Bones and all. “I don’t…I don’t know, Steve. I don’t know, I don’t know,” he mutters, frantic.

Steve gives him a sympathetic nod. “Okay,” he murmurs once more, “then let me lay out some choices, okay? That way, you can just pick whatever is best for you. And…and if none of them work, then you can tell me what to do.”

“Okay.”

“Option one: I can put your food back in a clean pan and heat it up again, you can watch me do it the entire time”—Eddie soaks that up, but shakes his head. Steve’s own food will go cold if he does that.—“option two: I can completely throw out the chicken, reheat the rest of your meal in the microwave and that can be your dinner.”

“The chicken touched my mashed potatoes,” Eddie mumbles, “I can’t eat them.”

Steve, patient as ever, nods again. “The last thing I can think of, then, is that I can heat up one of your safe frozen dinners. There’s beef stroganoff, chicken tenders with macaroni and cheese, sirloin steak with green beans, and…I think there’s one more of the spaghetti and meatballs. Does any of that sound good to you, baby?”

“Mmm…the chicken tenders sound good. Can you heat those up for me, please?”

A gentle kiss is pressed to Eddie’s left temple, sticky and warm. “Of course,” Steve speaks softly, “let me take care of this chicken and I’ll come right out with the other food in a minute, okay?” Nodding against Steve’s mouth, Eddie breathes a small sigh.

At least it wasn’t pink, he’s able to find relief in, Steve can still eat his chicken.

He watches from his spot at the table. Steve scraping the food into the garbage, setting the dirtied plate and utensils into the sink, washing his hands again, and popping that frozen meal into the microwave. His body stays stationed in front of the microwave, watching with a cocked hip and his arms crossed over his chest. There’s a low little string of hums that Steve’s emanating, gentle as they carry themself to Eddie’s ears.

Soon enough, Steve comes back to the dining room, sets the fresh food in front of Eddie, and places himself back at his own plate.

“Thank you,” Eddie says softly—that same wash of relief flowing through him, his empty stomach no longer flipping, but instead rumbling for the new food. It’s not five star dining. It’s not Steve’s homemade meals, but it’s enough for now. It has to be.

“No problem,” Steve says around a mouthful, “I’ve gotta make sure you’re getting something good in your body. Wouldn’t make you just sit there and suffer.”

“I don’t—you don’t understand. You didn’t have to do any of this, really. Honestly, I wouldn’t hold it against you if you made me sit here and swallow down those potatoes. I should’ve, I know. But you…god, Steve. You take care of me in a way I haven’t fully grasped.”

Gently, Steve sets his fork down on his plate with a small clatter. “Babe,” he coos, a bit sad if Eddie picks up on it. He looks up from his chicken tenders. Steve’s tender in his own way. “I don’t fully understand what happens in your head, I probably never will, but I will always—always—make sure you’re taken care of. That you have a hot meal, food that you will definitely eat, and that it’s as fulfilling as it can possibly be. Nothing will change that. Nothing at all.” Steve sets his hand on the surface of the table, skyward so that Eddie grasps to it—he does, even after a few tentative seconds. His thumb traces over the back of Eddie’s hand, rubbing soothingly over his knuckles. “I should’ve waited a bit to make dinner,” Steve says lowly, almost admitting, “I know that you like being able to watch me cook.”

“Yeah, but—I shouldn’t have to”—

“But you do,” Steve points out carefully. “You do and I know that. Even if I sat here and told you every ingredient I used, the fact that I washed every single dish before using it again, and I washed my hands between each step—even if I did that—you wouldn’t feel comfortable. You thought it was pink in the middle. And even though it wasn’t, you still didn’t trust it, and that’s fine. And, if it was pink, I’d want you to tell me.

“You deserve the safety of good food. I’ll do anything to give that to you, I promise.”

Eddie, aside himself, sniffles. His lips wobble. Cheeks heat. “Thank you,” he keens, “really, Steve, thank you.”

Steve squeezes his hand. “Thank you for trusting me,” he whispers, “I’m glad you trust me enough to let me in. To let me help.”

“Even though I mucked up your dinner plans?”

A tug. He looks up from where his eyes wandered. Steve’s stare is intense, but not intimidating. “You didn’t muck up anything, Eddie baby. I have my food. You have the food you know you’re safe with. We’re eating dinner together, holding hands, talking. Nothing would ruin this, what we have.” He leans against the table again, closing the distance between them. Murmurs, “I love your brain. I love your concern. I love your worry. I love that you trust me, that you can reach out to me for help. I love you, Eddie. Nobody else, nothing else.

“You are safe with me, always. Always.”

Eddie lets out a watery laugh. “I know,” he whispers, “nobody else I’d rather fall in love with, Steve, I swear.” He sniffles again, wipes the end of his nose with the back of his hand, and sighs—squeezing Steve’s hand in the process. “You’re gonna make me cry into my chicken tenders, though.”

Steve chuckles. “Sorry,” he sheepishly murmurs. “I just needed you to know all that.”

“I love you, Steve. Thank you for taking care of me.”

There are warm smiles on their faces as Steve finally pulls away. He sighs something completely lovesick—Eddie knows already that he’s a goner. “Now that we’ve basically expressed undying love,” Steve says, “how about we eat and bitch about our days, huh? I’ve got some store bought cookie dough we can make for dessert, if you wanna watch and entertain me.”

“I’d love to. No place I’d rather be, Stevie.”

There’s a million other things that will try and tear him down. Food and stomach turning feelings and the constant stream of numbing self dialogue. But right here? Laughing afterwards? He is safe. For now, he is safe.

And, at the end of the day, after all that—

Being safe is all that matters.

🍗—————🍗 My little taglist for this one <3 : @ilovecupcakesandtea

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #eddie munson has ocd #eddie munson has arfid #read all tags and cws #angst and hurt/comfort #happy ending #hopeful ending

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augustjustice · 8 days ago

Text

you wanna feel how it feels (let's exchange the experience) 7/?

start here | Part 6 | AO3

Rating: E (overall; T for this section) | 2.3k for this part of the chapter

Tags: Bodyswap, Friends to Lovers, Slowburn, Getting to Know Each Other, Disabled Eddie Munson, Disabled Steve Harrington, Class Differences, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Bisexual Eddie Munson, Ableism, Jealousy

Summary: After the Spring Break from hell, Eddie and Steve become fast friends, with a possible hint towards something more…except they’re never quite sure what the other is actually thinking. But maybe, just maybe, walking a mile in each other’s shoes can lend them some much needed insight.

Notes: The boys find themselves in a study session with Nancy.

There's discussions and struggles with period-typical ableism about learning disabilities, both internalized and external, in this portion. Next part of the chapter coming later this week!

The public library wasn’t even open on Sunday nights, but that had become the designated meeting spot for his and Nancy’s study sessions anyway. Nancy knew one of the librarians pretty well after long hours researching for both class and her job at the school paper, and she had convinced her to let them come in after hours. Which was honestly one of the most Nancy Wheeler things Eddie had ever heard–all but breaking and entering into a library of all places, with the sole purpose of going over a bunch of flash cards for school.

She’d even gotten a key out of the whole arrangement, one Eddie had a sneaking suspicion would go suddenly and mysteriously missing around the time their Sunday sessions were scheduled to come to an end. That was the exact kind of thing he’d started to expect from her in the past month–the perfect combination of the nerdy good girl he’d thought he had totally pegged from school versus the wild card he’d quickly learned she could actually be.

They rolled up to the library not long after six, running a little late. Eddie had had to change out of the Scoops uniform, after all, never actually serious when he taunted Steve with the threat of leaving it on. And then Steve’s failed attempts at arguing–Seriously, Eds!–that he could drive the Beemer to the library had been the cause for even further delay. He had been insistent that just so long as he parked in the farthest reaches of the lot, away from prying eyes, no one would be any the wiser. Eddie had a simple, foolproof rebuttal for that, shutting it down with two simple words.

Nancy. Wheeler.

Though Steve found himself forced to accept defeat, he’d done so with his fair share of grumbling.

Fortunately, Eddie had never been the most punctual person on the planet, so Nancy didn’t look all that surprised to see Steve jogging up the steps towards her a full ten minutes after their established meeting time.

The fact that he had Eddie in tow, however, did seem to give her a seconds pause, and this time he found himself on the receiving end of Nancy’s piercing-eyed once over.

“What are you doing here, Steve?”

“Can’t a guy just take an interest in his friend’s studies, wanna lend him a helping hand?” Eddie asked with a shrug and a smile, trying to capture Steve’s affable charm.

The look Nancy sent him was skeptical, and that’s if he was being generous.

“Just don’t distract him,” she warned, turning to unlock the library door.

Steve guffawed, clearly insulted.

“Hey! Come on, that’s like…so not fair. I–He helps me study all the time. After school at the trailer,” he gave Eddie a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Doncha, buddy?”

“That I do,” Eddie agreed.

In fact, the only real reason Eddie thought they had a chance of pulling this off was because Steve had already gone through these flashcards with Eddie close to a dozen times before. That plus Eddie’s own shitty memory when it came to anything remotely school related would make the perfect scapegoat for any and all of Steve’s slip ups.

Nancy’s heels clicked sharply against the tile floor as she led them inside, making a beeline for one of the tables tucked into the corner, the space illuminated by the fading sunlight streaming in from the windows. She looked completely in her element as she started spreading out multiple notebooks, a pencil case full of highlighters, and notecards in every conceivable color visible to the human eye.

By contrast, Eddie was well aware how out of place he–and Steve, now, by association–looked, with nothing but his scuffed up textbook and a spiral notebook between them. Not only that, but said notebook was stuffed with random pages of loose leaf paper, brimming with song lyrics, campaign notes, and assorted doodles scribbled in the margins of nearly all his schoolwork.

“I’m serious,” Nancy repeated as she sat, no-nonsense. “No goofing off, okay?”

Steve sucked on his lips, looking caught out. “Yeah, Nance, we heard you the first time. We’re just here to study, okay? Steve’s not gonna get up to any funny business, or whatever. Right?”

At Steve’s prompting look, Eddie shot Nancy a reassuring smile. “Hey, man, you’re the boss. Besides,” Reaching over, he mussed his own hair, laughing at the scowl Steve sent him as he tried to comb the unruly curls back into place, “Munson’s usually the one causing a ruckus and stirring up trouble, not me.”

After all, it wasn’t Steve’s fault that his mere presence was enough to distract Eddie, usually. Eddie, on the other hand, drew attention to himself on purpose, with all the bombast of a circus clown, and he could admit to that.

Nancy shook her head minutely as she started shuffling through the stacks of cards, though her posture was less rigid, suggesting she was at least a little appeased.

“All I’m saying is–I know what it’s like, when the two of you are together.”

Steve and Eddie’s heads swiveled towards each other in unison, and Eddie felt relieved when it really was like staring into a mirror, Steve looking every bit as baffled as he felt.

Sure, some of what she said was true. For Eddie, at least. He was especially prone to tomfoolery whenever Steve was around–for good or bad, managing to catch Steve’s eye was intoxicating.

But how the hell had Nancy, of all people, managed to suss that one out? Was it her reporter’s eye for detail, or some shit?

“Ready?” she prompted expectantly, breezing past their silent communication with all the authority of a school teacher. They could do nothing but nod in answer, earning them one of Nancy’s small, satisfied smiles. “Good. Let’s go ahead and get started, then.”

—

A system quickly fell into place after that, he and Nancy agreeing to trade off quizzing Steve with the cards. Eddie intended to do his best, in the time between reading each card and Steve responding, to repeat both question and answer multiple times in his head. If he could memorize some of the information, that would help make this study session an actual worthwhile use of all their time, instead of just another bit of the same improv theater he and Steve had been forced into all day.

There was just…one problem.

Eddie squinted down at the card in his hand. He knew that he was supposed to be looking down at some random WWII factoid, cramming for Mrs. O’Donnell’s upcoming killer final.

But…each word looked more like a line in one of those word searches at the supermarket, just a scramble of meaningless letters. On the hardest mode possible, too, since Eddie was unable to even pick out the word allegedly hidden among them. And what was worse, the longer he looked, trying mentally to grasp at a string and comprehend it, the more it felt like the letters were shifting around on him.

He couldn’t help but think of those optical illusion games the teachers used to make them play in elementary school–stare long enough, and the images started to move on the page, burning hidden pictures into your retinas.

Long moments passed, and, in his frustration, Eddie flapped out his arm so the thin square of paper was at a distance, still trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

“Steve,” Nancy let out an impatient sound, holding her hand out for the note card expectantly, “if you're not going to help, just give them to me. I'll do it.”

“No. No, man, it's not that.” Eddie rubbed at both eyes with his hand, trying to clear them. “Shit, maybe I'm more tired than I thought.”

Steve frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Even after several rapid blinks, the card still looked the same, an incomprehensible mess. Lifting his head to meet Steve’s eyes, Eddie felt his pulse ratcheting upward as panic started to climb his throat.

Shit, what if this meant Steve’s brain was rejecting Eddie’s mind, or something? That was really all they needed, for Eddie to have some kind of stroke inside Steve's body.

“I don't know, dude! The words, they’re all sorta…squiggly on the page?”

Despite the fact that the situation he’d just described clearly warranted it, Steve didn't look all that concerned, not beyond his eyebrows briefly furrowing in confusion. Then, realization dawned on his face.

“Oh! Right, yeah. That's the uh…” he scratched his pencil over Eddie's side burn, the twist of his mouth sheepish, almost embarrassed, “the dyslex–something?”

At the confused look Nancy shot between them, he faltered.

“A-At least…that's what it sounds like, anyway. We learned about it in Mr. Cooper's biology class junior year.”

“Dyslexia?” Nancy asked.

Steve snapped his fingers at her in confirmation. “Thank you, that's it!”

Mouth pursed, Nancy turned to Eddie. “You never told me about that.”

“I guess it, uh…kinda never came up?” Eddie offered uncertainly, catching Steve's eyes in the hope he could help him out.

Steve nodded in confirmation. He ducked his head immediately afterwards, though, suddenly “absorbed” in Eddie’s notebook as he spun a pencil absently between his fingers.

“If you'd let me know, I could have adjusted my study guides to better help you,” Nancy chided, frowning. “You wouldn't have needed to struggle so much.”

“Yeah, well, maybe he just didn't want you to look at him like was an even bigger idiot,” Steve murmured. When Eddie glanced over at him, he found Steve pinching the bridge of his nose, still looking down. There was an edge of defensiveness in his voice, but he mostly just sounded…tired. “The way that the teachers all did when they found out.”

Whipping around at his words, Nancy shot Steve a startled glare. “Eddie…what the hell?”

“No, Nance,” Eddie mentally patted himself on the back for remembering to use the nickname, “it's okay. Eddie…he gets it.” When Steve tentatively lifted his head, Eddie locked eyes with him, willing him to hear the earnestness in his words, the understanding. “Teachers–shit, everybody–once they decide something's ‘wrong’ with you, they just…fucking write you off permanently.”

“I would never do that!” Nancy insisted, clearly affronted. “Did you–did you think I would do that?”

Eddie shrugged helplessly. “I mean, guess I was just, uh…worried what you'd think. That’s all.”

“Steve…” she said, all quiet and hurt.

Shit, Eddie was so not equipped to try and navigate these murky ass waters. Having an awkward conversation with Steve’s ex? As him? In front of Steve?

Fighting off the demo-bats again might have been easier, and look where that had gotten him.

Thankfully, Steve interjected. “Come on, Wheeler. Can you seriously blame him?” he shrugged, and Eddie recognized that familiar, self-deprecating smile when he saw it, trying to defuse the tension. “Everybody knows you’re the smartest girl in school, yeah? Back in your studying days, he was just trying to, you know…not look stupid in front of you.”

“Well, I should say so, Eddie boy. Especially since I’m not stupid,” Eddie cocked an eyebrow at him. Steve could try and protest all he wanted, but he would argue him down every time.

“No, you’re not,” Nancy agreed firmly. Then she chewed her bottom lip, wide blue eyes trained on Eddie. He was pretty sure he had never, in his life, seen Nancy Wheeler look sheepish. “I didn’t…ever mean to make you feel like you were.”

Steve’s head jerked towards her, expression taken aback.

Christ, were Steve and Nancy, having, like…a moment? Eddie’s skin prickled uncomfortably, stomach churning at the thought. He felt like an interloper in a conversation that he now, because of their extraordinarily weird circumstances, found himself at the center of.

Eyes darting back and forth between them, he said awkwardly, “Uh…it’s cool.”

Even though he wasn’t sure it was–and it absolutely wasn’t his place to say, one way or the other–what else could he really do?

Steve, ever the hero, thankfully swooped in to his rescue.

“You know, I seriously never thought I’d see the day you apologized, Wheeler.” He elbowed Eddie lightly in the side, inviting him in on the joke. “Stevie told me you used to be pretty ridiculously insistent about that whole ‘always being right’ thing.”

“Shut up, I am not!” Nancy reached out and swatted lightly at them both, but there was a laugh in her voice, the mood around them lightening again.

Eddie held up his hands with a shrug, before leaning back in his chair, the picture of cool and casual. “Just calling it like I see it, Nance.”

“So, you two smarty pants gonna help me study for this big final, or what?” Despite the fact that he was tapping into a bit of Eddie’s particular brand of teasing bravado, the smile Steve sent them both was warm, grateful.

Nancy hummed, the wheels in her head turning. “How about this? I’ll read off the questions, and, if you need a little extra time and help, you can talk over your answer with Steve?”

“Hell yeah!” After pumping his fist into the air in an imitation Eddie was pretty sure came straight out of The Breakfast Club, Steve slung a friendly arm around his shoulders. “We could totally do that. You’ll be, like, my…trusty knight guy, Stevie! Here to help me, uh–” he snapped his fingers together, “slay the dragon that is history class.”

Eddie made sure to huff, even as he leaned into the warmth of their bodies pressed close together. “That’s all-star captain to you, Munson. But, uh–yeah. I think we can manage that.”

Nancy shook her head, though her smile didn’t falter. “Right. Well, let’s see…”

As she flipped over the notecard in her hand and began to read the next question, Eddie tried not to notice the way Steve kept sneaking looks at her, a mix of relief, surprise, and something like awe plain on his face.

Taglist below! As always, if you’d liked to be added or removed, please just let me know:

@tinytalkingtina @eriquin @spectrum-spectre @grimweathers @highkingpenny

@yesdangerpls @vthx @queenie-ofthe-void @pearynice @felixir-of-moths

@stevesworldxx @themellowyellowmomma @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @anne-bennett-cosplayer

@sidekick-hero @thefreakandthehair @hbyrde36 @lingeringmirth @too-efn-old-to-be-here

@ellietheasexylibrarian @sharingisntkaren @a-lovely-craziness

#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steddie bodyswap au #bodyswap au #tw: ableism #(period typical; both internalized and external)#my writing #my things #my stuff

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bishlova-ship · 1 month ago

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Okay, I already posted about this, however at the time I was posting about another Bishova fic I'm working on. I haven't quit working on that one, it is just a much more complex story and I'm trying to ensure things flow properly.

That said, I recently got inspired and now I'm a few chapters into a shorter fic that is much less complex. So, I am seeking a Beta Reader for it. The first chapter is in Google Docs and ready to be reviewed.

So, here is the summary (subject to change), along with the Beta Reader checklist and other things worth noting.

(Also note that this fic is purely self-indulgent. I had inspiration and now, well, I can't stop myself. I have no self-control whatsoever.)

_________________________________

Fic summary:

"Holy hell!" Kate gasps, eyes wide with shock. "It's Hawkeye! The Hawkeye! The Avenger! In... whatever room this is. Wait, where am I? Why is Hawkeye here? Oh my God, did I die? Is this heaven?"

She starts rambling, excitement quickly bleeding into confusion.

What?

Yelena feels her stomach drop. There is no reason Kate wouldn’t know who Clint is. She texts him every day along with frequent video calls. Clint, Laura, and Yelena exchange an alarmed glance, all unsure of what to say or think.

“Kate Bishop...” Yelena swallows, nausea quickly building. “Are you being serious? Please tell me you’re playing a really cruel joke. I do not like this… Please stop.”

“Stop what? If anything, there’s a joke being played on me! But if it means meeting Hawkeye, then I don’t mind.”

“I’ll get the doctor. Clint, come with me,” Laura says quickly, already heading for the door, Clint following with an uneasy look.

Kate turns to Yelena. “Hawkeye is here. Oh my god. I can’t believe it. Can you believe it? Oh yeah, who are you, by the way? Sorry if that sounds rude.”

AKA

The one where Kate doesn't remember anything about Christmas 2024 and beyond after a mission gone wrong. Set 7 months post-canon.

_______________________

Fic details:

Avg. words per chapter: 3k-4k Expected chapters: At least 10 Rating: G for a good amount, but also T, and definitely some E, eventually :3 Trope being used: Amnesia because why not? lol

EDIT: Also, the Beta Reader checklist, I do not expect all of those things. Just to clarify.

Beta Reader Checklist

(Adapted from a checklist created by AO3 Comment of the Day.)

Development:

brainstorming ✅

plotting ✅

research

Grammar:

tenses ✅

spelling

punctuation ✅

pronouns

subject/verb agreement ✅

paragraphing✅

Writing:

tone ✅

flow ✅

pacing ✅

continuity ✅

plot holes ✅

structure/plot ✅

clarity/removing ambiguity ✅

awkward metaphors/phrasing ✅

overuse of certain words/phrases ✅

Sensitivity:

racism

sexism

homophobia

transphobia

ableism

religious intolerance

potential squicks/triggering content ✅

Canon:

characterization ✅

timeline

references ✅

Other:

first impressions/reactions ✅

positive feedback ✅

language (e.g. US/British English)

formatting ✅

smart quotes vs. straight quotes ✅

AO3:

fic title

chapter titles

summary ✅

tagging ✅

#kate bishop #yelena belova #bishova #bishlova #beta reader

31 notes · View notes

cursedwretch · 7 months ago

Text

What Lurks Beneath - Chapter 3

Viktor x AFAB!Reader; Word count: 4442 Words; Rating 18+ MDNI for Eventual Smut

AO3 | Prev

CW: Some slight ableism this chapter.

My mind—the restless, wandering thing—is only half on-task. The other drifts back to the shared lab—it’s cool metal shelves and sterile walls, the bite of chemicals hanging in the air. Specifically, the fresh set of samples waiting for me patiently in the fridge, which had been procured over a couple of visits to the undercity. Waiting. Ever the gentleman, Viktor insisted on coming with each time.

The words on the page before me blur as I twirl my pen. It’s only a quick jot away from the office. Perhaps I could take lunch there instead of at my desk. A bit questionable? But, tempting.

Unfortunately for me, Heimerdinger appears intent on giving me a stroke at the big hour of 9am instead. Breaking the silence, he asks, “have you considered presenting at the symposium?”

I let out a sputtering cough, eyes widening. Across the room, he waits.

“I hadn’t,” I gawk, “I’m not sure I have anything worth presenting, sir.”

He wags a finger my way, regarding me with a stern brow that I’d find intimidating on any other man. “I’ve seen too many a great scientist fall prey to false modesty.”

I frown.

“I have on good authority from a certain predecessor of yours that your research holds great potential, my girl,” He preaches. I pinch my nose at the term as he continues, “with a little hard work and guidance, of course!”

I tap my pen against the page, marking up the margins of the poor student’s paper haphazardly. Dot dot dotdotdot.

“I’ll think about it,” I say at last.

His eyes narrow for a moment, disappointed, before light flashes behind them. “Perhaps a private space is in order.”

I gape. That’s quite the bribe. What could possibly motivate this sudden investment in my career? “Sir I—”

“Now, now,” he repeats, closing his eyes as he walks into his adjoining office, “I won’t hear another word. Consider it!!”

His door clicks shut.

I sigh. I’d have to live and breathe my research, especially with the symposium at the end of the quarter. But I could possibly secure funding for my project. No more personal bankrolling and personal time and borrowed supplies. My nose pinches, I could care less about the competitive aspect. Progress, however…

“Sir,” my voice cuts the silence like a knife, “I’ll take you up on that lab.”

***

It’s in that very lab that I see Viktor next.

The space is a mess, as all good labs are. Half-empty boxes in the corner, a sparse arrangement of supplies scattered throughout the rest. But it’s my own, and it is wonderful. Finally able to break away from the small mountain of paperwork, I hum softly to myself as I work.

“I thought I might find you here,” a familiar lilting voice speaks.

My eyes remain glued to the microscope, the corners of my mouth tugging upwards, “I think I have you to thank for this.”

A few paces closer, I hear him shrug as he sets an object on the table, “eh, hardly.”

I look up. Standing at my side, he takes the room in with curious eyes. Drinking in each detail. Atop the desk sit a notebook and a mechanical pencil—sturdy, with a surprisingly ornate metal casing. He lifts his hand, fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“A lab-warming gift,” he says, a small laugh escaping him. His mouth is a half-grimace, color dusting his cheeks.

I laugh, and he sharply turns, muttering something about ‘taking his leave’ as he stalks towards the exit.

“Hey, hold up, Vik.”

His steps falter, he keeps his back to me as he waits, tilting his head in my direction.

“I’m sure you’re sick of these little excursions, and this one isn’t in the undercity, so, no pressure.” My foot taps erratically, and I can feel the back of my neck heating as I continue, “anyways, I’m going to take some benthic samples from where the river is widest. I’ve arranged for a boat next week. You’re welcome to come.”

He blinks at me. A beat passes, and when I’m positive I’ve made a horrible fool of myself and overstepped, he replies, “I would… enjoy that.”

Oh. His expression is surprisingly gentle.

That’s that, then.

***

It’s that same expression that graces his features as he leans his arms against the railing, watching where the river meets the coast while we pull away from the wharf. Eyes wide, mouth parted. That not-quite-crease in his brow softening, as if he’s five years younger. He takes a deep breath in. Out.

“I’m starting to move on to biodiversity surveys,” I say. It’s an excuse to talk, and a rather lame one. I’ll take any.

He hums, eyes still scanning the coast, “hence the benthic samples.”

“Exactly,” I look over the edge of the ship into the deep dark below, I shudder, all too aware of what lay beneath. “I need samples of the less... polluted areas of the river anyways. Two birds: meet stone.”

He propped his chin on his elbow, looking at me from the side of his eye, “how soon will you return to the undercity? I imagine your timeline has moved forward.”

“Something like that. Though, I’m not sure when.” I laugh, shifting closer to nudge him with my elbow, “and how is your presentation? Prepared?”

He grimaced, but doesn’t budge, “mh, we will be. More or less.”

“How confident,” I laugh dryly.

The corner of his mouth twitches, “no, I don’t think I’ll be prepared for that until after it’s already done.”

My eyebrows raise.

“The prototype, however, is nearly ready to go!” he says with mock enthusiasm. He rubs at his chin, “I am.. eh, not a fan of public speaking.”

“Huh. You could have fooled me.”

“Funny,” he clipped.

“I’m serious. You’re always so,” I wave towards him, searching for the word, “confident.”

He squints at the water. Reading a page that’s not quite there. With another tilt of the head, he looks at me. Eyes focused, bright. “Self-assurance does not necessitate a lust for the limelight,” he says, his gaze shifting back to the water for a moment before returning to mine. There’s a flicker in his eyes, something I can’t quite decipher.

If we were closer, I’d call bullshit. Instead, I settle on a lopsided smile, “fair enough, Viktor.”

The trip proves surprisingly fruitful, save for one glaring issue: the ecosystem is under much more strain than I initially anticipated. Still, it was nice to see Viktor so… relaxed. Soft.

If I want to have a half-decent report in the next handful of weeks, I’ll need to do more faunal surveys. Measurable surveys. Possibly even find a link between the inevitable biomagnification and Piltover’s economy, if I’m really lucky. And all of this requires one thing. A knot forms in my stomach.

I’ll need to seek out Professor Haynes. Head of the Marine Biology department and God-king of supplies. A few of which I need.

***

It’s fairly early in the morning, the academy halls still quiet as I approach his door.

I rap on his office door, calling out, “sir?”

A quick grunt of ‘come in’ and I’m standing beyond the threshold. My eye’s scan the edges of his room. A mess of books line the shelves as sun pours through the window, the columns of light highlighting each speck of dust. Beige and musty. I fear my smile comes across as more of a grimace as I greet the man behind the desk.

“Ah, you’ve been making quite a stir,” he smiles up at me, though his eyes hold no warmth.

I cough, shifting on my foot, “I haven’t accomplished anything worth ‘stirring’ over, sir.”

“True.”

I tongue my cheek. Okay, I may have walked into that. Still, it stings. I swallow down my reaction.

He’s keen on twisting the dagger, “your little pet project has, at least. Especially considering the… location.”

I shrug, “it’s fairly standard, sir. I recall learning about habitat restoration from you during my studies. Why not improve our own back yard?”

His eyes narrow, leaning backward as he regards me, “what brings you to my office?”

“I need an electrofisher, sir.”

“Unfortunately, they’re all booked for the next 6 months.”

Bullshit. Utter bullshit. “Is there no way sir—“

“Do you have any idea how many requests I receive for such equipment? They’re all in use for the foreseeable future.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Perhaps you should choose a less ambitious area of study.”

I grit my teeth, the urge to slam the door on my way out all too great.

***

Heimerdinger is hardly more receptive. Supportive, yes. But intent on taking Haynes’ side—or, at least, believing his end of the story. My heart pulses wildly as I sit in his office for the second time today. He insisted on speaking to Haynes himself after the first. Citing my need for patience and ensuring me that it couldn’t possibly be driven by any personal biases. A few hours later, he returns to the office with a pleased smile, motioning for me to follow.

Of course, his idea of good news is out-of-touch:

“You will have access to your equipment in a few weeks, my dear,” he declares.

My heart sinks. “Sir, I don’t have many weeks left—“

“I know, I know,” he sighs, “but there’s nothing to be done. A little patience and you’ll see; the time will fly right by!”

I huff, standing from my chair so fast the chair rubs against the floor with a loud groan. “Thank you for your time, sir,” I grit out.

Eager to escape, I nearly run face first into Jayce’s stunned self waiting in the main room outside. I mutter a quick apology, sidestepping him as I make my way to the courtyard. My usual spot. A bench tucked away amongst the trees; perfect for lunch, fuming, or a combination of the two.

The air was warm, but a dark cloud hung low on the horizon, mirroring the storm brewing inside me. Weeks. He wants me to wait weeks? My research can’t afford it. Especially given the gods-forsaken timetable his insistence put me on. I pick at my nails as I glare out across the courtyard.

Jayce, it appears, has followed after.

“Hey,” he pants, jogging to standing above me.

My eyes shift towards him, narrowing, I give him a polite nod. We don’t often speak, what purpose could he have with me now?

“I heard your conversation with Heimerdinger,” he starts.

Ah, that.

I bristle, watching him expectantly.

“In my experience, pushback generally means you’re on the right path.” His smile is lopsided.

I blinked, the air catching in my throat. Right. He’d been Piltover’s golden boy—Heimer’s personal protégé—for so many years I nearly forgot, “you were nearly expelled.”

He starts at first, a moment of surprise crossing his features. It quickly melts into a fond smile, eyes glazed and far-off. “I was,” he confirms, “it was Viktor that saved my research.”

“Right,” I exhale. I distantly wonder if he’s always had a habit of doing that. Supporting from the wings. Guilt gnaws in my stomach.

Jayce coughs, a put-on little noise to buy him confidence to say the next words to a near-stranger, “V says the work you’re doing is good.”

I nod, shifting in my seat. I’m eager to look anywhere but his direction, choosing instead to watch the students and professors walking across the quad. Uncomfortable. Yet, a part of my heart sings. My voice comes out stilted, “I keep hearing that.”

“Keep at it,” he says, earnest, “steal a damn boat if you have to.”

I snort, “thanks, Jayce.”

He nods, eyes glued to the building over as he nods once more—towards at himself more than me. An awkward wave, and he’s returning towards Heimer’s office.

***

I opt out of larceny, for the time being. Choosing instead to conduct visual surveys, in addition to a few other benthic grabs. Which, naturally, means more Undercity visits.

We worked backwards, this time. Ending up at the uppermost research site; a calm, brighter alcove on the river. The space is shielded from prying eyes and relatively clean. As far as the undercity goes, at least. The crisp air still holding that metallic undercurrent, but lacking all the usual rot and decay. Viktor sets delicately atop a boulder, ankles tucked against it.

I watch as he scribbles labels on the sample jars, delicate fingers holding it eye-level as he writes with the other hand.

“You sure this isn’t your true calling, Viktor?” I tease scribbling notes in my field journal. Bird counts, visible flora and fauna in the areas we’ve visited. It’s a slow process.

He laughs for a second, before growing serious as the words sink on, “mh, no, biology is not a preferred subject of mine.”

My brows pinch together. “Don’t invite you out next time, noted.”

He looks at me from the corner of his eye, mouth quirking up. And there’s something in the way his eyes are glazed over that has me leaning towards him, asking, “did you study biology? When you were younger?”

It’d make sense—why he so quickly picked up on these things. Second nature, like riding a bike.

“When I was very young, yes,” he replied. Called it. His lips form a thin line that I’m learning means he doesn’t intend on elaborating. Alright, then.

I set down my notebook, sighing as I stand. He watches me, expression closely guarded as he waits for my next move. I think he’s used to people pressing him. Instead, my fingers rise to the buttons of my blouse.

It takes a moment before the gears slide into place. “What are you doing?” He sputters.

I shrug, “diving.”

He gawks, before snapping his gaze away as the shirt slips off my shoulders to reveal the wet suit beneath.

“Relax, dork,” I laugh, kicking off my pants as well, “I’m wearing something under.”.

“I will not relax,” he hisses, “it’s dangerous!”

I shrug, crouching down to rifle through my bag for my goggles and rebreather. “Can you swim, Viktor?”

If the way he glowers at me is enough to say no, the way he whacks my calf with his cane is enough to shout it.

I laugh, “noted.”

A satisfied smirk crosses his face momentarily before he swallows, his eyes flickering from my face downward haphazardly until he averts his gaze entirely. “I’m able to swim,” he clarifies, “I simply never learned.”

“You should,” I reply, walking towards the water. It’s cold. Damn near frigid on my skin. I hiss as I muscle past the pins pricking into my skin with each step. “I could teach you, sometime.”

Back at the shore, he watches; ears flaming red as he blinks rapidly. Another harsh swallow. He holds my gaze in a way that makes me crave the cool of the water. Biting the bullet, I let myself sink.

The beneath water is tinged green, hazy—streaks of that odd oil-slick iridescence as the light refracts into columns. Errant trash from above collects in crags of the rocks along the floor. Empty. So, heartbreakingly empty. I pop back up.

Above, still perched on his rock, Viktor watches. Lips a thin line, eyebrows heavy. His fists tense and relax as I resurface.

I pull off my rebreather momentarily, “Vik? Take notes for me?”

He nods, scrambling across to grab my notebook from the boulder across from him. He blinks up at me, waiting. I dive back below.

We work like that for some time. Resurfacing every few minutes to rattle off the various species I do manage to find. His eyes flicker—concern, relief, and back again as I dive down. Finally, he speaks up, voice strained, “you really should stop.”

Whatever brief shyness was there earlier is gone as he glowers at me as I rise from the water.

“A warning, next time,” he huffed, thumb idly pressing into the palm of his hand.

I nod, stepping back to my bag to grab the towel I stashed inside. He watches me from his periphery as I grab my clothes, as well. I stand, taking a step closer. With my spare hand, my fingers slide atop his hair—incredibly soft, god, of course it had to be soft—guiding his head to face away.

“See that rock?” I laugh, breathless.

“Hm?” His voice is strained.

“Eyes there, soldier.”

He shifts, back straightening as I let him go. As I quickly slip out of my wetsuit and into my clothes, I note his foot tapping rapidly against the ground, and oh the red is back. Flaming tips of his ears that I would very much like to kiss. I shake my head, biting back a laugh as I complete the last of the buttons on my shirt.

“Okay, let’s go,” I breathe.

The walk back is quiet, but comfortable. It isn’t until we’re tucked away into the bathysphere that he speaks, “you shouldn’t endanger yourself. It would be better to borrow the supplies you need.”

I laugh, “Jayce told you about that, huh?”

“I’m serious,” he urges. His thumb still worries at his palm, skin red.

I ignore his statement, “what’s wrong with your hand?”

“Nothing,” his hands still, fingers flexing, “just gets sore sometimes.”

I grab his wrist, pulling his hand towards me, he makes a small noise of shock. But makes no move to pull away as I speak, “I won’t make a habit of it, Viktor. Though, you could argue stealing from the academy is endangering oneself.”

He doesn’t reply, instead blinking down at our hands. I keep my touch light, smoothing out the muscle in his hand, from his thumb down to where his and hand wrist me. He swallows, looking back out the bathysphere window.

“We hit a snag with our prototype for the demonstration,” he sighs, “I’ll have to ‘buckle down,’ as Jayce puts it, for a bit.”

I hum in reply. A little, selfish part of me savors the feel of his skin on mine as I see the top of the railway nearing. I slow to a near stop.

His hand is ripped from mine as the door opens, though not unkindly. He’s the first to scramble out.

On the platform, to the side, I look up at him. “Are you headed back to the lab?”

His answering look says that was a stupid question, and it’s my turn to glower at him.

“If you’re going to lecture me about putting my body in jeopardy,” I raise my brow, “you should listen to your own warnings.”

He scoffs, rolling his shoulder, fingers flexing out form the handle of his cane. “I’m fine.”

“I know you are,” I reply.

He stares down at me, and I can tell I’m rubbing him the wrong way. So I add, “it’s been a long day. You can burn the candle at both ends tomorrow.”

A beat, and he nods, sighing.

“Have a good night, Vik,” I say, patting him on the arm as I walk away.

***

Days blend into weeks—just a couple. Regardless, it feels far too stagnant for my liking. All my previous samples have been processed, and I have the burning desire to return. To move forward. It beats its ever-present thrum of a song in the back of my mind.

Perhaps I’m being a little impatient. In all fairness, it’s hard not to be, with my research being arbitrarily held hostage by a man with enough biases to fill a lake. Much like the torrential downpour that has filled the river over the past week. It’s been a couple days since the rain stopped, and the river is at its crest.

Up by half a meter, it seems.

The air smells of ozone and metal. I drop a wire with a weight affixed to it into the water’s depths at one of our spots along the river. A bit rudimentary, but easily transportable and much less likely to grab attention than lugging a staff gauge through the city would be. Careful not to get myself robbed, or worse, I opted for quick and light. A notebook, Viktor’s gift pencil, tucked into a small bag hidden beneath my coat.

Viktor, I expect, would be livid to find me here alone.

What he doesn’t know won’t kill him.

I pull up on the wire as soon as it hits the bottom. 2.8 meters. I’ll have to return again in a few days to confirm my estimate. I start winding.

“Not quite the ideal place for a tour, topsider,” comes a controlled voice from behind. Dropping the wire into the water entirely, cursing, as I turn to look; mismatched eyes meeting my own. My skin crawls. He’s dressed well, which, somehow, is all the more concerning. You don’t make money like that in the undercity without spilling blood.

“Fortunately I’m not a tourist,” I say back, hoping my voice comes across as neutral.

Eyebrows pinch, followed by the thin line of his mouth breaking into a wolffish grin. The kind that devours for sport. His head tilts, sizing me up with a snaking glance. “No, you aren’t.”

He takes a few paces, coming to stand at my shoulder, looking out at the water. “I’ve been monitoring you, you know. Topsider academic coming to the undercity, never a good sign…” his voice trails off, sign said with a taunting little lilt. Like a private joke with an old friend. He’s enjoying toying with me, I realize.

“I’m not up to anything—“

“I will be the judge of that,” he sneers, “though in this case, I do believe you’re telling the truth.”

My shoulders relax, just a little.

His answering stare is a command: elaborate.

“I’m a marine biologist,” I supply, “researching habitat restoration.”

“How altruistic,” he scoffs, “for what purpose?”

I pause, head tilting.

“Nothing comes without a motivation,” he explains, voice bored as if speaking to a child. There’s something else, though. It’s laced with conviction. A creed.

I shift my eyes away from his, fixing them on the water. “Those are my own concern,” it’s a stupid response, and one I’m sure he doesn’t often hear. Quick to add an olive branch, I say, “I can assure you I mean no harm to the people here.”

He laughs dryly. “That so? How rare.”

I swallow.

He regards me for a moment, searching my eyes for an answer. Whatever he finds, it must be satisfactions as his lithe hand is held out. As I take it, he purrs, “to finding opportunities below, then. I expect you’ll find plenty of resistance above.”

I respond with a level stare, “I appreciate your candor.”

He smirks.

“Better return soon, girl,” he shrugs, “be in touch.”

A threat?

I don’t bother replying, watching as he stalks off. I wait a few minutes before I make my own retreat. As I cross the lanes, I stare back at that neon eye hovering above us all.

Watching.

Quite the calling card.

***

The next day, I bury myself in books. Stacks of them fetched from the academy library over multiple trips sit towering across the tables in my lab. I groan, burying my face in the latest: a rather dated book titled Restorative Ecology for Acquatic Systems.

A rap at the door, and I’m smirking into the pages as I call out a quick ‘come in.’ I don’t get many visitors. Yet.

“Hey,” I breathe, looking up to see Viktor standing before me.

Purple pools sit beneath his eyes. I frown. He has been burning the candle at both ends, then.

“Hello,” he echoes with a smile. A bit of bright breaking through the exhaustion.

“You look tired,” the words tumble out before I can help it. He gives a little shrug, sheepish. God, why isn’t he saying anything? I’ve nothing to offer but hot air, “how’s the prototype?”

“Good, good,” his eyes continue scan the room, “and your research? I was looking for you yesterday.”

I cringe.

His eyes narrow.

I look down, running my fingers along the pages, “I went to the undercity.”

He frowns, taking a step closer with a heavy sigh. I start to ramble, “really, Vik, it was just one trip. I needed my research—”

I stop myself. I don’t need to defend myself on this. So, what?

“You could have asked me,” is all he says.

The way he stares down at me, rubbing his thumb across his lower lip, a hint of disappointment in his eyes, makes my breath catch. The truth spills out unbidden, “you were busy and, after last time, I didn’t want to unnecessarily drag you across the city just to spend five minutes measuring the water.”

“Last time?” He blinks, cogs turning behind his eyes.

My own eyes flicker down to his leg. Involuntarily.

Hurt flashes across his face, his jaw tightening. I swallow, the silence stretching between us. This is going completely, unnecessarily, wrong.

He takes a deep breath in. Out.

“Let me be very clear,” he says, taking a step closer, “I do not need you to infantilize me.”

“Viktor,” I sigh, “I wasn’t—“

“Stop,” he spits, eyes burning into mine, “I am perfectly capable of deciding what is too much and what will fit into my schedule.”

I can feel my face burning—cheeks hot, head light. I push back from the table, standing to face him head on. The air thickens. “You’re a complete, utter hypocrite, Viktor.”

His mouth opens, surprise flickering across his features as I close the remaining space between us. I can feel the heat radiating off him.

“You are,” I continue with a poke to his sternum, “I don’t need babying, either, Viktor. I’m a grown woman—a perfectly rational one—who can assess risk and travel alone just fine. The fact that this is even an argument is ridiculous.”

He stares down at me, a glint of something unreadable as his gaze drops to my mouth. His breath hitches. Something hot and electric curls in my stomach.

It’d be so easy to close that gap.

“Leave, Viktor.” I sigh, sitting to return to my books, “I don’t have time for this.”

I feel frigid even saying it.

He stands above me for a moment longer, and from the edge of my vision I see his knuckles turn white as his hand fidgets and flexes. One, two, three times. A ragged sigh and he’s stomping off, door slamming behind him.

48 notes · View notes

johannestevans · 4 months ago

Text

A Clean Pig

Erotic short. DI Phil Hutchinson tries to get in close with the son of a criminal.

Detective Inspector Phil Hutchinson, following up a last-ditch lead on an anonymous and impossible-to-locate narcotics distributor, attempts to get close enough to surveil her son, a young man called Adrian Gillespie, who uses a wheelchair. He gets closer than he intended, and is rewarded — and punished — as per.

13.6k, rated E, cis M/trans M. Written for a commission. Both parties are adults (49 & 27) and fully consenting throughout. Contains degradation and humiliation, age gap, dom/sub dynamics with the younger trans man dominating, mild cock & ball torture, sadomasochism, dirty talk, obedience & discipline, self-bukkake, mild drunkenness.

CWs for mild homophobia and transphobia, mild ableism, referenced drug use, self-esteem & identity issues. Adrian is an ambulatory wheelchair user and also uses a cane and other mobility & assistive devices — note references throughout to his own disability, bodily scarring, and chronic pain, from Phil’s limited POV only.

Set in London in the 2020s. Set in my Magic Beholden universe, readable completely standalone. Phil Hutchinson is non-magical, but it is implied in several places that Adrian and his family are magical themselves.

Also on Medium / / Also on Patreon / / Also on Ao3.

“The two of us have some time to kill, it seems, whilst my housekeeper gets her pacemaker double-checked. How would you like us to spend that time together, Detective Inspector Hutchinson?”

Phil swallows, his mouth feeling dry, and he stares into Gillespie’s eyes, feeling rooted to the spot, feeling paralysed in some way.

“I’m not gay,” is what he says, which is fucking embarrassing, because he could have said fucking anything, or at least thought about what he was going to say.

“That’s alright,” Gillespie says softly. “Nor am I.”

He leans forward again and Phil automatically closes his eyes, realises he’s bracing himself for what Gillespie is going to taste like, for the taste of whatever allergen-free lip gloss he wears, for whatever he’s been drinking, bubble tea or coffee or whatever else—

---

It’s not that Phil has an issue with queers – he doesn’t.

There’s queers on the force these days, not so much of the lisping, mincing sort he remembers on TV growing up, except maybe behind the desks in the office typing up notes and keeping track of memos and appointments in between looking at drag videos on their phones, but real men who happen to take it up the arse, or give it – not counting the lesbians, who have been halfway openly in the force since they let women join up.

He doesn’t see the point in all this LGBTQRSTUVW shit, doesn’t see what the fuck “inclusion” has to do with anything – it’s all very well hiring a copper who takes it up the bum or wears a dress on his nights off, but it seems the next step is hiring ones with one leg or are blind or whatever fucking else, and he does think a line has to be drawn somewhere – but he doesn’t actually have a problem with queers. He’s put his cock in the mouth of pretty boys happily enough, as much as he has a pretty girl. He wouldn’t consider himself bisexual – he doesn’t really put up with this guff about identity, in general – but he can appreciate a good-looking man.

No, he wouldn’t want to sit next to a very obvious out gay on the bus, if he ever took the bus, and he doesn’t like touching the ones he’s cuffing, but it’s not because they’re queer, he doesn’t especially like cuffing any man – or woman, for that manner. Criminals are criminals: they’re generally filthy, or sick, or ODed, or something fucking like it. No matter how big a woman’s tits are or how pretty she might usually be, she’s usually less so in the course of an arrest, covered in spit or shit or vomit, sweating her clothes off, shaking, sobbing; the same might be said of a particularly handsome man. Even the finest arse in the world is less appealing when it stinks of piss and cannabis smoke.

He's been through a few of that sort, of recent – they shut down a brothel operating on the westside, all London girls done up with cheap make-up like they were putting it on with fucking cement trowels, what tits they had pushed to the ceiling out of their blouses, in ripped tights and short skirts. Cheap girls – properly cheap girls, stupid and cheap as chips, riddled with any and all diseases, most of them bruised like apples from one man or another, one pimp or another.

Brothels, Phil doesn’t like, and whores he likes even less – it’s difficult to feel sympathy for the stupid bints when they just make the same stupid fucking decisions that bring them back to the same fucking place again and again. There’s always a tragic hooker on TV – these girls are too thick to really be worth extending sympathy toward, although there was at least one enterprising member of the bunch.

Cheryl has zipped off now with her cash in the bag, but apparently she was not selling what the other girls was selling, or at the very least, was offering a host of other goods in conjunction with the old reliable, and it’s because of her Phil has a headache from six overlapping clouds of cheap perfume interviewing these idiots about who she was, what she looked like, where she was from.

Cheap whores in a house, unfortunately, are much like cats locked up together – no matter all the videos you see of them acting sweet together online, when the cameras are off they’re clawing each other’s eyes out and swiping off each other’s plates. Most of today he’s learned very little about Cheryl, and far too much about how Tamzin stole Chelsea’s boyfriend and her car and her fucking Nintendo DSi, whatever the fuck that is.

“I hope you didn’t want to go home,” says Baz as Phil leans back in his seat, making the cheap plastic creak under his weight, and Phil gives him a foul look.

“Oh, fuck off,” he groans. “I’ve wasted enough of my fucking time today—”

“You’ll like this one,” Baz says, almost sing-song. “No perfume in sight – our boy’s allergic.”

“Allergic?”

“Adrian Gillespie,” says Baz, holding up one of the little sheets they write tips on, and Phil blinks at him, but holds out his hand for the sheet and scans it, holding it by the mark from the paperclip. Okay, allergic makes sense there – that boy is allergic to damn near fucking everything.

It’s just an extra detail from someone else the lads brought in earlier – part of the reason they were chasing up Cheryl Casey (or Canton, or Cheese, or Elias) is because some of the harder stuff she was peddling had come from a rather familiar batch of coke, and Cheryl would potentially be a lead to her boss, who they’d taken to calling Frances Pinard, after the winery that her operation seemed to do a lot of its imports through.

They didn’t know much about her, except that at one time – some twenty-something years ago – her name had been Catherine Priscilla Alnwick, and that at that back then she had given birth to Adrian Gillespie. They were fairly certain she was still in contact with him even though he’d been raised by his father, although beyond that, it was anybody’s fucking guess.

The lad went abroad regularly, but swapped around between planes and friends’ boats and the ferry and the train depending on what he felt like, and his flat had proved somewhat difficult to do any fucking reconnaissance on, owing to the fact that he was some sort of tech fanatic and had cyber security out the fucking wazoo, not to mention tinting and mood lighting on all his windows, and soundproofing, and whatever the fuck else.

They were fairly certain he wasn’t involved in his mother’s drug trade – for fuck’s sake, the little prick was in a wheelchair – but he was still a valuable connection, and according to a GP nurse Jez and Presley had been interviewing earlier because her boss was embezzling, he had a physio appointment tonight, eight o’clock. She’d mentioned it in the interview because Gillespie’s appointments were always at odd times in odd places, but had explained to the cops that she was reasonably certain that had nothing to do with her boss robbing money off of private patients. None of Gillespie’s cheques ever went anywhere funny and none of his accounts were on the locked server – he was just a bit paranoid on top of being eccentric, so they just set up the appointments wherever he pleased.

“Well, at least all that coke Jez snorts hasn’t completely burnt a hole in his brain,” says Phil as he slides his jacket on. “If he remembered Gillespie’s name.”

“I think it was Presley that remembered it,” Bav says. “Or at least, it was Presley that wrote it down – I don’t remember what his handwriting was like before the coke, but I certainly can’t fucking read Jez’ writing now.”

“I’ll nip over and see what’s what,” Phil says. “But if I don’t find anything good, I’m fucking going home, Sarge.”

“Go with God, mate,” Bav says with more of a wave than a salute, and Phil huffs out an amused sound under his breath as he shoves his keys and his wallet into his pockets.

See, Bav’s a queer, according to talk around the place, and Phil has nothing against him – nothing against, as it happens, Adrian Gillespie, who wears pastel blues and pinks and lavenders, and dyes his hair the same colours, and has fucking stickers on his wheelchair and wears a sunflower lanyard, and whatever the fuck else. He doesn’t know if Gillespie fucks, and if he fucks, if they’re hes, shes, theys, its, or something new they’ve not started putting in the hate crime slideshows yet, but if not a homo in action, he’s certainly a homo in spirit.

No, it’s not queers he has an issue with, or slags wanting to charge admission, or even drugs. Phil can laugh with queers and slags, so long as they’re recently washed and not too drunk, and fuck it, he likes drugs himself.

It’s fucking crime that he has a problem with – the people it hurts, the messes it causes, the messes he has to fucking clean up, and worse than that, fill out paperwork for afterwards.

Adrian Gillespie, pretty homo in a chair he may be, is at least not much of a mess in himself – the value in this young man is in his connections, and subtly trying to feel them out without setting off his paranoia or perhaps tipping off his mother has been a fucking challenge so far. He has a driver who takes him places, a man in his forties they’ve not been able to find a legal name for who goes by Laborious King, who comes from up north near Scarborough way, and an assistant called Hanzalah from fucking Bangladesh, who they’ve not been able to find much by way of background on either.

Laborious is in his forties, and Hanzalah is about the same, Phil would guess – they’ve only been able to find what must be his dad’s records, who entered the UK in 1972 and by now should be nearly fucking ninety, though they’ve seen no particular sign of him.

Frustratingly, both King and Hanzalah live in the same fancy house that Gillespie does – same as his gardener and housekeeper, a lesbian couple. It’d be a Hell of a time sink for someone who’s not actually suspected of any criminal activity themselves, trying to get somebody undercover into Gillespie’s household, but it’s not been an option from the beginning, because his four people have worked for him and his father since the place was built when Gillespie was a young lad, and they’ve not had any staff changeover since, except for Gillespie’s father’s assistant going with him when he moved back up north once Gillespie was old enough to look after himself.

Gillespie lives in a wheelchair-accessible manse in Chislehurst with a nice, fancy vegetable garden, and most of his friends come to visit him there rather than his going out to meet them. He goes out to pride events here and there or occasional drag shows and the like, but he doesn’t go to any regular events that would make him easy to track and surveil, although at least with his having a driver and a car, a tail doesn’t generally have to worry about losing him on the Tube.

Hanzalah and King go to the same mosque and go to a few regular events in the city, mostly Muslim charity things and occasional social nights; the Quayles go to a regular fresh grocer’s market and Andreca, the housekeeper, goes to an AA meeting most Tuesdays, but none of them ever discuss their work, let alone any specifics of who they work for and what he gets up to when he’s out of sight and out of earshot of any interested parties.

This address is for a fancy little dancing studio two streets removed from Piccadilly Circus, and when Phil drives past he doesn’t see Gillespie’s red V-Class on the street, but that’s no surprise, with parking in London the way it fucking is, King could have put the car fucking anywhere.

King and Hanzalah are visible in a coffee shop on the corner overlooking the studio, looking for all the world like two men having a regular old chat, a set of coffee cups between them, but they’re still looking into the streets, both of them, Hanzalah looking down one street and King keeping an eye on the other side.

The studio’s hours online are listed as closed from noon on Thursdays, but Phil gets into the building from the fire exit shared with the bookshop downstairs, and he’s quiet and careful about ascending the stairs up to the studio. It’s a big, fancy space, all wide fucking windows as if anyone would to enjoy the fucking view from here.

He steps down the corridor and goes past two empty studios with the lights off, including the biggest ballet one that overlooks the street – Gillespie and his physio are in one of the smaller classrooms, and Gillespie’s wheelchair is just outside of the room beside the door, him and his physio in the middle of the place under the bright lights.

Gillespie is taking a break, his surprisingly toned forearms braced on a central bar and his head forward – sweat glistens on his body, and his blond and lavender hair, pushed back from his face with a pink headband, looks slightly damp as well. He’s in black leggings and a soft cream jersey shirt that hugs tight to his chest, fuck, but he’s not as skinny as Phil expected. He’s been deceptively muscular under that tie-dye denim jacket and those ripped pink-dyed jeans.

It’s automatic, the glance down to his crotch – people do it even with dogs, he hears, glance at their dicks – and he’s surprised at how little of a bulge he sees, wonders if this kid fucking tucks for his dance classes.

As he watches, Gillespie stands up straight again, keeping his hands on the bar in front of him, and then he straightens his back and brings up one of his knees, extending it outward in a dancer’s kick before bringing it down again.

He’s surprised. He’d thought he was fucking wheelchair-bound, that he was a paraplegic, didn’t realise he could actually stand and walk, let alone dance like this. Sure, his legs are unsteady in places, and now and then his physio puts out an arm for him to steady himself on the bigger dancer’s weight, but he has genuine, real strength here, or at least, he used to, and genuine skill.

Phil looks to Gillespie’s chair, which has a pastel blue gym bag resting open on the seat, a towel and jacket slung over the back handles, and he leans forward and slips his hand into the pocket, feeling for Gillespie’s phone and pointedly not picking it out. What with this kid’s sense of security, he knows it’ll probably be primed to take a picture of anyone who tries to unlock it that isn’t Gillespie himself, so he reaches for Gillespie’s wallet instead – or, more accurately, his fucking purse, which is the same lavender as his hair, and he takes a quick few pictures of each card inside. His debit cards, his fucking Clubcard, a few cards for different coffee shops, a gay bookshop in Soho, a few sex clubs—

“You ever miss bacon, Laborious?” asks a voice behind him, and Phil whips around, straightening up to stare at both men. Neither King nor Hanzalah are particularly tall, both a little shorter than Phil himself, but they’re both decently beefy, and they fill the corridor, standing shoulder to shoulder like they are.

“You know, Hanz, I don’t,” says King. “Even the stink of pork, I’ve come to really dislike. Makes me sick.”

“Me too, actually,” says Hanzalah. “Let’s air this corridor out, why don’t we?”

Phil stiffens, tossing Gillespie’s wallet aside and stiffening, standing up straight.

The door opens sharply, and the physio, tall, aggressively handsome cunt that he is, looks furious, but Gillespie lays a hand on his muscular chest before he can say a thing.

“This is a private session, sir,” he says softly, his accent faintly Scottish, most of the Edinburgh poshness worn down by all the years he’s spent in London. “And this studio is technically supposed to be closed.”

“Sorry for not knocking to let you know I was here, Mr Gillespie,” Phil says. “I’m Detective Inspector Phil Hutchinson, I just wanted a word with you. Wanted to let you finish your physio session before I interrupted.”

“How’d you get in?” demands the physio. “What, you get in the backway?”

“Don’t be so judgemental, Charlie,” says Gillespie, not breaking eye contact with Phil. He must be wearing contacts – Phil never realised before, his but eyes are the same fucking lavender his hair is dyed, a wholly unnatural colour, but very pretty. “Who amongst us doesn’t enjoy going in through the back, from time to time?”

“You want us to take him out, Adrian?” Hanzalah asks, and Gillespie looks Phil up and down.

“Look,” Phil says, but Gillespie talks over him.

“Please, Hanz, if you would. Wrap him up to go for me, would you?”

Wrap him up?

The fuck does—

There’s a sudden explosion of rainbows before his eyes, brighter in colour than the pastel colours Gillespie’s denim jacket is tie-dyed, and then there’s a wave of blackness over it, and he’s slipping, or falling, or—

Something.

* * *

When Phil wakes up, it’s in a dangerously plush, comfortable armchair. His arms have been harnessed behind his back with surprisingly comfortable rope, and most of his clothes have been stripped off him – he’s only in his boxers and vest, and when he looks to the side he sees that his trousers and shirt are folded neatly on top of one another, his boots beneath the chair they’re folded on, his coat hung over the back of it.

Adrian Gillespie is sitting back in one of those fucking roller chairs that videogame people use, although it doesn’t have the stink of weed and bollocksweat and spilt cider Phil is used to them coming with – this one is cream and pink with a cat’s face and ears detailed into the top part of the seat, and Gillespie is sitting back in it with one leg crossed over the other, buffing his nails.

“What exactly is wrong with you?” Phil asks, his voice slightly hoarse, and Gillespie’s perfectly threaded blond eyebrows raise in concern.

“Oh, Detective Inspector, you sound positively parched,” he says, and uncrossing his legs he rolls his chair across the room, picking up a metal cup with a straw and rolling it over to him. He doesn’t wear any kind of perfume, but he must have showered in the time Phil’s been out of it, because he doesn’t smell of sweat – only smells faintly of vanilla and something floral, whatever his shampoo must be scented with.

Phil doesn’t see any reason not to, and his throat is fucking sore, so he wraps his lips around the straw (Jesus…) and takes a sip. The water is ice-cold but sparkling, and he grunts in distaste and surprise, but swallows, and doesn’t cough.

“If you would clarify the question for me,” Gillespie says, almost sweetly, batting his eyelashes, which are a bit darker than the blond of his eyebrows, making them look longer than they otherwise would. He has a button nose and very pink lips that must be glossed, and he’s painted on fake freckles on each of his cheeks, three on each side in a perfect little triangle. He hasn’t shaved today – there’s a bit of dark blond peach fuzz under his neck and around his throat.

“I assumed you were a paraplegic,” says Phil.

“Oh, did you?” Gillespie asks, tilting his head. “Easy enough mistake. I have a heart condition, you do know that?”

“Yeah. It’s why you moved down to London in the first place, innit, to be closer to the hospital?”

“That’s right,” Gillespie says – Phil knows there’s no point lying about it, no point trying to fucking hide it, and in any case, the boy is smiling now like the intel that’s been gathered on him is somehow complimentary toward him, his head tilted slightly to the side as though he’s a princess in a movie receiving a very nice compliment. “I had to have several surgeries when I was younger, to repair some congenital issues, but I still have a syndrome that causes recurring tachycardia.”

Phil blinks. “PoTS?”

“No, actually, SVT, but my episodes are worsened by fatigue, and given that I have chronic insomnia, asthma, and a compromised immune system that makes me rather prone to one infection or another, I’m almost always fatigued.”

“And that’s why you have the chair? Keep you from falling if you have an episode?”

Gillespie’s elbow is rested on the arm of his chair, his chin on his palm, and he has one foot on the ground and the other curled beneath him now, spinning idly back and forth, back and forth. “No,” he murmurs. “Or, yes, but not only that. I’m prone to subluxations and dislocations, very prone, and I have to be very careful about how and where I move – at a certain point, Detective Inspector, it’s safer to just use the wheelchair than to try to go without.”

“Subluxation,” Phil repeats, trying to keep the conversation going even as he scans the room – the curtains are closed, but they’re not very thick, and the light they’re letting in is too yellow and too dim to be sunlight, must be from a streetlamp, or maybe one of the lamps on Gillespie’s garden property. Would he do that? Just have his lads chuck Phil in the trunk of the Mercedes-Benz and bring him all the way back home? “What is that, like, half a dislocation?”

This is an office, he thinks, or a library, or a lounge, whatever the fuck some young lad like Gillespie would call it – there are plush blue sofas along with the armchair Phil’s in, and pink hearts on the wallpaper and a furry rug on the ground that’s black and white like a cow, covering the dark wood flooring, and dominating a whole corner of the room is Gillespie’s absurd computer display with eight monitors and multiple towers, big fancy speakers and rainbow lights and little fucking figurines of anime girls (or boys? Who can tell?) and Pokémon and whatever else.

“Partial dislocation, yes,” Gillespie says. “Do you mind if I ask you a question, Detective Inspector?”

“Shoot,” says Phil, trying to keep his voice even, friendly, almost. He expects, “Why were you following me?” or “Why were you going through my wallet?” or “Don’t you know who my mother is?” or something like that.

Gillespie asks, “Would you mind if I slapped you?”

Phil stares at him, and wonders for a second if he’s misheard, because Gillespie’s big lavender eyes look innocent as anything, his lips pressed primly together, his seat still swinging gently from one side to the other.

“Slapped me?” Phil repeats.

“You look like you’d enjoy it so terribly much,” Gillespie says, and then drops his voice, drops his eyes at the same time so he’s looking up at Phil through his eyelashes, surprisingly coquettish for a man. “And I’d enjoy you enjoying it myself.”

“The fuck do you—”

The pain is sudden and sharp and burning, wet heat across his cheek as Phil’s head snaps to the side – for a fucking twink who picks his colours off the Lovehearts packaging and has a tattoo of Bagpuss on his ankle, he can really put some power behind a slap, and Phil is surprised by the guttural noise that comes out of his throat. Heat sinks down through his body, and it’s not the cold blood that comes with panic or the adrenaline rush that comes with the urgency of needing to get out of a situation like this – this, this is arousal.

Okay.

Fuck.

“Did you like that, Detective Inspector Hutchinson?” Gillespie asks softly.

“That why you brought me here? To slap me around?”

“No, no,” Gillespie says, abruptly stopping his swinging movements from side to side and looking at Phil straight on, his expression abruptly flat and serious. “I wanted to ask you about the Greenman Group.”

Phil stops breathing.

“Mm, yes,” Gillespie says sympathetically. “I thought it might be a touchy subject.”

“I don’t know what you—”

“Let’s not insult one another, Detective Inspector,” Gillespie says, beginning to swing from side to side again, leaning his cheek into his hand. He hasn’t got the headband he’d on in the dance studio now, and the shift in position causes a few top strands of dye-tipped hair to fall to the side, hanging over the side of his temple, the lavender hair in line with his lavender eyes. There’s something hypnotising about it, about how carefully cultivated his colour palette is, the pinks and lavenders and blues, the powder pastels. Like a sort of camouflage for… something. But what? “Let’s jump from the denial stage and get onto your justification.”

“I don’t need any justification,” Phil says immediately, trying to convince his lungs they don’t need to speed up like that, and hoping his heartbeat will get the fucking hint and all. “It’s just a private pension fund, it’s not illegal. Loads of people with public pensions pay into private pensions as well.”

“Mmm, that’s true,” says Gillespie. “It’s more about who else is paying into your private pension, isn’t it? I’m informed that a Mr Chapman, whose son was brought in on some rather nasty possession charges, paid in,” he makes a show of glancing down at his phone, then drops his jaw, “Goodness, twenty-three thousand pounds into this shared scheme? That’s rather a lot of money, Detective Inspector. Not exactly pocket change.”

“I don’t know anything about who invests in the scheme, I just—”

“You must know something about it, Detective Inspector – you dropped the charges against his son just after the transfer went through.”

“We didn’t have sufficient evidence to convict, happens all the time, it—”

“Detective Inspector,” Gillespie says, pouting out his pretty lips, and Phil stares back at him, feeling the prickle of sweat on the back of his neck, on his cheeks, on his neck.

“You’re not going to ask why I was in that studio, looking in on your physio appointment?”

“A man can have a crush, dear, even a police inspector. Who am I to judge?”

Phil huffs out an amused noise, though he’s sweating too much and it doesn’t come out as haughty as he’d like, and he thinks about the fact that if Gillespie were to slap him again it would be a little more damp with sweat this time, even though his stubble would provide enough friction to make the blow land loud in the room.

“I don’t need to ask why you were looking in on me in the studio,” Gillespie says mildly. “I’m a very private man, Detective Inspector, and I am informed I am not easy to spy on. You’ve some interest in my business, I presume as an extension of someone else’s business – my father’s? My mother’s?”

Phil doesn’t say anything, looking straight at him, and Gillespie shakes his head and clucks his tongue in a disapproving manner.

“I hardly fault you for wanting an edge in, Detective Inspector, but you won’t get that edge with me, and if I find you following me about again, I think you’ll find that Greenman business will be making some rather powerful headlines. The satisfaction you might get in chasing down your target on this case won’t make up for your coworkers’ disappointment – if not reprisal – for fucking them and you out of this rather deep retirement pot, and all the bribes that have gone therein. I might even out you as a nasty little addict on top, just as a little cherry on the pie. Capisci?”

He says it like an Italian would say it, with the -i sound on the end instead of with an -iche ending like the Yanks in movies, and Phil wonders if he speaks Italian, if there’s Italian in him, but unfortunately what he’s thinking about is the threat inherent in the words, and more than that, he’s thinking about the way Gillespie’s posh Scottish accent clips around the words nasty little addict, how filthy those words make him feel, and how they go straight to his fucking cock in the same way the slap had.

“Would you like me to slap you again, Detective Inspector Hutchinson?” asks Gillespie.

Phil doesn’t actually nod. His head shifts forward by maybe an inch or half an inch, and it’s just because he’s breathing in, not because he’s fucking saying yes, not because he’s asking for it.

Gillespie uses the other hand this time and slaps the other side, and Phil heaves in a sharp gasp of breath, fills his lungs and tastes the sweet heat as it burns across his cheek and across his face, the steaming warmth of it and more than that, the ever-so-slight numbness that follows the blow, the ringing in his ears. His cock aches as it strains to actually harden under his trousers, below and under the buckle of his belt, and Gillespie laughs softly, then pushes back on the floor and picks up a landline phone from his desk, beside his myriad of screens.

It’s an old-fashioned rotary telephone in robin’s egg blue, the intercom it’s connected to hidden artfully hidden in a compartment at the back of the desk – Phil can just see the red light flashing as he dials an internal line. Makes sense, from a security standpoint, using an internal line in the house instead of texting, no matter how good the encryption is… or maybe the kid’s fingers just get sore. He’s certainly got a bunch of different keyboards, a bunch of them hanging from the wall in the way a lot of people might hang a collection of guitars, and they have different shapes to them, only two or three of them the rectangular shape of the QWERTY keyboard Phil’s used to in the office, the rest in weird shapes or with balls or handholds or whatever else.

“Hi, Andreca, are Hanz and Laborious still in bed? No, that’s fine, let them get the sleep they need, they’ll be up for suhoor any minute now, or at least, Laborious will be. Hanz might well go without again and starve, you know how he is about his sleep. Just tell them our guest can be returned to the pigpen whenever they’re up and ready.” He swings idly from side to side, the wire of the phone curled around two of his fingers as he cradles the receiver against his elbow, his lips loosely pressed together. “Mmm hmm. She’s otherwise alright, though, no fever, no nausea? No, I think it’s better to be safe than sorry – do you want to wake them up? Please, Andy, I could handle him even if my arms were tied behind my back. Have them drive you over, drop off Ysbal and you as well, if you want to… Well, what do I need you for? I’m a grown man, don’t you know?” He huffs out a soft laugh, and looks over at Phil. “Once they’re back, they can put him back in the boot and cart him home.”

“I was in the boot?” Phil asks, and Gillespie pouts at him and releases a sharp, disapproving click of sound, waggling a finger at him to be quiet.

“Thank you, dear, just let me know once you’re off and have them let me know once they’re back.”

He drops the receiver back into the cradle, and he turns to Phil again, resting his hands between his knees.

Phil arches his eyebrows in expectation, feeling calmer right about now and looking calmer too, he’s pretty sure, leaning back in his seat. “Mrs Quayle’s chest is acting up again?”

“It really does wound you, doesn’t it?” Gillespie asks pleasantly as he rolls forward again. “You’ve done such a lot of careful research, and yet here you are, in the middle of my home, with no opportunity to dig your little snout about in the dirt, sniff about for evidence.”

“Never known a guy to hide so much about his fucking life without having a reason to hide,” Phil says, and Gillespie laughs faintly, tapping his thumb against his lower lip.

“That any creeping, cocaine-snorting piglet might wish to rifle through my records and my things is reason enough to prioritise my privacy, dear,” Gillespie retorts, and Phil feels his lip curl slightly, but doesn’t immediately make a reply. “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes, Detective Inspector?”

“Excuse me?”

“You have little to no oversight in your profession, Detective Inspector. In my line of work, every single thing I do is to be combed over, scrutinised, rewritten, recoded, re-encrypted, shared, and modified. Much of what I do ends up publicly accessible to some degree or other – and rightly so. The same can’t be said for your actions in the course of a day or night. If you suspected criminal activity within these walls, you might obtain a warrant – you do not, in fact, and you have not. What you crave to do is within the bounds of the law, I suppose, to creep about me and my staff and see who we talk to and what we talk about, but it’s hardly required by law that I should make my private life accessible to you.”

Phil breathes in as Gillespie’s chair rolls closer, and he smells the sweetness of his shampoo, stares into Gillespie’s eyes as he leans over Phil’s body in the armchair, rests his hands not on Phil’s knees or his thighs but on the arms of the chair. Phil tries to lean forward and grunts when he finds that the harness tying his arms together is somehow clipped to something behind the chair, keeping him pinned in place and stopping him from leaning forward to meet Gillespie’s forward motion.

“The two of us have some time to kill, it seems, whilst my housekeeper gets her pacemaker double-checked. How would you like us to spend that time together, Detective Inspector Hutchinson?”

Phil swallows, his mouth feeling dry, and he stares into Gillespie’s eyes, feeling rooted to the spot, feeling paralysed in some way.

“I’m not gay,” is what he says, which is fucking embarrassing, because he could have said fucking anything, or at least thought about what he was going to say.

“That’s alright,” Gillespie says softly. “Nor am I.”

It doesn’t come.

What he experiences instead is overwhelming blackness, the same as he did before he woke up here in Gillespie’s house, and he wakes up again in his own fucking bed, a glass of water on the night stand, his phone on charge beside him.

“Fuck’s sake,” he groans, and nearly smashes his beeping alarm clock into pieces.

* * *

Phil means to leave it be.

Honestly, Gillespie is just one fucking thread leading back to his mother, and even having been in the kid’s house, “met” his staff, seen his PC set-up… There hadn’t been a single picture of his mother or any other family member, and when he’d mentioned it to Phil, he’d asked like he didn’t know – like he didn’t even care – if it was his father or his mother Phil might be chasing up.

It's easy to say, “Chasing it up was a bust,” to Baz. “Watched him do stretches in this fucking ballet room, get back in his chair, then his guys drove him straight back home. No records on site, either, not for him, and his physio guy barely seemed to know anything about him.”

Baz shrugs his shoulders. “We knew it was a long shot,” he says mildly. “C’est la vie, Philly.”

And Gillespie goes back to being almost nothing, barely even a person of interest – someone people note down when his name crops up or when he wheels into one event or other, but that’s pretty much it. It’s not like he’s a criminal himself, not like he’s dangerous.

Not that they know, anyway.

Phil tries to put it from his mind, tries to commit himself to that. Liking to play with a lad’s cock from time to time, wet his prick in an asshole instead of a cunt, that’s one thing, but this lad, that’s… Something else. He’s something else.

Phil thinks about it, thinks about sitting back in that fucking chair and feeling the burning heat of Gillespie’s palm having smacked across the side of his face, thinks about how it had felt when he’d called Phil a nasty little addict, the burn under his skin, the prickling want in his veins and his twitching, aching cock. It’s best to put all of that shit out of his fucking mind, same as he pushes the unpleasant shit out, the dirt and the filth and the stench of the day.

He goes out for pints here and there, watches some shitty thrillers at home, goes out for Baz’s birthday and snorts a few lines in the bathroom in between throwing axes at light-up targets, laughs when his boyfriend does a lap dance for him but is too drunk off shots to stay upright. Phil carries Ricky to their Uber when Baz is struggling to stay upright himself, and laughs as he pours both of them in.

He's drunk, he’s high, he’s buzzing. His thumb shakes as he taps on his phone, and he ends up in his photo gallery instead of his Uber app, a few pages up – and he sees it, the picture of the inside of Gillespie’s wallet, the one he genuinely had forgotten about, not the same as his trying to forget Gillespie.

Phil reads through the cards – different sex clubs and shops, most of which he recognises. Two are members-only, ones he only knows of from higher-profile hookers getting brought in, but one is open to anybody who pays in on a Friday night, and hey, fuck it.

Tonight is Friday.

He gets the Uber there instead.

It’s twenty quid in – fucking bullshit – and Phil walks in with his hands in his pockets, looks with disinterest at the different booths of people selling shit – harnesses and leather panties and chainmail bras, dildos and buttplugs, earrings and necklaces that say shit like DADDY’S GIRL and SPANK ME HARDER and FUCK THE TORIES, which seems a little irrelevant unless they mean literally fucking them, but what the fuck does Phil know about it?

They’re doing a demonstration up on the stage, a guy up on stage bent over and groaning as wax drips over his bare-cheeked ass, down his thighs, the backs of his knees.

Phil is almost surprised they let him in, given how drunk he is, how unstable he is on his feet, but he tries to hide it as best he can as he moves through the crowds of kinksters and perverts buying their wares, moves past an array of spanking paddles and whips and crops and into the other room. They do this for birthdays and shit normally, but when they’re doing their kink nights they put out gym mats on the floor and put out some dividers.

Phil glances at the sign that reminds people not to film or get their phones out, that food and drink aren’t allowed in the drinks area, to be careful of one’s shoes on the mats.

“Detective Inspector Hutchinson,” says a voice to his right, and immediately Phil turns to look down at Gillespie, who is sitting back in his wheelchair, a fleece blanket decorated with old-fashioned Victorian sweets over his lap, a very fluffy pink jumper worn over the top of his white collared shirt. Phil is momentarily distracted by the jumper’s angora wool, thinking of how soft and silky it would feel under his fingers, and his mind quickly hops to the thought of Gillespie’s pinned back hair, which might be even softer, even silkier. His hands twitch at his sides. “Whatever are you doing here, you naughty, naughty boy?”

In another club, a real night club, not a fetish night, there’d be pounding music playing and drowning out some of his speech, or at least, the particulars of his tone, but that’s not the case here. The music is background noise, only just enough to overwhelm the drone of other people’s chatter, barring the occasional laughs or louder sounds like moans or cries of pain – Phil hears every single semitone of Gillespie’s words, reads them on his lips at the same time he hears them, hears how he draws out the vowel sounds in the last words, hears the emphasis he puts on the Ts and the B.

“You’re a cop?” asks one of the two women beside him – both of them are supernaturally tall, one with her hair worn in a long braid down her back and wearing an incredibly ugly fucking jumper that has some kind of anime nun knitted into the front of it; the one speaking is more muscular, wearing a tank top that shows off the tone of her shoulders and upper arms, a few chains worn around her neck. Her hair is thick and curly, bounces whenever she moves her head, and her fingers keep twitching with want toward the vape pen sticking out of her front jeans pocket.

“That a problem?” Phil asks, and the girls look at each other and laugh.

“Cringe,” says the girl in the nun jumper.

“Why are you even here?” asks the first one. “Couldn’t find enough victims to rape at work?”

“The fuck is that supposed to—”

“Now now, Detective Inspector,” says Gillespie sharply, and he extends one leg outward, pushing him with his thighs back from the girls when Phil’d barely even stepped forward. “Let’s behave, why don’t we?”

Phil has to focus to keep his feet, and he feels the alcohol swirling inside his skull as he stares down at Gillespie, breathing in through his nose.

“In fact,” Gillespie says slowly, keeping his eyes on Phil’s face, “I am feeling the chill a bit, I probably do want to get home. Sorry to love you and leave you, Star, Aspen.”

“No worries,” says the curly-haired girl. “You taking him with you?”

“Certainly, I am,” Gillespie says. “Detective Inspector, push my chair for me. We’re going out through the side way, down the ramp.”

“’Kay,” Phil mutters, because he’s embarrassed and his hackles are up, but there’s no way he can start a fucking fight with two big women in the middle of a space like this, people tying each other up, spanking each other. Even if it wasn’t in the papers, the lads at the office would take the ever-loving piss out of him – and besides, he’s not supposed to be here.

He hisses when he initially puts his hands on what he expects to be the handles of Gillespie’s chair and instead touches fucking spikes, and Gillespie pulls a lever on the side of the chair and makes the spikes retract, folding down so that Phil has space to put his hands on the handles. They’re not that sharp, haven’t even broken skin, but he still mutters, “Fucking boobytraps,” under his breath as he pushes Gillespie’s chair for him through the crowd, down the narrow corridor and out through the open fire door, where the security on duty says a cheerful, “Good to see you, Adrian, safe home!” and doesn’t acknowledge Phil at all.

King pulls up, and it’s only Hanzalah that gets out of the front seat, glowering at Phil as he pulls himself to his full height, which isn’t very tall at all.

“It’s alright, Hanz, I’m bringing him home.”

“Takeaway bacon stinks out the car,” Hanzalah mutters as he hands Gillespie a cane and opens the door, and Gillespie laughs quietly.

“Open the windows, then,” he advises, and supports himself with the cane to climb into the backseat, sliding across to the one on the far side, and Hanzalah passes him his bag and his blanket before folding up his chair to put into the generous boot space – no wonder they stuck Phil in there so easily, if that’s really what they did. “Come on, Detective Inspector, in you get.”

He shouldn’t, obviously.

He does.

The backseats are laid out like a posh taxi cab, two facing forward and two facing back, each with a small table between them, and Phil sees the extendable ramp on one side and the way that one of the seats has more wear on the underside – that’s the one that they slide out when they don’t fold the wheelchair down, when Gillespie just rolls in and puts on the brakes.

Phil sits across from Gillespie, facing the back, and he watches Hanzalah close the boot and then walk back around, sliding into the front seat beside King before – with what seems to Phil to be a lot of fucking emphasis – closing the glass frame that separates the two front seats from the back. Unlike in a taxi cab, this separator doesn’t have a little hatch to put money through or talk to the driver – as soon as it closes shut, Phil can’t hear anything from the front seats, even though he can see King laughing and smacking his hand against the steering wheel as Hanzalah snaps something at him and makes a dismissive wave of one hand.

“Seems like your bodyguard doesn’t approve,” says Phil, watching Gillespie spread his blanket out across his lap, and Gillespie smiles thinly at him.

“No,” he agrees. “But I believe I gave you very specific instructions, Detective Inspector. I don’t exactly approve of your disobedience either.”

Phil feels a bead of sweat run down the back of his neck even as the rest of him feels suddenly drenched in hot, steaming water. King has pulled out, and Phil closes his eyes at the wave of mild motion sickness that overtakes him, abruptly regretting sitting backwards in the car.

“Water, Detective Inspector,” Gillespie says sharply, and Phil opens his eyes as the bottle presses at his hands, so he opens it and takes a few swigs, swallowing hard and hearing the gulp in his ears.

“Your friends didn’t like cops,” he says.

“No one likes cops, dear,” Gillespie says. “I doubt even your own mother likes you.”

Phil releases a low, gruff laugh, because yeah, the lad has fucking got him there. “She didn’t like me even before I was police,” he mutters, and takes another swallow from the water, glancing at the label and then looking down to the cupholders, almost surprised Gillespie’s given him still water this time instead of sparkling. “What do you fucking think, I walk the streets all day bashing in civilian brains and kicking puppies? That what you kids think police do? This isn’t fucking Yankland, it’s not like I’m shooting bullets.”

“Sorry, Detective Inspector, I’m hardly a staunch abolitionist, but it’s not the guns that trouble us so much as the leverage of power against the powerless.”

“The fuck would you know about powerless, a kid like you with more money than God?”

“Philip, I’m in a wheelchair,” Gillespie says, sounding so genuinely wounded that for a second Phil stumbles over his own breaths, over his own fucking thoughts, partly because Gillespie’s outplayed him so well and so fucking deftly, and partly because Gillespie just called him Philip instead of Detective Inspector.

“You can fucking walk,” mutters Phil.

“Sometimes,” Gillespie allows, tilting his head slightly to one side and looking out of the window as they move slowly out of the city. “What sort of consequence were you hoping for, Detective Inspector, looking for me in public like that? Do you want to lose that little retirement fund?”

Phil doesn’t say anything right away, doesn’t know how to say out loud that he had been thinking as little as possible about the potential consequences, same as he’d been thinking as little as possible about Gillespie himself until he’d taken the plunge and let himself fucking go for it.

“Have you been into a club like that before, Detective Inspector?”

“Of course.”

“Ever partaken?”

“I seem like the type?” Phil asks, the question sort of fucking genuine, because of all the sex in his life, he’s never been slapped like Gillespie slapped him two weeks ago – he’s fucked women, mostly, fucked a few young men here and there, tends to prefer lads on the slimmer side, generally less muscular than Gillespie is, even as unreliable as that muscle may be.

“Oh, yes,” says Gillespie.

“Wha—”

“Ah ah,” Gillespie says. “No talking now – be quiet, drink your water. Sober up.”

Phil clenches his teeth together, but despite the fact that his head is spinning as the car drives on, he drinks the water, and he doesn’t talk. They sit in the quiet for the whole drive back to Gillespie’s, and Phil can almost feel the alcohol evaporating out of his veins the longer he sits in place.

* * *

When they get back to Gillespie’s, Hanzalah watches Phil like a fucking hawk as they get out in the garage, Phil obediently pushing Gillespie up the ramp and through the corridors as he’s directed, until they end up not in Gillespie’s colourfully lit office as they were before, but in a bedroom.

The bedroom is not decorated in pastels, but in deep and luscious reds – there’s red silk with gold brocade on the bed, a golden tone to the carpet, and the papered half of the walls are decorated in a gold brocade pattern that glitters, the lower half sided in dark wood board made to match the legs of the bed, the wooden ottoman at the foot of it, the wood of the wardrobe, drawers, cabinets, bookshelves. These bookshelves host a variety of books, a mix of what look like computer textbooks and leather-bound antique books of fiction, and there are no photographs in here, either. On one wall, over the desk – this is a small thing like you might expect in a Victorian schoolhouse, has a sloped top with storage underneath, and no computer – is a painted portrait, but it’s not Gillespie’s dad, and he doesn’t think it’s his mother either.

As Gillespie wheels in and parks his chair beside the bench at the foot of the bed, barely even standing before he sits again – and with a wince that Phil can see, his teeth clenching and his eyes narrowing for a second – Phil steps forward to look at it.

In an old-fashioned bed, one with four posts and red silk canopies, lies a man with dark blond hair and a golden crown on his head, various blankets of different colours and patterns layered over his body. He looks perfectly at peace, and kneeling beside the bed, clasping one of his relaxed hands in both of his own, kneels what Phil initially thinks is a woman in green robes, her long, black hair covering most of her back, her head bowed towards the sleeping man’s hand – it’s here that Phil sees the kneeling man’s beard and his angular features, the expression of quiet grief on his face.

Hanzalah moves through the room with quiet ease, flicking on the light over the bed and turning on the light in the bathroom before going about with other tasks – setting two fresh towels over what Phil guesses is a warming rail, turning on an electric blanket, removing a can of peach-flavoured pop from a mini-fridge and also a jug of water with lemon. He seems disdainful about pulling out two glasses to go with the latter.

“You want me to run you a bath?” he asks – he doesn’t so much as glance at Phil, directing the question wholly to Gillespie, who has removed his fluffy jumper and the shirt underneath, and is buttoning up a silky pyjama shirt over his muscular chest. Said chest, Phil realises, is a mess of fucking scars – horizontal ones under his pecs that form a cross with the central scar down the centre of his sternum, more across his belly. They’re all old scars, for the most part, but many of them are raised and thick in places, keloid scarring – Phil guesses that’s to do with one of his myriad health conditions.

“No, thank you, not tonight,” Gillespie says quietly. “Could someone make up the guest bedroom for DI Hutchinson, please? And something cold to eat – would crackers and cheese be alright?”

“Can do,” Hanzalah says. “Those grapes want eating as well, I’ll bring those in. You.” He whirls on Phil so fast Phil thinks Hanzalah is gonna fucking hit him, then demands, “Any allergies?”

“What?” Phil asks, and then says, “Uh, shellfish. That’s all.”

“Right,” says Hanzalah, then, “Take those fucking boots off.”

He disappears out into the corridor, and Phil sinks into the stool in front of Gillespie’s desk and unlaces his boots, which are fucking clean, thanks, regardless of the foul look Hanzalah had shot them.

When he looks up again, Gillespie has changed fully into a set of pink satin pyjamas with black edging, and Phil can’t help but stare at the way the fabric clings to his thighs and his arse even as he limps across the room, depending heavily on a cane, to pick up his can, and then sigh.

“Open this, please,” he says, holding it out to Phil, and Phil almost thinks he’s taking the piss as he takes the can to flick open the tab, but then he sees how bad Gillespie’s hand is shaking.

“You want me to pour it?”

“Oh, yes, that would be splendid.”

Phil’s hands aren’t the steadiest themselves, right about now, but he mostly doesn’t spill the pink soda as he pours it into a glass, only halfway full to make it harder to spill, and Gillespie hobbles back to his bench again and sits, taking a sip and exhaling in obvious relief.

“Pain bad today?” Phil asks.

“Very,” Gillespie murmurs, reaching up and pinching between his eyebrows, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Always so many smells in that place, the HEPA filters do help and there’s good ventilation, but even if I wear a mask, the different scents do my fucking head in.”

Hanzalah comes in at the same time as one of the Mrs Quayles, Ysbal, and set out a folding table across from Gillespie’s bench. Phil expects it to be all fancy, the way you might see it done on Downton, but they haven’t chopped the cheeses up all fancy or anything – the grapes are in a bowl, the different crackers are still in their wrappers, and the cheeses have dedicated knives in each of their labelled Tupperware containers.

As Ysbal puts the jug of water and their glasses on the cup, she gives Phil a circumspective look. “L, XL,” she muses aloud, and fuck, but her accent is strong, a lot stronger than Gillespie’s is. “What are you around the waist, a 36? 30 for the inseam?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Phil, and Ysbal Quayle disappears into the corridor as Hanzalah gets behind Phil and physically wrestles his coat off him before sweeping away with that, Phil’s shoes, and Gillespie’s, too.

Phil slides the stool across from the fold-out table, and Gillespie looks at him amusedly as he puts a slice of brie shakingly over a cracker.

“You’re not lactose intolerant?” Phil asks.

“I take a supplement to help me digest it,” Gillespie says. “Eat. You’ll feel the worse tomorrow if you don’t.”

Phil is initially surprised when he picks up the knife for the cheddar and feels how fucking heavy it is with a thick weighted handle, but then he sees Gillespie slicing through the brie and how much the weight helps even out the trembling of his hands. He wonders how many things in this house are made for that, things he’d notice and things he wouldn’t, things that he’s paid for just to even out the pain or the symptoms or whatever the fuck else.

After he’s eaten two crackers, one with a slice of brie and the other with a slice of spiced Caerphilly, Gillespie flicks open a pillbox and shakes out the handful of pills in Friday’s compartment, swallowing six or seven pills in between bites of his supper and sips either of water or his peach pop.

“How old are you, Detective Inspector?” Gillespie asks.

“Forty-nine,” says Phil, because it doesn’t occur to him not to answer.

What the fuck is he doing here?

The drink is starting to ease off, sobriety kicking in, and there’s a sinking feeling deep inside him as he considers what he’s done and where he is – that he’s here in Gillespie’s fucking house, no eyes on him, no one knowing where he is, that just because they have no evidence that Gillespie is a criminal doesn’t mean he isn’t fucking dangerous; that he’s sitting here having let his dick fucking lead him to that club and into Gillespie’s car and now into Gillespie’s house; that he’s sitting here across from a twenty-seven-year-old with pastel-dyed hair and a haughty attitude and it’s making his heart skip fucking beats, even when he knows damn well that twenty-seven-year-old has blackmail material on him and who knows what other fucking intel.

He eats a grape, eats a few more crackers, and when they finish, Hanzalah and Ysbal come in to take the table away and then Hanzalah helps him back into his chair.

Phil gets to his feet as Hanzalah leaves the room, and then says, “Uh, I should go h—”

“Detective Inspector Hutchinson, you aren’t going anywhere,” Gillespie interrupts him, sharp and cool, and Phil presses his lips together.

“I made a mistake,” he mutters, “coming to find you in that club, I was just drunk, I didn’t mean—”

“It wasn’t work: it was personal,” Gillespie interrupts him again. “You hardly want professional consequences for a personal indiscretion, I understand.” His smile is sly and his lavender eyes are cold as he shifts in his wheelchair and nods across the room. “Go ahead of me into the bathroom, please, Detective Inspector.”

Phil’s stomach drops. “Huh?” he hears himself ask.

“Chop chop,” Gillespie says, a note of challenge in his voice. “No need to keep a cripple waiting.”

“You can’t make me,” Phil hears himself say, and Gillespie laughs, an airy sound.

“I suppose I can’t,” he agrees. “Look at me, a trembling bag of bones and muscle in a wheelchair, aching in every limb, pretty to look at, but rather mangled. Physically, it’s not as though I can force you to do anything. Consider how oh-so-satisfying it is for me, then, that you will do as I say of your own accord, twisted little pervert that you are.”

The fuck is he meant to say? That he’s not a pervert, that he’s not twisted? He’s here, isn’t he?

Phil’s mouth is dry but blood is rushing downward as he takes slow, socked steps toward the bathroom, where the light is already on and a little brighter than the dimmer lights in the bedroom. It’s a big fucking room, as big as the bedroom in Phil’s shitty little maisonette in Plumstead, and through one glass door is a contained shower room with benches against two of the walls – or maybe it’s a fucking sauna? – and out here, in the bathroom proper, there’s a large bath with jets inside and one of those walk-in doors, a large stained glass window that’s decorated with a scaly white dragon against a golden background, with thick leathery wings and claws, done in a medieval style. The rest of the bathroom isn’t so aggressive about its colour scheme as the rest of the house that Phil’s seen, is just done in beiges and dark woods, the tiled floor black and white.

There are two sinks, a smaller one right beside the door on a regular height mini counter, and then a larger sink with more counter space at wheelchair height, various hair products and soaps and make-up products in pull-out organisers on wheels, all at easy height to reach from Gillespie’s chair.

Gillespie pushes the door closed, and Phil is painfully aware of the quiet of the room they’re in and the echo of the ceiling, the tiled floor and walls. He can hear himself breathing, can hear Gillespie breathing.

“Unbuckle your belt,” Gillespie orders.

Phil’s hands go slowly to his belt, a little clumsy still, and he faces away from Gillespie as he slides the tongue of the belt out of its loops and then the buckle, then slides the whole thing free.

“Hang it up,” Gillespie says, and when Phil turns to glance at him he sees the hooks on one wall, over top of two stacked shower chairs with pink plastic seats and pink rubber ends on their legs, and he hangs his belt up. “Shirt now. Fold it neatly and set it on the seat.”

Phil pulls his rugby shirt up and over his head, folds it as neatly as he fucking can – the fuck does neatly even mean for a shitty shirt like this one? – and puts it down. He goes for the vest he’s wearing underneath before Gillespie gives the order, and Gillespie nods his head in approval as Phil lifts it over his head, folds it too, sets it down – reaches for his jeans, and Gillespie says, “Ah ah. Empty your pockets.”

He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and slowly walks over to Gillespie in his chair, puts it down on the counter, the one at Gillespie’s height. Gillespie’s looking up at him from his place in his chair, his pretty hands folded in his lap, one pink satin-clad leg crossed over the other.

From the other pocket he pulls out his housekeys and a few coins, setting them on the counter in a loose pile beside his wallet.

Gillespie reaches forward and pats him down, and Phil abruptly straightens up as Gillespie’s fingers pat down his back pockets and then his front ones. Lips pressed together, he slides two fingers into the coin pocket of his jeans and removes the baggie of coke folded into quarters with about half a gram left inside, and he sets that aside with the coins.

“Anything concealed on your person?” Gillespie asks, looking up at him with his lavender eyes unspeakably cold, and Phil stares down at him, feeling rooted to the spot for reasons he doesn’t think he could explain, if asked, can’t explain to himself in his own fucking head. His cock is aching in his boxers, his skin prickling with heat and want and feverish need. “Anything in your socks, concealed in your waistband?”

“No,” Phil says.

“Good,” Gillespie says. “The rest off. I want you naked.”

“What happens then?” Phil asks.

It’s a stupid fucking question, and Gillespie treats it as one, not giving him an answer. He sits there with his hands folded on one pretty knee, his expression cold and unmoving, lips pressed loosely together, his lavender eyes unblinking.

Phil takes off his jeans and folds them into a square on top of his shirt and vest. He takes off his socks next, his feet bare on the tiled floor, and then slides off his underwear and folds them too, puts them on top of the pile. The floor isn’t as cold under his soles as he expected, and he can feel ghosts of warmth here and there – not a full heated floor, but the pipes definitely run under the tile.

His cock is halfway hard and standing up, and he’s abruptly painfully, scorchingly grateful that the only mirror in this room is the one over the wheelchair-height counter, that it’s off toward the corner, that he doesn’t have to fucking look at himself because the glass walls of the shower room are so well-polished you can look right through them, because what the fuck is he to look at? Five ten, not fat but certainly stocky, sagging at the belly and the bollocks, hair patchy on his thighs and his chest and his back, and when he shags a woman from time to time, it’s normally in the dark and under the covers and he keeps his fucking socks on, not like this, under bathroom lighting with a boy in customised pyjamas (as well as the black edging, they have calligraphic As embroidered on the breast pockets, for fuck’s sake) looking at him.

“Turn around, face away from me,” says Gillespie softly, and yet the two words are achingly loud against the bathroom walls.

Phil does, stares at the chair his clothes are folded on, his belt hanging from the wall.

“Bend over and touch your toes.”

Phil hesitates.

“You heard me,” Gillespie says, and Phil swallows, feeling humiliated, his cock giving an approving, eager lurch like a dog that’s heard the word “dinner”, bobbing between his legs. The rush of pleasure that runs down his spine is fucking awful and also, exquisite. What happens next? he’d asked. What do you fucking think?

Phil slowly bends over and reaches to touch his toes, having to rock a little just to skim the tops of them with his fingertips.

“Do you understand why I’m telling you to do this, Detective Inspector?” Gillespie asks.

“That a rhetorical question?” Phil retorts, his voice slightly strained from the position.

Gillespie laughs quietly, and then orders in a crisp, clear voice, “Now cough.”

Phil is up and whirling around on the lad in less than a fucking heartbeat, his bare feet making almost no noise on the floor as he advances on him, and he shoves down the part of himself that tells him he can’t fucking go up to a boy in a wheelchair like this, no matter that there aren’t any fucking witnesses.

“Is that what this fucking is to you?” he demands, and he winces at the volume of his own voice against the glass and the tile and the too-high ceiling. “A fucking joke, am I a fucking joke?” He’s spitting, can feel the froth of saliva in his mouth, and Gillespie’s expression does not change, stays cold and distant. Phil’s cock is the hardest it’s been and at the same time he’s fucking humiliated, and this isn’t the sexy degradation, not this, this is something else, something else spotlit and vulnerable. “Am I a fucking joke to you, boy?” he demands, and he reaches out and doesn’t even know where he’s going to put his hands, if he’s going to grab his shoulders, his pretty wavy hair, his throat.

Gillespie grabs him first, grabs him by the bollocks, and twists.

Phil’s knees go weak and he yelps, feeling his legs half-collapse underneath him, grabbing at the counter to keep from falling all the way to the floor, because Gillespie isn’t just twisting but squeezing, and for all his shakes, he’s got a Hell of a lot of fucking strength in those pretty fingers.

“Please—!” he wheezes, and he doesn’t know what he’s begging for, exactly, because the searing pain that bursts through his body, behind his fucking eyes, is the most extreme sensation he’s ever fucking experienced, and at the same time, he doesn’t know if he wants for it to stop, if he’d be able to take it stopping. His fingertips are digging into the polished wood countertop and his eyes are watering, and when it stops, it crashes over him like a cold fucking wave, and he heaves a gasp into his aching, empty lungs.

“Let’s be on thee and thou terms, you and I,” says Gillespie, and he’s smiling now, a knife edge of a smile as Phil tries to get his breath back, clutching at his sweat-soaked chest. No other aspect of his expression has changed – his eyes remain cold and hard, his expression severe, but now his thin pink lips are cut into a dangerous smile. “I will call you Philip, and you might call me Adrian. You will do as I tell you, and you will enjoy the fruits of that obedience.”

Phil, breathing heavy and with tears staining his cheeks, stares down at him, at the younger man’s cold eyes and knife-edge smile, and asks in a voice he doesn’t mean to have quaver, but does quaver, “This whole thing a statement on fucking… On police procedure?”

He’s so cool and so distant and so impossibly, impossibly beautiful as he shrugs his shoulders, his waves of hair shifting slightly as he does so. “The difference here is that you’re obeying because you wish to, because it excites you. Your detainees have no such luxury.”

“Some of them do fucking like it,” Phil mutters, “and in any case, that’s not the fucking point, they’re fucking criminals, they—”

“It was an invitation to call me by my forename, Philip, not to decry my commitment to police abolition,” Gillespie – Adrian – says in cool, calculating tones. “Would you like to continue?”

“What next?” Phil asks, feeling the relief of the cool wood under his forearm. “Cavity search?”

“I’m satisfied you aren’t carrying anything illicit,” Adrian says with obvious amusement. “Now shower.”

The shower proceeds in much the same way his stripping had done – “Turn on the water, soak yourself. Water off. Shampoo your hair. Soap your body – torso first. Armpits, arms. Belly, back. Thighs. Your calves, your feet. Shower on, rinse. Conditioner. Cock, behind your bollocks, your hole. Rinse.”

Adrian watches him unblinkingly as he soaps himself with thick, white suds all over, all through the patchy hair on his body and the rest of his balder flesh, and he watches the water rinse it off, too. Phil watches the soap suds swirl in the water under his feet – the tiles in the shower all have a bobbled texture to them, the sort you get in the showers in leisure centres and gyms to avoid having fucking mats, and the water drains into a gutter and then dribbles away.

Phil turns off the water and hangs the shower head on the rung it had been on, the lowest on – Gillespie is about the same height as Phil, when standing, but the rungs for the shower head go much higher that, would allow for someone six and a half feet tall to have the shower head comfortably over their head. Phil wonders who Gillespie has in this room with him, in his bedroom with him – those fucking Amazonians in stupid clothing he saw at the club? Big, muscle men, giant strongmen?

Other pathetic cops like him?

“You are so compellingly pitiable,” says Adrian, leaning his chin on his hand and bouncing one of his feet, and Phil stares at it, the graceful arch of it and his pink-painted toenails, and then he looks back up to Adrian’s face. “Are you pleased to be in this position, Philip, deplorable and disgusting thing that you are? Naked of every thread so that I might scrutinise each and every part of you that pleases me – degrade you too, hm? Tell you what, exactly, that you’re worthless, scum, a filthy pervert, little more than dirt to be trod under my heel?”

Each last insult shocks him like a bolt, and his cock aches it’s now so hard, his slit winking as his foreskin rolls back a little bit, a little pre shining around the head. Phil grips at the nearest fucking support bar – at least there’s no end to those in this fucking bathroom – and breathes deeply, as if deep breaths are going to make him any less fucking dizzy.

“Do you know wat pleases me, Philip, about what an odious and wretched creature that you are?” Adrian asks, and Phil groans quietly aloud, his chest aching at the way his heart is pounding hard and fast in his chest, and Adrian makes a single motion with his index finger. Phil damn near throws himself to the black and white tile, almost fucking grateful for the stability of his hands and knees – at least he can’t collapse so far to the ground, now he’s not on his feet. He turns his hand over, and instead of making a motion downward, he makes a beckoning motion with his finger instead, and Phil crawls closer. The nobbled texture of the tiles hurts his aching fucking knees. “I doubt you’ve even considered what you might do if I let you touch me. You know, deep down inside that stupid, filthy pig’s head of yours that you don’t deserve to touch me, and your subconscious won’t even let you visualise it.”

The noise Phil lets out is agonising, wheezed and whimpering, and hands and knees or no, his knees go out from under him, and he’s flat on the fucking floor with his dick dragging on the wet, rough tile and it hurts. Adrian Gillespie is the size of a titan when he’s on his belly on the floor like this, looking up at him with his tearing eyes. He’s close to Adrian’s pretty, painted toes like this – fucking prettier than he’d have thought, he must not have been able to do ballet much in his life or his feet would be fucked, from what Phil’s seen on ex-ballet dancers who strip or do trade – and he almost feels dizzy at the view of his creamy white ankles under the silk-satin of his pyjama trousers as he uncrosses his legs.

Phil stares up at him between Adrian’s parted knees, up to his heavily-lidded eyes and smirking lips, haughty and god-like so far above Phil’s shoulders, deified and not easy to think of as in a fucking wheelchair – it’s like he’s in a fucking throne, and Phil is just fucking… What do they call it?

“Supplication,” Adrian supplies, as if reading his fucking mind, and Phil keens breathlessly. “You can think to do that, at least. But what else, Philip? How would you touch me, if I deigned to permit it?”

Phil moans in the helpless, aimless way of a man offered the world without being able to conceive of it – he feels like a pint that’s been overpoured, the tap left on and gushing and creating a waterfall of fucking cider, or beer, or whatever the fuck else, and that’s him. That’s him with want or desire or blood or need or the universe, and all he can do, flat on the tile and looking up at Adrian like a man “supplicating”, all that comes out of him is helpless, hopeless gibbering.

“K—” he tries, starts, but it comes out more as a G because his mouth is full up with fucking saliva and his nose is threatening to run. “K’ss you—”

“Kiss me?” Adrian repeats in sharp, mocking tones, and he laughs and it’s an awful sound that goes right into Phil’s bones and threatens to make its home there, inside his bones, in his heart, in the very core of him, his cock straining against the warm rough tile, and he knows that he’ll never be able to come again in his life without thinking of Adrian Gillespie laughing at him just like this. “Oh, will you kiss me, will you, Philip? Not on the mouth, I suppose?”

“Your… you… feet? N—neck? Cock?”

Adrian laughs at him some more, and Phil, sweating and tearful and wet and aching, looks between Adrian’s lean but muscular thighs, at the pink satin that covers his crotch. He can’t see Adrian’s cock bulging out the silk – is he even fucking hard? Is he even aroused by Phil at all? The thought that he isn’t, that he’s doing this just to laugh at how pathetic he is, shoots through him with the force of a lightning bolt and his whole body shudders hard.

“Please,” he moans. He’d been sobering up, but he feels fucking drunk now, feels drunker than he’s ever been and yet still been fully conscious, without the coke giving him a window through it. His whole skin feels as if it’s being seared from the inside, his pulse something he can feel through his prick, and he crawls forward, desperate, needful, makes to put his mouth against one of Adrian’s ankles and receives a foot on the throat for his troubles.

He doesn’t resist it as Adrian nudges him to collapse on his back on the floor, his hips thrusting uselessly against the air.

“Sit up,” Adrian orders, and as Phil sits up, Adrian rolls forward and grips the back of his neck in a tight, painful grip, and at the same time, leans over Phil’s body. He’s still damp from the shower, damp and shivering not from the cold, his arse against the warm tiled floor – he can feel the satin of Adrian’s pyjama bottoms, feel the cooler material of his pyjama shirt buttons, as the younger man kicks the brake on his chair to keep it in place and leans right over him, feel the beautiful warmth of his body and smell his shampoo – not the same shampoo Phil’s just used, which is odourless, had clear labelling about its lack of allergens. Adrian keeps one hand tightly – painfully, wonderfully painfully – gripping the back of Phil’s neck and steadying himself by it whilst with the other hand he grasps hold of Phil’s cock.

“Tight,” Phil whines.

“Quite,” Adrian agrees, and grips him even tighter – it hurts, it hurts even before Adrian twists his wrist slightly and puts friction on the damp, sensitive flesh around his shaft, and that’s it, that’s everything, his cork is fucking popped.

As his cock pulses and his orgasm hits him like a fucking punch to the jaw, it’s not the only thing that hits him in the jaw – Adrian uses his grip on Phil’s neck to shove his face forward and into the path of his pumping prick so that his own come hits him in the face, spatters over his cheek, the underside of his nose, into his fucking mouth.

Phil feels it quake through his body, doesn’t know when he’s last had an orgasm as intense as this one, as powerful as this one, hitting him so hard he wonders for a second if he’s gonna go fucking blind. He sits there, breathing heavily, tears on his cheeks falling down them and mixing with his own fucking come, and Adrian pats him idly, thoughtlessly, on the head.

“Wash that off and then come brush your teeth,” he orders, pulling up his chair brake and wheeling back. “Spare toothbrushes are in the tall counter.”

Phil takes a minute to get his breath and his brain back before he crawls into the shower to obey.

The evening is a sleepy blur from then.

* * *

When the morning light begins to shine through the curtained windows into Adrian’s bedroom, Phil is scantly awake, his face mashed into the pillow that Ysbal had brought in for him at the same time she’d brought in a pair of black satin pyjamas matched to Adrian’s own, with pink edging and buttons, and nothing embroidered on the breast pocket. They’re in his size, fit him perfectly, and it had been humiliating, last night, distantly humiliating as he put on these fucking women’s pyjamas and felt how soft they were, how cool the fabric was.

He'd not been able to make eye contact with Adrian as he’d put them on, had kept his gaze instead on the portrait of the sleeping king and his boyfriend, servant, whatever, on the wall.

Adrian had followed his gaze and said, “Oh, well, I’m not much of a royalist, but… What am I saying? Do you even know who those men are?”

“Uh, no,” Phil had said.

“King Arthur Pendragon, asleep beneath the mountain.”

Sleepily, his eyes barely opening, Phil looks over at the portrait now, notices for the first time that the fancy four-poster bed with its canopy isn’t in a bedroom or a castle hall but in some kind of fucking cave, a shallow stream running from the background to the foreground barely lit by wax candles that illuminate the scene and melt directly into the outcrops of stone they’re rested on. His boyfriend’s skirts are wet from kneeling in it.

“You know how I am about strays, Mum,” he hears Adrian say, and a part of him wants to wake up, wants to wake up and fucking listen – Mum? Mum!? – but he’s too comfortably settled into his doze.

He's not very hungover at all, in the scheme of things, has slept really fucking well – slept at Adrian Gillespie’s feet, horizontal at the foot of the bed like a dog. Now, Adrian is sitting cross-legged beside him, wrapped in blankets and leaning against pillows, and he’s stroking his fingers absent-mindedly through Phil’s short-cropped hair.

“I think I’ll have him grow it out, he’s got that awful bristly look for now – far too military for my liking. Clean-shaven is fine, but I’ll perhaps try him with a beard.” Adrian grips Phil’s chin, turning Phil’s head toward him and looking at him thoughtfully, analytically, before nudging Phil’s head away again and running his fingernails over his hair and fuck, but it feels nice, feels good. “No, never hurts to have another on the payroll, even if this one doesn’t need paying in the… traditional sense.”

Phil closes his eyes and waits for the shame to hit him, the disgust at the idea of his being corrupted in precisely this way, not paid money but led by his cock and collared and, what, pampered in a rich boy’s fucking bed?

The shame doesn’t come, though.

This moment simply feels too good to let it.

FIN.

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