#Cheap Monster Energy Hats

[specshroom]

°~ A MAGE IN THE JUNGLE ~°

Includes: Use of she/her, Slimy naga dick, Size difference, strangers to...fucking? Idk.

In which: Our Mage searches the jungle for a rare species to add to her "research".

She curses as her boot clad feet catch on another root, almost sending her tumbling into the dewy jungle ground. Deciding to stop for a short break, she swats at the buzzing mosquitoes, taking her hat off to fan herself futilely while eyeing the map she bought.

The vender who sold it to her was an eccentric type, which is always a good sign in her eyes. If you're going to scam people at least commit to the whole "mysterious merchant" bit. The old hag managed to make her cough up 7 copper coin for this "traveler's essential". 

Her goodwill has not been paid back as apparently the map was more unreliable than she expected. The mage curses herself as she glowers at the useless map, trying to decipher where the hell she is.  

After a few more minutes of squinting and pointing to random places on the map, she just scrunches the flimsy paper in her hands and sets it on fire, burning it up before the embers could even reach the floor. She wasn't looking for anything any cheap map could show her anyway. 

She came here to follow an urban legend about a deadly beast that stalks the jungle. The creature has many different variations depending on who's telling the story but what is consistent is the shining gold scales adorning the creature. Stories vary widely from village to village, some say it's an old wrathful god sent down to punish those greedy enough to seek it out and some say it's a beautiful maiden with a golden tail here to bring good fortune to those deserving of it. 

Which ever story is the truth, she just couldn't hold back her fanaticism. A strange creature that apparently nobody has seen before but for some reason is being spotted closer to nearby villages more and more? That is absolutely right up her alley. 

Now if she could only find the damn thing. The villagers seemed almost relieved that someone else was going to try and find this thing, so getting information was quite easy. While the area has been narrowed down, it's still a huge chunk of jungle. At this point it would be easier if the monster just came out and tried to eat her already. 

The mage percs up when they hear water flowing and walks in that direction until she stumbles on a river. She kneels down by the waters edge, it looks pretty deep or maybe the water is just too murky to see the bottom. She hums and pulls out the flask she enchanted, fills it with water and waits for the magic to properly dispose of the dirt particles and bacteria before taking a long gulp. 

This river is wide and the water flows slowly but surely past her. She places her hand in the water, curious to see if she can see the bottom or perhaps any fish to eat. 

She softly chants an incantation, forcing the dirt particles away from her hand. This proves harder than she thought as she's never had to cleanse flowing water before. 

She leans in closer to concentrate her energy and eventually the water becomes clearer and she can see something glistening at her from the water. Is that really treasure at the bottom of the river? Could she be that lucky?

 She squints and leans closer to get a better look, the golden specs glinting in the murky water blink at her through the surface. 

She freezes and the blood in her veins turns colder than the depths of the river. 

Before she can even move a huge clawed hand shoots up from the  surface and clings onto her arm, tearing through her cloak, undershirt and skin. There's no time for a painted scream as she's pulled into the water with great force. She can feel the waters resistance against her body as it's dragged into the murky depths. 

Before this beast actually drowns her she manages to force her other hand against the current to grip onto the beasts scaly wrist. She casts the first spell she can think of, Combustion. 

Suddenly the surface of the water explodes outwards, splashing water high into the air. She propels herself upwards and breaks the surface to hover above the water. She curses and looks around frantically, she can't lose the monster now. Panicking, she summons her hat and starts chanting, willing the plentiful vines of the jungle trees to plunge into the river and search for the beast. 

When she feels a tug she wills the vines to pull the heavy struggling mass to the surface. The huge mass writhes and thrashes in its confines as it rises from the water. 

She can finally see just how massive this thing is as it fights and snarls at her. It's much bigger than any Naga she's seen before, the human half is near orc sized! The bottom half being even bigger with the long thick tail thrashing in the water below. She reinforces the vines to bind the rest of the ridiculously large tail and sets the beast down on the ground next to the river. 

When her feet meet the ground, she sighs and wills the water out of her soaked clothes. She checks her bleeding arm and sucks in a breath at how deep the gashes are. 

"Now look what you did. Fucking hell, thats deep. How long are your claws?!"

Of course she can heal it but it's such a pain. The monster on the ground hisses and spits in response. 

She takes a better look at it, or him, she discovers. His scales really do shimmer like gold with black scales painting a pattern all the way down his back and tail. His white underbelly fades into something resembling human skin as her eyes move up his rapidly moving chest. The gold scales fade into a darker black down his shoulders to the tips of his clawed fingers. Her eyes flicker to his intense stare, pure gold flickers in his irises. His drenched black hair gets in the way of his glare. 

"Wow."

She can't help but verbalise her awe. She carefully moves around him to look at him in a different angle.

"I knew you were a naga. I knew it."

She summons a book into her hand, not her spellbook but one for these special cases. She flips to a new page and licks the tip of her pencil. She crouches down to look at him expectantly,

"Do you happen to know how much you weigh? What do you eat? Most nagas are some sort of omnivorous but I'm assuming you eat mostly fish. How many fish do you have to eat to stay this size?"

She gestures incredulously to all of his giantness.

He just growls some more, quiter this time as his confusion overtakes his anger somewhat.

"Come now, I know you can understand me and I know you can speak."

He stops growling to stare at her incredulously. How could she possibly know that? The giant snake man tries to readjust but hisses again, this time in pain. She jolts up and immediately goes to assess the wound on his wrist, which is tied tightly to his back. She cringes at the red, fleshy wound she created on his body. So much for first impressions. Without much warning she immediately starts with the healing spell. This creates great discomfort for him, as his cells rebuild themselves but she knows this is better than dragging it out for longer.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry."

She coos at the massive man almost like he's a child or a small animal. This woman evades him. Once she's done and his wrist is good as new she springs up and clears her throat, looking somewhat embarrassed.

"Sorry about that but...you did try to eat me so..."

He looks like he wants to say something but doesn't know how exactly. By the scowl on his face it doesn't look like it would be anything good. She crouches down again, peering down at him.

"Do you still want to eat me?"

He growls, nothing but hatred in his beautiful eyes as he hoaursly spits out,

"I want nothing more in the world."

"..."

The mage tries and fails to hide a girlish giggle behind her hand as she rocks back and forth on her feet. She reacts as if he'd just complemented her outfit. The Naga man pulls his mouth into a snarl and huffs in irritation, hating how this woman continues to confuse him.

After composing herself she summons her little reaserch book again, holding it against her crouched thighs to write.

"Have you actually ever eaten a human before? Be honest."

The Naga writhes in his bonds to eventually turn away from her so atleast he doesn't have to face his captor. He lies there for awhile just squirming every so often, he's already tried to cut the vines with his claws but she must have done some kind of reinforcement magic when she healed him. Damn witch.

While he devises an escape plan, he can hear scratching on paper from behind him. The mage seems to be writing quite a lot in her book. When the Naga looks back at her he catches her gaze staring intently at the intricate patterns on his back, the way the scant black scales blend with the bright gold makes for a very unique pattern.

"How much will you sell it for"

She stops sketching and looks back up at his eyes. She lets out a confused "hmm?"

This only makes him angrier.

"My hide! It must be worth a fortune! That's why you're here!"

Her gaze softens a bit, kicking herself mentally for being so unthinking towards the man. He might be big and intimidating but that doesn't mean he can't be scared for his life.

"Look, I don't want your hide. It would be much easier to just fake one anyway since nodoby knows what you actually look like. I just want to ask you a few questions and then let you get back on with your day. I'll even cook you a meal as a thank you."

The snake man is obviously skeptical, all he does is stare back at her with those gorgeous eyes.

She sighs and opens her book back up, flipping over to a particular page.

"Researching rare and perculiar creatures is a hobby of mine."

She rolls down onto her stomach and shuffles closer to the massive Naga. She leans on her elbows to show him the open page as if they were best friends at a slumber party and she's showing him her dairy.

"You're not even the rarest or most sought after Naga species I've met."

She points to a drawing she sketched of a male Naga, this one with the torso and arms of a human but the tail and head of a snake. There's a bunch of scribbles and descriptions around the drawing in a language he can't read.

"Where he's from people worship him like a god. He's a very rare species that can hypnotise someone just by looking into their eyes."

She chooses to leave out the part where she willingly let the Naga hypnotise her and use her as he pleased for weeks.

He doesn't have a response to give the mage, staring blankly at the pages as she rattles on about other species she has in her book. His skepticism somewhat dampened by these sketches of Naga just like him but with characteristics he's never seen before.

The mage notices how dark the sky has gotten, catching a few stars glinting overhead. She gets up and starts assembling the tent she brought. Pulling thick fabric out of her infinitaly deep satchel.

The Naga man just lies there watching, wondering if it would be so bad to comply with this mage. They don't seem dangerous or malicious at all but the magic they wield is still a concern. She talks to him as she works on building her temporary abode.

"Y'know, the village folk are quite nice. If you want I could talk to them, I'm sure they would rather cohabitate than live in fear of a man-eating monster in the jungle. Since you're definitely a rare species this part of the jungle could even be named as a conservation zone."

She keeps yapping stuff the Naga man doesn't care to listen to. The mage erects her shoddy little tent, does some sort of chant and then hurriedly crouches inside the small space.

She stays inside there for a while to the point where the Naga man thinks she might not return for the night. He smells something absolutely devine and realises it's cooked beef coming from inside the tent.

The damn mage walks outside with a steaming bowl of that devine smelling concoction. She stabs a piece of meat with a fork and offers it to him after blowing on it a little. She doesn't really give him time to react before poking the fork into his mouth. His taste buds are lighting up and he almost moans at the taste.

The mage grins at how he accepted her offer and stands back up.

"I just want to ask you a few questions. I'm sorry for causing you trouble but I didn't come all this way for nothing. I'm more than happy to repay you for your troubles if you just come inside."

After that she turns and walks back into the tent. As she walks away the vines binding his body loosen until they fall from his body entirely.

He's free. She's giving him an out. He could just leave.... But he can still taste the meat on his tongue. Nothing has happened to him yet so atleast he knows it's not poisoned or spiked. He turns to where the dark water of the river calls to him and turns back to the fire light coming from inside the mages tent. He sighs and hangs his head. As if the jungle itself is trying to urge him, a cool breeze blows past that seems to urge him closer to the tent.

The Naga sighs, stretches his sore limbs and slowly slithers towards the tent. He takes a deep breath before parting the fabric of the opening and crouching inside.

As he expected, the tent is much bigger than it appears on the outside. Bedding and pillows cover the floor and there is a fire with a pot over it in the middle.

The mage is humming to herself while pouring more steaming hot stew into two bowls. He sits across form her coiling his tail into a pile to sit on top of it.

She holds out a steaming bowl to him and waits patiently for him to take it. He hesitantly accepts the offer and, after watching her eat a fair portion of her own bowl, starts slurping up the meaty stew.

After the first and second serving the mage places her empty bowl aside and picks up her book. As the Naga pours himself a third helping she clears her throat, making him look up at her expectant gaze. He huffs but nods, lazing back against his tail to keep enjoying his meal. The mage gleams across from him.

"I don't know how much I weigh, I eat mostly fish and I've never eaten a human."

The mage scribbles all this down as he speaks, very pleased with his cooperation.

"How often do you shed?"

The Naga rests his arms on his tail like it's a comfy backrest. He takes a generous gulp of his stew before answering,

"...Once every season."

"So you grow moderately quick then? And you're still growing? Or do you think this is how big you'll get."

"I still shed, so I'm still growing."

The woman nods and jots that down.

"You're a constrictor type, right? No venom or hypnotising?"

He gives her a deadpan stare, as if to say "What do you think?". She gets the idea and confirms her own theory.

she chews her lip, deliberating something before she finally asks.

"Can I measure you?"

He gives her an irritated look before he slowly unwinds his tail from it's bunched up state, unfurling it out on the floor as he lies on his stomach.

The mage wastes no time springing up and pulling a rolled up tape measure out of her hat. She holds it out to him and says,

"Hold this at your head, please."

He boredly does as she asks and she carefully walks back the length of his body. He doesn't know why but he straightens his tail as much as possible while looking at her over his shoulder. When she gets to the tip of his thick tail she exclaims some numbers in a measurement he doesn't know but from the look on her face it's clearly impressive. She hurriedly scribbles that in her book.

The measuring roll disappears and the Naga goes back to his meal. He pours what's left in the bowl into his awaiting mouth before he feels a soft touch on his tail and freezes.

He slowly looks behind him at the culprit. He watches her with a predatory gaze as she hesitantly tests his patience. He watches her, as if daring her to go further and so obviously she does. She inches higher up his tail to where is gets much thicker, lightly tracing the patterns on his reptilian skin. She softly touches his golden scales as if they're fragile.

The mage gets more confident and crawls higher up his tail, getting more inquisitive and bold.

"Is the underside more sensitive?"

She asks, genuinely curious. He doesn't answer, just keeps staring at her with a look that says "Try it", so that's what she does. She looks into his eyes and slides her hand down the side of his tail towards the white underbelly.

He strikes before she can even blink. He has her on the floor coiled up in his tail as he entraps her whole body with his. She doesn't offer much of a fight besides some squirming but his tightening hold on her body forces her to still.

"Is this what you want mage?"

She says nothing, only looks up at him with those same curious eyes. He can feel her heart beat as he squeezes her rib cage, it beats steady and bold. She's not scared of him at all and that intrigues him more than he likes.

The Naga looms over her, he reaches out to grab her jaw tilting her head around to look over her face. He's tried to ignore it but he's also quite curious about her and her own species. He pinches his fingers slightly so that it makes her lips pout together before he reaches out with his other hand to take her pink tongue in between his thumb and pointerfinger. She just stares up at him, offering no resistance.

He strokes the small wet muscle with his thumb, rubbing over where it would split into two if she was a Naga like him. It's so small compared to his fingers and much warmer than he anticipated, probably due to the warm meal they just shared. He sticks his tongue out to lick the air and pauses when he smells something unfamiliar but unmistakable, coming from the Mages lower parts.

He's smelled it once before when he caught sight of a human woman bathing in the river, he couldn't help but linger in the brush and watch the human as she touched herself. He feels the same need now that he felt then, a curious burn in his stomach.

The mage struggles in his hold,

"I know you're curious too..."

She says up at him, almost hopefully. She slowly struggles her legs free to wrap them around his wide torso, squeezing him between her thighs. As he looks down at her the snake man feels her warm body heat radiating off of her seeping into his skin, the movement of her chest, her pulse. He can feel his cock poking out from the slowly parting slit on his white underbelly.

He licks the air one more time before his mouth catches hers in a needy kiss. She immediately kisses back with fever, fidgeting more in his hold making him tighten the heavy coils which only makes her let out a pleasured cry into his mouth. His tongue feels so odd on her own, it's much longer than hers and he pushes it down her throat with abandon.

His tail slithers around her body, lifting her shirt up. When she first feels his cold skin against her warm stomach she's filled with need to feel him against every inch of her skin. She struggles in his hold, kissing him with more need and trying to grind her neglected cunt against something.

The Naga huffs a laugh and watches her kick her legs helplessly.

"Do you have other clothes?"

He mumbles against her lips, she nods into the kiss.

His claws tear her pants and underwear away as if the garments were made of tissue paper, doing the same to the neckline of her shirt and undershirt. She groans at the feeling of his cold skin against hers and the humid night air on her cunt.

She feels a slick substance drip onto her pussy and groans loudly.

"Show me. Let me see."

She pleads and struggles even more. He chuckles and nibbles on the skin of her neck,

"Little thing like you should be scared. What if it's too much for you?"

His concern is real even if he's insanely turned on by this situation. Her body might not be able to keep up with her inquisitive mind.

"Try me."

She looks into his eyes with determination, he looks back. One of his hands go to stroke his growing cocks as they unsheath from their slit. She stretches to pear over his tail wrapped around her. There's two, one big cock clearly meant for insemination, the same colour as his white underbelly and a second reddish coloured one, she assumes is meant for extra stimulation. The Naga strokes the big one with one hand, both cocks have slick ooze spilling from them and they're dripping with slick which she guesses is produced from the slit they come out of.

She worms her hand over one of his coils to grip onto his tail, she whines loudly at him. She wants it inside her so bad. He chuckles at her again as more of his precum drips onto her pussy lips.

He can't deny her pleas for long and against his better judgement he prods at her entrance with his cock, rubbing the tip up against her hole.

She grinds up into him and he takes that as the go ahead to slide inside her. The slippery tip sheathes inside her rather easily, it's the rest of him he's worried about. He struggles to hold himself back from pounding the hot tight pussy squeezing around him, he truly doesn't want to hurt the Mage.

Said Mage is almost in tears at being unintentionally edged by him. She squeezes her thighs around his massive waist, squirming around as much as she can. The Naga finds he likes the way her soft naked body wriggles in his coils, he especially likes the way her thigh muscles tense and relax. His sharp claws gently caress the fat of her thighs, curiously squeezing and jiggling the fat slightly. She whines again and he decides to be merciful and slides his cock further inside her while gripping her thighs.

He's too slow, too cautious and she just can't take it anymore.

She mumbles a little spell and the Nagas body feels a sudden force pulling him closer to her making him hiss as his cock is suddenly thrusted to the hilt. The smaller cock is rubbing up against her clit delisciously and the slick coating his cock seeps out of her pussy.

"If I want you to stop, I can make you. Stop, pussying around fuck me."

He stares down at her with blown out eyes, she stares up at him so determined while still being thoroughly bound in his hold. His breathing is more ragged and a grin finds it's way on his face. He looks almost feral and it makes the mages pussy clench around him which makes him reactively thrust back.

She's spun around suddenly in his hold, his tail unwinding until her arms are free and there's one coil left around her waist. Her arms are quickly bound by his own hands, gripping her much smaller arms. He gives a hard thrust into her cunt and growls in her face as she moans back up at him.

He starts a rough pace, having thrown all cation to the wind. Her tight human pussy squeezes him so tight like he squeezes around her body with his tail. The loud wet slapping sounds his hips make against hers make everything even more erotic. His coiled tail around her grips her waist tightly and he groans when he can feel his own cock bulge against her stomach where his tail holds her.

He brings the end of his tail to wrap around her wrists binding them together while his ramming into her soaked pussy.

He speeds up even more and places his palm on top of his smaller dick, pressing it against her clit. His other hand is gripping her under thigh so hard she's pretty sure his claws have pierced her skin. The stimulation on his sensative cock makes him frantically thrust into her until he releases deep inside her. He shakes and spasms as he empties himself into her. If he was more conscious he would be embarrassed at how needy he must have looked.

His orgasm lasts quite awhile longer than she expected, she realises he must have been really pent up as his cock just keeps shooting seed into her every few seconds. The poor Naga looks exhausted when his orgasm finally ends. His eyes are closed, breathing deeply with strands of black hair fall delicately around his face. The tail around her wrists loosens and she immediately goes to pull him down into her embrace, clutching his sweaty body into her warmer one.

He hums into her neck, enjoying her warm softness. His tongue flicks out occasionally to lick her salty skin and smell her on the air.

"Did I tire you out, big guy?"

She jokes, while her hands caress the comparatively massive expanse of his back. She tries to remind herself that he might be inexperienced and more sensitive than usual, she doesn't want him to feel bad about getting overstimulated.

The Naga lifts his head from her neck, his body casts a shadow over hers as he looms over her again. He gives her a sharp fanged grin.

"Don't be so cocky, Mage."

The end of his tail slowly comes from behind to wrap around her neck as the coil still wrapped around her waist lifts her torso up high. His softening cock slips out of her dripping cunt as he lifts her up with his tail. She groans low as she feels the copious amounts of slick and spend fall from her pussy to the floor.

The naga curiously runs his thumb up the length of the mages pussy, gathering up the fluids. He feels a strange urge to keep as much of his cum inside her as possible. Careful of his sharp claws he opts to push his spend back into her pussy with his tongue, feeling the way she squirms and clenches around his forked tongue. The Naga hisses lightly in delight and smooshes his face into the fat warmth of her thigh while looking into her eyes. She peers at him with a dazed look, loving the way his tail lightly squeezes her thoat.

"I'm far from done with you."

As it turns out she didn't get to ask him many questions that night. Not that she complained about it much.

[smokestarrules]

Okey, I've read somewhere the theory that Belos can possess dead bodies and he was only possessing his own dead body all this time.

I think it would make sense, because in S3 we haven't seen he in his "human form", only in that of palismen form.

I've also noticed sth that maybe would give more sense to this. If you look closely, you can see that Belos eyes are not the same of Philip's. Belos' are duller and brighter, more similar to the ones Hunter got when Belos possessed him. And Philip's are lighter with different shades of blue.

Here's what I say:

I see what you’re talking about, but the problem I have with this theory is that I don’t believe he could have the power to possess dead bodies before s3. He certainly does have the power of possession now, but I just don’t think he did before the s2 finale. 

So let’s talk about what powers and/or curses he does have, and why. 

Firstly, the Glyphs carved into his own arm. I’m not sure what he was hoping to achieve with this, but the Glyphs are assumedly active during the entire show and they are killing him. They make his body lose its form, make him grow more unstable, and if left unchecked, he would not last long with them like this. 

So he combats the Glyphs by consuming Palisman; much like the way Vee consumes pure magic, I think this is something similar. Raw magic keeps him in control (at least somewhat), keeps him young, too, and it gives him a flexibility and command over his own body that allows him to use the formlessness from the Glyphs as a weapon. 

The Palisman do not kill him. They make him stronger. Their only drawback besides the green mold that grows on his body, it seems, is that their souls stick in his mind, but I think that’s honesty more of a bother than a legitimate concern. 

And in Hollow Mind, he gets rid of them, which gives him further control over his own body and curse. 

Now he has the ability to completely control what he looks like; he can take away the curse’s green strip entirely, or he can turn into his monster form and back at the drop of a hat, because the Palisman souls are gone. But he still doesn’t have the power to possess, I don’t think. Not yet. 

But this is how he leaves King’s Tide. And this, I think, is when everything changes. Philip was essentially obliterated by the Collector, but a tiny part of him managed to make it out and into the Human Realm. This is where that power comes into play, because as I’ve said before: 

Philip isn’t coming back. Not in the Human Realm, at the very least. His human form is completely gone, which is why he has to resort to possession in the first place. And even then, it took him time. 

The reason he didn’t bother the kids for months was because he couldn’t. He had to work his way up the food chain and find his strength again. It probably started with small animals (and we see their bones in the episode), but the goal was ultimately to take their energy for himself and find his form again. Which he did, after possessing and nearly killing Hunter. It just wasn’t the form that he expected, probably. 

Which is to say that this is Philip now. I don’t know if we’ll ever see his human form again - though anything is possible on the Boiling Isles - likely in part because he was murked by the Collector in monster form, not human. 

Philip’s story is in part about the lengths someone would go to survive, or, at least, that’s how I take it, and to say that he’s been dead all along would feel cheap to me. He’s done so much in the name of survival, and that’s why he’s not going to survive the end of the series (among other reasons of course). He’s long overstayed his welcome. 

[taperwolf]

So I've been using my vinyl cutter to slap Rina Tennouji's icon onto everything from notebooks to phone cases to tote bags, and a while back I'd turned my attention to my guitar. As I've mentioned, I have a weird guitar: a cheap Squier Bullet Strat HSS that's been graced with a giant promotional vinyl cling from Monster Energy.

And I'd tried putting a Rina icon on there, but it didn't really look very good or communicate anything. It was just sort of slapped on.

So tonight I tore that off, and replaced it with the icons for the three members of R3BIRTH. So now the guitar has gone from Monster Energy to MONSTER GIRLS.

We have Shioriko's bookmark (for her name, Mifune) in green to the right of the M, Lanzhu's pink shining wings below it, and Mia's silver top-hatted bunny below that. And I'm a lot happier with the probably-obscure joke than I was with just Rina's logo slapped on.

[marquisoforder]

Ranking the Nine Princes of Hell from TSC from the least to most sexy

(Technically 8 cause Lucifer is just a chair but eh)

8) Coming in at dead last we have Asmodeus cause I hate this generic white man energy he’s giving here. He’s the demon of Lust cause the only way he could get bitches was by tricking and manipulating them. He’s serving Frankenstein’s Monster had a baby with a CEO from a yaoi hentai realness here. The Worst of the Demons? More like the Worst Dressed of the demons! Black tie with a white suite? 🤮Sir are you out of your goddamn mind? Did Raphael bonk you on the head until your fashion sense left? -1/10 you are simply hideous sir

7) Coming in at number 7 we have Mammon looking like Jeff Bezos’s capitalistic wet dream. How are you literally all about money but still look tacky as hell? This man shows up to the MET Gala in a tux with no effort whatsoever I can just feel it in my bones. All these eyes but you still couldn’t locate a better fit. I was gonna ask why he looks constipated but then I read the part where he eats blood and gold for every meal so he’s obviously suffering from indigestion. (And it shows king, it really shows) 0/10 - Do fucking better and get a plastic surgery or a proper diet with all the money you are hoarding up

6) At number six we’ve got Belphegor. Honestly I’d have ranked him much higher if it wasn’t for the goat skull situation going on there like what’s up with that king? Is this a political statement? Or are you just taking covid precautions? Either way I can’t rank you higher than six with that face. (Even tho the body is definitely 1. Like you mean to tell me a demon with abs like those is the demon of laziness? He ain’t lazy if he’s grinding in the gym which he apparently is cause he’s legit shredded.) also kinda cute that you were married to a mortal. Maybe if they pegged you you wouldn’t have denounced the institution of marriage. (Try it next time. I’m certainly up if you are 👀 haha jk unless 😳) 5/10 - Sorry about your goat head

5) On the position of number five we have the one and only Leviathan! He’s not a fallen angel! He’s not like other girls! He’s edgy, he’s sensitive, he’s sad, nobody understands him. He kins Ebony Dementia Darkness Raven Way. But in a sexy way. I like what you’ve done with the hair. Paired with completely black eyes he’s essentially the perfect Scene Boy™️ from back in the day. He would have been Tumblr famous. Even now he has the capacity to become one of Tumblr’s sexy man (derogatory) cause he has the same vibe as Jotun Loki. 6/10 - No Comments cause I’m worried he might actually just eat me.

4) Belial is number four cause while he’s definitely good looking there’s something about him that screams I’d Mansplain Your Own Period To You. Probably invested in Bitcoin and trying to overheat the planet to death. Not gonna lie whatever he’s doing with his hands is actually giving model, it’s giving Timothy chalamet, it’s giving white boy who paints nails and wears rings and doesn’t shut up about it. The hair is actually really cool and I wish my hair looked that effortlessly good. Whatever hair products you stole from Brad Mondo, I want some rn 😤 6.5/10 - idk still kinda basic tho

3) Moving on to the top three we have Azazel! I liked him when we saw him in TMI. He’s giving fuck boy archie andrews here. Probably says baby girl unironically. Are his pants sagging or are they two toned? That’s a secret he’ll never tell. The reason he was cast down from hell is actually because god was jealous of that one lock of hair that falls perfectly across his forehead. His nails are done, his hair is perfect, his abs look rock hard. All in all has that all-American rugged good looks to him. 7/10- red hair actually looks good on you king keep it up

2) Our runner up is none other than Astaroth! Look at that serve! Look me in the eyes and tell me this man doesn’t belong on the cover of a cheap erotica novel about fallen angels!!! The glance downwards, the wings bared, the contrast of the red cloth with the black wings!! He did not come to play because for Astaroth, the world is a runaway and he’s a model. The luscious hair and the sexy torso scars truly sets this man apart. I’m not big on selling my soul but for you king, I’d fr put that shit on eBay for 50 cents. You think you were misjudged and pleads your case? Lemme be your defense attorney king, I’ll fight God in a Denny’s parking lot for you no questions asked. 9/10 - Unlike Belphegor I still believe in the institution of marriage so ahahaha 👀😌 iykwim

1) And finally our top boy from Hell is… none other than Samael himself! That cute lil feather on the hat paired with that Jack sparrow red scarf really shows he knows how to work a fit. The rolled up sleeves got me 👀 at his forearms like I’m a Victorian man seeing a bit of ankle. This demon legit looks like a man young Taylor Swift would write a song about. He’s young, he’s hip, he probably has a fashion tiktok and does mad transitions from outfit to outfit. 10/10 wouldn’t do this man’s sexiness justice cause he’s simply too sexy for such a trivial scale.

[call-me-aesthetic]

If Twisted Wonderland was an American Public School

WARNING: There are some slight sensitive topics that are featured in here! Reader discretion is advised!

Part 2 can be found here

Heartslabyul

Riddle Rosehearts:

- That one preppy girl who takes all honors and AP classes 😑

- Wants everyone to know that he’s becoming a doctor one day for his strict parents or he’ll dishonor the family

- Reminds the teacher about homework, knowing well that he’ll get slander for it

- Complains about how he got a 90 on his test or a B on his report card, a try hard much?

- Wears a cardigan with thicc but cute glasses since he’s one of those people with can’t see shit on the board so he has to move to the front of the class

Ace Trappola:

- The SoundCloud rapper, that’s it

- “Wanna listen to my mixtape? It’s pretty fire, my guy.” 😩🔥

- You will not miss him BLASTING out some song on his Bluetooth speaker, that shit be echoing through the hallways

- Tells you to stop what you’re doing only for him to either sing horribly or do a backflip, thinking that he’s so cool

- Wears a Supreme jacket with AirPods and waves on his head

Deuce Spade:

- Assuming that he’s still a delinquent, he’s that kid with the most fucked up school record

- Not much of a bully but will still talk shit to your face without caring, might even throw stuff at you during a lesson and you would be the one getting in trouble instead of him 🗿

- If he ever gets mad, it would be overdramatic like kicking the desks, punching the lockers, or walking out of the classroom unannounced and everyone would look at each other wondering wtf happened

- Covers the entire desks with drawings of skulls and those “s” if you know what I mean

- Wears Champion hoodies, wants you to know that he’s broke and rich at the same time

Trey Clover:

- The guy that’s not really popular but everyone knows him since he’s in all their classes

- Most people might have a crush on him because he’s REALLY nice 😳👉👈

- Gives off “older brother” vibes based on the way he looks and acts, like offering you a ride home if you beg ask nicely

- Secretly bakes creme brulee but doesn’t want to mess with the flow so he sticks to the status quo

- Wears the school’s hoodie just because he thinks it looks good on him, and the fact that he doesn’t know what else to wear

Cater Diamond:

- Hot Cheetos girl 🥵

- Has a whole buffet of food in his backpack and will not hesitate to eat them during a lesson, no sharing either sorry

- Excuses himself to the bathroom or full on skips class just to film a Tiktok

- Has about 100 followers on Instagram Magicam and brags about how he’s famous

- Wears a Thrasher hoodie with large hoop earrings and his hair in a bun

Savanaclaw

Leona Kingscholar:

- The kid who flunked their freshman year that also sort of vibes with new classmates

- Always gets mistaken as a teacher by people since he looks and sounds old

- Knows the lessons but still fails them anyways, didn’t really give a damn either 🙄

- Captain of every sports club you can think of, never actually plays but has a lot of knowledge on them

- Wears the school’s letterman from years ago since it used to be his brother’s and that he’s too lazy to buy a new one

Ruggie Bucchi:

- That one kid who NEVER has money for the book fair or any other school event

- Always has to ask his classmates for some cash

- If he somehow does, then he’s one of those kids who buys Diary of the Wimpy Kid or the World Record books

- If he’s feeling cheap, he’ll buy the “cool stuff” like the chocolate scented calculator or fruit snacks 😭

- Wears oversized hoodies and basketball shorts that are clearly hand-me-downs

Jack Howl:

- That one athletic kid who’s both scary good and competitive when it comes to school games like football or soccer

- Literally the best player on his team and without him, they’re trash as hell 💀

- Tries his absolute best to support his teammates without yelling at them for how dumb they are

- “KICK THE FUCKING BALL! DO YOUR LEGS EVEN WORK?!”

- Wears the school’s jersey just to show off his “school spirit”

Octavinelle

Azul Ashengrotto:

- The kid who sell snacks for “charity” but everyone knows he’s keeping the money to himself

- If you don’t have cash or try to negotiate with him, the only thing he’ll do is raise the price up

- “What do you mean you don’t have ten bucks? I can see it in your pocket.”

- Just bring nothing with you, he’ll doing anything to steal your stuff 🤭

- Wears a collar shirt with a tie and khakis that have pockets to keep his glasses and money in

Jade Leech:

- The kid who puts on a goody two shoes facade but is actually a stoner

- Only does “safe” drugs like vape but occasionally smokes weed, mostly in the bathroom or behind the school 🌬

- Can play it off and hide the scent when he’s high, teachers never suspect anything from him

- No one really cares to stop him unless he gets caught or something idk

- Wears clothing that either makes him look like a businessman or a junky, there’s nothing in between

Floyd Leech:

- The kid that’s plays basketball or volleyball just because he’s hella tall, and is actually good at the sports but doesn’t put much effort into them

- Always stays behind after gym, even though the teacher tries to make him leave for his next class 😬

- “I swear after this one shot, I’ll go to class.” *He never made that shot*

- Will jump you no matter who or where you are, and will get angry if you step on his new shoes

- Wears the jersey of any famous team with the latest pair of Jordan sneakers

Scarabia

Kalim Al Asim:

- VSCO girl at best, don’t lie to me now 🤡

- The only words he knows are “And I oop– sksksk.” and “Save the turtles.”

- Walks during a track meet while everyone else is running and sweating hard, the teacher doesn’t care either

- Doesn’t really do anything in gym but talks to his classmates and stands near the water fountain to refill his Hydro flask

- Wears tie dye shirts with cute scrunchies

Jamil Viper:

- That one quiet kid who everybody thinks is a serial killer but he’s actually not, I swear

- He just wants school to be over and spend the rest of his summer relaxing 😔

- Although he shouldn’t abuse his “power,” he‘ll move his hands in his pockets or backpack to make it look like he’s about to pull a weapon out.

- “Chill, I’m just grabbing a pencil.” *Everyone in the class started crying*

- Wears dark colored hoodies that intimidates people but are actually comfy

Pomefiore

Vil Schoenheit:

- The baddie popular girl 😌💅✨

- Arrives to school late with a Starbucks in hand from his local Target

- Fixes himself every 5 seconds like reapplying his lipgloss or spraying Bath and Body Works cherry blossom perfume

- Uses acrylic nails and long hair extensions as weapons during a cat fight

- Wears a crop top with ripped jeans and those clout sunglasses

Rook Hunt:

- That creepy guy in the hallways who tries to get your attention, even if you don’t know him

- Scares people when he says, “Ayo, where my hug at?” 🥶💯

- Uses at least 10 cans of Axe body spray a week after gym class, which stinks up the locker rooms

- Waves at you if he passes your class, even walking into the room just to say hi

- Wears literally anything but always include a hat

Epel Felmier:

- The artist girl who just wants to be alone 🧑‍🎨

- Purposely draws in front of you but pretends like you’re not looking

- If you complement him, he’ll just brush it off and proceeds to diss himself

- “Thanks but I’m not THAT good at drawing, teehee.” *Insert Radio Rebel face*

- Wears a hoodie or a cardigan with big pockets to put his art supplies in

Ignihyde

Idia Shroud:

- I don’t even need to tell you who he is, y’all already know ahaha 🥴

- Sneaks a whole PlayStation in his backpack so he can play with it during lunch

- Is on his phone 24/7 even in class to the point where teachers don’t care anymore

- Tries to get people into anime but only to little success

- Wears a shirt of any anime character or that damn ahegao hoodie, girl bye

Ortho Shroud:

- The nerdy kid who’s known for destroying others at many games

- Plays classics like D&D, Yugioh, Pokémon, the whole shabang

- Daily Beyblade battles during recess with everyone surrounding him, the menacing aura radiates off of him

- Will steal your things if you lose to him but gives it back a week later cuz he’s sweet 🥰

- Wears light up Sketchers shoes and those Minecraft shirts you find at Old Navy

Diasomnia

Malleus Draconia:

- The theatre kid who also goes to band practice, change my mind 👁👄👁

- Takes his role seriously when it comes to school plays and concerts, even if he gets casted as a damn tree or doesn’t go solo

- Remembers the songs and their lyrics to any musical you name, a really good singer at that too

- Plays almost every instrument, you definitely know this since you can hear him down the hallways during a test

- Wears a white button up shirt, black pants with fancy dress shoes, and top it all off with a fricking Rolex watch

Lilia Vanrouge:

- The weird guy who pranks people and vandalizes school property in every way possible

- If you ever get a textbook with a message that tells you to go to a certain page only for you to found a picture of a dick, yeah that was him 😒

- When using a Chromebook, he’ll leave a tab open on YouTube so when the next person uses it, pray that your ears will still work by tomorrow

- During lunch, he is a literal DEMON that mixes milk with chicken nuggets together and having the audacity to eat it too

- Wears an oversized raincoat or a windbreaker but idk wtf kind of things he has hiding underneath

Silver:

- That guy in class who consumes Monster energy drinks and falls asleep 99% of the time but somehow manages to pass the class 🤷

- Whenever he’s awake, he’ll talk to the teachers since he’s basically friends with them for some reason

- Writes his name out of boredom on any desk you sit on but in different places, sometimes around the corners or the sides

- Has a sixth sense because he’ll wake up if you try to draw on his face and if you did get something on him, it’s on sight

- Wears those colorful hoodies that zips all the way up to cover his face with a matching backpack, it’s pretty cool ngl

Sebek Zigvolt:

- That kid who literally knows everything about historical wars and will show it off during class

- Also has knowledge on weaponry, which has people questioning him but he’s just very dedicated on serving his country and people

- Knows how to fight and defend himself from a bitch since he spent his summer at a military boot camp, put respect on my man’s name 😤

- Honestly a great partner for a group project, actually does the given work but not the whole thing for you

- Wears anything that has camo pattern and chunky combat boots

I only made this because me and my friends were talking about our school memories so yeah. This is based from my experience so they might not be exactly accurate. Might even be a part two if you want.

[encrucijada]

DISASTERS TO SLEEP THROUGH by ester cuervos

✶ genre: low fantasy, cosmic horror maybe?? ✶ category: adult ✶ pov: first person referral (marilú as “i”, cruz as “you”) ✶ inspired entirely by this, cartoon saloon’s song of the sea but make it dark and gritty??, also taking inspiration from over the garden wall for the tone, unhinged women all around, set in 1986 just because, let us ignore the technicalities of running a lighthouse, i think this is magical realism but i’m unsure ✶ cw: thalassophobia, body horror, emotional manipulation, mental illness ✶ themes: loneliness, family, fear of the unknown, co-existing with the unknown ✶ tone: eerie, isolated, apprehensive, cutting, blue hour

a b o u t : marilú is a lighthouse keeper, has been for almost a decade now. she could count the people she talks to with one hand, one of those being her older sister galatea. the only consistent company she’s had are her dreams and the creatures of the ocean, shadows under the water, sirens on the rocks. when dealing with her divorce, galatea leaves her daughter cruz with marilú until the matter is resolved. to spare cruz from getting hurt or scared, marilú tries to keep her asleep until galatea comes back.

c h a r a c t e r s :

✶ marilú. a nonbinary aro/ace because i like to live vicariously through my ocs. spends more time with creatures than humans so she has lost all her communication and social skills. “do as i say not as i do.” weird girls simply grow to be weird adults. good intentions but bad execution.

✶ galatea. voted less likely to get caught committing a crime. energy of a sophisticated lady wearing a wide-rim hat tied with lace under her chin, having lunch on a balcony in the mediterranean. suffering from older daughter syndrome. gaslight gatekeep girlboss.

✶ cruz. hard of hearing (wears hearing aids). inspired by lyra silvertongue from his dark materials. bratty and feral the way only little girls manage to be. more like her aunt than she apparently realises. hasn’t had a near death experience yet so feels invincible.

aesthetic: stark white lighthouse on a rocky island, a dark blue ocean and a grey sky, houses so close to the water they get touched by the waves, flickering light bulbs, raindrops on windows refracting light, water so cold it numbs your hands when you wash them, charcoal drawings that make no sense, old music boxes, old plush toys with not nearly enough stuffing, something scurrying within the walls, grainy shows on a box television set, the chill of blue hour, the feeling of minuscule insignificance, a beach of rocks and grey-brown sand, phone static cutting through words, cheap plastic signs of corner stores and restaurants lit from within, driving along a long bridge over the water, a massive figure from the ocean depth, the crushing feeling of loneliness, so many thoughts you can’t breathe

playlist: before we drift away / nothing but thieves ; doing the right thing / daughter ; deep water / american authors ; the lighthouse / halsey ; hiding in the blue / thefatrat ft. riell ; my mother told me / nati dredd ; deep end / ruelle ; arsonist’s lullabye / hozier ; made of stone / daughter ; we must be killers / mikky ekko ; bedtime / annie eve ; sleep / the last bison ; shallows / daughter ; city lights / the hollow man ; black water / of monsters and men ; sirens / fleurie ; you / keaton henson ; neon brother / nothing but thieves ; winter / daughter ; home / daughter ; the weight / amber run ; the ghost on the shore / lord huron ; the unwanted animal / the amazing devil ;

[enigma-im]

A Kiss To Build a Dream On

Rating: Explicit Relationship: Monster Boss x F!Worker Warnings: Blood mention, Violence, fluff, confusion of intention, gang boss, ladies go crazy for a sharp dressed man, cursing, sex, teleporting to avoid explaining

word Count: 7885

Tender isn’t a word anyone would use to describe the boss, but for her he can’t be anything but.

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

I roughly slam the door, grumbling to myself as I stomp towards the backrooms of the office. My fists stay firmly clenched at my sides as fire burns from within my chest. The bruises ache along my face, my cheek and eye throbbing with every beat of my heart. I shoulder check workers at I storm to my bunk at the end of the hall, not even bothering to deal with anyone's teasing today.

The door is in sight, the sweet relief of solitude isn’t enough to stifle the anger. Knowing I'm going in there to lick my wounds like some child or weakling. When I reach the peaceful silence of my own room I begin angrily wrestling off my clothes, tossing the lightly blood-splattered garments to the corner. Grabbing some clothes off the floor I march into the bathroom. Throwing on some baggy pants and a tank top, I look in the mirror.

For the first time this day, my anger steps aside. The sight of my swelling eye and split cheek is shocking. I've been hit before, it's not really new, but it's never been so startling. My cheek wound has bled enough to dribble down to my collar. The line of blood ends where my shirt was, no doubt the clothing is sporting a lovely red spot. I guess that's what happens when someone plays cheap with a jewelry covered punch. The rage boils once more till I spit in the sink.

I can't bring myself to look any longer. Rushing out into the main room I grumble once more. A tantrum in the making, I throw my fists around, I bare my teeth towards the floor, I kick at anything decorating the ground. Clothes get pushed around the room, thunking against the wall. A suitcase gets launched under the bed and a wall is hit for good measures.

As I seethe to myself I catch movement out the corner of my eye. I go stalk still, turning slowly to the poor soul who decided it would be a good time to check-in. A well dress man is inspecting a wrecked shirt, the same shirt I wore minutes before. He admires the bloodstain near the neckline, thumbing the spot with a lax face.

"Sir," I play my best pleasant voice," now is not a good time." it all comes out terse and strained but it's the best I can do. Boss hums, still looking at my shirt. It takes a few seconds before he bothers looking my way. His dark complexation almost shadows the flex of his brow when he catches sight of my beaten self. His quickly flexing jaw is just barely noticeable in the darkness of the corner.

"So it would seem," he answers smoothly. He tosses the shirt to the side without care, adjusting his hat before he steps further into the room. His intrusion is unwelcome, to say the least, and him stepping closer boils my blood even more.

"Sir," I growl," It's really not a good time." typical boss continues to ignore me, succeeding like he always does when we talk in making me grind my teeth to dust. He hums in answer again, walking till he is a few feet in front of me. His hands are clasped behind his back, his brow low as he regards me.

"I will ask this once," he starts," what happened?"

I sneer, immediately answering," Nothing, everything is fine." he responds with a tilt of his head, watching me with an almost amused look. We stare each other down, stubbornness helping me with this battle. The boss has a tendency in sticking his nose in other people's business. Which is fine for everyone else, a good trait to have a boss who takes care of his people, but it’s not fine for me. I don't want his constant attention, sticking around to rub my nose in it. He never has to say anything, his judging look is enough to knock me down a peg.

As I stew in my thoughts he reaches out and grabs my jaw. His fingers dig into my skin, demanding absolute cooperation. I know better than to move, stiffening as I fight the urge to jerk away from his scrutiny. He leans down close, looking over the cuts, tilting my head this way and that.

"Rings or knuckles," he asks casually.

My jaw pops," Rings."

He hums," Howley boys or street wolves?"

I scoff," pixie chicks." he nods, dropping my jaw in favor of using his phone. The device appears in a blink, acting like it was always there. He clicks away at the phone lazily for a short moment before poofing it away as quickly as it appeared. Without a word, he grabs my shoulder and walks me into the bathroom. Too curious, I let him guide me to sit on the toilet. I sit and watch him work near the sink, opening the medicine cabinet.

"What are you doing," I ask, tilting forward to get a better look. Before I can get a look around the mirror he shuts it.

"You have no bandages," he scoffs. The tone sounds scolding like I'm some child being talked down by a parent. I quickly catch on to what's happening, I don't much care for it.

I stand," no, get out. I'd like to be alone now to tend to my ego and I don't need you here to yell about how dumb I am." before I could walk around him towards the beds he grabs me once more and twists me back to the bathroom.

"No, sit," he shoves me towards the toilet," I am tending to you now." my anger rolls in again like the second coming of a storm. I don't need his pity or favor, I can take care of myself.

"What does it matter? It's not like you care," I pout, stewing in rumbling fury. I don't bother to stand again, knowing his great power that rivals many. He is a supervillain in his own right, a blight on society but a hero to some. I can't see him as a bad person but I know the lengths he has gone to to be where he is. You gotta crack a few eggs, you know?

I don't notice him staring down at me, too busy glaring at the wall to notice. It's not till he grabs my jaw again do I bother to pay him any mind. When our eyes meet I am startled by his depth. His face demands attention at this moment, locking me in his stare. My feelings dissipate till only alarm is left. Reprimand feels like my likely outcome. No one talks to the boss this way. He is known for his kindness as well as his ire and ire is the side I'm most likely to meet.

The boss watches me, his eyes darting between my own as his jaw clicks. I can't lie and say I'm not worried at this moment, because I am. You never know what little things will set someone off, just like I don't know what level of pain I will be receiving. Perhaps a good talking to about respect, he likes to go on and on about that. Maybe an addition to my weekly chores, that's a fair punishment. I can't think straight with his breath ghosting over my face.

It's when I'm at my wit's end does he move, pulling my face towards his. He gently presses his lips to mine, closing his eyes as he does. I stare blankly at him, stock still under his soft lips. He doesn't pry for more, leaning back shortly after in favor of looking at me. I still look straight, startled by the outcome I could have never expected. He chuckles, smiling as he shakes his head. At the cute sound, I look to him, trying my best to gauge the situation better.

"wha-," he shuts my mouth before I can ask.

"You are to remain silent while I tend to you," he states firmly. I simply nod, still too shocked to really have the energy to do anything but listen. He watches me a moment more before standing and fiddling with the sink.

The boss does as he says, tending to my wounds like a close friend. He is delicate in his touches, warning me before any intentional pain. It's weird, no other way to say it. I have no idea what's happening besides the obvious. He is cleaning up my busted face, but I don't know why.

Once he is satisfied with his chore he straightens up and walks me out of the bathroom. I stop in the middle of the room, looking up to him for guidance. He quirks a brow, just barely smiling to himself.

"If I knew a silly little kiss would stifle your anger I would have done it sooner," he chuckles. I fluster at the comment, looking away for the first time since the kiss. As I chew on my cheek, trying to sort through the tangle of thoughts and feelings, he turns me towards him. His hold is sweet, gentle, unlike before. He pets at my cheek, lightly grazing the cut with his thumb. Before I can react he is gone.

I stare dumbfounded into the room, confused above anything else. I try to sort through the event, trying to find the angle he is working. So many things go through my head till absolutely nothing makes sense.

Though one thing is for sure. This warm feeling in my chest won't go away.

The boss doesn't act differently when I see him around the facility. He is his prim and proper self, still bullying the underlings into working to their best and intimidating visitors. Though its been mere days, I feel like more is to be expected. With every passing minute, hour, day, I expect something to happen. As time goes on the feeling grows till every sighting of him makes me tense with expectation. Was this his plan? To make me tense at every turn till I'm forced to confront him less I go crazy? Or was it to keep me on my toes, perhaps I've been too lax around here and he knows the best way to keep me stressed.

Either way, it's working.

I work the cameras one night, lounging in an old rickety chair as I watch the cameras around the building. This chore is the simplest but the most tedious. No one wants watcher duty, it's an all-night endeavor. Nothing happens and god forbid you get caught slacking off when higher-ups walk by. The punishments are easily dished out around here. So staying alert and awake is for the best.

As the night goes on I can feel myself falling off, drifting in and out of rest. It gets so bad that I fall asleep dreaming I'm still working. I try to pinch myself awake, walk around a bit, but nothing works. I damn near fall off my seat when a loud clinking noise wakes me. As I startle the seat tries to roll too far back but is stopped by a sturdy hand. I snap my head up and around, disoriented above anything else. Looking to my right my eyes immediately meet all too familiar ones.

"I wasn't sleeping," I quickly shout at the boss," I was watching the cameras." I stare wide-eyed at him, hearting pumping quickly from the startling wake-up.

The boss snorts," I'm sure you were."

"yes, I was," I clear my throat," what are you doing down here?" he watches me a moment longer, his arm still clasping the back of my chair. With an amused huff, he grabs something off the table, hiding it in his fist. He holds it over my lap, waiting on me. I reach out, curious, palm awaiting.

"a gift," he answers as he drops shiny pieces into my hand. Three rings lay in my palm, all gold with obnoxiously large gems in the middle. I look at them confused, lifting one to investigate.

"what are," I look up towards the boss, the words dying off my lip. He is gone. Looking around the room for another second before I look down at the rings. The single one I'm holding looks well worn, some of the metal corroding away. The gem is annoyingly bright green with dirty specks. On closer look, I can see dried blood in the corners and grooves. The ring actually looks familiar, looking at it makes my cheek ache.

What is the boss doing with the pixie chick's ring?

I want to corner him, question his intentions with bringing the 'gifts'. It's unheard of for the boss to take souvenirs, he isn't a bragging kind of man. It's also strange for him to bring them to someone as a present. The message is clear, he hurt them for me. A man like him doesn't just give out something like this without earning it to begin with. He got those rings not with theft but other illegal means. I understand that much, what I don't get is why.

I try to hunt him down but he is always around the corner before I can get to him. Each time I swear I can see a little smile, teasing me with this weird little game of chase. Every night I go to bed without answers is like losing a battle I never wanted to have.

It's one night that the unanswered questions pick at me till my last strand of patience is frayed. I storm out of bed, throwing on a hoodie before I enter the public spaces of the compound. This late I have a guess where the boss is residing, well two guesses.

I try his quarters first, knocking first as I don't have a death wish. With no answer, I don't try to push my luck and head to his office. When I round the private hallway I see the light on, coming out from under the farthest door. I pull some last-second courage and storm down. I grab the handle and with a last confident breath, I open.

The scene before me freezes as all details sort in my brain. Two people in the room, one is obvious, the boss. The other is a worn man, bruised and beaten in a chair. I can't look away from the man as a strange fog covers his neck. A nasty gash in the center of the fog's attention, seeming to pour into the wound. The gash looks to be pulled in every direction, blood drenching the man's shirt. I know if his mouth wasn't gagged he would be screaming loud enough for the entire building to hear.

"What do you need," The boss steals my attention. I look from the tied-up man to the annoyance of the week. He doesn't look angry like I would assume, having heard horrid tales of others falling into this same mistake. I don't trust the casualness of him cleaning his hands with a dirty towel.

"Sorry, sir," I bow my head," I will meet with you when you aren't entertaining company." I offer the joke in hopes of lessening the ire he may release later. The boss snorts with a smile, shaking his head as he tosses the towel aside. Not waiting for an answer I slide back into the hall, closing the door quietly behind me.

Well, that went well enough.

In the morning I force myself to submit to this strangeness that has corrupted the boss and I's interactions. I've known of the man since I was in my mid-teens, I've worked for him since my early 20s. There is no way I truly know how the man acts in his day to day life. I know he is an ornery kind of man, though a little mischievous, and that’s the most I know of him. Perhaps this is normal. It's best not to harp on these things that are out of my control.

It takes a considerable amount of effort to ignore his presence in any room I enter. The cat and mouse game seems to have switched with me running from him. I feel like a coward, though it is a reasonable choice to just drop it. I never run from anyone, least of all some cocky villain type.

I go about my nightly routine in the bathroom, spitting into the sink before suckling water from my palm. Walking into the main room I pause looking at the well-dressed man in my room.

"Evening, sir," I say confused. At my introduction, he turns, keeping his arms clasped behind his back. He regards me with a small smirk, mostly keeping his feelings to himself.

"You wished to speak with me," he shrugs," here I am."

I nod," yea, it's not too important now, I sorted it out myself." it’s a lie, I have nothing figured out. His instances of manipulation have named him as conniving. I don't want to be the centerpiece in such affairs.

"hm," he clicks his tongue," shame. Leaving me so curious now, how could I depart with such a tempting question resting on the edge of my mind." his smirk forms into a Cheshire grin that brings thoughts into focus. It seems I've already captured his attention, perhaps have had it all along.

"No, no, it's not anything you would need to bother with," I try to wave him off. He doesn't budge, instead, taking a few steps closer. I step equally back. He huffs in amusement, pushing onward till I'm forced to stop against a bed. He crowds me, yet keeping a platonic distance.

"I'm insulted you assume that any of your worries would be below my standings, I wish to make your life easier whenever I can," he purrs, breaking the platonic distance," Did you like your gift?" my body tenses in alarm, feelings waring as I try to remain passive.

"T-the rings," I ask.

He nods," I don't think the Pixie Chicks will be missing them, they offered them so freely." I wish to scoff at him, nearly amused at his suggestion that they would offer him anything such as their jewelry.

"They didn't seem willing to part with them before," I somehow manage to tease back. His smile grows, tilting his head as he regards me.

"Not at first," he leans toward my cheek," but after a short visit they were more than willing."

I get fuzzy the closer he gets, feeling his hot breath brush over my face. It's hard to decide the right course of action. Push him away and deal with whatever reaction he deems appropriate, or let him be and see where this is going. The second choice is hard, his nearness muddles my ideas and actions. How could I be swayed by some man nearing my personal space? His kiss beforehand was quick and unintimidating, there was no build-up. Now it feels like an anvil swaying precariously on a snapping rope.

"Why are you here," I find myself asking. I fight the urge to raise my hand to his chest and push him away, not truly knowing if I would push him away. He leans in closer, crowding me nearly on the bed. I fall back onto a hand, holding myself propped up less I wish to lay on the sheets. His grin stretches wider.

"Well, you asked for me," he answers in a deep rumble. The change in tone is startling, fogging my brain more. It's hard to think, nothing is connecting in my brain. I want to push him, but I can't. I want to crawl away, but I can't. I want to pull him closer, but…

"I mean," I swallow," what are you doing in my room?"

"because you feel safest here," he answers.

"Why should it matter if I feel safe," I watch him. He straightens slightly, looking down at me with a lax stare.

"You ask too many questions," he mumbles before pushing forward and kissing me. I gasp, falling back onto both hands. The kiss breaks for just a moment before he is falling onto his hands, framing me as he crowds me on the bed. I'm not sure what to do now, having little to no experience in this. I'm not flirty or sexy, I can't bother with things such as making out or relationships. Though now I wish I knew just a little bit.

The boss grabs me by the hips and shifts me up the bed, crawling over me as I fall to my back. He straddles a thigh, his hands coming up to frame my head. I watch him stare down at me, his mouth lightly parts with a dazed look. Before I can bother with words he takes my lips for his once more. It's surprisingly passionate, to that I'm stunned. I expected demanding from a man like him, not affectionate. I timidly return the kiss, not knowing what to do but knowing I want to do it. Before I can get into it he lifts away, though not far.

He watches me a moment, gauging my reaction. His eyes are squinted, seeming to wait for a response, a response I don't provide. I look up at him, nearly panting in this strange rush of emotions and touch.

"What are you feeling," he asks skeptically.

I lick my lips," flustered." he hums, still trying to piece together something.

"flustered is good," he nods to himself, falling back to my mouth. I startle once more, still utterly confused at the turn of the night. Yet, I can't make myself stop it. I reach up and fist his tailored jacket, not knowing if I should tug him closer. The need to touch him is strong but the anxiety of everything else lingers.

The boss stuns me more as he grabs my hand holding his clothes and slings it around his shoulder. Quickly I take hold of the shirt from this angle, indirectly pulling him closer. My other hand shyly joins the first, cupping the back of his head in a timid touch.

"Doing good," he purrs, licking at my lips as he slowly settles himself on his forearms. He expertly parts my lips, telling me to let him in. I open, clenching a fistful of hair when he invades my mouth. When I tug on the bit of hair he moans, the sound felt in my mouth, felt on my tongue. The already eager kiss ramps in excitement when his hands start to trail down my body. He simply slides his hands under my shirt, holding my waist with a warm grip. His thumbs pet at my skin but stay otherwise still.

The moment seems to stretch on for hours, my discretions melting away into heart fluttering enjoyment. He doesn't push, keeping the mood just semi-erotic. I appreciate it though I'm utterly confused. What does he think he can gain from this? Surely a man like him doesn't just kiss random staff members without having some secret motive. I'm just a grunt, nothing more and nothing less. I surely hope he doesn't think he could manipulate me into sleeping with him. No, that won't do at all.

"Sir," I mumble against his lips as I try to pull away. He trails after my mouth, only pausing mid-action.

"yes," he asks. I shift back away from him, getting a better look at his closed eyes and wet parted lips.

"We should stop," I fluster. I drop my arms from around him, using them to push myself up and away. He squints his eyes open enough to watch me lounge against the wall, feet still partially under him. Looking between my eyes he sighs, dropping his head shortly after.

"Alright," he huffs," It is late, I will be on my way now." he shifts back onto his knees, rubbing at his face before righting his hat and clothes. Next, he stands up off the bed and passes me a final glance, ready to blink away.

"wait," I surprise myself by saying," can you answer one question?"

He tilts his head," besides that question?"

"yes," I deadpan," besides that one."

He smirks, clasping his hands behind his back," alright, I think I can allow one more question." I want to snort, amused but annoyed by his words. I keep quiet.

"are you," I start, worried to continue," are you going to use me?" I look at every twitch of his face with an eagle-like focus. Every nuance is jotted down as I watch him. He simply smiles, his face projecting amused affection. He then steps forward, leaning over the bed to cup my face.

"No," he answers shortly. He strokes my cheek with his thumb, watching himself do so. With a final sigh, he blinks away, no evidence of him ever being here besides my wet lips and fluttering heart.

"damn," I fall to my side," there goes my night."

The next couple of days are a whirlwind of strange. The game of chase is completely let go in favor of a game of chicken. His attentions have gone from nothing to constant. When we are ever around each other -which is way more common as of late- he attempts to touch me in some way. Though his posture and face stay casual, if not bored, he still cups my hips and trails his fingers over my spine like he is anything but bored.

Some nights he pays a visit, kissing me senseless till he decides I'm thoroughly flustered. He tries to edge me on, even taking to teasing to further some agenda I can't even bother to figure out. Though he said he wouldn't use me I feel like a toy. He comes to me with minimal conversation and shoves his tongue down my throat. The small conversations are filled with double meanings and unsaid words. He is hinting to something and I can't figure out what. I feel like a source of entertainment, picked at till he gains whatever he needed. The stress is getting to me, I've had enough.

I wait patiently in my room, leg bouncing against the bed as I cross my arms. I'm going to confront him tonight, I'm going to get some answers. This little game has to stop less I want my heart to fall victim to some scheming. Time draws on and on till its far pass the time he visits. I reluctantly settle into bed, dread, and stress muddling my brain.

The next night I wait patiently again, knowing he doesn't go for two nights in a row. I wait and wait, looking to the clock more than necessary. It’s when its well past midnight that I call it a night. Dread and stress fade out as worry takes its place.

The day after I set out to catch sight of the boss. I search high and low, keeping to the commons places in hopes of a casual encounter. I see no hide or hair of him. As I march around the facility, doing chores, that I hear about everyone avoiding the boss. It seems the man in charge has had a bit of a temper since this morning, shutting out everyone as he sits in his office.

The idea of visiting his office is appealing, knowing it to be the best time to get answers if he is mad. Anger brings out the truth. Surely I can go visit him and ask a question or two, not risking my life in the process. Though I think lowly of his intention I think he truly has no intention of maiming me.

With that decided I casually head upstairs towards his office. I make it to the familiar hallway, feeling the instinctual dread of being there. No one wants to be in this hallway, knowing who is working just at the end. Though I come here from my own free volition it's still a habit to fear this part of the building.

I walk to the door at the end, already hearing voices halfway down. As I get closer I can hear yelling. I listen intently, hearing stomping footsteps and a thing or two being knocked over. It’s when I hear a loud thud do I pick up the pace. I stop near the door, anxiety drenching my body as curiosity keeps me up. The sound of meaty thumps can be heard before a whimper.

"You are a piece of shit," a quick thunk follows," scum of the fucking earth, and that's something coming from me." I can hear the boss talking- more like yelling- behind the door. It sounds like he is entertaining again.

"boss," someone answers weakly," I'm sorry." a deep clink comes shortly after the man's words.

"Sorry doesn't earn my trust back," the boss snarls," Sorry doesn't fucking get Bradshaw off my fucking back!" the meaty claps come shortly after, repeating in alarming frequency. I step to the door, my body repealing against the idea of opening it and interrupting the important meeting.

I know who the boss is, always have. He does some shady stuff with some shady people, I being one of them. I get what's going on in there, a lesson is being learned. It's something that is understood by all who work here, don't cross the boss. Though it seems the poor idiot in there hasn't learned that though.

I don’t hear anything for a good while. It's to be assumed that business has been taken care of. Either way, I stay put, leaning closer to the door when I hear another softer voice. I try to make out some words, being more nosy this moment than I have my entire life. The softer voice only speaks for a brief moment, followed by the Boss with another set of short words.

As I focus on the door I don't hear steps walking up behind me. Only when someone grabs my shoulders do I jump. I jerk in this person's hold, stiffening as their fingers dig into my skin. I twist to look over at them, seeing a large man with a gruff-looking face. He offers no words, instead, reaching in front of me to grab the door handle.

The gruff man guides me into the room, holding firmly onto my shoulders. I look to the room, immediately finding a man collapsed on the floor covered in swelling bruises and deep cuts. He is mostly unrecognizable, his face beaten to a pulp. If I am to assume correctly, then he is dead.

"Clean this up before he stains the floor," the boss grunts as he wipes his hands with a dirty rag.

The gruff man behind me speaks," and what would you like me to do with her?" as he asks the boss snaps around, meeting my eyes quickly. He looks to me confused, twisting completely around as he drops the rag to the table.

"I'd like you to fucking let her go," the boss growls to the man," I am the only one allowed to deal with her." the clear hostility means nothing to the man behind me. He lets go and casually shuffles to the man on the floor, hefting him over his shoulders with ease. I watch the boss look to the two, following them with his eyes till the door shuts behind me. Once the door clicks does he look to me once again.

"Hello, doll," his ire drops to the familiar ease he adopts when around me. He leans back against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. His barely buttoned shirt wrinkles, his cuffed sleeves looking strange so far up his arms. I've never seen him so underdressed, though most would still consider his outfit formal.

"Hello," I answer guarded. I don't expect a warm welcome like this when I've been caught snooping.

"What brings you to my humble abode," he tilts his head with a small smile. It's strange to see such a night and day to his previous anger. He was screaming and beating a man into the floor. Now he is his typical charming self in a matter of seconds. I don't buy it.

"I haven't seen you in a couple days," I say, crossing my arms in the process. He gives me a once over, his smile peeling further over his cheeks.

"Miss me or something," he teases.

I scoff," or something." he chuckles, walking away from his desk to walk the room.

"Or something," he looks at the messy floor," what would that something be?" I follow him with my eyes as he skirts around me, keeping a distance. I don't bother turning around when he walks behind my back, taking the second to compose my thoughts and feelings. As of late, he has been popular in making my heart flutter like a caged bird.

"You haven't been around," I shrug," I was curious." he scoffs, seeming to understand my roundabout way of saying I've missed him. Which I guess is true, but I'd argue I want answers more than his company. Though both wouldn't be too bad.

He comes into my peripheral," I've been busy, I hope I haven't left you in need of anything in my absents."

"no," I turn away blushing," I haven't been…in need or anything. Just conflicted on some things." he hums, staying just in the corner of my eye. I can feel his eyes wandering over my body, trying to pick at every tick and twitch.

"would your confliction be related to the question you asked me the other night," he asks. I almost turn to him then, wanting to see his face, needing to see his reaction. I don't though, staring at his desk straight ahead.

"Perhaps," I answer. He huffs, his steps coming closer till I feel his heat against my back.

"do you think lowly of me," he says near my ear," do you believe I am truly a villain incapable of pure intent?"

"sometimes," I nearly whisper. I feel his sigh fan over my back. He steps closer, his front nearly touching me.

"Do you truly believe I would betray you," he asks. The question startles me, only for the reason that there is blood staining the floor beside us. "Would you betray me," he whispers against my ear. The threat feels looming as I look to the crime scene. Would I betray him if given the chance, the answer feels almost obvious.

"I don't," I huff," I don't think I could if I tried."

The boss hums approvingly, circling his arms around my hips to pull me flush to his front. His chin rests upon my shoulder, his head leaning against mine. The smell of his cologne is nearly suffocating in its intoxication. I awkwardly grab his arms, resting my hands on him.

"I don't think I could betray you if I tried," he answers similarly," you seem to have grown on me." I squeeze at his arm.

"Honestly," I ask skeptically," you truly mean me no harm, emotional or otherwise?" though he has answered this it still doesn't sit in my head, proof being demanded after every answer.

He turns and presses a shallow kiss to my neck," I could never hurt you, doll, I only wish to adore you." I turn to him, wishing above all else to believe him. He leans ever so close, his tempting kiss just in my reach.

"Prove it," I bait.

"gladly," he answers.

Quickly he has my lips captured, demanding more than ever before. His tongue takes no time delving into my mouth, circling my tongue in a sweet caress. I would have fallen if it weren't for his strong hold on my hips, instead, I keep myself propped up by him. When minimal thought comes back do I twist in his hold and tug him closer by his collar. I need his affection, crave it above all else. Thrusting my tongue into his mouth I take back some control I've lacked in these few days. He startles this time, groaning with a chuckle as I fist his hair.

"doll," he laughs into the kiss," I thought I was proving my affections here."

"then catch up," I tease, taking his mouth for mine once more. He growls, a sound I haven't really heard from him before, and lifts me. I yelp, holding tightly to his shoulders as my pelvis meets his lower stomach. His smile spread across his face as he squeezes my thighs.

"Sorry, doll, but I'm the boss here," he nips at my lips, lapping at them shortly after. His normally sweet kisses are oh so more divine now as fire is brought into the mix. My insides nearly throb with a need I've rarely ever felt before. I want him- oh god do I want him.

As we attack each other I hear a quick whoosh by my ears, my hair quickly flicking in the wind. I open my eyes enough to see out the corners that we aren't in the same room. I dislodge from him, looking around the bedroom we have teleported to.

"your room," I ask, having never been here before.

"Yes," he watches me," Is that a problem?"

I look to him with a cheeky smile," no." I continue where we left off, suckling his tongue. He walks us somewhere, the destination not particularly important in my mind. What feels more important is the insistent throbbing in my crotch. I find myself bucking into him, grinding myself into his firm stomach.

The boss rips his mouth from mine as I fall backward. I clench at his shirt, gasping when something springy shapes to my back. I drop my hands back, feeling soft sheets below me. I look up to him, quirking a brow. He shrugs, falling over me in a familiar position. Though this time he angles himself in a way I can finally feel his hardon poking me. I groan at the feeling, wanting to grab him right now.

Everything seemingly melds together, one moment I'm in his office, and next, I'm in his room. One second I have a shirt on and next, I'm laying in only my underwear. Him being left in only his hat and pants. The boss admires me for a second, the rush of erotic sensations nearly paused. His look is fierce, fire pouring from his gaze, but it still has room for affection and true admiration.

"so damn beautiful," he pets at my chest. He fondles my boob, thumbing my nipple with an all too excited gleam in his eye. "I could wreck you so easily," he ponders aloud. I reach up to his bare chest, running my fingers from his sternum down to his pants.

"I thought you wanted to adore me," I smirk, tugging him closer by his belt. He falls to his hands, cradling my head in his arms.

"Doll, I want to do everything to you," he purrs, attacking my neck with love bites. I hum, slowly flicking off his belt and reaching into his pants. He stiffens, grunting as I grab him.

"big words from a big man," I tease, stroking his cock.

He shutters," you don't know big yet, doll. Now be a good girl and let your boss go."

I let him go, slowly sliding my hand out of his pants," yes, sir."

The boss lets out a shaky breath, dropping his head to my shoulder for a moment. My nails glide over his stomach towards his chest and back down. I allow him a second, though that's all he needs.

He sits up, pushing off his pants but keeping his boxers. I admire the tent, feeling oh so powerful at the moment. I did that, I am the one who turned him on. That thought alone makes me feel ten feet tall.

I hardly notice when his hand trails up my thigh till he hooks a finger over my underwear. He tugs them down, grinning to himself as my mound is revealed. He tosses the clothing away without a care, quickly reaching out to thumb at my lips. The subtle soft feeling of his touch is nearly enough to make me groan in anticipation. I want him to touch me, I need him to touch me. He does as I silently plead, sliding a finger between my folds. He swipes up toward my clit, massaging so smoothly.

"So wet," he purrs," so wet for me." I don't bother with words as he delves his fingers lower, poking at my entrance with great amusement. I engulf his fingers as he pushes them in, slowly pumping them in and out with a curled retreat. My legs spread further apart on their own as I relish in the lazy strokes.

"Sir," I sigh. He looks up to me, his gaze is all too alluring. My teeth grind as I fight back the urge to buck towards him. God, I need him. His head tilts so slightly as he sighs, his fingers retreat shortly after. He crawls back above me, cleaning off his fingers with his tongue as he does.

"Why must you pull me in so easily," he asks as he discards his last remaining clothing," I want nothing more than to feast upon you but your hungry looks demand more." I reach up and cup his face then adjusting his hat that he kept upon his head. His cock pokes at my crotch, gently sliding at my lips as he lightly jerks his hips.

I pap his cheek," get over it, I've been hungry all week because of you."

He scoffs," all you had to do was ask."

"like I could get the chance to with your tongue down my throat at every turn," I answer. He laughs, looking down between us to grab at himself.

"I think you could have found a way to ask if you truly wanted to," he answers absently as he pushes his tip forward. I suck in a choked breath, tense against the sudden entry. The stretch of just his tip is already fulfilling to someone so starved this past month. He bucks shallowly forward, inching himself in slowly. He soon hilts, looking back up at me with a relieved face.

"I couldn't ask when I didn't know the true intentions," I mumble as my attention is solely drawn to his filling cock. My leg hikes over his hip, pulling him closer. He drops a hand to that thigh, bouncing his hips in slow short drives.

"Well," he kisses at my cheek," do you know my intention now?" I turn to him, meeting his eyes in such a vulnerable moment. Everything I feel is lain bare, the tenderness I feel towards him shining brightly. I cup his cheek, his short bucks ceasing.

"That really depends on after," I nearly whisper. He doesn't answer, instead, pressing a deep kiss to my lips. As he claims me his hips drawback before snapping forward in a breathtaking thrust. He starts a demanding pace, taking and giving in equal parts. His cock hits deep, stoking a fire that I felt was already an inferno. I fall away from his lips, whimpering against him as he plows into me. Our hips clap as the bed squeaks. I now know what it feels like to be on the other side of the wall, not to hear but to be part of the ruckus.

The boss forces pleasure from me with every buck of his hips. I whimper and grind into him, not being able to stay still as my insides crescendo. I barely notice how silent he is, me making enough noise for the both of us. He watches me steadily fall apart, in complete rapture at my noises. A hand sneaks between us, running through my curls before resting upon my engorged clit. I seethe at the gentle prod, crying out as he starts small circles. As I shout for him does he make a sound, a gentle gasp as his lips part.

I feel burned, hot, and demanding at this moment. My insides flutter with its oncoming orgasm. I yell and scream, reaching out to pull him closer as I have no better idea. I suddenly sit on the cusp of true pleasure, my body stiffening as just a breeze could push me over. I reach for him, pulling him in for a wet kiss. He allows it, briefly, pulling away as I fall.

The boss watches me, his face contorting in near pain. His hips stutter as my insides clench him tightly. I can barely keep focus enough to watch him as I arch and writhe below. My screams stutter out till I'm left silent, panting as he continues my orgasm with his unstoppable thrusts.

"Please," I beg. Begging for him to stop, begging for him to keep going. I somehow keep focus enough to watch him, watch him sigh and grunt till his hips slap to mine with one final buck. He drops his head to my shoulder, panting against my ear as he rolls his hips. I can feel his heat, feel his cum paint my insides. I am unable to do anything but hug him close and catch my breath

It takes longer than I thought possible to come back to myself. I'm still left panting under him, only able to listen to his own ragged breathing. I pet at his sweaty back, running the ends of my nails over his shoulder. We just hold one another, lost in the bliss.

"you steal my heart, doll," he mumbles in my hair," how could I ever part from you when you sing so beautifully for me?" I chuckle, not being able to form words just yet. The boss turns us on our sides, cradling me to his chest so tenderly. He pets at my hair, burying his nose against my temple. "I fear I have stronger feelings than first intended," he whispers," I will not leave you for more than a second at a time, my heart couldn't take more than that."

"do you always get this poetic after sex," I ask. He scoffs, reaching down to grab my thigh. He pulls my leg over his hip once more, petting up towards my ass. He gives me a quick slap, jiggling my rear as he does. I yelp, squeezing him when I do. He grunts, baring his teeth. He chuckles shortly after

"only for you, love," he answers," only for you."

I sigh, sliding my hand between us to pet at his chest. I want to give those words back, as I mean them just as truly as he does. The words sit on the end of my tongue, ready to be broadcasted to the world. It takes me a moment to gain courage, still resting securely in his arms.

"I love you," I barely get out. He holds me closer, nuzzling my head.

"I love you, too," he answers in kind. I try to fight off the smile spreading across my face but it's damn near impossible. I smile to myself and close my eyes.

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

my intention never go as planned. i was struggling to write and i saw a cute post on villain with a soft spot for his lover. so i write a small tid bit, the part where he tends to her wounds. IT WASN’T SUPPOSE TO BE 7K WORDS! like how? i stayed up till 2am writing this. i’m just a sap, through and through.

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Streaming on Plex: Best Horror Movies and TV Shows You Can Watch for FREE in October

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When October hits, the folks at Den of Geek almost exclusively consume horror content. Any spooky story that has ghosts, ghouls, goblins, or any chill-inducing monster that doesn’t start with a G is fine with us. Whether it’s a campy B-movie or “prestige horror,” we embrace all horror subgenres and relax with old favorites and new cult classics in the making alike. Now that Spooky Season is in full force, we are grateful that Plex TV is here so we can stream all of the creepy content that our black hearts’ desire for free!

Plex is a globally available one-stop-shop streaming media service offering thousands of free movies and TV shows and hundreds of free-to-stream live TV channels, from the biggest names in entertainment, including Metro Goldwyn Mayer (MGM), Warner Bros. Domestic Television Distribution, Lionsgate, Legendary, AMC, A+E, Crackle, and Reuters. Plex is the only streaming service that lets users manage their personal media alongside a continuously growing library of free third-party entertainment spanning all genres, interests, and mediums including podcasts, music, and more. With a highly customizable interface and smart recommendations based on the media you enjoy, Plex brings its users the best media experience on the planet from any device, anywhere.

Plex releases brand new and beloved titles to its platform monthly and we’ll be here to help you identify the cream of the crop. This month, we’re keeping things strictly scary, but view Plex TV now for the best free entertainment streaming, regardless of genre, and check back each month for Den of Geek Critics’ picks!

DEN OF GEEK CRITICS’ PICKS

The Ninth Gate

Though director Roman Polanski is a horrific figure himself, this 1999 neo-noir horror film, The Ninth Gate is superb. Thirty years after Rosemary’s Baby, Polanski conjured the devil once again and injected it with some of the pulp from his noir classic Chinatown in a movie that finds Johnny Depp as a man in Satanic Detective mode. Depp is a classic book authenticator hired to authenticate De Umbrarum Regis Novum Portis (The Nine Doors To the Kingdom of Shadows), a book believed by cultists capable of raising Satan to Earth. 

The Ninth Gate doesn’t provide cheap thrills; it tightens the suspense like a noose. Polanski subtly creates an uneasy atmosphere using minimal effects. The director knows where evil lives and lets the settings and sound make the invitations with subliminal references to recognizable horror and cinematic danger, using framing and music similarly to Stanley Kubrick. The Ninth Gate packages its scares with classy style that the characters deliver with sexily provocative intelligence. Dean Corso may be Johnny Depp’s greatest spiritual transformation, from odious to ultimate evil and the audience cheers on his descent, happy to ride with him straight to hell.

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari

Perhaps the world’s first horror film and a go-to example of early German Expressionist filmmaking, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari has been unsettling audiences for over a century. 

The film’s main story centers on two young friends, Francis and Alan (Friedrich Feher and Hans Heinrich von Twardowski), who, while jockeying for the affections of Jane (Lil Dagover), visit a local traveling carnival. There they take in the act of the mysterious, top-hatted and wild-haired Dr. Caligari (Werner Krauss). As they watch, Caligari awakens his somnambulist subject, Cesare (the great Conrad Veidt), who under hypnosis answers questions from the audience. When Alan jokingly asks when he will die, Cesare responds “Before dawn.” We’ll let you guess the rest.

The film isn’t remembered much for its story, but for its arresting visual style, featuring painted backdrops that make the entire production feel like a fever dream. The painted townscape is filled with curved and pointed buildings teetering at dangerous angles, almost as if they were alive and shrieking. Roads twist and spiral to nowhere. The perspectives are deliberately mismatched and inconsistent, with the props and sets sometimes being too large for the characters, and others too small. The result is a transgressive, deeply influential film that has been unsettling audiences for over 100 years.

The Exorcist III

Based on his 1983 novel Legion, writer-director William Peter Blatty’s Exorcist III arrived 17 years after William Friedkin’s The Exorcist. Despite the still-looming pop culture presence of the original, The Exorcist III is sneakily the most interesting film in the series. Less a horror movie than a psychological thriller with supernatural and spiritual overtones, The Exorcist III takes place 17 years after the events of the first film, and with no reference whatsoever made to the events in the second. It finds Lt. Kinderman confronted with the apparent reappearance of two figures from his past who had supposedly died. The first is father Damien Karras (Jason Miller), who had died after bouncing down an endless flight of steps while performing an exorcism in the original movie, and the Gemini Killer, a serial killer loosely based on the Zodiac Killer that had been executed 17 years prior. However, there’s been a new string of murders around town carrying all the hallmarks of the Gemini.

While the studio famously mangled Blatty’s original cut of the film, there’s still a lot to like here, including a terrifying performance from Brad Dourif. Blatty is fantastic at creating dread-inducing atmosphere and has a keen attention to character and detail. It may not be as exciting as the original, but it’s a smart-slow burn film worthy of the Exorcist mantle.

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The Devil’s Rejects

An homage to sleazy ‘70s C-movies, Rob Zombie’s sequel to House of 1,000 Corpses will leave you in the need of a shower, but it’s delightfully demented and the musician turned filmmaker’s finest effort. The shock-fest finds the Firefly clan, Otis (Bill Moseley), Baby (Sheri Moon Zombie) and Captain Spaulding (Sid Haig) – on the run from die-hard determined sheriff Wydell (William Forsythe). What unfolds is a nasty thrill ride full of twists, turns, and more gore than most audiences are comfortable with. How Zombie still manages to make such repulsive content entertaining, how he manages to get you to almost root for the despicable Firefly clan, is inexplicable magic trick, but indebted to Zombie’s use of black humor and deep knowledge of genre conventions that he sometimes subverts, but often gleefully leans into.

Train to Busan

The overused and increasingly predictable zombie genre got a shot in the arm with Train to Busan, a South Korean film from director Yeon Sang-ho about a young father desperately attempting to get his little daughter to her mother via train as a zombie pandemic breaks out all around them. Even if it veered close to outright sentimentality at times, Train to Busan differed from most of the films and TV shows we’ve seen in this genre due to its genuine bond of love between its main characters, and the flickers of empathy and humanity found therein. 

And on a technical level, Yeon crafted his film with a kinetic energy that had been missing from the genre as of late. Train to Busan was not just a monster hit in its native land but amassed an international following as well, along with critical acclaim across the board. It’s easy to see why given the film’s well-drawn characters, subtle social commentary (some on the train feel they are more worthy of survival than others) and frightening action sequences that add up to a thrilling and emotionally powerful ride.

More Horror Films Available to Stream FREE on Plex TV

The Descent  

Train To Busan  

The Ninth Gate  

Rec  

Coherence  

Night Of The Living Dead  

The Host 

Hannibal Rising  

The Devil’s Rejects  

Nosferatu  

Monsters  

I Spit On Your Grave  

Eden Lake  

Wolf Creek  

Day Of The Dead  

The Collector  

The Cabinet Of Dr. Caligari  

Red Lights  

The Wailing  

Grave Encounters  

Colonia  

Scouts Guide To The Zombie Apocalypse  

Diary Of The Dead  

Black Death  

Alone In The Dark  

The Descent: Part 2  

Maggie  

Teeth  

Ginger Snaps  

After.Life  

John Dies At The End  

Black Christmas  

The Last House On The Left  

Nosferatu the Vampire  

Splinter  

The Void  

Deep Red  

P2  

Phantasm  

The Changeling 

Feast  

Hatchet 

The Prophecy  

Pulse  

Fido  

Open Grave  

Cell  

The Blob  

The Exorcist III  

Vanishing On 7th Street 

House On Haunted Hill  

Penomena  

Eye See You  

Cooties  

The Werewolf 

Pumpkinhead 4: Blood Feud 

Messengers 2: The Scarecrow

Sugar and Fright Collection

Abraham Lincoln vs. Zombies 

All Cheerleaders Die  

Another Evil  

Attack of the Killer Tomatoes  

Bad Milo 

Better Watch Out  

Bitter Feast  

Cooties  

Corporate Animals  

Crimewave  

Dead Snot 2: Red vs. Dead  

Deathgasm  

Deep Murder 

Drive Thru 

Excision  

Fear, Inc.  

Feast 

Fido  

Ghost Killers vs. Bloody Mary 

Hansel & Gretel Get Baked  

Hatchet  

Hell Baby 

Hellboy Animated: Blood & Iron 

Hellboy Animated: Sword of Storms  

Hobo with a Shotgun  

John Dies at the End 

The Last Lovecraft: Relic of Cthulhu 

Lesbian Vampire Killers  

The Love Witch  

Night of Something Strange  

Nina Forever  

Office Uprising  

Shrooms  

Snoop Dogg’s Hood of Horror 

Stan Helsing  

Stitches  

Suburban Gothic  

Survival of the Dead  

Teeth  

Turbo Kid  

WolfCop 

Yoga Hosers 

The post Streaming on Plex: Best Horror Movies and TV Shows You Can Watch for FREE in October appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[goldeneyedgirl]

jalice2020 day five

JaliceWeek2020 Day 5: Angel/Demon

Afterglow

Notes: This is the third version, because I thought the others were going to be ‘too long’ and then this became a behemoth. I’ve lost all sense of whether it’s actually worth posting, but it’s 6,300+ words and a whole day of work that I refuse to waste. These prompts are going up out of order because I feel like being contrary and am totally disorganised. 

And I found the idea of ‘demon’ fascinating because what else would a vampire be but a very specific form of ‘demon’? Plus there were so many (utterly amazing) fics about demon!Alice, I decided to flip the script. 

I am also totally running with the angel thing in a much longer fic, because I had so much world building, so much more history for both Alice and Jasper, and I was sorry that I couldn’t include it. 

There were three things of which she was certain.

The first was that her name was Alice.

The second was that she was born an angel.

And three, she was getting ready to die.

—

He finds her in an alley behind a diner, slumped against the brickwork, struggling to breathe. He sees her, and for a moment he doesn’t realise what he’s seeing - why would he? Who, in living memory, has laid eyes on an angel?

But he remembers the stories, told around a Monterrey bonfire, of the markings, the aura, the divinity of those nearly mythical creatures. Creatures born of hope and love and all those things that he left behind on that last ride. The older ones always had angel stories, of their astounding beauty and immense power; of wings that stretched out eight, ten, twelve feet of pure white energy that could cut through any substance known to creation. Of miracles and healings and forgiveness that filled all the hollow spaces inside. Of blood that can only be offered willingly, or it becomes fantastically and irreversibly poisonous.

He goes to her side, his hunt forgotten. Maybe it is the stories, that childish, lingering hope at the back of his mind that there is absolution for his actions, that he has not fallen so low he cannot rise up again.

Or maybe it is seeing a creature as broken as he feels, and the twist of pity-empathy in his gut won’t let him turn away from her. She is so small, so utterly… forgotten.

She was a great beauty, he can see that underneath her suffering; her skin has a grey cast, and her lips blue, her eyes underscored with dark bruises. She’s so thin, her skin stretched tight. The celestial markings still adorn her tiny arms, from wrist to elbow, a collage of flowers and stars and maps and symbols utterly meaningless to him, but faded like an old bruise.

Something utterly precious, just thrown away.

His red eyes meet hers, and she gasps, tries to make herself smaller. Some half-forgotten lesson tells her that red-eyes, demons, are the lowest evil and she must protect herself. But with what? She has lost her wings, has lost her magic, has lost much of her memory.

She has been discarded, and is worth nothing more than a demon’s gaze, his next meal. It would be better to go quickly than to linger with this heaviness in her bones and lungs and heart and mind. Whatever divinity is left in her blood, perhaps it can gift him with something - she doesn’t even know what a demon would wish for with angel’s blood, truly. But for a quick end, she would offer it willingly.

She gasps again as he lifts her, and cradles her close, his eyes studying her carefully as he settles her in his arms, making sure he causes her no pain, even as fresh bruises bloom on her skin.

“What…?” she croaks, as he sweeps out of the alley, away from his chosen meal, from the buzzing signs of the diner, and into the night.

“Rest, little one,” is all he says, as if he has a plan. “You’re safe.”

Those half-remembered warnings feel paper thin as she is cradled like treasure against his strong body, as he moves confidently through the streets. Even through her threadbare clothing, it is the first time she has been touched since she can remember, and it is… nice. It is nice and it is easy enough to close her eyes and let whatever is to happen next come upon her.

—

His room in the boarding house is small and worn, but fine enough for him to have a minuscule wash room of his own. The angel sleeps deeply, the sleep of the gravely ill, and he tucks her into the untouched bed in the corner, whilst he ventures into the yet unvisited common kitchen to find her food.

The landlady sweeps in, a well-lived woman - who has never trusted the red-eyed man - likes him a little more as she watches him make a right mess of toast and tea, and she quickly assembles a little tray. This isn’t the kind of establishment that cares what he does in the room he pays for, and she doesn’t really consider the possibilities when he asks for an extra towel and pillow.

The angel sleeps through the night and well into the next day, and he can feel the heat coming from her skin. He dribbles cooled tea between her lips, and curses the fact he has no memory of nursing from the army, of his human life. He refuses to request more help from the landlady, and finally he gives up all pretences and manages to gather the girl up and clamber into the narrow, stained little bathtub together, filled with cold water that he hopes will curb the fever.

She dreams of fire licking her limbs and red eyes staring into her soul and her lips are so dry and everything is all jumbled up and then she is staring at the very tall red-eyed monster cradling her in a bathtub full of cold water, and patting her face with a cloth and worry on his face.

Somehow she regains control of her limbs, enough to reach one shaking hand up to his cheek - it seems impossible that the most evil of creatures could be so handsome, could go to so much trouble for her. She wishes she could ask him a million questions, but she is so very tired, and it is easier to settle back against him and sleep as her fever rages.

—

They are together a week before she is lucid enough to ask questions and offer answers, for them to even learn the other’s name.

Alice.

Major Jasper Whitlock, ma’am.

A soldier, a killer, in his human life. That makes her sad for him, that humans choose to set themselves on a path that is paved in death and misery but there is nothing that can be done about that now. And for a soldier turned vampire, with all his terrible deeds indented on every inch of his arms and neck, with luminous red eyes and a hard stare, he is not.. bad.

In fact, he shows her the first kindness she can ever remember.

He brings her food, strange choices at first, but he soon learns - angels like sweet things, fruits and honey and candy; thin soups to build her strength up, well-sugared milky tea to help her sleep. He brings her some clothing - a proper night dress, and a blue day dress that is far too long, but it covers up the bruises on her stocking-less legs. He reads to her, cheap novels that have covers depicting in young ladies and flowers and cannot be vaguely interesting to him.

She knows he slips away to hunt, to drain humans of their life, but she sees the slump in his shoulders, the tired, pained look on his face upon his return and she wonders if those paper-thin lessons were wrong. That demons do have souls, souls that are weighed with every choice, every action, of their cursed existence. After all, a vampire is just a human gone astray, really. And for all of their flaws and follies, ignorance and arrogance, humans are essentially good, kind creatures. There is a reason they are so staunchly guarded by the angels, after all.

What if Major Whitlock is only a demon because the angels failed him?

When she is well enough to stand, to limp slowly around their tiny room, he offers to take her to church, and she wants to giggle, but he looks so serious and so determined to escort her there that she agrees; churches are for humans, and so is the religion found in them. But she thinks she understands - angels and churches and religions have been so tangled up together that it is some kind of logic, to take her there. He even brings her a hat and gloves and new shoes for the excursion, letting her limping stride set the pace, letting her lean on him as her lungs struggle to keep up.

His arm is gentle yet strong around her, and she leans closer to him, breathing in a scent of pine needles and rainwater.

—

The closest church is of moderate size and limited wealth - the parishioners are hardworking people with little money - and the pastor is an elderly man who has overseen the births, marriages, and deaths of those people, all of whom he can name on sight. It is a late night, counselling a young couple, and he ambles around the church, setting it right for the next morning.

He looks up when he hears voices, and sees the silhouette in the doorway - one tall and one small. For a moment, he mistakes them for an adult and child; perhaps siblings? Strangers or newcomers, certainly. They take a place in a back pew, the taller figure helping the smaller into her seat before settling beside her. It is then he approaches, to welcome them and offer them counsel, before he realises what he is seeing.

The red eyes of the male, firmly fixed on the diminutive girl. And he wants to banish the monster, this fiend from the sanctified ground on which they stand, of which he should not be able to enter. But the flickering candles throw light onto the girl, and the sight of her is a reward paid for with decades of his faith. It is a split second, a flicker of light and shadow, and he has Seen her. The ghost of wings that fold around her in filmy light, the slight glow of her skin, the wisp of lost golden markings, such beauty his mortal eyes has never seen. She looks up at her companion with affection in her eyes, and she takes his hand, and the pastor does nothing more than nod and bless them both in passing; whatever has brought the pair into his church is beyond that of mortal comprehension.

They stay a little while before the devil helps the angel stand, and the pastor watches as the girl limps from the church, leaning heavily on her corrupted companion and says a little prayer for them, one to see them both to whatever sanctuary they might be needing. And then he extinguishes the candles.

—

Time meanders on, and Alice grows stronger. Strong enough to walk unaided, though she still takes his arm every time they leave. Strong enough to teach herself to mend their few clothes, to prepare herself food, though he finds her with candy and fruit just as often as something properly nutritious.

Seeing her cheeks round with chocolate, blushing with embarrassment at getting caught, is the first time he’s properly laughed in decades.

She looks so well now, with faint colour in her cheeks; her eyes are a blue he could get lost in, a swirling galaxy of shifting light and colour - they are most inhuman thing about her right now. Her lips have lost the blue cast, are now a rose pink that makes her look very kissable, but thoughts like that are dangerous, and feel heavy in his chest. Her markings look like some kind of bruise-coloured tattoos that are slowly darkening. He hasn’t asked about them, about the meanings behind them, but when he holds her hand, he sometimes finds himself tracing the lines of the flowers, the stars, the symbols - he thinks he has them memorised.

But eventually, it is time to move on. His body count is rising, getting closer to noticeable, and the money is running out - they only have what he takes from his victims, and it has been slim pickings for a few weeks. He hates to have to admit why they have to leave, but she doesn’t flinch, just smiles and requests a bag for her things as if fleeing a city because of too many bloody disappearances is a perfectly normal reason to leave.

So they leave Philadelphia, hand in hand, with no particular destination in mind. And for a long time, that’s how they live - boarding houses in the city, forgotten farm houses in the country, cradled by long grass in forests where the night sky peeks through. Those are the nights she lies pressed up against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, as she traces constellations with her finger as she relaxes into sleep.

Those are the nights that are imprinted on his brain forever.

—

They find themselves in the back of Vermont in the fall; it’s been a few years since they left Philadelphia, wandering around the country. She looks beautiful to him that day, with a flower crown in her hair - the flowers drooping but not yet wilted - and her very worn out pink dress that is shredded below her knees and a filthy white shawl with more holes than lace. He clasps her hand tight in his as they meander through the forest; she hums a song under her breath, one that is sweet and soothing and intoxicating and he can never remember the tune until she sings it again.

He isn’t paying attention, when they settle on a camp site and she flits off to find something edible - fruits, herbs, flowers; she is surprisingly adaptable. And for all the legends and half-truths, she has no trouble or reluctance eating animal flesh, as long as she cooks it on a fire first, though she always cries when it has to be a rabbit.

They are upon them at once, a coven of five aged vampires, suspicious and on edge as they see his eyes, his scars, his cold glare at the interruption and his own failure to sense them.

At the strange, sickly amber of their eyes.

It’s a tense conversation of his intentions, his purpose on their lands, and his honeyed words are thinly veiled threats. He is grateful that Alice’s sweet scent (roses and linens and melting snow) is easily covered by his own, an illusive little quicksilver protected by her own sacred biology. He has them almost convinced them to, in laymen’s terms, fuck right off and leave him be when Alice returns.

“Jasper?”

The older woman gasps at the sight of her and the entire family go from suspicion to anger and disgust - the shawl slung low around her elbows (covering up her markings, good girl), the girlish, tattered dress, and flowers in her hair. The apples clutched in her pale hand, one with an obvious bite mark. Her blue eyes bright and skin flushed, and decades later he will remind them how damn unobservant they are that they thought she was his victim, lured into seclusion, when two bags sit by the tree, when everything about her was uncanny and inhuman enough to tell them the still-shocking truth. It was fall in the forest, and the flowers in her hair were still fresh, for god’s sake.

But in that moment, she is the innocent, a future meal of a monster, the sacrificial lamb.

“Sweetheart, come away from him,” the woman gestures to her, but Alice is no longer smiling, and if they looked closer, they’d see the storm rising in her eyes (he loves that about her, the way the blue of her eyes darkens and churns when she’s worried or afraid, and lightens and ripples with her joy. He could watch her eyes forever.) She drops the fruit, and moves closer to him, her hands reaching for the sleeve of his coat.

The coven move too fast, and the only reason they aren’t destroyed is because he is too aware of her; she is pushed aside in their efforts to manhandle her away from him, to drag him through to their side of the river. He lets the biggest one push him to his knees, his arms tight and awkward behind his back. There is a growl is rumbling in his chest, and he can smell it - her blood. It’s an odd, distinctive smell that is enough to make him freeze. It’s not a lot, maybe a scrape, but this coven… angel blood is somehow a walking, resistible temptation. They could drain her dry (and die horribly for the effort) but she’ll still be perfectly dead and that cannot be allowed to happen. He begins to struggle, but the big one holds him firm and shit. This is bad.

“Let him up, please.”

He can only move his head enough to see her standing, a small cut on her leg that will be gone in a day or two. She looks … displeased. He’s never seen that look on her face before.

“You’ll be okay now,” the redheaded boy tells her superiorly. “You should find your way back to town.”

“Let him up,” she retorts, just as arrogantly as the boy, as imperious as a queen, and there is a stillness, an edge to everything around them - no birds or breeze; even the running of the river seems rather muted.

“We’ll deal with him,” the big one says confidently, and that is the wrong thing to say.

“Let. Him. Go.”

It happens all at once, an echoing order that is not yelled but thunders in all their ears. They yell and gasp and are tossed away like paper dolls and he finally gets a look at his girl in all her glory.

She’d told him once, off-hand, that she’d never be fully healed again. That she accepted that she was Fallen and Shunned, and what she had managed to recover, she was grateful for.

Not recovered, his ass.

She was great and terrible and the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, her arms thrown wide and the shawl gone, her markings glowing white, her eyes pools of white energy. And behind her, stretching four feet, easily, on either side were her long wings, crackling with pure light. Markings he hadn’t glimpsed before peeked out from the neckline of her dress, and her skin had a faint glow to it, the entire effect as if a star was entrapped inside her body.

It is his captor that bears the brunt of her wrath, gasping in pain as her gaze focuses on him, the rest of the coven disorientated as they pick themselves up.

The last of the group, the blonde woman who might have been mistaken as an angel herself, is at his side immediately, wanting to help but unsure how to as he howls at whatever Alice’s power is doing to him.

“Stop it!” the blonde vampire screams, “STOP IT.”

He manages to get back to her side, wanting to reach out and pull her to him, but he doesn’t know if he can touch her like this.

“Alice?” he says. “We’re okay.”

The energy recedes as quickly as it appeared, leaving her looking cranky but pale as she immediately tucks herself against him as the coven inspect their fallen member.

He is disorientated and startled but unharmed as he reassures the blonde woman, the rest of their gazes falling to the couple over the river. More than a girl in a pink dress and a man in an overcoat.

“I can’t read them anymore, Carlisle,” the redhead murmurs. “His is … too quiet, and hers is in a language that… I think she made up.”

Alice spits a sharp word at the boy, holding him so tight he knows she was - is - afraid.

The leader, this Carlisle, simply stares at them with an indescribable look on his face. Incredulousness and awe and confusion and amusement dance around them, and he shakes his head.

“In all my years, I have never…” he began, wiping his face with his hand, an indisputably human gesture. “I apologise, my family misunderstood.”

Alice grunts and still glares, and if Jasper knows anything, it is that she holds a fantastic grudge against that which wrongs her - the woman who called her a harlot in a town back in Minnesota; the perfectly spoilt fruit tart from a shady baker; the young man who tore her dress in Boston. If those things can keep her gaze dark and sour her mood, he doesn’t fancy being any one of these creatures.

“Carlisle?” the older woman asks curiously, and the big one is back on his feet and seems to be entirely unaffected by whatever Alice had done to him.

“What is she?” he asks with genuine curiosity, his arm around the blonde.

“I believe this young lady might be an angel.”

—

That’s how they meet the Cullens. Carlisle spends three days hovering around them with delighted, boyish excitement until Esme gently redirects his attention and energy. Esme, who is so kind to them both, even with his red eyes and scars (later, she will smile at him and tell him that she knew that no matter where he had come from, no one who treated Alice so gently could be anything other than a true gentleman). Edward is frustrated with them both, and mutters comments under his breath as Alice snipes back in a language no one else understands - which just agitates Edward more. She admits later, when they’re alone, that she hardly remembers learning the language and probably couldn’t hold a conversation in it but does in fact remember most of the good swears and insults, and he laughs loudly at the idea that angels are pure and good and selfless as she taunts the arrogant little vampire.

Rosalie hates them. Hates his red eyes and violence, hates Alice for hurting her mate. Emmett is more curious and entertained than offended, and shrugs off Rosalie’s rage - “Babe, you’d do the same to them for me.” He’s more interested to know if Alice can change the colour of her ‘lights’ at will - like a disco ball - and Alice congratulates him on asking the actual dumbest question in the history of creation and of course that means Alice and Emmett are friends now, even though he described her attack as being ‘boiled from the inside out’.

How does he feel about them? Well, they offer them a nice room with a bed for Alice and little bathroom, and Esme goes to find Alice food - Carlisle sending her with a ream of notes on angels and their preferred diet despite the girl’s insistence anything will do. They are respectful and genuine and he cannot fault their welcome into the house. There are clean clothes and books and amusements and every possible comfort except human blood.

That is a conversation he has alone with Carlisle, whilst Alice joyfully eats her way through a pile of candy roughly the same size as she is. It is a long conversation, a hard one. Of all the guilt and the pain and the regret; of every horror he has never spoken of to Alice, of every fear that lingers in his bones.

And when he finishes, he feels lighter.

Carlisle smiles benevolently, and explains the advantages of abstaining from human blood, of existing only on the blood of animals.

“It does, admittedly, take away some of our strength,” the older man warns but his mouth quirks into a smile. “Not that I think you have to worry about your safety with such a… formidable mate.”

Jasper is quick to correct him, ducking his head so that Carlisle might not see the longing in his eyes. They are not mates or lovers or sweethearts. As much as he admires her, a goddess in his eyes; as much as he restrains himself from noticing the slender curves hidden by her clothing, from letting his gaze linger too long, they are mere companions; the closest of friends but no more than that.

Carlisle chuckles outright at that. “I assume this isn’t your preference?” he says, with a grin that makes him look his age.

He scowls, refusing to take the bait.

“In all my years, I have met many people in many differing kinds of relationships,” Carlisle says, with that knowing look on his face that Jasper decides he hates. “And I can tell you without an ounce of doubt that no angel - or woman - would look at a vampire like that, would defend one so fiercely, without holding him close in her heart. I think, if you were to make a gesture, it would be warmly reciprocated.”

And for a moment, he is full of hope. Hope of a future where he could press a kiss to willing lips, could slide his hand over the curve of a waist. Could trace the markings hidden by her dress with his fingers, his mouth, learn them by heart.

But the truth is, he is a monster. The blood in his eyes, the scars on his skin, the violence in his movement… it is what he is. That he would not sully her with his touch, if she would even accept such a thing. And in truth, he could not bear to be dismissed from her side. He would walk her down the aisle to a worthy man, as long as he could remain in her orbit.

“No,” he shakes his head. "She is… and I am… it would not be fair.” She already Fell once, why drag her further down?

Carlisle studies him carefully, the regret rolling off him in waves. “If you’ll pardon me for prying, how on earth did you end up meeting Alice? I only know of one other who has met an angel; they are illusive creatures.”

Jasper looks up, a quirk of his lips at the memory. “I found her in Philadelphia. She was dying in an alley. I tried to help her.” And the story slowly comes up; the long wait for her fever to break, trying to build up her strength, their brief attendance at church that was more for him than for her; their little pilgrimage around the country. How she loves to watch the stars, to wear flowers in her hair, and sings like the angel she is. How any money they had went to food, and she found sweet irresistible - more than once she went barefoot rather than go without a slice of cake, a bag of strawberries. He ends up smiling by the end of the story, the warmth of the memories surrounding him.

Carlisle looks at him incredulously. “Jasper, you found a dying girl in Philadelphia, and you saved her life,” he says so gently. “You raised an angel from the dead out of pure selflessness and honour. And you sit here and tell me that you are deemed unworthy? I cannot believe it, myself.”

Jasper shakes his head and thinks of all that he has been told, about animal blood, and protecting human life. About all that he has seen and felt with that diminutive girl beside him.

“For her, I have to be better.”

—

They settle into the Cullen family with relative ease - Esme is a doting mother figure to Alice, whose quirks he found so charming are utterly foreign and confusing to the rest of the family. But Esme carries no frustration to find wilted flower crowns discarded through the house; to find Alice has eaten a week’s supply of food in one night; to find an ugly scorch mark on the couch when Edward provoked the girl far enough for her magic to get involved.

Carlisle is still fascinated, but is affectionate to the small girl who has so many questions about everything, everywhere. He cannot answer many of her questions about angels, but he has more than enough stories about his life to entertain her for hours.

Edward and Alice snipe at each other constantly, as she continues to conceal her thoughts, and somehow mute Jasper’s, from his probing. The thing is, they could be good friends if they wanted; he wonders if Alice still holds a grudge from his dismissal of her during that very first meeting. Emmett, however, thinks Alice is a fantastically weird addition to their family even if her powers remain unused. Her intuition is second to none, and she is strong enough to exist safely in the household, but mostly she is unremarkable. He likes ruffling her hair and asking dumb or embarrassing questions (“So when you have sex, Lite-Brite, do you go all glow-y?” he asks one day, just ambling into the room with that question on his brain, and Esme scolds him and he growls, and Alice turns faintly pink and admits she wouldn’t know. Emmett does feel bad when she reveals that, and buys her an enormous bag of fudge that means he’s automatically forgiven.)

Rosalie tolerates them - she likes how annoyed Edward gets with Alice, and that Alice is an eager student in the art of fashion and shopping, and has suitable awe for Rosalie’s beauty and attitude. But she resents Alice’s divinity, that somehow the universe judged this tiny girl to be a precious, sacred creation, and decided that Rosalie herself was worth less than humanity.

They treat him well enough - politely, respectfully, and that’s all he asks. Carlisle offers relatively good counsel on most subjects, but most specifically on hunting animals. It’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, and he fails more than he succeeds. He sees frustration in the faces of the Cullens every time he returns with red eyes, but he never sees Alice flinch or fluster. She greets him with that same special smile every time he walks into the room, her sheer presence a balm. And that unconditional affection, that is when the shame feels heaviest on his shoulders.

So he tries again.

And again.

And again.

And it gets easier. Or rather, he gets stronger. The gaps between red eyes get longer, and his eyes lighten slowly from red to orange to amber. But the burn in his throat remains, and he struggles constantly. But he reminds himself, the prize is worth it. She is worth every second of burn, every disgusting animal, every long night resisting the urge to hunt.

She will always be worth it.

—

After Vermont, there is Minnesota, then Montana, then… well, they begin to blend together. All are within abundant hunting grounds, all in beautiful homes, all provide comfort and luxury he could never have imagined providing her. She fits it like a glove; her beautiful clothes, the abundant library, the ease of every day life - it is a palace for a princess and he is so happy that she is happy.

It is the place where Carlisle insists he go to school with the others, tempting him with the possibility of college in the future. She cannot go; they have no ways of concealing the inhumanity of her, and she struggles to contain her powers sometimes, especially when distressed. Even one sad movie an have her shining like a discount glow stick. Carlisle does much research on the subject, to try and help train her, but his research is slow and they still don’t know much. One day, she’ll join them. She’s determined, even when she scorches another dress, another chair, another wall. One day.

She pounces on him every single afternoon, demanding to know about his day, about his classes, about what high school is like. For so long it was just her, then it was them, then it was the family - the idea of classmates and friends and peers is so foreign. He dutiful fills her in, though many of the details she demands are not things he has noted. She always touches him during these conversations, hanging over his shoulder, curled in his lap, tucked at his side.

And even when Rosalie and Edward tell her to stop bothering him, forcing him to relive the tedium, he encourages it. Because as dull as school is, recounting it to her as she clings like a little possum to his back, is his very favourite part of the day.

And somehow, maybe because of that, something changes between them. Their closeness holds something new - potential, maybe. But her eyes seem to really see him when he presses a gentle kiss to her forehead; her cheeks get a little pinker when he compliments a new dress; he finds himself reaching for her less, and finding her already there more often.

They still share a room - he has no need for his own, not with the communal library on the third floor - and he tries his hardest to give her privacy. But he’s caught her changing more than once, seen a glimpse of more markings on her pale-flawless-exquisite spine. He lingers too long in that view, berating himself for his perversion, but he cannot resist. He wonders where else the tattoos lie.

Carlisle looks at him with knowing eyes, and Esme beams every time she sees, or thinks she sees, something. But no, not yet. Not until he’s worthy of every hope, can grant every single one of her wishes and whims. Not until he can court her as she deserves.

It’ll happen, he’s determined. He will make himself worthy, reforge himself in any hell that he can find, if it makes him a better man for her.

Inevitably, he slips again, and they have to move, and he is furious with himself. Every time he thinks he might see the light at the end of the tunnel, he weakens. Two steps forward and one step back.

He spends the night on the couch, watching movies without seeing them, and trying not to notice the warmth of her skin as he endlessly traces the lily-star-celestial map that are her tattoos. She falls asleep against him, a heavenly weight, and he wishes for a lot of things, but mostly for sleep.

—

There were three things of which she was certain.

The first was that her name was Alice Cullen.

The second was that she was a fallen angel, which wasn’t such a bad thing to be.

And the third was that she was completely and irreversibly in love with one Major Jasper Whitlock. And she was tired of waiting.

—

He has taken her into the forest, the spring air crisp, and the plants blooming. She skips beside him, her fingers interlaced with his, and it’s a lovely day - the canopy of the forest concealing the glitter of his skin. It’s one of those lazy, peaceful days that he lives for.

She leaves him sitting by the river, as she gathers wild flowers and leaves, settling beside him as she makes her crown - nimble fingers twisting and weaving. The white and yellow blooms match her new dress. And then she is wrapped around his back, crowning him in leaves and tiny red and white berries.

“My prince,” she whispers in his ear, leaning forward to press a lingering kiss on his cheek. And she pulls away, just enough space for him to turn his head and align their lips and he’s many things, but he’s also a man deeply, deeply in love.

Their first kiss is a slightly awkward angle, but it is… it is his absolution, his greatest hope, his most perfect joy. For her, it is finding home, the last piece of an indecipherable puzzle finding its place, it is entirely new and yet as familiar to her as her own self.

After he pulls away, she twists herself into his lap, her eyes so wide and flickering blue and white, a pink flush to her cheeks. She looks so hopeful and loving that he cannot help but steal another kiss, another jewel to hoard in his dead heart as she sighs happily against him.

But the real world is still outside their private little glade, and finally he pulls away.

“We can’t,” he croaks, her arms wrapped around his neck. “Oh Alice, I can’t.”

“Why not?” her question is so innocent, he wants to wrap her in his arms and keep her here forever, where nothing will ever sully her.

“You’re an angel, darlin’. An honest to goodness angel. You deserve so much better,” he murmurs, half against her lips. “Not me. I’m a goddamned monster.”

Alice sighs again. “Oh Jasper, I wish you could see you as I do,” she says so sweetly. “The person who lifted me out of the trash, the person who healed me, the person who cared for me and protected me and loved me without question or expectation.”

She traces his face, her soft fingers running over his nose and lips and cheeks.

“I’ve waited so long for you to be worthy to yourself,” she continues. “Because you were more than worthy enough for me.”

The next kiss is deeper, passionate and he pulls her flush against him, feeling the buttons on her dress press against his chest, probably cracking them. Another one follows, and then another, until it all blurs together, and he’s slid his hand further up her leg than is truly proper, and her hands are tangled in his hair.

Her smile is the sweetest, a little shy, as she buries her face in his neck - drawing in his scent - and he notices the faint glow around her markings, almost like her powers are blushing.

“I’ve waited for you - for this - for so long,” she whispers to him, the words almost lost in the light breeze.

And he holds her close, holds her tight. “I never meant to keep you waiting.”

She looks him in the eye, gold meeting blue, and her smile is radiant, as beautiful as every story and every myth. “Well, we’ve got all the time in the world.”

And then she leans in for another kiss.

—

There were three things of which Jasper Hale was entirely certain.

One was that he was a vampire in love with an angel.

The second was that his angel loved him back, as completely as he loved her.

And the third was that they had the rest of eternity to be together, whatever the future might bring.

[thepeacetea]

Light Before the Knight

Hi guys! So, I’ve had this au rolling around for a while, so here you go. If you think I should continue with it, let me know. Hope y’all enjoy! Peace!

Bruce was tired. Exhausted really. For one, it was a Monday. If that wasn’t enough of an explanation, he didn’t know what was. He had spent the entire weekend working on an assignment he had gotten Friday. Seventy-two hours, zero sleep, and way too much coffee later, he had completed it. He had been just able to get about an hour of sleep before he was bolting out the door in order to get to class on time. And right now, Bruce was really wishing he had listened to Alfred and gotten something to eat, or at least some more coffee before he left. He wasn’t even on campus and he was falling asleep. He had been alright driving, but once he parked and was walking towards G.C.U.’s main building when he felt the waves of exhaustion hit him. He knew he wouldn’t make it though classes if he didn’t get some form of stimulant in him, NOW.

The university cafeteria was on the other side of the building, but if he hurried, Bruce could make it there, get the cheap coffee, and make it to class on time. But just as he was turning in that direction, the glorious smell of coffee caught his attention. Across the street, right on the corner was a café. ‘Blended Fate’. Bruce didn’t care how cheesy the name sounded, all he cared about was the sweet, sweet smell of coffee that enshrouded the place. Stepping inside, Bruce surveyed the layout. It was quaint. The floor space was small, but it didn’t seem overcrowded with the few tables that lay scattered about. A booth was set up along the window, running the full length of the store. The walls showed off the buildings original brickwork and Bruce could easily see where the most foot traffic had been. But the wear on the floor boards didn’t make it look bad. If anything, coupled with the interior walls, it made the whole place feel like you stepped back in time.

Thankfully there was only one other person in line, a small girl in a large pink coat who was adamantly talking with the barista as he made her drink. ‘Too cheery, easy target,’ Bruce thought. He knew it would be considered creepy to others if they knew he would rate the likelihood of them being mug, shot, or exploited, but he couldn’t help it. After what happened with his parents, he had started labeling people. Assessing them to see if they could propose any threat, and this girl didn’t look like she could even throw a punch properly. He felt bad for her. She wouldn’t last long in Gotham. It would either take her innocence or her life, of that Bruce was certain. The barista was, amazing quick with her order, and turned to Bruce with a welcoming smile.

“Have a good one M.”

The voice snapped Bruce out his thoughts, catching the barista giving the girl a smile before turning his attention to Bruce.

“What can I get for you?”

“Extra large coffee. Black.” Bruce said, pulling out his wallet.

“Oh, you don’t have to pay. The girl in front of you already did.” The barista said, handing him the coffee.

Now, it was mostly due to his sleep deprived mind, but when the barista told him that girl payed for his coffee, it set him off. This was Gotham. No one did anything nice for others unless they would get something out of it. And given Bruce’s standing in Gotham, it grated on his nerves. Receiving his coffee Bruce hardly spared the barista a glance before storming out into the street, blue eyes scanning the area for that girl. She couldn’t have gotten far. He caught a flash of pink walking across the campus grounds and he bolted after her, nearly getting hit by a few cars.

“Hey.” Bruce shouted when he was close enough to not draw too much attention, but close enough to get her attention. And catch her attention he did.

Turning around, the first thing Bruce took notice of was that she was Asian, or at lest Asian decent. She was tiny, barely reaching his chest. Her dark hair was tucked under a soft, grey knit hat, leaving little trails to frame her slightly round face. The only thing that gave way that she wasn’t fully Asian were her eyes. Instead of them being olive shaped, they were more rounded. Very European.

“Hi. Can I help you?” she asked, a slight accent showing. French if Bruce wasn’t mistaken.

“Yeah, actually. I want you to know that I don’t appreciate you trying to win a favor from me. I am not interested in gold diggers, people looking to climb the ladder, or anyone looking for a fling just to feed it to the media.”

“Wha?”

“You heard me. Look, the whole ‘cute-girl-buying-you-a-drink’ deal may work on others, but it doesn’t on me.” Bruce went on, tired and irritated.  He didn’t have energy for this.

“Sir, I . . . I think you misunderstood. I just payed for your coffee because you looked tired and like you were having a bad morning and I though you could use something to brighten your day. I didn’t mean to offend you or cause you to think that. I apologize.” She said, and the sheer amount of sincerity caught Bruce off guard. She genuinely looked upset and guilt for causing him to presume that she only did it to catch his attention. Her eyes, which he belatedly registered were grey, appeared truly concerned.

“I’m sorry for the trouble, but I have to get going. I hope you have a better morning! Enjoy your coffee!” the girl said, turning with a wave and smile before melting into the morning crowds.

As he watched her fade into the crowd, Bruce could say he was honestly baffled. The girl hadn’t responded the way others had. Every time he had confronted a girl, they had turned from innocent and sweet to a snarling monster in seconds. But this girl, who he had blown up at, still maintained her sweet, kind demeanor. Bruce couldn’t understand how that was possible. Something about her was different, and not just on the account she wasn’t from Gotham. There was something else, he couldn’t recognize.

Banishing all thoughts of the coffee girl from his mind, Bruce proceeded to class. He had better things to worry about then some girl. After all, what were the chances of seeing her again?

[amphtaminedreams]

The Summer of Disappointment: Lookbook no.11

Hi to anyone reading,

Welcome to an exploration of one of my favourite combinations of activities: putting outfits together and moaning. Straight off the bat-this summer has been a shitty one. The pandemic has made 2020 a shitty year all round. My feelings are best summed up in this tweet by @25lambs (I love her account but this girl changes her @ every other week so it will probably have changed again by the time I post this):

The uncertainty of when life will return to some semblance of “normality” is the hardest part. I also feel like I lost a big chunk of my life to, well, being miserable basically, especially during my teen years and my plans to make up for that in my 20s has been potentially snatched away. That being said, in the grand scheme of things, I am very lucky. I still have a job and I haven’t lost anyone close to me, which are both hugely traumatic things that many people have had to go through as a result of the pandemic. I think being sad about how the pandemic has affected your life and also recognising that there are people who are facing a far greater amount of hardship than you are not mutually exclusive which is something people online tend to forget on a daily basis. I also thought we had longer, if that makes sense, like summer came and went in such a short space of time it almost feels like it hasn’t happened yet, and being the extremely anal individual I am, of course I had a load of outfits planned that I never got round to wearing-instead of sulking about what didn’t happen, I instead decided I’d make a bit of a lookbook out of those outfits as well as a kind of diary of what I did get round to wearing.

So that’s enough rambling from me! I’ll get on with it!

Looks 1-3

Depop has been my absolute favourite thing for the last few months. I gave up fast fashion around May and apart from a slip up or two, I’ve pretty much stuck to that since. That being said, I am clearly very into fashion and styling and so it’s been a hard transition to make (yes, first world problems IK, don’t bait me), especially with me being a compulsive shopper. Wanna know how to lose weight? The jig is up guys, switch from emotional eating to emotional shopping. I’m joking, nobody needs to lose any weight, but I am 100% someone who attempts to cure feeling like shit with some good old instant gratification, and Depop has filled my fast fashion void. My favourite purchases from the last few months include this tan faux suede jacket on the left I bought from Tash_Hall’s shop, and aside from that everything here is old. It makes me feel like I’m a background extra in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood and I’m into that. The movie was shit but the visuals were top tier.

-21/07/20-

(top handmade by sophieeee_1123 on Depop)

-30/09/20- 

(dress from maisiemainwaring on Depop, jacket from marinamcaleesex)

-18/09/20-

(top handmade by maddypageknitwear on Depop)

-25/07/20-

(cargo trousers from amber_thomson1 on Depop)

Looks 4-6

So I doubt anyone actually reads my fashion week reviews-I know everyone’s here for the pictures-but if you did, you’d know how much I wanted last season’s Erdem hats to happen off the runway. You know, the big boater ones that tie under the chin? Well, I got one off Ebay, as you can see on the left, I can confirm that in anything other than still life they look absolutely fucking ridiculous; I never ended up wearing mine outside the house because if I wore it for more than two seconds it would end up teetering to one side and slipping off my head, hence me trying to pass off holding it up as a fashion moment, lol. Maybe they are completely impractical, maybe I just have a big head (which is true), who knows. The beaded butterfly top however (from Depop but I can’t find the seller’s account anymore!), also on the left, was way more flattering on than I expected it to be and I am gutted I didn’t get to wear it out. If they’re right about a vaccine not being ready until July 2021 then it looks like next summer’s festival season will be cancelled too, but festival season 2022, this top is coming for ya. Optimism, you know. Other than that, the shorts are reworked Levis from Studsnstuff vintage on Ebay, which I have ALWAYS wanted and now irritatingly pair with absolutely everything and call it a look, and the two piece is stolen from my sister’s wardrobe, lol. Lastly, we have the sunhat, which reminds me of something my parents would’ve put me in when I was little and is totally adorable, from Happydais’ Depop store.

-28/07/20-

-12/07/20-

(top from tash2 on Depop, skirt from anishacassanova)

-27/08/20-

(skirt from mollie_morton on Depop)

-19/08/20-

(jeans from izziesanders on Depop)

-16/09/20-

Looks 6-10

Up there with my favourite Depop purchases of the summer is the striped corduroy trousers in the bottom right from Annasctx’s shop. I was desperate for some vintage trousers in this style but most resellers were, typically, charging extortionate prices for them, so it was a blessing to come across these for under £30. It sounds like a lot but they are a popular item on there at the moment so it’s a good price considering! Also from Depop is the red bodysuit from Alzaska’s store, the monogrammed headband from Jadexlaurenx’s store, and the PU flame print beret from House_of_erotique who do the most AMAZING custom pieces. I am waiting on a couple of things from them at the moment for an American Horror Story inspired lookbook I’m doing for halloween and I am buzzing to try them on! The bag I’m using here is my new go to-it’s a second hand Calvin Klein I found for THIRTY FUCKING POUND in a local charity shop! The woman at the tills told me that lots of people had gone to buy it and then put it back because it was too expensive which is insane! I know you go into a charity shop for cheap things but this bag was such a steal I have no idea how nobody just bit the bullet and bought it. Anyways, I’m not complaining because now it’s mine and I'm in love and I’m gonna try not to spill a monster energy drink on this one<3 

-26/08/20-

-18/08/20-

(suit from emmafisher3 on Depop)

-10/09/20-

-15/08/20-

So, that’s it for now! If you got to this point, thank you for reading! I’m sorry it’s not longer but I’m finding it really hard to motivate myself to write at the moment with everything going on-I’m only finishing this now because it’s 3:30AM and my friend’s cat that I’m looking after is keeping me awake and I’m too much of a softy to shut it out the bedroom. London has just gone into tier 2 lockdown which means I can’t visit my sister or my friends up there, and they’re not allowed to travel down here either. I get it needs to be this way and that we have to make sacrifices, but that’s not to say it isn’t tough on a lot of people’s mental wellbeing. I was really beginning to get my shit together this year, lol! Oh well! Sorry 2021, messy bitch me is getting a sequel. I know, I hate her too.

With regards to what’s coming up on my page, I’m working on the American Horror Story lookbook I mentioned this week and then a (probably non-existent this year) party season lookbook following that. I do intend to do more mood boards and a summary of the S/S 2021 shows soon. I don’t know if I’ve got it in me to do a whole ass review at the moment so I might spice it up and do a tier ranking or rating out of 10 or something fun like that, but there will definitely be something within the next couple of months! I also thought it’d be cool to do a post on the style of some incredible black influencers who are sorely underappreciated on Instagram for Black History Month, but even if I don’t get it out in October, expect that at some point.

Thank you to anyone who read this and thank you in general for bearing with me! I really hope things look up from here but regardless, if we all work together and be considerate of others, we can get through this. I hope everyone is doing okay and as always, if you are struggling, my inbox is always open. Post suggestions are welcome too, as well as feedback as long as it’s not *too* mean. A bitch is sensitive atm. 

Stay safe!

Lauren x

[aradias-crypt]

BH with a hero s/o headcanons

He would try killing you at first

Surely this one was obvious, no one is disillusioned enough to believe the source of all evil in the world would not attempt to off all heroes he sees.

And as a hero, it would be your ultimate goal to free the people from the dangers of villains, especially Black Hat. While you normally patrol your designated city, there has been the occasional meeting with Black Hat himself (usually when he is out collecting debts or working with contemporaries).

“If it isn’t my favorite little nuisance,” Black Hat grins, waving away his subordinates. He didn't need them for this. “Did my last attack teach you nothing? I may enjoy this little game of ours but I will not hold back any one.”

You land on the ground softly, “Should I take that as a compliment?”

“Of course, it is an honor for any human scum to be acknowledged by me.” He steps to the side, blocking your path as his soldiers enter the building behind him.

“What are you up to?”

“I would go on about my magnificent plans but that would be quite silly of me, don’t you think?”

“It would make my life so much easier.” Crystals grow from your arms, forming a shield and sword.

He smirks, shadows spilling from his body.

“But I enjoy w̴̘̲̻͈̌̀́͗͑̂̇͝at̸̢̟͓̗͓̥͈̮̼̃̄̔̄̊c̷͔̪̺̘͓̪͙͈̅͐̀̀͛͗̋̓̊̎͠h̸̡̟̞̖͍̲͊̋̀in̵͈͖͇̜̱̮̑̋̍͂͂̚g̷̮͐ ̵̧̧̧͈͍̜̫̜̬̫̮̮̔͝ỹ̵͕̗̤̍̍̊ő̷̡͕̻͙̤̤̮̣̉̂̂̂́͜ͅù̸̠̟̜̳̩̠̫̗̼̩͇̐͌͒̈́̊̍͆̑͊̚̕͜ ̵̼̲̗͓̖̒́s̵̨̢̼̟̼̬̳͇͍̩̙̓̅͒̏͌̓͂͆͜ư̷̪̞̟͖̓̒̂͂͊̓̔̇̀͜f̷̡̺̦̭̺̩͎̤̯̣̝̫̄͐̋f̶̛̫̗̺̟͖̓̉̀̋̓͆̕e̶̛̺̻̫̫̩̱̺͕͎̲͍̺͋̌͗̎̑̊͊́̃r̸̰͓̳̹͈̹̖͌̒̋̑͒͘~̵͎̯̳̓̆!̴̦̹͔̖̞̠̱̘̪̿̓͝”

He would protect you from other villains

It isn’t because he *shudders* likes you, but because you are the only hero who can amuse him. If another villain were to kill you, not only would you shame him for dying at such a lower villains hands and not his own, but because he would be bored.

You brace yourself for impact, forming a thick shell of diamond around you as the villain on the outside blasts you with gamma rays. You herded the civilians in the area far away, propping up lead walls to try and shield them from the radiation, but it left you with little energy and proper material to protect yourself.

‘They’re safe,’ you think to yourself, ‘That’s what matters.’

Slowly, you begin to feel nauseating waves pierce through your barrier.

You squeeze your eyes shut, not wanting to the the damage that will soon be done to your body.

‘This is it.’

“I’m starting to believe you truly have a death wish little hero.” A gravelly voice rasps from outside.

You look up, eyes wide as the light shining through disappears for a moment.

The villain screams, their attack ending abruptly.

You wait in silence.

The light slowly shines through again, but a shadow approaches from the outside. The outline of a hand reaches out and raps on your barrier.

“You can come out now,” Black Hat chuckles, his voice full of arrogance, “I took care of that pathetic trash. You’ve nothing to fear out here but me.”

Slowly, you would stop fighting

Eventually, you would get used to each other, no longer fighting like before. Meeting in public, you’d bicker more than swap fists. It would come to the point where other heroes would fight with his lackeys while you two debate whether the import taxes and tariffs war is good for anyone. Though Black Hat is rather relaxed seeing as how he isn’t “required” to pay them.

“I don’t understand how you can be so calm about this,” you blow on your cup of hot chocolate as you walk beside the ageless being, “you’re a businessman, this would cut your profits if people don’t pay for your goods right?”

He places a hand on his chest, “A being like me is exempt from such mortal affairs little one; I don’t need to hand over my money to anyone.” He hisses at the children gawking at him, his eye flashing red.

You shake your head, sipping your drink slowly. “You know, I forget you’re like this sometimes.”

“Powerful, awe inspiring, nightmare inducing?” He grins.

“Petty.”

You wouldn’t officially end your rival status

Black Hat is the paragon of evil and the standard all villains should strive towards almost being, it would not look good for him to be so... civil with a hero. The same thing goes for you, you may be used to him and a bit.. fond of him, but you couldn’t leave the League of Heroes! You were one of their top heroes! And you still were drawn to justice, no matter how much you enjoyed Black Hats satirical humor and general company, you didn’t believe villains were right.

This was something you two could agree on. Neither of you could afford to ruin your public appearance.

A secret relationship

Not that either of you ever made it “official” or anything, but you both agree to keeping your public and private lives separate. On the outside, you both would resume your fights and do your own things, but away from the public you could act however you wanted. This leads t the more domestic side of your “courting”.

Visiting your home

After a faux battle leaving you with a stinging gash, you decide to finally show bring your.. partner? Friend? Beau?? to your home.

“Its smaller than I expected.” Black Hat surveys the room around him, lifting up a bottle of mineral water from your table, “Do they not pay their heroes enough?”

You snatch the bottle from him, and swap it for a bottle of disinfectant, “They aren’t cheap like you. I just prefer something cozier.” You stick your tongue at him before drinking. The water soothes the building fever in your body and eases some of the aches and soreness you received from getting smacked around by him.

He clicks his tongue in distaste, “I could heal you ten times faster than mortal medicine.”

“You don’t seem like the healer type. And definitely not for free.” You walk to your bathroom and pull out your medical kit, taking out a roll of gauze, needle and wire. Turning around, you bump into Black Hat who steals the needle from your hand.

“You won’t be needing any of that,” he snaps his fingers, causing the items in your arms to disappear. “Except this.” He holds the needle in his mouth like a toothpick,”I will heal you in exchange for dinner. A good bargain considering the wasted use of my talent.”

You smile, “I’ll cook, as long as the hole in my arm doesn’t grow teeth due to your healing.”

He smirks and stalks down the hall to the kitchen, “That’s not a bad idea, I quite like it.”

You follow after him, “Do it and the first thing it eats is that car of yours.”

“I have plenty to spare.”

Visiting the manor

It doesn’t take much to convince Black Hat into taking you to the manor. Ever the show off, Black Hat makes sure the house is in its top condition before bringing you along with him. Seeing how Hat Island is stock full of villains and is home of Black Hat himself, no hero has ever gotten close to the island and come out unscathed. Until you.

This means you are wholly unprepared for the sight awaiting you.

“This sums you up pretty well.” You stifle a laugh. Before you is the home of evil incarnate. The lair of the monster children are told of at night. The domain of something so evil, he could destroy the planet and dust himself off as if nothing ever happened.

That entity’s home. Is a hat.

He sweeps you inside,”Of course, everything I own must have my stamp of approval.”

“Is the airplane also your stamp of approval?”

He grumbles,”Ignore that.”

- - -

“Your home feels a bit more like a museum and you the curator, but I admit it is very interesting.” You sit at his desk, admiring the artifacts lining the walls. You were especially interested in a piece of what seemed to be a spear.

Noticing your gaze Black Hat chuckles, “I take pieces of history, much of what you see now is because of me.”

“Including the plague?”

A sigh, “Good times.”

The rest of your time is full of questions and his retelling of history (though you take the stories of heroes with a grain of salt).

Final piece to the puzzle

There is no sound of wedding bells- and you highly doubt you could convince him to enter a Church or going to the government for that- so the two of you never truly get “married”. But along the way of your partnership, you both begin to realize that you are very, very fragile. So Black Hat creates a solution. No need to thank him~.

You lift a brow at the small box Black Hat has slid across his desk to you. Picking it up, you pause before opening it.

“Is this another shrunken head because I still haven’t gotten over the last one you gave me.”

He doesn’t look up from his newspaper, “Open it.”

“If something springs out I’m not making dinner.” You open the box.

A signet ring lay inside with the black hat symbol on the top.

“I..assume there is a reason behind this?” You take the ring out, twirling it between your fingers.

He folds his paper and approaches you. You look at him quizzically as he grasps your hand and holds the ring up for you to see.

“This, my little mortal, will keep you from harm.”

He slips the band onto your finger and pats your head, “I cant have you dying on me just yet.”

You lean forward on your palm, “With you here, what could hurt me?”

He leans in with a wicked, vulgar grin and eyes ablaze with want.

“Me.”

[darkesttimelinestuff]

7,713 words

Mature

Men make houses. Women build homes. –Proverb.  

Come come, come out tonight. Come come, come out tonight. –Sherry, The Four Seasons  

***

Oh, Halloween. How it coaxes all from their shells, a come-hither seduction of ghouls and their admirers. Whether one chooses to be a witch or a princess, a criminal or a cowboy – to paint their face and knock on doors, to drink until they are but pumpkins, mouths filled with their pumpkin guts – it is all done under the otherworldly spell of the undead, the souls that ascend from their place in the basement to play marionette games with the dolls who inhabit the first floor.

Fox Mulder has, over the years, made an exceptional doll. Spock, then Captain Kirk, then Spock again. Several years of him doing nothing but sitting alone and staring out the window, ignoring the pull of a fairy costume resting in a trunk in the attic. Even then he had been a prime target; Halloween souls feed on elation, but will take misery in a pinch. His misery tasted sweet like a tootsie pop. The saints love tootsie pops, all the waiting and the work. The sinners prefer Reeses.

There were others when the memories began to fade. Han Solo. Han Solo. Paul Stanley from KISS, though his first girlfriend ended up wearing most of the makeup. Han Solo. Doctor John Watson, although years later he would grit his teeth and mutter I should have been Holmes. Serpico at a Hoover party, the last one he went to. No one got it. Then Han Solo every year he chose to celebrate after, and by then he finally had Princess Leia at his side.

The halloween of 2016, he slips into his finest costume yet.

Fox Mulder. Hopeless romantic.

On one arm, he carries a bag that is filled with good wine, cheap wine glasses, and assorted fruits, cheeses, and fancy chocolate. He has convinced his partner that the actual contents are a P.K.E. meter (a psychokinetic energy meter, for those who have not seen the documentary Ghostbusters), a thermographic camera, an audio recorder, sage, a lighter, his gun.

On the other arm, or underneath it, is his partner. Who is unsure about such open gestures of affection while they are technically on the clock, even after all the years of steaming up their steakouts, but is not stopping him, and is possibly even snuggling back as the October chill descends.

“This is not a love story, Scully,” he warns, pulling her closer as they follow the long, winding pathway up their destination. Her body heat is his favorite temperature, even when it’s ice cold. “It is a story of lies, obsession, betrayal, and murder.”

“I think I’ve heard this one.” She bumps his arm with her shoulder and smiles up at him, her lips wine deep under the bright moon.

Their shoes are silent on the stone and disappear under the layers of fog that curl and cozy around them like amorous smoke. He tugs her closer still, filling his nose with the woodsy scent of her shampoo.

“The early 1960s, Scully. Free love was just a storm a’brewin in the air, and sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll were waiting on the doorsteps  of American counterculture, waiting to be invited in. Doo-wop was still a prominent feature on family radio stations. The Beatles had yet to write their own songs, and Paul McCartney wouldn’t smoke his first joint until 1964. It was a wholesome time, Scully. You would’ve loved it.”

“I loved Rubber Soul,” she argues.

He rubs her shoulder. “But it wasn’t all sock hops and sweet Jackie Kennedy. We were fighting a war with Russia, a war of discovery, and losing to the success of Sputnik. The U.S. invaded Cuba, got their asses kicked, and were the laughing stock of the world. In the veins of America, in the buses and lunch counters, the streets and in the schools, thrummed the blood of a movement. The Civil Rights movement. The early 1960s was a time of immense change.”

They were getting closer and closer to the scene where it all took place: a sprawling, overly-windowed ranch style home, its angular roof sloping into flatlands. In the quiet darkness, the cars and the rest of the world all celebrating miles behind them, the house appears white, almost bleached. But when the sun comes out it will reveal its truth: baby pink painted wood.

“And situated in all of this madness, this time between tumult and revolution, hatred and love, was a woman named Sherry Battersea.” She hmm’s. That means Mulder, I love your stories. Keep going.

He does.

They arrive at the front door – solid mahogany, undistressed. The steps leading up to the porch are made from brick, unhassled by the years of disuse. With the moon hanging overhead, vines creeping onto the roof, and the glare of (assumed) white bathed in midnight blue and the shadows of trees rustling above, it looks absolutely– “Isn’t she beautiful?” Mulder whispers, moving his hand to Scully’s waist.

Precisely.

***

It’s all a bunch of phooey, if you ask him.

Didn’t expect that, did you?

He spent weeks finding the right place. The runner ups were all either too far away, too haunted, or not haunted enough. He wanted something with history, something still alive in the hearts of believers – but nothing verifiable, and nothing with a real reputation.

He wanted a pretty lie. Most ghost stories, he will begrudgingly admit, are indeed pretty lies.

He found the Battersea house on a subreddit dedicated to paranormal encounters, and this one hadn’t even managed to get twenty upvotes. He was number twenty. The Battersea home is in Virginia, which heavily swayed his opinion in its favor, and from the pictures posted the years of abandonment had not left it dangerous, which put it above two other options off his list. Making love to Scully while the roof collapses over their heads is a fantasy he put to rest many moons ago, about the time he realized they could just do it on a bed.

They roam the house with their flashlights, Mulder’s low voice playing in her ear as he finishes his story. “Sherry’s husband returned from war, but he never returned to her. She made this home for him and he wouldn’t even grant her the decency of staying the night.”

The biggest draw of the place had been its pristine condition. No graffiti stains the wood-paneled walls; the rooms were all intact. The interior design is a certified blast from the past, from the richly carpeted floors and textured rugs to the lucite furniture, pops of neon that splash under their flashlights. It is colorfully but rather tastefully decorated. It reminds him a bit of a movie set, which is another place he has been thoroughly laid by this woman.

As they move through the house, however, he realizes with mild disappointment the utter lack of haunting thrill. Nothing shifts in the night to give them pause. No dirt or dust to brush away, no holes in the walls or rot in the furniture. It doesn’t even smell old. It all feels more like a vacation home, some sort of themed romantic getaway, and they’re wading behind the scenes with the power turned off.

It’s not what he planned, but he’ll take it.

“Miss Battersea was a fashionable lady, keeping up with the times faster than they could come to her. She had a leopard skin pill-box hat before Jackie O had a leopard skin pill-box hat, and was dead by the time Bob Dylan could think to write a song about it.” Oh, that long, mid-century sectional couch. It might be white or a gawdy turquoise color. Whatever it is, he’s going to have her there. “She was a smart woman, too. The head of all of her many bookclubs. All of the books you see in here are hers.” His runs his beam over behind the couch, where the entire back wall is lined with books, and they move along. “And there are more in the den.

“She did everything she could to make her husband love her. She danced to his favorite records. She cooked for him and did his laundry. She cut her skirt an inch shorter with each passing trend.” They stand side by side, halted in the kitchen doorway. He turns his head and lets his eyes dip into her blouse. “I’ve been very appreciative of your new work wardrobe, by the the way.”

“Mulder,” she chastises, pulling her shirt down for better access. He laughs loudly at that, places his hand on the small of her back and leads her through the kitchen.

“She was driving herself crazy, trying to make him love her the way she loved him. And oh, did she love him, her sweet Maximus Battersea.” More wood paneling, and modular, pastel appliances that appear as if they haven’t aged a day since their prime. In the middle is a solid island with a geometric vase of dead flowers. This is where he’ll lay out all the food. Should’ve gotten flowers, he mopes to himself, but remembers that Scully doesn’t have a lot of patience for them. “They were high school sweethearts, and when he was 18 he was drafted off in the Korean War.

“Something was wrong when he came back. He got a job at some juicing plant working the machines, but showed a savvy for bossing people around that made itself known to the owners. He moved up quickly to supervisor and then warden. He and his little wife then bought this house, and Sherry made it her life’s work to take good care of it. Not a speck of dirt to be found.” Even to this day. They both marvel at the cleanliness.  “Dishes were done as soon as they were used. Food was on the table for when he got home, still hot enough to serve. But he never got home to her at night. He would spend his nights at the bar, and then he became a favored customer at the Grand Major Hotel.”

“Oooooh. I would’ve killed the bastard,” Scully whistles, opening up a cabinet and standing on her tiptoes to peer in. He steps in behind her and lifts her up, chuckling when she screams and elbows him in the chest.

“Hmm, I know you would,” he mumbles in her ear, smacking a little kiss underneath it. All the glassware in the cabinet, chipless and clean as a whistle, clinks and jingles while she moves her hand through it. “You’re a jealous monster. So was Sherry Battersea.”

He’s making some of this shit up. He doesn’t know if she liked to read or if she was all that beautiful a woman, but the details make the story. “I’m not jealous,” Scully snorts, and he bites her neck as punishment for her blatant lie while dropping her back on her feet.

He wonders, as he pins her against the counter, if she’s caught on to his plans. He sets the flashlight down in front of her and snakes his arms around her from behind. “One night, he did come back to this big old house. But he was with someone else.”

“Oh, I would’ve killed him,” she repeats, tilting her head to get his lips on her neck. His nose brushes her cheek and he grins; she definitely knows. “I would’ve killed her.”

“And that’s what she did,” he says, kneading her hips. “They were on the couch, still mostly in their clothes. She snuck up from behind, and with all the power of her rage, she pushed one of her many bookcases right on top of them, crushing them to death.”

“I would’ve waited until they were naked. More humiliating.”

“Jealous. Monster.” Mulder says fondly, breaking away to grab her arm. “Now they say that Sherry Battersea remains in this house, long after she was convicted and put to death. She gave her life to building a home. It’s fitting that she give it her death as well.”

“And that’s what we’re here to investigate?” She says, narrowing her eyes.

“We’re here to say hi to old Sherry,” Mulder lies, urging her along. Neither of them are scared, despite of their previous history with ghosts. He’s not sure if Scully even remembers. That house had not been a pretty lie. It had only been filled with ugly truths.

On their way up the stairs, pausing at each creak even though the foundation is craftful and sturdy, a tune plays in his head. “Sherry… Sherry baby…” he sings, letting his voice go comically high. It’s too loud in the quiet house surrounded by nothing, and Scully turns around to slap a palm over his mouth.

“That’s a bad Frankie Valli impression,” she says, arching her eyebrow. “Want me to make it better?”

He kisses her palm. She takes it away and continues her charge up the stairs. When she’s far away enough, he finishes the line in his ghastly falsetto, voice cracking.

“Sherry, won’t you come out tonight?”

Come come, come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight.

***

In the den on the other side of the house, a lightbulb flickers. The glow it casts under the lampshade is a soft, pinky red, the color of a deep blush. The winds caress the house with the sigh of a new lover. There is a soft scritching noise, a click of a record sliding into place. Static, and then…

Sherry, Sherry baby! Sherry, Sherry baby!

***

“I was listening to particle physicist Brian Cox on the radio the other day, talking with Neil deGrasse Tyson,” Scully says, sipping coffee from her thermos. She shivers a little in her suede jacket and Mulder regrets not finding somewhere a little warmer. Temperatures are at an all time high this fall in Virginia, but it’s still uncomfortable. He plans on warming her up anyway. “He’s a Professor at the University of Manchester and works on the Large Hadron Collider at CERN. You’ve probably listened to him before on a podcast. He tackles a lot of different concepts in science fiction. Frankenstein, for instance.”

“Corpse reanimation is my favorite,” Mulder says. “I know a lot about it.” She pets his hair and hands him her mug. He drinks from it gratefully. Another thing to regret. He hadn’t brought his own mug.

“Specifically, he was saying that ghosts could not exist because of what the collider tells us. You know what it does. It essentially uses a network of very complex, high-powered magnets – the largest, most expensive machine in the world – that are continuously switched on and off to send particles flying at almost the speed of light. The purpose of it is to find out what everything is made if. The particles collide and emit smaller particles, which we can observe, along with their interactions with other particles.”

“We used it to discover the Higgs Boson particle, which tells us how particles get their mass. The God Particle. It was a discovery over half a century in the making.”

“Mostly, yes. The argument was that if ghosts were real, they would emit particles that should be detectable in the Large Hadron Collider, and those particles would be able interact with the particles that make us up.”

Mulder’s silent for a moment, thinking. “What if the LHC isn’t powerful enough to detect those particles?”

“Mulder.” She licks her lips and angles her body towards him on the couch, looking into his eyes. Incredulity is still her best look. “This machine has been able to reconstruct temperatures and states of matter that only existed a microsecond after the birth of the universe, before it changed states. It is a very powerful machine.”

“But it still hasn’t answered everything,” he points out, shrugging his shoulders. “I mean, we still know nothing about dark matter. And dark matter is called dark matter because we know nothing about dark matter, only that it could explain why galaxies might contain less mass than what we’ve calculated.” He nods at her, taking another sip. “Maybe all that extra mass is a bunch of ghosts. Bet you never thought of that.”

“Mmm. Your souls in the starlight.” He scoots closer to her, slowly sliding his arm behind her on the back of the couch. When he leans forward, she says, “Mulder, maybe we should split up.”

“What?” He says, not pulling back. There’s enough light coming in from the windows that he can see her clearly, her noble profile shadowed and unshadowed as he moves towards her. He smells her perfume… and pine sol. “Now why would we do that? Last time we split up during a case like this you shot me.”

“I didn’t shoot you. You shot me.” So she does remember. She’s still talking when his lips are close enough to brush hers. “But how are we gonna catch this ghost sitting down?”

“Well, we don’t have to be sitting down.” He kisses her, a chaste, sweet little thing. He pulls back an inch and kisses her again. And again. And again. “We can.” Kiss. “Stop sitting.” Kiss. “Anytime you want.”

“Mulder.” Kiss. “Where’s the ghost?” Kiss. “Where’s Sherry?” Kiss. She’s folding under his body weight, falling back into the remarkably undusty cushions. She cups his jaw in her small hands and kisses him for real, chasing the flicker of his tongue with her own. She stretches one leg behind him, lets the other fall off the couch.

He groans and shifts so that he’s nestled between her thighs. There is – so much he loves about kissing Scully. In a lot of ways he’s learning her all over again after the time they’ve spent apart. Her face is thinner, he can trace her bones with his fingers, but not that sickly thin it had been the day she walked out. Her hair got its shine back. She tastes like a day at the office, her coffee and Cliff bars and the Burt’s Bees lipstick she wears during the cold weather.

But. Kiss. Her hands are bunched up in his shirt, very much like she’s prepared to rip it off of him. But this is is going too fast. Kiss. He forces himself to break away, taking his hand out from under her blouse.

Trying to control her breathing, pupils dilated, she lifts her chin and licks his lips. “So you want me to shoot you this time around?”

He laughs and moves off of her, giving her space her to sit back up and fix her wrinkled clothing. He winces and struggles to rearrange his wayward dick. Men’s pants are so tight now. He misses the freedom of the 90s.

“I uh. So here’s,” he pauses, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Here’s the thing. There is no ghost.”

She blinks slowly. He wants to move a lock of silky red hair out of her eye, but keeps his hands to himself as she thinks things through. “You brought me to an abandoned house to… what? Make out with me?”

“Well, no. I mean yes. But I have…” All these years and this stuff still makes him tongue tied. “Libations. And… mood music.”

She raises her eyebrows, but her eyes are softer. “The Monster Mash?”

“The Prince version, yeah.” He leers at her. “It was a graveyard smash.”

“Oh my god,” she groans, letting her head fall back on the cushions.

“Think about it. The way I see it, Halloween is our holiday, right? Mr. and Mrs. Spooky.”

“No one ever called me Mrs. Spooky.”

“I did. All the time.”

She smiles. “I guess it beats the time you set me on fire for Valentine’s Day.”

“I don’t want to kill the adrenaline here,” he says, partially damning himself for ruining it so early. He lost a good amount of blood to that kiss. “There could absolutely be a ghost here. I’m just saying this isn’t my most reliably sourced case.”

“Are any of them?” She sighs, but she reaches out to pat his shoulder. “Go grab us some libations and make me forget this conversation.”

He ducks down to kiss her cheek. “Yes ma’am.”

Taking his bag of goodies to the kitchen, he pulls out the wooden cutting board he brought along to serve everything  and all of the bags of pre-cut cheese, crackers, fruit and meat. He hums while he works. Hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm. And it starts over, the notes twanging loudly in his mind. It is almost as if he could hear it being played through the walls – he feels it from the outside, rather than in his head. He blames it on his massive erection. He takes out the wine glasses and fills them up high enough to placate Scully and make his mother roll in her grave. Vineyard folk are serious about their wine.

He gets a good look at the kitchen as he works, transported back into a time he doesn’t know very well. The cottages on the Vineyard never kept up with any particular trend, opting instead for the timelessness of colonial whitewash and brown trim. They changed out maids and nannies like they’d change the air filters, and neither Teena nor Bill put effort into upkeep. Neither cared much for fidelity either he grimaces, and immediately feels bad for doing so.

If there is any truth to the tale, he aches for people like Sherry who gave their all and never knew when to take it back. He gets it. Sometimes you fixate on people. He had been a victim of it more than once, and now he’s the one waiting for the one he loves most to come back home.

He grabs the cutting board and the wine glasses, balancing them carefully, anchoring the stopped bottle in his armpit. The second bottle of wine and the dessert he’ll save for later are left on the counter. He hums his way back to the living room, his woman still sprawled out on the couch, waiting for him, and he forgets about Sherry.

Behind him, in the kitchen, there’s a flutter in the cabinets, sounds of gently moving ceramic. A pleasant, almost feminine noise, like tinkering laughter. Then there’s the pop of a cork.

The bottle moves, sliding to the end of the island. Then it rises into the air, bobbing up and down as if being carried by invisible hands.

Over the sink, the bottle upends. The glug-glug-glug of sweet red flows into the pipes. Just one glass’s worth.

The air is warmer, somehow.

Like a full body flush.

***

He sweeps her over the creaking floorboards, her cheek pressed to his chest. The cold has left them. His phone sits on the sleek, white coffee table, and his Elvis tunes play, his Dylan, some acoustic hits. She nuzzles in closer and hums along to Roberta Flack, Sinatra, that Cher song they both like so much.

“Why don’t you believe in the ghost, Mulder?” She murmurs, a little sad.

“I don’t know that I’m against the idea of her existing,” he says into her hair, closing his eyes. They turn. Sometimes he dips her, sometimes he spins her, but they spend most of the time just like this: as close as possible, eyes closed, careful not to bump into any of the furniture. “I just need more proof these days.”

“Well,” she says. “I’ll believe for the both of us then.”

He lifts his chin from her head, surprised. He pushes her away to search her face. “You believe in Sherry?”

“You had me with that dark matter point,” she shrugs. “If souls… did exist, they would most likely exist as a form of matter we haven’t discovered yet.”

“Dana Scully, but you are tipsy,” he chuckles, pulling her back to him. “If you believe, I believe. Sherry Battersea is alive and with us.”

“Why’d you bring us here if you didn’t think it was haunted?”

He thinks about this, rubbing his hands up and down her back. “We’ve got a long way to go, don’t we Scully?” She looks up at him, cocking her head. “You haven’t…. Moved back yet.” His thumbs caress her waist. “Into our home.”

Her face falls. “Mulder–” she tries to step away, but he holds onto her, shaking his head.

“It’s okay, Scully. Scully, I’m not mad. I’m not asking you to do anything before you’re ready.” He presses a kiss to the center of her forehead, smoothing his hand down the length of her hair. She closes her eyes. “But I thought maybe… if I could recreate… not an exact replica of the good old days, because we were always getting our asses kicked, but something tonally similar, it might help. Show you that I appreciate you and that… I miss you, and that I’m so fucking grateful that…”

She saves him by wrapping her arms around his neck and bringing him in for a slow, mind-melting kiss.

There are none of the cobwebs that decorated all those places in their youth, not like he’d been hoping. The shadows that float across the room are all accounted for. There is no fear. It is not quite like the old days, but he remembers this: holding her hips as they move above him in the dark, the rise and fall of her upturned breasts, the underside of her chin when she tosses her head back and gasps. She rides him into the couch, the sweltering sheath of her body spreading warmth from his cock to the tips of his fingers and toes. He watches her face in the shadows again, how her expressions undulate in the moonlight. She still keeps her apartment, but she’s come back to him in every way that matters.

In the kitchen, a bottle breaks. A tray of dark chocolates hits the wall at full speed.

“Did you hear that?” Scully breathes, furrowing her brow but not stopping, refusing to stop their decades-old rhythm. His hands slip around to grip her rear and he shakes his head. Wind rattles the windows, a howling, devastated screech that neither Mulder nor Scully can relate to.

***

“…Mulder,” Scully frowns, her nude form wrapped up in a fleece blanket he’d brought in from the car. She sits on the floor in front of the middle bookcase, running her fingers over the titles. “You said this place was abandoned, right?”

He’s dozing on the couch, KO’d from sex and the little bit of wine they’d had. “Mmm,” he rubs his cheek and yawns. “Yep. No one lives here.”

“I just find it odd that a place that’s been abandoned for so long shows so few signs of disrepair. In fact…” she runs her hand over the books again. “This place is cleaner than my own. You’re absolutely sure no one lives here?”

“It’s condemned,” he says. “Government says it’s no longer fit to live in.”

“That’s… weird.” She pulls out an old pulp romance novel and flips through the pages. “It seems perfectly habitable.”

“It might have something to do with the plumbing. There are all sorts of strange, outdated Virginia laws that classify a place as livable –” he’s cut off by a sharp yelp and a thud. He sits straight up and peers over the couch. “Scully?”

“I’m okay,” she groans, massaging the back of her head. “A book fell and hit me from the top shelf. But it hit me hard. Jesus, it feels like I got pelted with it.”

He climbs over the back of the couch to join her on the floor, and she laughs when he pecks and pats the top of her head.

“I have just the thing to make it better,” he says, standing back up.

“Again? So fast?” She sounds impressed. Excited. He shoots her a look.

“I was offering more wine, Scully. But ouch.” Her cackling follows him into the kitchen.

The sight that greets him freezes him cold. That extra wine bottle rests in a million shiny pieces, and what was once a glaringly yellow wall bleeds dark red with the wine streaking down to the sideboards. “Scully?” he calls out hoarsely, approaching the scene with caution.

“Shit!” she screams. His stomach drops with fear and he darts back out into the living room to find her huddled under hundreds of fallen books. “What the hell?”

“Scully!” He drops to his knees beside her, throwing book after book off to the side and clutching her face in his hands. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Not bad, but I’m beginning to see why this place might be condemned. The bookshelf just rattled and all the books fell off. Maybe there’s something wrong with the foundation.” He helps her out of the pile and they both move away, far back from the shelf.

“Rattled?” he asks, alarmed. “Like it was being shaken?”

“I thought it might be coming from the walls,” she posits, but that doesn’t sit right with him. Anxiety begins to gnaw his stomach into pits.

“You don’t think,” he starts and stops, biting his lip. He wants to put his clothes back on. The chill is coming back. “You don’t think that…”

“Think what, Mulder?”

“That… something was trying to push the bookshelf? On purpose?”

She looks at him, startled. “What? Like a ghost?” He nods his head, shrugging, and she angrily clutches the blanket around herself, turning her back to him to pick up her clothes. “You just told me you didn’t believe there were any ghosts here.”

“You just told me you did,” he argues, following his own garment trail.

“Mulder,” she whines, pulling on her bra. “I don’t actually – I was just…”

“You were lying?” He asks, pausing with his shirt over his head. The hurt catches him off guard.

“I wasn’t lying, I just… I’m so…” she sighs, doing up her fly and buttoning up her shirt. “I never know how you’re feeling these days, and…” she doesn’t finish. He nods slowly, a hot wave of dejection flooding his cheeks. There are traces of ancient anger he wants to pull from, that’s the easier path, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

“I never needed you to lie to me, Scully, and I certainly never asked you to,” he says roughly. He turns away from her to pull on his underwear, jeans, and jacket. He ignores her attempts at  apologies and walks in long strides to the kitchen. “Come look at this,” he calls to her flatly.

Just when he thinks he’s pushed past the resentment of her leaving and the guilt at having made her leave, all of the other feelings are brought to the forefront. The shame. The fragility. He’s spent the last several months trying to prove to her that he can make it on his own – that his need for her doesn’t stem from an inability to function without her, but the irrefutable fact that they work so much better together – and the whole time she’s been… what?

Seeing him as a fucking child? Wearing kid-gloves in all of her interactions with him, holding back her opinions in fear of setting him off? Oh, Jesus. Is this why she won’t move back? She thinks he’s not ready?

“Here.” Side by side, they stand in front of the stain on the wall, mindful of the smushed chocolates and shards of glass.

“Maybe they fell?” Scully guesses weakly, at least having the decency to look contrite.

“They fell? At fifty miles an hour?” Maybe there is some anger he can pull from. “Unlikely. Didn’t you tell me you felt like that book had been pelted at you?”

“Yes but Mulder that could be anything. You said yourself the house was condemned.”

“Yeah, but–” he bends down to inspect the chocolate on the floor,  picking one crushed morsel up to show her. “This looks… this looks like it’s been stepped on, crushed by something. What kind of foundational issue would cause that?”

She looks at it and sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Let’s split up,” Mulder says. “Take the top floor. I’ll take the bottom. It’s what we came here for anyway, right?” And he leaves her alone in the kitchen.

***

The den drastically departs from the design ideal of the rest of the house. Under his flashlight he spots leather rock chairs, worn and overstuffed, plain walnut bookshelves and orange shag carpets. He looks through the books and the desk drawers, searching for anything personal. Photos, journals, receipts kept, anything that might give him any insight into Sherry Battersea and the lonely, lonely house she kept. No luck.

There is a large stack of records sitting next to a hefty Champion record player, dressed in supple red leatherette. He flips through them. The Big Bopper. Fats Domino.  The Lennon Sisters. More and more of the same ilk – an Elvis Christmas LP he’s pretty sure is the real deal, and which he shamefully considers sliding under his coat. He then inspects the player itself, lifts the arm to see the stack of singles underneath it. He lets the arm fall back into place.

It begins to play.

He yelps, stumbling backwards and collapsing onto the rock chair as the music plays loudly enough to fill the house.

Sherry! Sherry baby! Sherry! Sherry baby!

Mulder clutches for the back of the chair and watches in terrified fascination as the entire den comes to life. The lamp flicks on and casts the room in its soft pink light, turning brown into different shades of red. Warmth trickles in from the air vent and all in his body he feels the electric hum of a machine coming to life. He knows instantly that means every other room in the house must be waking up in the same way. Scully he thinks, attempting to jump to his feet.

He’s knocked back on his ass. “What the–” he tries again, and the shag rug slithers out from underneath the desk, coming at him like a cautious snake.

Sherry! Sherry baby! Sheeeeeeeeeeeeerry bay-ay-by! Sherry, can you come out tonight?

“Scullllllaaaay!” He shouts, but he’s no match against The Four Seasons bleating from the – not from the record machine, but from  – everywhere, what –

Why - don’t - you - come out? Come out! To my twist party! Where the bright moon shines!

The rug does just that, rises up, twists back and forth like wringing water out from a cloth. Still moving slowly it comes up to his feet, and he brings his legs up and hugs his knees close to his body, expelling an embarrassing squeak that would give Frankie Valli a run for his money. The rug continues its ascent, sliding up his legs, like – like a caress - gentle – warm – not like a rug, but like –

Like a human.

Mulder kicks his legs out with as much force as he can muster and the rug drops to the floor with a muffled poof. Then he’s leaping out of the chair and throwing open the door, giggling crazily when – he swears he feels it – something invisible tugs at his shirt, at his pant legs and hands.

He runs out out of the den into the open hallway like a scene straight out A Hard Day’s Night, and it’s just as he suspected. All the lights are on, and the Battersea house is thrown into full technicolor, much more vivid than he could have imagined. The lucite chairs are the brightest reds and blues he’s ever seen on furniture in his life, the sofa and the tables and the cleanest, starkest white. The light from the bulbous chandelier sparkles and spins. That pine sol scent – and then something else – Shalimar? – the alien-looking Philco television set on its tall thin stand, some old Gunsmoke episode. Then the channels flip and flip and it’s the Twilight Zone, and he’s being shoved by the air over to the couch. “Scully!” He yells again, laughing, merrily going along with the phantom guide. How is this for proof of a spirit world? This has got to be the single strongest case for the existence of poltergeists ever experienced. “Scully! Come here!”

“Mulder!” Scully screeches, straight from the gut.

Three gunshots go off.

His laughter corks in his throat, his heart drops to his stomach. Mulder races into the kitchen, faster than the grip that vies for him. The wine has been scrubbed from the walls, the glass swept from the floor. Something delicious simmers on the stove, and as he darts past the island he notices a bottle of vodka and a carton of orange juice pouring into a metal mixer. No body performs the action. They float in the air and the liquid comes out in steady, even streams.

That’s his drink. He shudders and hops up the stairs, taking two at a time. Scully’s voice has died out but he can still hear it pounding in his head, along with the never ceasing with your red dress on! Mmm you look so fine! and his ragged breath. “Scully!” He yells again, throwing open every door as he comes to it. The towels in the bathroom, the shower curtain, all rip themselves from their places and slither and slide after him, licking at his ankles and tripping him up. Gold and copper tubes of lipstick chase behind him, leaving behind perfect lip imprints on the walls.

When he gets to the bedroom, he finds Scully bound and gagged to the four poster bed, screaming into the pillowcase stuffed in mouth. “Scully,” he hisses, falling to his knees in front of her, pulling out the gag and deftly untying the knots around her ankles and wrists.

“That crazy–” she coughs and struggles underneath him, making it impossible to get her unbound. “That crazy bitch –” “Stop moving–” but she won’t, she’s writhing and wrestling until he has to cover her with his weight, yelling at her all the way. “Crazy fucking bitch!” She screams. When she’s free from her ties she shoves Mulder off of her and hops to her feet, tearing through the bedroom like a hurricane. “Where the fuck did she put my gun–”

“She took your gun?” Mulder panics, ripping through the room with her. “Scully, did you–” he sees it, three bullet holes in the corner of the ceiling. “Did you shoot the house, Scully?”

“You bet I fucking shot the house!” She screams. “Aha!” She pulls out the gun from the nightstand, cocks it, and tries to run out of the room.

“Scully,” Mulder grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her to him, ignoring her struggling. “Scully, I’m thinking this is an extremely malevolent, extremely powerful poltergeist. You cannot shootpoltergeists–”

She whips around, turning on him and backing him into the wall. “Malevolent? Did she drag you by your hair into the bedroom and tie you to a bed, Mulder? You look suspiciously unharassed.”

He licks his lips and stutters. “Uh, no. That has not been – that has not been my experience.” She raises both eyebrows and crosses her arm, waiting for him to continue. He rushes on. “I think Sherry’s still here, trying to take care of her husband.”

Scully steps back, eyes widening in shock. Her mouth opens and closes. Slowly, quietly, she asks, “Are you saying… the… poltergeist… is trying to seduce you?”

“And kill my mistress? Yeah,” he huffs a laugh and wraps his arms around her stunned and silent frame, letting his body relax against hers for just a minute. He’s getting too old for this kind of exertion. “Oh, god. You scared the shit out of me, Scully.”

“Sorry to cause so much stress, Mr. Battersea,” she grumbles, burying her nose in his neck. He nuzzles her hair and she lifts her head, slotting their lips together in a sweet, relief-filled kiss. If she’ll forgive him his affair with the carpet, he’ll forgive her everything. She pulls back, shaking her hair out of her face and straightening out her shoulders. “Now how do we get rid of this thing? What’s all in that bag you brought?”

He freezes. Shit.

“Mulder, no,” she says, horrified.

***

They slink down the stairs, Scully first, gun first, just in case. The breath of the house is soft, deceivingly calm. The music has been shut off. No objects float in the kitchen, the stove is turned off. Nothing tries to pull Mulder out of his clothes, or Scully into a closet.

“I think our little display back there pissed her off,” Mulder says grimly, staying close behind Scully.

“You’re my husband,” she bites out, straightening her shooter’s stance. “I kiss you whenever I want.”

They pause before entering the living room, looking at each other.

“That’s where it all happened,” Mulder whispers, nodding his head at the door. “If we go out there…”

“Should we just make a run for it then?” Scully asks, biting her lip. He bites his lip, too, and they meet each other’s eyes. He nods slowly.

They take off, pounding their feet against the hardwood and running as fast as they can, Mulder’s hands barely grazing Scully’s shoulders, but they never stood a chance. Floorboards are snatched almost from under their feet; chairs and tables go hurtling through the air. They drop down, Mulder curling his body over hers and shielding his head when bronze ornaments chuck themselves off of their stands, decorative mirrors drop to the floor, sending their shards flying.

From every molecule of the house, Frankie Valli’s falsetto warps into a deep, unsettling baritone.

Come come. Come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight.

“Say a prayer, Scully,” Mulder groans, wincing when a piece of glass whizzes past his head and scrapes up the back of his hands. She begins to frantically mutter one under her breath, but it’s useless. The storm doesn’t stop.

“Sherry,” Mulder tries. “Sherry!” He says louder. The music ends, but the the violence doesn’t. “Sherry, I know you were hurt!”

A woosh of a sigh is expelled from all the air vents. Objectiles drop straight to the floor. Mulder takes a deep breath and rolls off of Scully, who chokes and coughs into her arm.

He keeps going, not exactly sure what he’s saying. “Your husband was a selfish man who didn’t treat you the way you deserved. You loved him. You gave him everything. You cleaned up every mess, you paid every bill, you did everything he asked of you and it still wasn’t enough.” He swallows, pressing his bleeding hand to his stomach. “He still wouldn’t come home to you.

“It wasn’t your fault, Sherry. People who love you don’t do that to you. People who love you know that you aren’t perfect and come home to you anyway.”

The house is so quiet it is almost as if his soft, soothing voice has lulled it to sleep, and for a moment he thinks it has. Water drips from the air vents, from the windows, single, silent tears of condensation.

Crumpled next to him, Scully is sniffing. He glances at her, worried, but she’s smiling through her tears, sliding her hand through debri and dust to wrap around his. He smiles back, surprised to discover that he’s crying, too.

But she’s suddenly yanked away, screaming as those invisible hands drag her by her ankles and toss her onto the couch. “Scully!” Mulder yells, getting up to run toward her.

He’s tripped by an orange shag carpet.

“It’s not you, Sherry, it’s me,” he whimpers, frantically wriggling as the carpet begins to roll up with him inside of it. He groans and drags himself across the floor with his hands, carpet and all. The Philco set buzzes past him in the air and he shouts. “Watch out, Scully!”

He doesn’t see where it lands, but it the sound it make is a sickening smack, a bludgeoning soundtrack. “Scully?” No response. “Scully?”

He groans, dragging himself with agonizing slowness until he’s at the couch. Propping himself up his arms, his legs still wrapped in the rug, his mouth waters in fear and his stomach tightens at the sight of her, pale and silent, with one patch of bloody red hair staining her temple.

He checks her pulse, is relieved to find it faint, but still there. He kicks and pounds inside his trap until it’s beaten slack and stupid, and lifts himself onto the couch.

“Scully?” He lightly touches the spot where she’s hurt and she jerks her head and groans. “Oh, thank god.”

“Take me to dinner next time,” she winces, feeling the wound for herself and hissing out when she brushes the most tender part. She sits up, he pulls her hair away to give her better access. “I probably need to go to the hospital for this.”

“Well let’s try and get you there, partner.” One hand on her back, the other on her shoulder, he tries to help her up, but is interrupted with the sound of… “Scully. Scully, shit.”

“What?”

“Scully, the bookca–” SLAM.

***

She hauls him out of the dead and empty house, panting with the exertion and the throbbing pain in her head.

“I think–I think she went back to sleep,” Mulder yaps manically. “I think that put her to sleep. Reenacting the – the crime.” “We’re not dead, Mulder,” she grunts. Another foot down the driveway. “I just wish we were dead.”

“I think we better call an ambulance, Scully,” he says, resigned. “I don’t think either of us can drive.”

They call the ambulance and wait. Scully plops down beside him, wincing as the morning sun reflects off the ugly pink wood and cuts into her blurry vision. “This sucks, Mulder,” she sighs, squeezing her fists into her eyes.

“God, I know. This was a terrible idea. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“How are you going to help me move with two broken ankles?” She sighs again, shaking her head. “I’ll have to hire somebody now.”

He beams at her.

***

All the spirits rejoice and return to their graves for their year long sleep.

***

Girl, you make me lose my mind!

[nelllraiser]

hacker voice: | margot & nell

LOCATION: pat’s place. PARTIES: @g0t-ri5h​ and @nelllraiser​. SUMMARY: two snoops get snooped a la spiderman meme, and a deal is struck.  CONTENTS: mass poisoning, food poisoning.

alternatively:   

Margot was simply curious, or obsessed, depending how you looked at it. She knew what had happened at Pat’s Place was no accident. It was a feeling she could not shake, a feeling that had kept her awake, tossing and turning the past week. Now that the sun had gone down, Margot felt a spur of energy and couldn’t stand the thought of another sleepless night. So she’d put on her warmest coat and backpack, and made her way to Pat’s. When she arrived, she found it plastered with caution tape that no one had bothered to remove, and why would they? This place would never reopen. Margot was saddened at the thought. She’d only been there once, a burger last December when she’d come to tour the university. Margot hadn’t enjoyed the tour, but the burger had been delicious. She shook herself from the memory. She wasn’t here to reminisce, she was here to investigate. Margot rounded the building and came to the back alley, where a feral rat greeted her with red eyes. She hissed at it jokingly, watched it scamper away and out of sight. She leaned against the brick of Pat’s back wall and slumped down to sit. Her laptop out, she booted it up. Then -- footsteps. Margot could hear them coming closer, seeing the outline of who, or what was coming her way. “Hello?” She called out.

Nell hadn’t realized that Remmy wouldn’t want to go back to the site of the poisoning, too caught up in getting to the bottom of everything to think that her friend might not want to revisit the site of such a traumatic event. Who in their right mind would? Then again...what did that say about Nell? Shaking that thought from her head, she pushed the memories of choking on air, being unable to breathe, and ultimately passing out from the poison from her mind. She needed to be focused if she wanted to find anything of worth here, even if the sight of that Pat’s Place sign set her slightly on edge. Remmy had mentioned something about a man in the alley, and that would be the witch’s first stop. Creeping under the caution tape, Nell froze as she heard a hissing sound, body tensing as she tried to determine whether or not it belonged to a threat. But someone who’d poisoned an entire restaurant wouldn’t return to the scene of the crime, right? That’d just be irresponsible. Nevertheless, she approached with a wary gait, brows furrowed in confusion as she saw the face of a girl illuminated in the glow of a laptop. “Who are you?” she asked with a frown, not entirely sure what to make of the sight.

A voice. Margot was relieved by the sound, not that she believed in monsters or ghosts or anything. “I’m Margot.” She closed her laptop hastily, not wanting the stranger to see what she had been doing, or planning to do. She knew how suspicious she must look, crouched in the back alley at the site of a triple murder. Margot hoped it was not some detective she was face-to-face with, or someone who would question why she was there and what she was doing. What she had planned wasn’t entirely legal and may be considered a felony in some states. Margot squinted through the darkness, trying to make out the person’s face. “Hey, I know you.” Margot recognised her from her profile picture on Facebook. “Penelope isn’t it?” Nell had told Margot about Faetal Attraction; how exclusive it was and how she should avoid it. It made Margot want to go there even more. Like a moth to a flame. “What are you doing here?” Margot said rather rudely, as if Nell had interrupted her.

Margot. Nell remembered the name from their online interactions as well, and now that she looked closer at the other girl, it did look like the little picture that had been next to her messages. “Yeah, Penelope.” It seemed too ambiguous and tense of a moment to mention that most people just called her Nell. The witch’s frown only deepened at Margot’s tone, eyes narrowing slightly as her arms crossed over her chest. “What are you doing here?” she echoed back out of pure stubbornness. In truth, she wasn’t all that opposed to revealing what she was looking into, but she also didn’t know much about the girl before her other than she was relatively new to town, and a college student. It didn’t exactly provide any reasons as to why Nell should trust her or not. And what was with the laptop? Margot had mentioned computer science online, but who just decided to set up camp in the back alley of a recently poisoned restaurant? “You a fan of Pat’s?” Had the girl been here for the poisoning? 

Margot wanted to snap back, an ‘I asked you first’ retort, but she resisted, knowing that it would get her nowhere. “I was just - I don’t know, interested? I want to know what happened.” Margot didn’t want to give out more than that, not knowing what the girl’s intentions in being here might be. Hell, Nell could even be the notorious poisoner for all Margot knew. “Your turn.” Margot mimicked Nell’s stance, arms crossed in opposition, staring her down in the same manner, “What are you doing here?” She waited for Nell’s answer, hoping it was something good. This interaction was beginning to sound like an interrogation. Margot felt like she was on trial, as if she were guilty of something, maybe she was. “I came here once, a while back. I wasn’t poisoned, lucky for me I guess.” Margot looked grimly at the back door to the restaurant. “It’s sad though, ‘was a pretty good meal. I would’ve liked to come back.” She turned her attention back to Nell, “Were you there, you know, when it happened?” Margot had only heard about the incident through the newspapers, and that had been horrific enough. 

Nell gave Margot a once over, trying to glean whatever she could from the girl’s stance and body language that might aid Nell’s decision of whether or not to trust her for the time being. “Can’t I be interested too?” she asked back, though this time it had less of an edge to it, a hint of tease entering the words. Nell was fairly certain Margot was telling the truth about not being poisoned, as she couldn’t remember seeing anyone that looked like Margot at the grand re-opening. “Yeah, it was good before the whale shark crushed it.” Had Margot been here long enough to know about the real strangeness of White Crest? “I was here.” There wasn’t any real need to mention she was poisoned, right? Nell hated admitting to the fact, as if it somehow made her appear weaker, more vulnerable, so she’d keep it to herself for the moment. “So you’re just nosing around? Is that it?” That’s what ‘interested’ meant, didn’t it? After all, Nell herself had given the vague excuse on many on occasion when she was doing something she most likely shouldn’t have been doing.

The distrust in Nell’s eyes was obvious. Margot knew she wasn’t going to get any real information from her, at least not yet. “A whale shark, that’s how he died, right? The owner? I think I read it somewhere.” She had, just a few days ago, using multiple search engines and a small hack that let her into the White Crest Press’ database. People needed to encrypt their data more thoroughly. Margot had found more while she was there; the reporter’s notes on last week’s tragedy, the names of the deceased. It had made her more determined to figure out the mystery. It was worse to hear that Nell had actually experienced it, firsthand. “That sounds awful.” Margot said no more, sensing that it was a subject better left untouched. She couldn’t stand this beating around the bush any longer, it was getting them nowhere, “I was going to connect to this place’s wifi router.” Connect. That was a better word than hack. It sounded far less illegal, “Maybe find out if they kept receipts of everyone who ate here on that day, trace the credit cards used, or even see what employees were working at the time.” Margot’s plan was a broad one, one that she hadn’t considered greatly before coming down here. 

“Yep,” Nell confirmed, wondering whether or not Margot believed the story of the whale shark. There were still a good chunk of White Crest residents about it even after having seen fish rain from the sky with their own two eyes. “I guess sushi was their real competitor all along.” Was it ill to joke about the dead? Probably. But Nell was bad at boundaries, and she hadn’t known Pat that personally. “But yeah, I don't imagine it was a fun way to go.” The mention of connecting to the router was already sparking Nell’s interest, though. Wasn’t the thing password protected? “That’s handy.” She took another step closer to Margot, her intrigue growing larger by the second as Margot listed off all sorts of information she could apparently obtain. Another thought came to her mind. “What about cameras? Could you also see who was around?” Specifically a well-dressed man in this very alley way that tipped his hat to my friend, was her unspoken addition to that request. 

Margot sniggered at the pun, “At least death by sushi is an unique way to go. More exciting than a heart attack or pneumonia.” Margot didn’t think anyone around here died via heart attack, or any natural cause for that matter. Fish deaths might be more common than she even knew. As Nell took a step forward, Margot opened her laptop back up. There was no point in hiding it now. Margot thought about Nell’s question for a moment. It was admittedly, a better idea than her own. “If they had the camera feed transmitting to a harddrive or computer inside, it should be no problem.” Margot got to work, opening up her cracking software. “Looks like Pat was too cheap for free wifi. That would’ve made this easier,” Still, she’d only have to run a basic dictionary sweep to get the wifi password. Margot didn’t speak for a few moments, deep in concentration. The password: bigkahuna543. Margot nudged the screen so Nell could see the result. “Original.” Margot commented. She entered the password and scanned for devices, finding a server connection that looked like their target. “And, we are in.” Margot brought the server up remotely on her screen. They were now looking at the camera feed. “When was the poisoning?” 

“We can only hope for such an interesting death,” Nell joked back in a rather dry tone. At one time, Nell had been a victim of the folly of youth, and the sense of invincibility that came with being young. After all, she’d had an incredibly lucky streak when it came to escaping deathly situations by the skin of her teeth. But that had shifted after Bea’s death. Now, she couldn’t help but feel that she’d meet a bloody end some day. It was only a matter of time, just as it was for most everyone. There wasn’t time to think about all that now, though. She only vaguely understood what it was Margot was saying about all this tech stuff, but it sounded promising. “You really should meet my friend, Winston. They’re a giant ass computer nerd.” A pleased and vindicated grin came over Nell as she saw the product of Margot’s work displayed on the screen, suddenly much more invested in this girl and what she was delivering. “That was beautiful,” she praised before carrying on. “The thing started at seven, but what I’m looking for probably happened around a half hour later— in the back alley. A well-dressed man with a hat.”

“Winston.” Margot repeated, “I’ll keep their name in mind.” It might be nice to know another techie in town, they seemed so few and far between around here. “Okay, so we’ll start the footage from seven, go from there.” Margot changed the time and date stamps to match. They were accessing three camera feeds, one inside the restaurant and two externally. Margot began the clip, watched as the horrific event unfolded inside. She could make out Nell, though the footage was grainy. Margot looked towards the girl now, swallowing a lump that had formed in her throat. Perhaps seeing this again would cause her to relive it. “I’ll skip ahead.” Margot whispered, feeling as though speaking at a higher decibel would be insensitive. She fast forwarded. It was difficult to watch the chaos ensue, even more so at two times speed. The panicked expressions on each of the diners faces would be ingrained in Margot’s mind for at least a few weeks. Twenty minutes or so into the recording, she hit play. It was now the aftermath of the tragedy, medics and body bags. Then, just as Nell had predicted, movement on one of the external camera angles. The back alley, almost exactly where they sat right at this very moment. Margot stayed silent, as they watched. 

“I can point you their way after all this, if you want,” Nell said with a shrug. Of course...it might be best not to mention the hacking outright to Winston. Not when her friend worked for the police, still. As the poisoning began to replay itself, Nell’s jaw tightened, momentarily fixated on her own form going limp, eventually losing consciousness. Her eyes settled on Bea for a fleeting moment before she realized she couldn’t watch her sister die again, not after the first time. But watching Jared, Remmy, and the other assorted faces wasn’t any better, anxiety clawing its way up her throat at the thought of her loved ones dying. Instead, she focused on the outside where Remmy said they’d seen the suspicious man. “There he is!” Nell practically leaped towards the screen, trying to get a closer look. Here was the key to figuring out what the fuck had happened, and whether or not she was inadvertently responsible for what had happened at Pat’s. Squinting at the grainy picture, she was dismayed to find that she didn’t recognize the man. But maybe she knew someone that would. “Can you send a shot of that to me? His face and everything?” 

Margot zoomed in on the unknown person. A man, brown hair, average build, not someone she had seen around town, and it seemed that Nell didn’t recognise him either. “You don’t know him?” Margot asked, just to be sure. There wasn’t much to make out, his features were obscured by the poor quality of the footage. Was he the one responsible for such chaos? Were they looking at the face of a murderer? Margot clipped the image of him in the alley, a full body shot and a few close ups of his face. “Type in your email.” Margot turned the computer in Nell’s direction and waited for her to enter her address before hitting send. Nell had a bigger stake in this investigation than Margot did. Margot just wanted answers. Nell needed them. “What’re you going to do? You know, when you figure out who he is?”

Nell continued to scrutinize the picture of the anonymous man, trying to wrack every inch of her brain to remember if she’d seen him anywhere near the Ring or not. But it was fruitless. “I don’t know him.” There was only a tinge of frustration to the words before her tone shifted into something harder, and a plan began to hatch. “But I might know someone who does.” She’d been planning to hunt down the rest of the big Ring names anyway, might as well ask them if they recognized the photo while she was at it. Her phone pinged, and she glanced at the screen, confirming that she’d gotten the picture as the corner of her lips twitched upwars in satisfaction. Then she looked at Margot, taking in the girl in front of her. She couldn’t be any older than Nell, and it was hard to tell if she was familiar with the supernatural or not. Maybe she was simply good at hiding it. Either way, Nell didn’t want to take the risk. “I’m gonna make sure he doesn’t do it again. Or anything like it.” 

Nell seemed satisfied with Margot’s work and she was glad to be of service. This hack had proved advantageous for her too, now one step closer to uncovering this town’s secrets. Yet Margot wasn’t satisfied; “I usually charge people for doing work like this.” Margot explained as she began to pack up her equipment. “But, I’d be willing to waive my regular fee, if you promise to keep me in the loop.” Margot had no leverage in this scenario, she’d already done what Nell wanted, but she had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time Nell would need her help. A partnership could benefit both of them. “I want to find that guy as much as you.”

It made sense that Margot would charge, after all a girl had to eat. Nell had already been thinking about how useful it would be to have someone like Margot helping with this entire thing, but at the mention of money...she wasn’t entirely sure how feasible that would be with her current situation. Then the mention of a waiving came along, and an eager expression quickly replaced her previously neutral one. “I think I could do that. You can tell me a bit more about what you do, and I can tell you a bit more about what I’m doing.” And if Margot was passionate about finding this guy along with her, Nell wasn’t going to ask too many questions. But she did have just one. “Why do you want to find him?”

Margot hesitated. Would her reason for being here make her sound insane? A kook? She took a deep breath. “Ever since I moved here, I have this feeling. Like I’m missing out on something -- like there’s some big secret I’m not privy to.” She looked at Nell, gauging her response to the confession. “That’s why I want to find him. Not just for those poor bastards who died last week, but for me. I want to know the truth.” It was a selfish reason, but it felt right to be honest. She needed Nell to trust her. 

Nell matched Margot’s hesitation, knowing just how well knowledge of the supernatural could make or break someone’s life. It was a hard line to walk. If you didn’t know enough, you might just waltz into a vampire’s lair and become a midnight snack. But if you knew too much...it sucked you in and never let you go. Made you realize that the world was full of things that were trying to kill you and everything you loved, and that there was only so much you could do to combat it. But maybe Margot didn’t need to know everything. Maybe they could find that balance. “Alright,” Nell replied simply, giving the other girl a single nod. “Then it’s a deal.”

[notapaladin]

harmonic orchestra (the teocatl edition, pt 2)

yeah these mini-fills are STILL GOING. As always, can also be read on AO3, though I’m posting one a day there and they are not all teocatl. (not all of these are EXPLICITLY teocatl either, but know that they are in my heart)

-

(teomitl & acatl – a good influence)

In another world, he loses his temper. Tzutzumatzin tells him the springs of Coyoacan are unpredictable at best and dangerous at worse, and he sees only disrespect. How dare anyone tell him what to do? Is he not Emperor? And so he has the lord strangled and goes ahead with his plan, knowing none will gainsay him save for the gods themselves.

And they do. The aqueducts burst, the city floods, and Ahuitzotl—the man whose name signifies a terrifying, thorny water beast, the man chosen to rule Tenochtitlan, the man who led the Triple Alliance from one end of the sea-ringed world to the other—Ahuitzotl drowns. They say it is the wrath of the gods, but his own prickly nature led the way.

In this world, he stops. Waits. Breathes, the way Acatl is always telling him. And makes himself listen, really listen, to what the other man is saying about the springs that will fuel his aqueducts. Now he sees that no offense is meant, that he is truly trying to help and is merely somewhat less than courteous about it—and since he’s quite often been accused of the same, even by Mihmatini who loves him, he can’t be too angry. He’s sworn that he’ll never follow his brother’s hypocrisy.

He still can’t make himself be happy about it, but he sits back on his mat and meets Tzutzumatzin’s eyes. “What do you suggest instead? We must have that water.”

“...Well, Ahuitzotl-tzin…”

The floods still come. A different source for the city’s water helps, but Jade Skirt and the Storm Lord are still not in a helpful or even pleasant mood and there are always sorcerers who want to see him dead. Half of Tenochtitlan goes under, sparing not even his palace, and many die. But it isn’t as bad as it could be—thank the gods, that it isn’t as bad as it could be—and when he’s pulled from the water, it’s only three days until he opens his eyes. Battered, half-drowned, three-quarters lame, and with holes in his memory that will never close, but alive.

Acatl and Mihmatini don’t question why he keeps thanking them. They’re too busy clasping his hands in utter, wordless relief.

-

(acatl – noir au)

The office was dark. It was almost always dark—he hadn’t been able to afford anything better than this building, and the surrounding skyscrapers blocked all the natural light—but today was worse, because it had been raining for so long he couldn’t even remember how sunlight felt on his skin. Throwing wide the shades and guzzling cup after cup of cheap, terrible black coffee had woken him up earlier, but that had been earlier. The sun had gone down since then, and the flickering gas threw deep shadows. Acatl propped his chin on his hand, stared down at his blotter, and fought to keep his eyes open.

Christ, but he was tired. He thought he’d been born tired. His latest case had angered some very powerful people in the upper echelons of the mayor’s office, and Ceyaxochitl—who’d set him on it in the first place, shamelessly using her power as the unofficial boss of the city’s underworld—had been unwilling to throw him a line as the bigwigs went from simply unhelpful to actively threatening overnight. The viciously angry part of him hoped that Acamapichtli himself would stop by for a chat. Alone. It would give him an excuse to show the bastard why you didn’t threaten his family, no matter who you worked for.

He’d just picked up his notebook—maybe he’d go over the facts of Elueia’s disappearance one more time—when the bell over his door rang.

He set the notebook down.

The young man sidling in was tall and wiry and dark, hair buzzed almost unfashionably short. His eyes were dark too, filled with a nervous energy, and Acatl quickly swept his gaze over him. Brown trenchcoat, the shoulders wet from the rain. Equally brown hat. No visible bulges that could be hidden weapons, but he kept the desk between them anyway as he rose. “What can I do for you?”

The man—more of a boy, really—met his gaze head-on, unafraid. “My name is Teomitl. Ceyaxochitl sent me to help.”

-

(acatl/teomitl – sea of jade)

Teomitl's patron goddess is Chalchiuhtlicue, She Whose Skirt Is Jade, and sometimes that doesn't matter. Sometimes Teomitl's eyes and skin are just brown, his skin gleaming only with his own good health, and when he bleeds it is only an ordinary shade of red. (He is still beautiful, of course, but it's a beauty Acatl's grown accustomed to. Not that it doesn't still take his breath away! But when you've been loving the same man for so long, at some point you stop being completely dumbstruck when you wake up next to him in the morning.)

This is not one of those times. Teomitl's eyes are jade from end to end, his skin rippling with the green reflections of sunlight seen from the bottom of the lake, and the air is filled with the stench of churned mud and blood and algae. The ahuitzotls he commands are coiled savagery by his side, the clawed hands at the ends of their tails clenching rhythmically as they await his command to go for the eyes of their foes.

He's the most beautiful thing Acatl's ever seen, and it frightens him more than he can put into words.

(And then the battle is joined, and he has just enough time to be thankful that the goddess's power is on their side. He has none at all for fear.)

-

(acatl & teomitl – modern au: not answering the phone)

"You left me. On. Read."

Teomitl wondered if it was too late to hang up. Claim he'd wandered somewhere with no service. Throw his phone into the street to get crushed by a semi. Anything would be better than this conversation with the man who'd once been his mentor—this conversation he hadn't even intended to have, except that when he'd seen Acatl's name on the caller ID he'd picked it up without thinking, forgetting all the very good and logical reasons why that was a bad idea. "Look, Acatl—"

"You tried to get your brother removed from office and the department closed down, and you left me on read! You left my sister on read! Do you know what that plot of yours would have done to her degree credits?!"

Right. Mihmatini was going to kill him too. He shuddered, but then he remembered why. Through gritted teeth, he snapped back, "My brother is a paranoid megalomaniac who tried to have you fired! If he's left in charge of the city coroner's office, can you imagine the damage he'll do?"

"Yes." Acatl's voice on the other end was a snarl. "But if you'd told me—"

"You would have disapproved. You would have tried to stop me." Acatl was always cautious, never liked taking risks. Teomitl hadn't seen a single way forward that didn't go through him, so he'd removed him from consideration. No matter how much the thought hurt.

"I would have shown you some better ways to get what you want!" He'd never heard Acatl raise his voice before. It made him feel about an inch tall. "You could have confided in me, and I would have tried to help you."

He swallowed once. Twice. He wouldn't start crying now. "I thought…"

Acatl must have picked up on it—damn him—because his voice softened. "You can't run for his office in a few years if you have a criminal record, Teomitl."

He sucked in a long, slow breath. "...I'm going to hang up now. I'll be at that coffee place on your corner in half an hour."

That was probably enough time for a minor breakdown.

-

(acatl – a nice day where things go well)

The sun is shining, and for once he has time to enjoy it. He’s been up for a long time—there was a vigil the night before, and they’d needed their High Priest—but he’s not tired. Not enough to pass out yet, at any rate. No, now he’s going to make his devotions to the gods, grab a bite to eat, and...well. There’s nowhere in particular he has to be this morning. Maybe he’ll take a walk.

The temple kitchens furnish him with a delicious tamale. The breeze kicks up as he leaves the gates behind, cooling his skin and providing some measure of protection from what promises to be a warm day. He eats as he walks; he’s picking his way through the crowd with no real destination in mind, but somehow it isn’t surprising when he winds up in front of the Duality House.

He pauses. Mihmatini’s always telling him he should visit more often. But he hates to drop in unannounced, in case she’s sleeping or busy or simply doesn’t wish to see him—

“Acatl!”

His sister is beaming at him, bouncing up and down on her toes as though he could possibly miss her. “Come in!” she calls. “Come and eat breakfast with us!”

Even if he was full—he isn’t—he wouldn’t turn her down. Smiling, he walks in for a second breakfast and a wonderful, peaceful morning.

-

(teomitl/acatl – laughter)

Teomitl’s not sure how it happened, how their day went so bad so quickly—they’re both exhausted, both bleeding from a dozen please-gods-please-be-minor wounds, and even the monster that inflicted them laying dead at their feet doesn’t make it better—but he huffs out, “Well, that wasn’t the birthday present I’d had planned for you,” and Acatl—

Acatl stares at him for the space of one heartbeat, two, and then bursts out laughing.

He stares back. He’s sure he’s blushing, knows for a fact that his jaw’s just gone slack with shock, and both of those are reactions he needs to get better at controlling, but he can’t. He’s heard Acatl chuckle before, half-disbelieving little huffs of air that say he’s surprised at himself for finding amusement in something. He’s never heard him laugh. It’s not attractive, not really; it’s breathless and a little wheezy and turns his whole face red, and even when he pauses it’s only to suck in a long gasp of air and choke out, “A birthday present—” in a way that suggests he’s about to be set off again.

Oh no, comes Teomitl’s next conscious thought. Oh no, I love him.

Acatl, still wheezing, has to sit down to catch his breath. There are actual tears in his eyes when he looks up. “Ah...hah, forgive me...it was just...the battle, and the way you said it—“

He’s grinning like a fool and doesn’t care. “It’s more than alright. Come on, let’s—” Go back to my rooms. Have our wounds dressed. Join me in my private baths. Let me show you all the ways I can make your day better.

But then the Jaguar Knights are pounding along the streets towards them because they’ve finally heard the sounds of battle from the men they’re supposed to be guarding—he knows who’s next on his demotion lists—and he never gets a chance to finish the sentence.

-

(ollin – reflecting on his uncles)

The High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli is lighting incense for a funeral. He’s been doing little else for days; the men from across the sea have sent far, far too many of his people to a warrior’s death. But this one is not like the others, because tonight he stands vigil over the men who saved the rest of them. He closes his eyes, exhales, and remembers.

Uncle Acatl had never trusted the pale men in their shiny metal armor from the start. He’d hated their languages, their foul manners, the way they could barely go a sentence without trying to push their god on their listeners even though an interpreter. But he’d also been old and crotchety, and so Aunt Mihmatini and Uncle Teomitl had given the foreigners enough benefit of the doubt (and, as they’d pointed out, respect for the army of Tlaxcalans they’d brought with them) to allow their leaders into the city. Even their strange weapons couldn’t stand against a city blessed by the gods, could they?

Oh, how wrong they’d been. The clash of their cannons and horses against Huitzilopochtli’s righteous fury had nearly levelled the city itself, and then their leader—Cortes—had taken advantage of the chaos to break through Aunt Mihmatini’s guard and hold a blade to her throat to force a surrender.

And that had been his fatal mistake, because it had bought them—his uncles, the other High Priests, the Guardian herself—time to strike back. He’ll never forget the moment they had. That single, terrible moment when he’d dropped to his knees and watched the sky split open, watched his captors screaming and writhing in agony as their bones turned to obsidian and their skin to jade, their blood spilling to earth like juice from an overripe fruit.

Tenochtitlan was safe again, and all it had cost them was their connections to the gods. Oh, he can still feel them; souls are being ushered to their proper places, and Mictlan’s presence coils in his gut like a serpent. But the serpent is sleeping, its fangs tucked away, and none of them know when—or if—it will wake again. The new High Priest of Huitzilopochtli has not yet been able to offer the proper sacrifices, but the sun has risen anyway.

He inhales, feeling his eyes prickle in a way he can’t blame on the smoke. His uncles died as heroes, their names destined to live forever, but he wishes they were here. At least they’ll be burned on the same pyre, together in death as they were in life.

“Ollin-tzin?”

Ollin rises, brushes off his hands, and heads into the sunlight that they purchased for him.

-

acatl/teomitl – soup, pt 2 (“I love you. I want us both to eat well.”)

The temple accounts don't care for mortal frailty or the need for sustenance. They will loom there on the table, unyielding, until they are dealt with properly—and in his temple, he's going to be the one to do them. Of course Ichtaca could handle it for him—of course! the man is endlessly competent—but Duality curse him, this is his temple and his responsibility, and so Acatl sits down with a reed pen, several folded codices' worth of ledgers, and all his considerable stubbornness until he realizes—reluctantly—that he can't focus with his stomach trying to glue itself to his spine.

There are approaching footsteps—slow and measured, but still somehow familiar. He looks up just as Teomitl draws aside the entrance curtain. "Acatl-tzin," he says, and smiles, and Acatl feels himself blush.

"What brings you here?" It's a stupid question—he can smell the hot, spicy soup through the clay jug Teomitl's holding—but he has to say something to cover the rush of warmth at the realization that Teomitl's brought him dinner.

At least he's not the only one blushing. "I made you this," Teomitl mutters, and doesn't look at him as he sets it down. "I thought you'd be hungry—you never remember to eat—Mihmatini said this was your favorite, so..." He trails off in an inarticulate little murmur and adds, "I brought spoons."

It's delicious. It's even better when Acatl asks, "What on earth made you think of this?" and Teomitl—spoon halfway to his mouth—blurts out with absolutely no forethought whatsoever, "I love you, so—"

And then of course he drops the spoon, but neither of them care about that.

-

(acatl/teomitl, ezamahual – no accounting for taste)

"Literally, why?"

Ezamahual and Palli were not exactly best friends, but they were close as only two fellow Priests of the Dead could be—servants of the least popular god of the three supporting Tenochtitlan's throne, and the ones generally responsible for running around after their High Priest and making sure he didn't get himself killed dealing with beasts of the underworld (or worse, politics). Therefore, when Ezamahual leaned on his broom and gestured futilely towards the heavens, Palli knew exactly who and what he was talking about.

Accordingly, he reached over and patted the man's shoulder. "There's no accounting for taste."

Another gesture, this time accompanied by a sad shake of his head. "Acatl-tzin is kind. Patient. Even-tempered. Intelligent. I can see why the boy's interested. Anyone with sense would be. But to walk around looking at him like that in public…"

"I thought you liked Teomitl-tzin."

"Not when he and Acatl-tzin—" Ezamahual clamped his mouth shut, but by the way he was turning red Palli already knew what he was going to say.

He couldn't help but remark—after stepping out of range—"Guess we know our teachers were definitely lying about what happens if you break your vow of chastity, at least!"

-

(acatl/teomitl – a cache of jewels)

Teomitl loves him. He's not shy about showing it.

He also loves giving him gifts. He's not shy about that, either. Acatl sits by the carved stone chest that holds his valuables, sighing at the gold and silver and jade within. There are pieces of carved coral as big as duck eggs, a gleaming emerald heart the size of his two fists, ropes of turquoise and jade to weave through his hair. This latest present—a silver spider-and-owl pectoral, the symbol of his order in a form emperors would envy—might not even fit in the box.

"What's that look for?"

He can't help but smile fondly at his lover's voice, shaking his head. "Love…"

"What?"

"Do you remember when I recommended subtlety?"

"That was before I was Emperor," Teomitl says dryly, and...well, he can't argue with that.

-

(acatl/teomitl – mine, all mine)

Logic said that he couldn't lay claim to Teomitl; that he might be the man's lover, but that meant nothing when he couldn't be acknowledged as such in public, when Teomitl would take wives and concubines that could all wear pieces of his heart on their sleeves. Logic said that to be jealous was utter folly, and he should hate himself for it.

Logic had absolutely nothing on the slow, simmering rage of watching another man (some ambassador from another province, all gold and quetzal feathers and arrogance) flirt with the one he loved. Finally, he couldn't take it any more (there was a hand on Teomitl's arm and he was blushing) and before he knew it, he was at Teomitl's side.

He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. Teomitl's newly radiant smile was only for him, and as they were introduced he locked eyes with the interloper and thought, dark and vicious, Mine.

-

(teomitl – my dreams are red)

All his dreams of the courtyard are different, but in some ways they're very much the same. He stands in the middle of the dusty, bloodstained space with his warriors, a desiccated corpse at his feet, far too late to help Acatl and Mihmatini with their own battle—but then, helping isn't why he's here. He is selfish and greedy and ambitious, and he wants the crown.

And he asks them to support him, and they say no.

And he tells them to stand aside, and they say no.

And he doesn't ask at all.

And they ask him to stop, to think about what he's doing to the world, to the Empire he wants to rule, and he refuses.

And they tell him to stop, that they'll fight him if he takes one step closer, and he doesn't listen.

And then there is so much blood.

(Sometimes it's Mihmatini who falls first, who meets him when he takes that one step and is cut down by his warriors before she can scream. Sometimes it's Acatl, who steps forward with sad eyes and says I'm sorry, Teomitl, I can't let you do this—and falls with a shocked grunt when Teomitl guts him. Sometimes he can't tell which of them dies first; between one blink and the next he is standing in a field of gore, their pieces unidentifiable, and his sister is smiling and congratulating him on his ascension. Sometimes Acatl doesn't die immediately; when Teomitl kneels to hear his final words, they are a snarl of I thought better of you. Those ones are the worst.)

When Mihmatini asks why he's woken with tears in his eyes, he can't tell her.

-

(teomitl/acatl – ivory and alabaster)

The High Priest for the Dead wears white sandals. The cotton is the color of milk and the leather is smooth and pale as alabaster; the decorations keeping the ends of the straps from unraveling are carved human bone.

He is talking, but Teomitl isn't really listening. He's cursing himself for seven different kinds of a fool, for Acatl is as far beyond his reach as the stars in the sky and he is distracted even by the crossing straps of his sandals. Against all that white, his dark skin gleams like polished wood, and they sit close enough that—if he was bold, if he was not such a coward—he could reach out and trace the arch of his foot under the straps, the delicate curve of the ankle above it.

He clenches his fist and stays his hand. White is for death, for the separation between earthly filth and higher things, and his touch will stain.

-

(acatl & teomitl – unorthodox ways of cutting through the red tape)

Acatl will never complain out loud. Such things are a waste of breath, and besides it's both stupid and pointless to rail against the vagaries of fate when doing so won't change anything. But he's leaving a meeting with the Emperor and the other High Priests with a face like stone, and when he only nods a greeting to Teomitl falling into step besides him, Teomitl knows why.

There are times I really hate my brother. He breaks the silence with a nearly-careless shrug. "You know, I could still kill him."

"No, Teomitl."

"I'm only reminding you that the offer's still open!"

"And the answer is still no."

"...Quenami, then?" The High Priest of Huitzilopochtli tried to have Acatl killed, and if there's an option to remove him that won't require waiting for his brother's death, Teomitl's willing to take it. He's always wanted to know if he can get the bastard to roll all the way down the steps of his own temple.

"No!"

-

(teomitl/acatl – headache)

"You look terrible. Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine," Teomitl huffs, but he doesn't lift his head from where he's had it pressed against the cool stone tiles of the shaded courtyard for the past hour. Maybe if he refrains from sudden movements, his skull will stop feeling like it's coming apart at the seams. (Not that it has so far, but hope springs eternal.)

Acatl is not fooled. Acatl is never fooled. Wordlessly, his lover sits on the ground next to him and arranges things so that Teomitl now lays with his head in his lap; the movement actually makes his head hurt worse, but before he can start cursing there are cold, gentle fingers rubbing his temples and oh, that is much better.

"What happened?" he asks, when Teomitl's started to relax.

"Tizoc." He could say more—part of him wants to say more, wants to rant and rail against the day-long meeting with his brother and the war council and how four men could have not one single brain between them he doesn't know—but Acatl will then try to be reasonable with him, and he doesn't want to hear it.

Acatl's hands go still. "Oh," he says, but in his tone Teomitl hears that bastard and his day is immediately improved.

-

(teomitl/acatl, neutemoc – shovel talk)

When Neutemoc sits down next to him in the courtyard, macuahitl across his knees, Teomitl doesn't think anything of it. He and his brother-in-law have often sparred, and it's a fine day for another round. But then the man stretches and rolls his shoulders and looks at him, eyes serious as the executioner's blade, and he realizes this is not, in fact, going to be a fine day.

"Mihmatini tells me she's happy in her marriage," Neutemoc says. No—growls. That's definitely a growl.

Ice oozes slowly down Teomitl's back, but he's stood in front of gods without blinking. He can handle this. "Good. I do my best to keep her that way."

"And she'd let us all know if she wasn't." Neutemoc turns his attention to his sword, angling it so he can dig a dried bit of something unidentifiable from between the close-packed obsidian blades. "My brother, on the other hand...well. He'll put up with a lot, especially from you. All you have to do is smile, and he comes running—no matter what you've done.”

Teomitl takes a deep breath. It's that or pass out. How did you know is on the tip of his tongue—but that's a stupid question. He and Acatl have been quiet and discreet, but not quiet and discreet enough. How dare you would be even worse—he may be Master of the House of Darts, and Neutemoc only a Jaguar Knight, but that doesn't matter when Acatl's well-being is on the line. "And what do you think I've done?"

Neutemoc does not look rattled by his sharp tone. "He's my little brother. A priest sworn to a life of celibacy.  I've seen how persuasive you can be when you have a goal in mind."

Teomitl turns and looks at him incredulously. "I'm sorry, have you met your brother? He's the most stubborn man in Tenochtitlan, and the most devoted to his vocation. If he didn't want to break his vows, nothing I could say or do would make him. The only goal I have is to make him smile."

"...You had better." The obsidian blades flash in the sunlight. "Or your reign will be over before it begins."

[bates--boy]

In the moments when everything is still and silent, Peter’s skin still itches from the sensation of that man. It still crawls with the memory of that John's lips sucking at his neck, the graze of cheap fabric as the bastard ground his wanting bulge against Peter's bare thighs, and the moist palms as John groped and pawed with the grace of a fool who really thought he was doing something.

And the absolute fuckery of it all? Peter wants to go back.

Not because the moist groping and aimless dry humping elicited an arousal from Peter. Far from it (unless instinctual repulsion is another new, trending kink that he is unaware of). Success of any kind does something to a man, and a narrow success from a self-appointed dare that could have had many terrible outcomes? Shit, that's a drug. It's a mind-altering drug that makes Peter fantasize about sauntering to that same hotel bar, in something a little tighter with a higher hem, or maybe shoulder-less and back-less, with bolder makeup. In these fantasies, Peter lets these executives and socialites and wealthy pseudo-philanthropists pull him into their rooms, and they tend to have brand new shoes and high-end blazers that are just his size, or the new make-up palettes and jewelry that he'd otherwise have to wait for months to go on sale. They have bulking wads of cash in their wallets (as tourists do) or the new generation of tech that'll go for a high price. In these fantasies, these people have asses.

But there's always the come down, and for Peter, it's acknowledging that this new game isn't sustainable. There cannot possibly be that many married or committed cheaters to justify relieving them of their possessions, and the number would be even less after taking out ones who aren't aroused by an occasional cross-dresser. There is also recognizing that he may never be able to return to that hotel bar ever again, or at least until John dies.

Peter has yet to see his name, face, or description in the news, and he knows that there are cameras in that hall Peter and his first target stumbled around in; a couple of them must have recorded him taking selfies with his loot. He doesn't know why John hasn't reported him, but he can guess that admitting to his spouse and Sweden's authorities that he propositioned a supposed hooker during Sweden's sex-purchasing crackdown would not go over favorably. But how many of those clients in Peter's fantasy would be as scared of a broken relationship, an arrest, and a ruined reputation as John presumably was? What if things go south and they use their influence to make him suffer, or force his hand and drive him to use his strength--

No, he can't go back.

Which isn't a total loss, considering how watery and expensive the drinks were, and how his last killing wasn't something to write home to. A wedding band, sitting somewhere in a pawn shop, a couple thousand krona notes, half of it spent on better wine and half going to his saving accounts, and the watch.

Peter picks it up from the bedside table and dangles it. The cubic zirconia twinkles in the lamplight, crowning the black velvet face and drawing the eye to the golden hands. He turns it around and scowls at the designer brand etched in rose gold cursive.

Gacci.

"Stupid unpawnable piece of garbage," Peter grumbles, before he latches his trophy around his wrist.

Though he knows that he's made the right decision, Peter still thrums with loose cannon energy that he must exhaust through some channel, something that beats sitting in a semi-dark room at two in the morning. He turns his wrist back and forth to catch the light in the glass pieces and silver band. Then, his eyes wander to the orange light in the window, to the shadows that filled the frame, a silhouette backdrop of the district he lived in. The immediate neighborhood is artsy and quirky, a mix of contemporary and vintage; white and ultramodern apartments and townhomes, sitting alongside their older but renovated counterparts and shops. But an energy carries from beyond this square, from across the bridge.

Night life. Neon lights. High hemlines and low necklines. Fruity cocktails and smiley face tabs, all bathed in a type of music that stirs the blood and dirties the soul.

Downtown.

How long has it been since Peter got White Boy Wasted?

Peter turns back to his laptop sitting in front of him to finish his online Christmas shopping for the night, then hops off the bed to skip to his closet. He yanks the door open and paws through the clothing on the hangers.

--

Indian red off-shoulder blouse, high-waisted black cut-offs, black ankle-high leather boots. Otherwise known as Peter’s most regrettable decision that night, as snowy winds cut through his winter petticoat during his motorbike ride across the bridge. But Peter doesn’t feel the need to complain about the cold; this weather doesn’t remind him of a home he wants to forget, plus there is something delicious about it, the way the pelting flakes bite into his bare legs and neck that grounds him yet makes him feel like he’s flying. It helps that he can’t feel John’s fingers and lips, anymore.

Upon reaching the other end of the bridge, Peter weaves through the streets, eyeing the picturesque nightlife for action through the whipping curtain of his loose hair. Most of these clubs and bars and cabarets Peter has tried out, and even deemed a couple of them favorite places to frequent. Tonight, however, he wants some new excitement, so he takes a street that leads into the uncharted territory. The gradual contrast between the downtown epicenter and this but of fringe land is stark, almost jarring; here, the blocks are darker, and in that darkness, the more brazen move through the unlit areas like shadowy monsters, these stumbling drunks and partiers high out of their goddamn minds.

He's getting close, he can feel it.

He turns a corner, nodding a greeting at a bunch of leggy people standing around the street sign pole, and almost loses himself in trying to guess if they are hookers or not when something catches his eye.

Up ahead, another nightlife creature stumbled out into the open, but before the darkness swallows her as well, Peter catches the way her silver sequin dress flashes red from the lights blinking in the doorway -- his beacon.

He sweeps his bike into the alley a couple buildings down and hops off, hanging the helmet on a handlebar and briskly walking to the club. He can feel the thrum of the music through the soles of his boots with every step he takes. He stops for a moment in front of the woman, who now slides down against the wall. For someone who isn't wearing any form of winter gear and is sitting in an inch of snow, she is smiling a lot, dreamy and sweet as her gaze is fixed on the dark sky.

"Er..." Peter says, bending down slightly to meet her eye. "Hey, ma'am, are you okay?"

The woman blinks, snapping her attention to him, and her dreamy smile melts even more as she reaches to cup and smoosh his cheeks. "Awww, there's my wittle white wabbit!"

Peter's face scrunches as he tries to understand the slow and slurring Swedish accent, made nearly untranslatable by the cutesy baby talk. "Ha ha, right..." Peter takes her hands off his face and nods toward the door. "Do you want to head back inside where it's warm?"

The woman shakes her head. "'Sokay, rabbit, I'm waiting for my friend!"

Peter gives her a half-frown and shrugs. He unbuttons his coat and takes it off, helping the woman into it. She looks like she'd scream if Peter tries to push the chivalrous act and pressure her to get inside the building.

He makes his way to the door, resisting the need to hug himself and rub at his arms. Once there, he stops himself from yelping as a goddamn giant creeps from around the threshold, crossing his arms over his barreled chest. Peter presses his hand onto his own chest and exhales. "Shit, man, I almost pissed myself!"

"Sorry," says the giant whose deadpanned voice and unchanged expression denote his lack of remorse.

"Hmph." Peter juts his chin at the space behind the bouncer. "So, are you going to let me in, or...?"

"450 krona."

Peter pulls his wallet out from within his shorts. "Drinks covered?"

"Nah, you pay at the bar."

Well, shit, Peter snarks in his head, counting out the money. This place is more high-end than it looks!

"It's 800 even if you want to go to Wonderland."

Peter pauses counting out the bank notes, raising his brow at the giant basking in the red glow. "...What?"

The giant quirks an unkempt eyebrow right back at him, his lips twitching in just the slightest grin. The bouncer offers no explanation, and Peter is instantly sold.

Peter holds out the wad of money to the bouncer. The bouncer reaches for it, but when their hands meet, the bouncer grabs Peter's and turns it over, his thick wrist flashing a tuft of dark hair through his sleeve. Peter only has a split second to let out a shocked and protesting yelp as the bouncer pulls something out of his sports jacket's pocket and stabs it onto Peter's skin.

"What the hell, man?!" Peter screeches, snatching his arm away. He examines the back of his hand for signs of damage, afraid of what he may find. He's only somewhat relieved to find that, besides the pinkish ring marking his skin, there is no bruising, just a slightly smudged and shimmering holographic stamp: a top hat.

Peter's eyes wander back up to the bouncer, whose smile is in full stretch across his face, alight with baffled amusement, tight as he tries to stifle a giggle. Peter wonders if he can get away with knocking a couple of this chucklefuck's front teeth out.

Said chucklefuck then instructs him, "Go to the set of doors at the other end of the club, right behind the platform. Middle door. Down the hall, make a right, and ask for the Mad Hatta at the curtain."

Peter nods and rubs his stamped hand, careful so he doesn’t smudge it further. The bouncer steps to the side and beckons him in.

The entryway feels like a tunnel to an underground bunker, the lights flashing a warning of an attack above ground. If it weren’t for the electropop beating against his skin, or the air of sweat and ecstasy and carelessness so thick that Peter can taste it, he might have succumbed to the images of swooping Luftwaffe aircraft that still haunts the back of his mind.

But, no, tonight, he is not the split and damaged identity of Fort Roughs and the Principality of Sealand; hell, he is not even half-year soldier Peter Kirkland. Tonight, he’s a dumb kid looking for Wonderland.

He descends the gentle slope into the wide, square opening, and he is swallowed whole.

No matter which they dance, everyone seems to move as one, arms waving and jerking high above their heads, bodies drawing to each other even if some of them may be dancing alone, bouncing and swaying and swishing. The sickeningly alluring stench that fills the entrance is now strong with so many different types of alcohol that Peter already feels drunk. The red lights bathes the bumping stereos and the people in a nightmare, and the rare streaks of black and white lights makes everything a euphoric horror movie still frame.

Peter grins as a pleasant tingle of adrenaline zips up his back.

He slips through the crowd, twisting and dodging and ducking. He wants to jump into the fun immediately, especially with a few dancers passing him dreamy smiles and curling their fingers at him when he meets their far-away gazes. But the stamp itches on his hand, and he’s going to take that as a sign from the universe that destiny awaits with this “Mad Hatta” (which is far better than the panic that his body is having an adverse reaction to the ink). He makes his way around the platform centered in the dance floor and notices movement high above him. He glances up and tilts his head curiously at the pairs of heavy duty chains hanging between spotlights on the girder frame.

“Huh...” he mumbles as he continues on. He takes the middle door as instructed, and finds a bit of relief that the hallway has normal, if a bit dimmed, lighting. He wishes something can be done about the sounds cutting through the walls and echoing around the hall, that the party music was loud in here and can cover the sounds of puking, crying, laughing, and moaning that Peter convinces himself was from pain (and blushes something fierce when he hears how breathy it is, and picks up the pace when the woman whimpers deeper. Fuck, deeper.) 

For all this nonsense, Peter’s a tad disappointed that the curtain isn’t some grand thing of red velvet, or a sheer, sexy black thing with gems woven in like the night sky, but a plain white shower curtain. He glances at the stamp. You better be worth it, he scolds internally as he tugs the curtain to the side enough to poke his head in.

“Hello?”

“Your hair wants cutting!”

Peter jumps, his eyes darting around what is nothing more than a walk-in closet filled with mirrors and plants. “Mad Hatta?”

A hand slowly comes from behind one of the antique standing mirrors, holding out a black suede top hat with a long pearl feather. The Mad Hatta twirls into view after, plopping the hat on his head of auburn curls and throwing his arms out in one motion. The silver glitter of his tuxedo sparkle in all the mirrors and on all the plants; Peter gasps at the visual effect.

“The one and only! Oh, come in, come in! Don’t be shy!”

Peter enters and approaches the sparkly man. The Mad Hatta claps and reaches a hand out. “Do you come looking for Wonderland?” Peter places his hand in the other’s outstretched one. The Mad Hatta takes one look at the shimmering stamp on Peter’s skin and claps again, even bouncing on his toes. “Yes! Yes! Oh, my dear, you are in for quite a trip! A magical world awaits you!”

The Mad Hatta reaches into his inner breast pocket and flicks out a white piece of cardstock. He holds it out to Peter with a wink. “Have fun, my wonderful little Alice.”

Peter takes the card and is immediately ushered back out into the hallway. As he walks, he flips the tiny cardstock over. On its other side is a pale pink snowflake, about half the size of the blank business card its adhered to. There’s a black, fancy script printed on the top, in a font that’s made to look like whimsical vines and leaves:

TAKE ONE ONLY!

Peter rubs a thumb over the snowflake, nibbling his bottom lip in so deep a thought that he, blessedly, misses the woman’s climatic cry. He thinks about going back to the Mad Hatta and demand to know what type of drug this is and what it’s made of; he thinks about the two steps forward and five steps back he’s taken recently; he thinks about the recent danger he’d put himself and that man in in that hotel room. He thinks about Penelope’s recent confession to being an addict and wonders if, like Peter once upon a time, she’s picked up a bad habit of self-medicating her trauma from the only adult figures she’s ever known. (Shit, does Peter share in that guilt, and not just as an unwitting supplier and victim of theft?)

He pushes out into the dance floor and eyes the platform that stands like the altar in England, and Peter thinks back to the confession. He remembers the gut-grinding terror of his tantrum blowing up in his face, and how he couldn’t even face Ollie without ten walls of intoxication barricading him. 

Peter is suddenly tired. He wants to go home.

He also remembers that this shit had cost three hundred fifty krona.

He peels the pink snowflake off and lays it on his tongue.

It all hits his palette at once from so many directions. The snowflake turns into fluff, and it tastes like powdered sugar. The strong, cool minty taste makes him shiver, and for a minute, Peter’s mouth goes numb and tingly. It travels up to his nostrils, so that when he inhales, he’s taking in a whiff of winter air.

He waits until the powder dissolves and licks his lips. Spearmint cotton candy.

With a quick shake of his arms and shoulders, Peter hops right into the fray and invites the music to draw him in. The meld of industrial techno metal makes the harsh red lights even more jarring, but at least this combo makes more sense than with the bubbly electropop. Plus, somehow, this mix is easier to take in. The guttural scream bites into his bones; the synths make his blood boil; the bass pounds against his chest and makes it hard to breath or slow the stammer of his heart. He’s suffocating, drowning in the heavy sensual air all over again. He’s not Fort Roughs, he’s not Sealand.

Hell, he’s not even Peter Kirkland. 

He’s not human (though, was he ever human?). He’s an unidentifiable mass within this large pool of energy, an entity feeling like he’s going to melt every time someone brushes against his bare legs and shoulders. He leans into that melting sensation, swishing and swaying up and down, throwing up his arms and flicking his wrist, tossing his already-damp hair. He doesn’t fight whoever rubs their hand along his hips and guides him close. He grinds and bumps against them, even if their body heat against his back and ass makes him want to collapse. He’s taking in so much heat from all around him, but when he breathes, he breathes pleasantly cold air. He breaks apart from his dance partner to throw his head back and breathe. He opens his eyes.

“...Holy shit,” he gasps, because everything is fucking beautiful. 

Nothing changes -- Peter is aware of that, yet everything feels... pastel. Odd, but in a fairytale way. The flashing lights lose some of their harshness, and look like they were cast down from heaven itself. Everything has a softness to their edges; Peter squints, and he sees a gentle, golden aura around everyone. White spots flicker in his vision like falling snow, kissing the cheeks of the dancers around him; is that why everyone’s cheeks are so rosy? He reaches to catch one of the dots, but it sinks into his palm. He lets his hand fall to his side, lets the music hug him like a wool blanket. No one pays attention to the new Alice with his neck craned back and the familiar dazed look in his eyes, or the chuckle that’s drowned out by the music. But they welcome him back into their bubble when he resumes slithering like a cat in heat.

Someone grabs his wrist and whips him around, yanking Peter against them. Happily skipping through Wonderland, Peter has lost some of his quick reflexes, and fights back too late when the person grabs the back of his head and smashes their mouths together. He jolts when the person stabs their tongue into his mouth, and hell no! Wonderland may be loosening everything in him, but Peter is not going to do the tongue-battling-for-dominance thing with some crazed freak.

He gets his hands between their torsos to push this person away, but then the minty cotton candy coats his tongue, and he presses further into this person. His hands roam up and down their chest, and he’s surprised to feel soft bumps through the tank top. He’s further surprised that this person letting him squeeze. They pull apart for Peter to find a dark rivulet running from their nostril. He should feel revulsion, but he takes out his handkerchief to wipe it off, spins this person -- this person with around twenty pounds of muscle and five inches of height on him -- and pulls them in, snaking his hand from their hip to underneath their shirt, feeling their abs tighten under his touch the higher up he went.

Peter pauses, thinking of going down, of undoing their belt and sliding his fingers, inexperienced and eager as they are, in their waistband, and forget his stupid rule to protect the last bit of self-worth he has and coax this person to the back room. Then the lights blink faster, the music goes slower. The crowd turns and cheers, converge to the center. The person turns and pushes Peter along, forcing him into the tide that crash around the platform. The rainbow spotlights -- actual rainbow spotlights, not supposedly white ones seen through the eyes of an Alice -- sweep around. Four people stand like sentries by the chains, arms crossed, smiling as people clamor around them.

The crowd hoists a petite woman in sharp stilettoes onto the platform. She’s rocking and nearly tilts over, but the stagehand steadies her, lifts her arms, and fixes her wrists into the chains’ loops. Next, the epitome of gay bears  climbs right on, serving everyone his double scoops of ass in soft leather pants and nothing else that Peter can see. His thick wrists goes into the chain loops, too. The crowd is screaming and pumping their fists. Peter cups his hands around his mouth and howls as the third tribute, another Amazonian in a skintight leopard jumpsuit, gets chained. 

He’s bouncing on his toes, watching with wide eyes as he awaits the fourth person. He doesn’t care that burning hands are grabbing his legs and his ass. In fact, he’s bouncing so much that he’s somehow flying up to the stage, carried on the vibrating cheer of the crowd. He trips on his feet, but the man catches him and turns him so he’s facing the same way as the others. The man takes Peter’s wrists and yanks them up above Peter’s head. The chains have an odd coolness to them, and their chill runs through Peter’s body. The man slides his palms down Peter’s arms, stopping at Peter’s waist. The man brings his mouth to Peter’s ear. The music is just about to pick back up.

“Dance, queen.”

The stagehands hop off the platform, the music eats into Peter’s flesh, and he dances. He twists the chains around for a better grip, and the links bite into him. He feels the chains clink as he throws himself around, as he jerks and thrusts and twists and drops and jumps. Even with his eyes closed and his head hanging, Peter can see the red and black lights. The couple times he cracks his eyes opens, he spots phones lifted high in the air, horizontal and aimed at them. A spike of panic shoots up in him, but then things start to blur and brighten. He tastes the minty spun sugar in the back of his throat, feels it take on a second wave. 

His skin is on fire. His skin is a layer of burning ice that he wants to claw off, but he wants more of it. He wants more until he can’t feel John’s fingers anymore. He wants to be blazing until the shame and belittlement of the other representations don’t even matter, anymore. He wants to be set on fire until he can forget that he's been promised forever, that that promise was broken, and his fort will fall apart and he’s going to become a slowly dying human. He wants to become a pile of ash before this cheering crowd, before circumstance claims him first. He wants to forget about dead stars eating his soul once his time is up. Shit, let him be a dying star!

Peter stiffens his arms and swings up his legs until he’s upside down. The moves he pulls are just as familiar on the chains as they are on the aerial silks, though they are harder to achieve because the damn things don't swivel on ball bearings. But he angles his body and locks his feet and legs and arms when they need to, contorting his body into art. He doesn't even see the crowd, anymore. Not the spotlights nor the chains. It's all lost in the burning cold fuzz of golden white.

It's over too soon, and the stagehand works to undo the locked mess of Peter's chains. He frees Peter and wraps an arm around the dancer to catch him from collapsing. "You did great, sweetheart," he cooed, getting ready to help Peter off the stage. But there's a hesitance in his voice that Peter catches; he feels a hand through the blizzard around him cup his face and tilts it up. The man's eyes appears through the blizzard, hardens, and disappears as he swears.

"Fuck. Hey! Hey! This one's blitzed out!"

He's swept into the snowstorm. His vision winks in and out: the stagehand carrying him bridal-style -- Mad Hatta clicking his tongue and shaking his head -- another of the stagehands shooing half-dressed club-goers out the restroom. In the white, Peter hears snapping rubber. He feels the rubber curling into his mouth and tastes latex in the back of his throat.

"Why do I always have to do this?" Groans a faceless voice.

The latex shoves in deeper, and it burns -- oh shit, it burns! -- coming back up. Peter's body jerks and his lungs heave, his throat contracting around the fingers and his stomach getting sicker from the bitter taste.

"Okay, buddy," the voice says. "There we go. Let it all out."

How much does Peter have to let out? He's sure that it isn't much considering he had skipped dinner, but it takes forever for it to end. But it does ends, with the blinding snowstorm disappearing. Peter's greeted by a disgusting toilet coated with his Pepto Bismo pink puke, and cool tiles under his knees. He's twitching and shivering, his teeth chattering despite still feeling like there's a fire in his core.

"You okay?" Someone asks over his shoulder. Peter tries to nod or say yes, but his jaw is locked tight, his voice is frozen in his chest. Peter can hear the man snapping the glove off and unzipping something. Peter has no energy to protest being pulled into a body for the third time that night, but he's relieved when he's taken into the man's jacket and sheltered in the body heat instead. So they sit like that, Peter tremoring against this man's chest, his body fighting to keep the freezing magic in him.

"Gail should be back soon with your blanket and water," the man says. Peter misses his guy's smoother, more fun and enticing tone on the platform. Dance, queen. This voice is too different and too serious, too clinical, when he asks, "How many snowflakes did you take?"

Peter sighs and slumps against him. "Only two."

"You're supposed to have only one at a time," the man scolds. He gently taps Peter's cheek. "Stay up. You need to get some water first. Do you have any friends who can drive you home?"

Peter, try as he might, only manages a head shake, before his head lolls back on the man's shoulder.

The man lifts Peter's head and lightly slaps his cheeks once more. "Okay, you'll need a cot, too, then."

Thank goodness Gail returns, wrapping the wool blanket around Peter and forcing him to suck down half a bottle of water. The two club workers half-carry Peter out of the middle door and into the rightmost one, into a stretch of whitewashed tunnel lined with cots on both sides. Here, they lay him down on the cot under the watching eye of guards.

Peter curls up on his side and tucks his hands under his head. With a gentle smile on his face, Peter falls asleep in the world blanketed in soft white.