#He should have pounded a rock against his skull until it was a smooth paste | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

keelywolfe · 4 years

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FIC: The Rose and the Thorn: Chapter 3 (Mafia AU)

Summary: For Rus, things seem to be going from bad to worse,

Notes: Well, I can’t stop now.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Mafia AU, Flower Shop AU, Violence, First Meetings

Warnings: Some violence. A wee bit of unwanted touching and some innuendo.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

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Read it on AO3

Read it here!

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Since they came to the surface, most of Rus's days were pretty much the same old, same old. He got up, yanked the blankets over his mussed sheets in a semblance of making the bed, and got dressed: uniform on workdays, and his grubs on days off. He’d go to the kitchen and make a pot of coffee in the wheezy old Bunn that Rus found in someone’s trash, tinkering with it in the evenings until he got it working. He’d drink a cup of coffee that always had a faint burnt note to it no matter how fresh it was, leaving the rest for Blue when he got up, and he’d head into the shop to make the floral arrangements for the afternoon deliveries. When his shift was over, currently doubles until they managed to hire someone who wouldn’t either steal from them or quit three days in, Rus would head home and shower away the stink of soil and plant food before flopping on the sofa to fall asleep in front of the tv until Blue came home and made dinner.

He couldn’t say it was better than the Underground, but then, he couldn’t say it was worse either and once the newness of the Surface wore off it was, well, it just was. Such was life and all it meant was Rus tended to cling a bit to anything fresh and different; like a stranger wandering in on his mornings for a single red rose.

He soaked those moments up like fuel for his what-ifs, his little daydreams as he worked with his clippers and floral wire, writing out small cards that declared ‘happy birthdays’ or ‘with love’ or ‘my condolences’.

Same old, same old, sure, with a few bright spots in between.

This week, though, ah, this was a week of first. First time he'd been shot at, for sure, first time a mysteriously gorgeous stranger ever gave him a kiss, even if it was hardly more than a brush of teeth. First time the police ever put up even the pretense of being on his side without an unspoken warning to stay in his place.

Also, his first time at being kidnapped and Rus couldn't say that he was very happy that his second chance came so soon after.

Point of fact, he was fucking terrified.

He'd woken up with a dismally aching skull and his magic still lingering out of reach, unable to see as he struggled against bonds that held him immobile no matter how hard he fought, until the throb in his skill matched his freshly strained joints. From the way it felt, he was tied to a chair and he couldn't see because of a blindfold that didn't budge no matter how hard he shook his pained head. The throbbing pain was worsening, threatening to make him black out again and Rus finally subsided, trying to keep panic at bay as he took a mental assessment.

His arms were uncomfortably bent and bound on either side of him at the wrists and he could feel the smoothness of wood against his bared forearms. His knees were tethered together, the joints straining as his feet were spread apart, each ankle tied to a separate chair leg. More ropes were wound around his upper body and across his femurs so when he tried to move, he couldn’t so much as rock the chair. He couldn't budge an inch in any direction without hurting himself which was probably the point.

Worse, they hadn't gagged him and somehow that seemed more frightening, not less, that they didn't care if anyone heard him scream.

Rus licked his teeth, drying flecks of marrow clinging disgustingly to his tongue. Tentatively, he called, "hello?"

He thought he heard someone move, cocked his head in that direction.

"hello?" he persisted. "is anyone there?” His voice seemed to echo around him, reverberating, “please, this is all a mistake! i run a florist shop i…i'm nobody…"

"Yes, we know."

Rus jerked instinctively towards that voice, stupid, he couldn't see anything around the blindfold. Not even the glow that voice suggested he should, that was the language of the Fire Monsters, a strange combination of crackling and sibilant consonants. Almost impossible for anyone who wasn't flame to speak and the only reason Rus could understand it was because of a childhood friend.

This Monster didn't sound anywhere near as cheery as his old pal. Those brief, smoldering words were the cold burn of near frostbite and there was no echo, only silence followed them.

Rus swallowed hard against the sudden dryness in his mouth, rasping out, “what do you want?”

There was a scrabbling shuffle of unknown feet and a new voice, “He said—"

“i know what he said!” Rus snapped. He choked off more desperately angry words, grimacing. His bro always said his mouth was gonna get him into trouble and yeah, this problem wasn’t one he’d started but better not to make it worse.

“Do you now.” A single step, the scrape of a shoe against concrete. “Well, that is interesting. A flower shop clerk who can understand flame-speak, how…unusual.”

What did that mean? Rus wasn’t sure and he didn’t know if he should explain his quirk with languages. His head ached painfully and so did his nasal aperture where he'd taken that hard punch. Licking at his teeth found one that was a little loose in its socket. He really hoped Blue could heal it. He really hoped Blue had a chance.

From close by came a soft murmur of indecipherable words and the sound of clawed footsteps walking away, a closing door.

An unexpectedly touch between his shoulder blades made Rus stifle a cry and he tried not to cringe as the heat blazed a path down his spine down before drawing away at the back of the chair. “I admit, I was disappointed when I first saw you. His taste has certainly gone downhill.”

There was an unspoken question there that Rus didn’t know how to answer. “please. what do you want?”

His question was ignored. “But perhaps you have,” that crackling voice lowered, scalding hot breath gusting uncomfortably against the side of his skull, “hidden depths. He’s quite enamored of you, isn’t he.”

“who is?” Although Rus was very much afraid he already knew.

The snap/pop of that scoff meant his captor knew as well. “You’d best be careful, if you’re dealing with the Fells.” A swath of searing heat fell across his skull as a large, flaming hand settled on top of it, burning fingers lightly digging in, “When they’re done with their toys, they break them.”

Rus tried to nod, desperate to get away from that paining touch. That blazing grip only tightened, the temperature rising until Rus whined, cooling tears seeping from the corners of his sockets to wet the blindfold.

“You should be thanking me for the warning." The flame monster chided. There was an impression of a large body, moving closer, blanketing Rus entirely in heat as his voice whispered in lowered luminescence, "Well? Thank me."

"thank you," Rus gasped out. The grip on his skull released and Rus sagged against his bonds, breathing heavily. All his clothes were clinging sweatily to his bones, his wrists aching anew from chafing against the ropes. He hadn’t even been consciously trying to struggle, only desperate to get away from that painful heat…wait. Was that shouting he could hear? Some calamity was going on not far away, muffled through the walls and doors that Rus knew must be around him.

It was impossible for hope not to swell in his soul, shriveling back when that aching heat shifted to stand in front of him.

“You do have a pretty mouth.” Thoughtfully, as Rus’s chin was gripped painfully in a simmering grip, a hot thumb smoothed over his teeth. A new, unthinkable fear rose in Rus, one he hadn’t considered; he’d been afraid for his life, not his body, but the implication was unmistakable. “I’d give it a try but from the sound of things, that’s all the time we have together, lovely. We’ll have to play again sometime.” Then louder, he called, “You’re slipping. I expected you much sooner, old friend.”

The grip on Rus’s chin abruptly released and instead an arm slipped around his neck and tightened, his cervical vertebrae squalled in uncomfortable protest at a threatening upward tug. “Ah ah. Not too close, darling.”

“Stop this.” There was no halting the wave of shameful relief at Edge’s rich voice, oceanic and deep. Only to be choked away by the arm around his throat and Rus couldn’t move, but he couldn’t stop trying to thrash away from the pull that threatened to separate his skull from his neck, straining against the unyielding ropes as he tried to rise even a bare inch for some relief.

“What? And spoil the game? See you soon, and do tell your brother I miss him, won’t you? Ta.”

Then that agonizing grip released and the burning presence was abruptly gone, leaving Rus to sag against the ropes, gasping in sweet, cool air.

Rus’s blindfold was soaked with tears and sweat, clinging uncomfortably against his face. More tears felt like they were strangling in his bruised throat, desperate to be shed. It was difficult to hear anything over the aching pounding in his skull and the rattle of his bones as he trembled, but he couldn’t feel anyone close by, had they left him here, bound and helpless to anyone who might wander in?

“is anyone there?” Rus asked pathetically. All his panic seemed to have caved in, collapsed in on itself to numbness that left him empty and spent. Feebly, he tried to twist his hands free again, if he could only get one loose—

“Hold still, you’ll hurt yourself.” Unexpected and gently said, it set a candle flame of hope flickering in Rus’s soul and…no. No more flame metaphors, not today.

The blindfold was suddenly gone and Rus blinked at the flood of light, trying to see anything past a blur. When his vision cleared, he could see he was in a sort of warehouse, one that didn’t look like it’d been used in a long time. There were crates and broken pallets stacked all around them on a dusty floor and the overhead lights were sodium-yellow and dim.

Edge was already moving to kneel at his feet, inspecting the ropes binding him. Somehow, the way he moved, the powerful grace in his long legs as he bent to crouch before Rus was desperately appealing and fuck, Rus really was as stupid as their pop always said. All of this could be laid right back at Edge’s doorstep, he knew that, only his stupid libido didn’t seem to have gotten the message. Rus stifled it, stuffed it down back into the back of his mind with all the rest of the bullshit that usually crept out to taunt him in the middle of the night.

Whatever Edge saw, he didn’t seem to like it; his brow bone pulled down into a frown and he made a low, rude sound before pulling something out of his pocket. Rus couldn’t help flinching from the mellow gleam of metal as a knife flicked out, but there was nowhere for him to go. He could only sit mutely as Edge got to work, the ropes parting easily beneath the sharpened blade until thy lay on the floor around them like thin, unmoving snakes.

A moment or an eternity later and he was loose. His shoulder joints felt sprung and achy, his hands flopping loosely into his lap as Rus tried to work feeling back into his fingers. The bones at his wrists were painfully chafed and bruises were already darkening the bone. He wondered absently where there might be other bruises, his ankles certainly, maybe at his knees, on his upper arms where the ropes dug in so terribly.

Edge stood next to him, waiting, his long coat pulled open by his hands in his trouser pockets. He seemed in no undue hurry, allowing Rus to assess the damages and he only spoke again when Rus finally looked up at him, pouring out all his desperate fears and confusion in one look. There were no answers forthcoming, Edge only held out a single gloved hand in offering.

"Come on," Edge said quietly. His clothing was unruffled, the same sort of obscenely expensive suit he’d always worn to the shop. Even his tie was perfectly straight, not a single snag in the rich crimson silk. He practically exuded calm competence and the only sign he might be feeling anything else was in his eye lights, the dimmed shadow of regret. "I'll take you to your brother.”

That sounded…that sounded like a slice of heaven right about now, to be wrapped up in the blanket of his brother’s love and concern. Rus ignored that extended hand and tried to stand on his own. His legs disagreed vehemently, knees achingly wobbly and he would have fallen to the ground if Edge didn't catch hold of him.

“don’t!” Rus tried, but he couldn’t stop Edge from lifting him into his arms, his weak struggles useless against that strength. All the questions bleating around in his skull –who was that, what was going on, why is this happening— twittered away into a single painful realization, one that Rus’s daydreams never even considered. “you—” His breathing was a ragged sob, “you’re some kind of criminal, aren’t you!”

Edge didn’t deny it. He only walked towards the far side of the room where a large cargo door was hanging open, leading out into a hallway.

He should have known. That scarred face he’d thought was so sexy was as much a warning as a damn sign, only it looked like Rus wasn’t very good at reading what was right in front of his sockets, too busy getting his panties wet to worry about the flashing neon ‘danger’ blinking in his face.

Rus let his head fall against Edge’s shoulder, burying his face against his wool coat and uncaring that he was smearing it with tears and other fluids as he moaned out, “what have you gotten me into? what did you do?”

There was no answer and as they stepped out into the hallway, Rus could barely stifle a shriek as he caught sight of what lay within. There were bodies lying everywhere, splashed with a rainbow’s worth of various bloods, ungainly limbs twisted into impossible configuration and pinned by jagged bone constructs that were slowly dissolving away.

“Easy. They aren’t dead or they’d be dust,” Edge reminded him patiently. Like that was so much better. His footsteps were even, heels clicking lightly on the concrete as he walked towards another doorway with daylight pouring through a broken pane.

Outside was a car with windows tinted almost as dark as the glossy black exterior. Edge didn’t set Rus down even to open the door, holding him close until he set Rus into the passenger seat. For a humiliating moment, Rus’s fingers refused to loosen their grip on Edge’s coat, the heavy material nearly tearing under his blunt fingertips as Edge tried and failed to draw away. Strong hands circled his bruised wrists with care, thumbs working their way coaxingly into Rus’s palms until he finally let go. Edge buckled his seat belt on for him like he was a child and then rounded the front to settle into the driver’s side.

The car pulled away with a near silent purr, smoothly guiding them through narrow alleyways between the warehouses, out into the main street.

There were other cars on the road, driving along without a single clue that there were terrible people out in the world right now, driving right next to them. Reality was slowly settling back in, brutal and implacable, stealing away his blessed numbness. Rus kept his gaze on his hands, tracing the bruises he could see purpling on the bones, unable to keep from prodding at them even as it blossomed hurt.

“i want to go home,” Rus said, pettishly.

Edge’s focus was on the road, both hands on the wheel at a proper ten and two. “I told you I’d take you to your brother.”

Implying that wasn’t the same place and Rus turned his head to stare at Edge mutely, then slumped back into the seat. More fine leather, great, hatefully comfortable as it cradled his aching bones. He wondered how well it would muffle the sound if he buried his face into it and started screaming.

He didn’t bother. Rus didn’t feel much like talking anymore.

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tbc

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#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #mafia au

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glorious-blackout · 4 years

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Self-Indulgent Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino/Simulation Theory Crossover Part Two

@rock-n-roll-fantasy Aaaaaand here’s Part Two 🥰

Part One, Part Three

Click.

The world shimmers and fades instantaneously before reforming like an intricate puzzle before his eyes. The effect is mildly dizzying but Mark doesn’t mind, taking in his new environment with a nostalgic smile creeping across his face. With the mere press of a button, he has transformed the illusion of a lively seaside resort into one of a teeming London street. An elegant 1960s Aston Martin glides past him and passersby hustle and bustle on overflowing pavements, too caught up in the intricacies of their own lives to pay him any heed. That’s okay though. Being invisible is a rare luxury these days.

The skies above are a murky grey, but the heavens have yet to open. Mark’s eyes scan the numerous shop exteriors boasting dolled-up mannequins and ‘unmissable’ offers, before finally settling on a grotty club exterior at the far end of the street. Memories of queuing outside its doors to watch the likes of The Jam or The Sex Pistols flow through his mind like a film reel, to the point where he can almost feel his cheap leather jacket growing sticky with sweat amidst the heat of the crowd. He remembers being highly impressed by The Jam and deciding that getting utterly shitfaced was the best way to endure The Sex Pistols, but every gig he attended in those days had carried with it an undeniable thrill. His heart aches with longing as he relives the frantic push of bodies and the roar of the crowd once the lights went down; the deep groove of the bass reverberating through his chest; the way his shoes stuck to a floor which had acquired several layers of spilt beer over the course of the night. More than all of that, his heart sings with nostalgia for the drunken – and occasionally drugged – haze that washed over him as he closed his eyes and lost himself to the music pounding against his ears.

No doubt a similar experience would await him now if he so desired, but as he watches the crowds come and go on the rush-hour streets, the air of nostalgia slowly fades. Company is not what he seeks right now. Even if his heart was crying out for the opportunity to dance in a stranger’s arms, he doubts the concert experience awaiting him through those locked doors could ever align with the perfection of his memories.

Click.

The image dissolves again, and a pleased sigh escapes him as claustrophobic city streets morph into a landscape awash with deep green hues. Droning chatter and car horns make way for lilting birdsong, overlain by the faint rush of a breeze coursing through crisp summer leaves. He raises his head to watch as sun beams drift through a thick, protective barrier of gnarled branches, their golden rays dancing across the forest floor as the wind subtly shifts the world around him.

A light mist implies a recent rainfall. Scattered dewdrops linger on low-hanging leaves and Mark can almost smell the damp earth as he lets himself be carried past the growing pines, the forests’ debris crunching underfoot as he walks. He cautiously steps over a skeletal root and takes care to avoid the sprouting bluebells scattered across the earth, following the deeply-trodden path until he reaches a small, circular clearing at the peak of a steep hill. Overhead branches make way for a direct beam of light and a clear blue sky, and Mark closes his eyes as the sun kisses his face and long grass sways around his ankles. He allows himself one moment to enjoy a nearby warbler’s morning song, before his finger reluctantly tightens on the remote and his surroundings are banished once again.

Click.

The cacophony of waves crashing towards shore and overhanging gulls squealing above the ocean forces his eyes open once more.

For the second time in ten minutes, he is powerless to resist a contented smile as he gazes upon a perfect blue sky, unmarred by clouds or chemtrails. Calm, shimmering waves wash up against golden sands before politely receding, leaving streaks of foam in their wake, and on either side of him the coast curves endlessly with no other individual in sight. If he were to stroll along the sandy path, he would eventually reach the root of a grassy hill which offers direct passage to a rocky cliff-face, serving as the perfect spot to leap into the freezing waters below.

Recognition tugs at his mind like an insistent child as he tries to pinpoint his exact location. Los Angeles? Cornwall? Perhaps he’s even wound up on the Mediterranean coast and his brain is merely trying to take him on a tour of past holidays. Either that or the beach is an amalgamation of many; a fiction created to resemble the closest approximation of heaven on Earth. As undisturbed peace washes over him, Mark finds that he doesn’t care where he is. He simply lets himself get lost in the view and the ocean’s song, and if he empties his mind, he can almost imagine the heat eliciting sweat from his skin and the specific tang of salt in the clean sea-air.

It’s impossible to tell how much time has passed when his reverie is broken by an insistent ringing. Too long no doubt, if the sharp ache in his heart is any indication. For a moment he considers letting the video-call go unanswered. As one shrill beep follows another, his treacherous mind cannot help but wonder if he should ignore his summons and spare himself the agonising scrutiny he’s about to endure. It’s certainly a tempting notion, albeit not one he can indulge in for too long. He has been waiting all day for this call, and these meetings have become too regular for him to convincingly claim he forgot it was happening.

Bidding a silent, mournful farewell to the earthen beach before him, he clicks the button on the remote with a sense of finality; peeling the virtual reality mask from his head the instant the screen goes black. The act of removing the mask takes more effort than it should. The cool straps feel like they’ve physically fused to his skull, and one glance in the mirror above his desk is enough to have him frantically smoothing down sweat-soaked hair. Fat lot of good it does too, not that he particularly cares. His caller will have to settle with dark, mussed locks to match the impressively dark bags under his eyes, though he imagines the latter has become a common sight of late.

He takes a moment to pack the mask away in its case. The device had been a present from Matt on his thirtieth birthday, gifted with the intention of forcing him to join in on games of Fifa. The attempt had been successful for all of two weeks, but Mark has long since stopped using it for mindless video games or trawling through bleak news channels, having instead developed a liking for the mask’s Ambience settings. It’s unlikely Matt will ever forgive him for that, if the accusations of him being a “boring old git” are any indication.

As the ringing persists with no end in sight, Mark huffs a sigh before hurriedly brushing stray strands of hair away from his face, finally reaching across the desk to answer the call with a single swipe on his touchscreen. Relief floods through him as the high-pitched screech makes way for blessed silence, albeit the pleasant solace doesn’t last. The widescreen immediately plays host to a familiar image that makes his heart sink; that of a well-lit office with a pale-blue backdrop and, sitting centre-stage with as uneasy an expression as ever, the man who has made a habit of calling him every single week since the dawn of time, or near enough.

Officially the man’s name is Mister Murphy, which seems entirely too ordinary in Mark’s humble opinion. Of course, Mark is far too lowly to have earned the privilege of conversing with him on a first-name basis, not that he particularly minds. He has absolutely zero interest in become buddies with him, and has made a point in recent years to drop the polite title of ‘Mister’ altogether. Jamie had taken it one step further once by drunkenly referring to Murphy as ‘The Voice of God’, and while Mark would never dare confess it to the man himself, the sarcastic nickname has sunk its claws deeply in his mind.

Murphy looks vaguely troubled today, which isn’t necessarily a surprise. The air of being vaguely troubled seems to have permanently latched onto him, in much the same way as it clings to most disgustingly rich businessmen who hold themselves accountable for the profits of billion-dollar franchises. Tranquility Base is far from the only hotel under Murphy’s watchful eye, but it is certainly the most high-profile, and thus Mark has grown accustomed to his every action being thoroughly dissected through a computer screen. The novelty’s certainly worn off with time.

Of course, to a casual observer, Murphy’s troubled demeanor is far from the most noteworthy thing about his outward appearance. In most people’s eyes, his palpable discomfort probably wouldn’t even register. No, the detail which had deeply unsettled Mark upon receiving his first ever call had been the striking resemblance between Murphy and himself.

They’re not exact copies of each other, but it’s a close thing. Murphy looks marginally older, with deep permanent lines on his forehead and crow’s feet creeping towards his eyes, but the difference between them can only be a couple of years at most. Murphy’s hair is longer and boasts a lighter shade of brown under the office lights, though Mark guesses that’s due to him having the option of lazing beneath a scorching sun. Then there’s the goatee, which Mark has elected to avoid on the presumption that it would look faintly ridiculous on his own face, though Murphy seems to possess the natural gravitas required to pull it off.

Those minute details are where the differences end, however. The deep brown eyes which have a habit of piercing through Mark’s outer shell are strikingly similar to his own. The long nose and pointed chin are practically identical, and even the faint scar above one eye is the same. The resemblance had been so deeply unnerving during those initial introductory calls that Mark retains no recollection of any words exchanged over the course of them, but as the meetings have become more frequent, their shared likeness has simply become yet another bizarre detail in his ever-more ridiculous life.

“You look tired,” Murphy admonishes before Mark can utter so much as a polite greeting.

That’s another crucial difference between the two of them, Mark notes. While he has succeeded in maintaining his Yorkshire accent throughout his extensive travels, Murphy’s vaguely Transatlantic drawl resembles a bizarre amalgamation of what a child would presume a posh English speaker might sound like. It’s an impossible accent to pin down; even trying to guess which side of the pond he originates from is more effort than it’s worth. Rather than being unsettled by the mystery, Mark has clung to it like a lifeline over the years. He has come to acknowledge every notable difference between himself and his boss with a desperate sense of pride.

It ultimately takes him far too long to respond to Murphy’s assessment, which no doubt only proves the accusation to be wholly correct.

“Well, you know,” he starts lamely, though he doesn’t have the energy to admonish himself. “We’ve been busy lately. Probably haven’t been sleeping as much as I should.”

It isn’t a lie, though Mark would be hard-pressed to remember a time where he wasn’t busy to the point of exhaustion. Murphy’s accusation has probably been uttered more times during these video-calls than a polite ‘hello’, but the man has yet to offer any solutions that would help lighten Mark’s back-breaking load.

He keeps a trained eye on Murphy’s face, searching for any micro-expressions which could help guide the conversation forward, but he remains infuriatingly impassive as though silently willing Mark to keep talking.

“I, uh-” Mark huffs a weak laugh and finds his eyes drawn away from the screen, suddenly more preoccupied with picking at the skin of his fingers. “I’ve taken a few evenings off from the band, just to take the edge off. We’ve flown a chamber orchestra over, so they do alternate nights now. Just to add some variety, like. They’re a bit on the expensive side but they’re good at what they do. The best even. The guests seem to like ‘em.”

“I’m sure they do,” Murphy says dismissively, straightening in his high-backed hair and rubbing at his forehead with barely concealed impatience. The image reminds Mark of a long-suffering parent preparing to admonish an unruly child after they’ve splashed paint on the walls of their bedroom, forcing him to fight the urge to release a bitter laugh. “But I’d advise against taking frequent nights off. You and your little band are the main attraction. Our guests don’t pay the fees they do for some run-of-the-mill orchestra they could watch at their local hall.”

“Well, I don’t hear anyone complaining,” Mark responds with barely contained venom. He’s treading on extremely thin ice and he knows it, but he stopped being terrified of Murphy years ago, and the man’s superhuman expectations of him have grown more grating week by week. “If I recall correctly, our profits have been better than ever this year.”

There’s a pause at that which seems to stretch for hours, and Mark cringes at the way his breath shudders in his chest as the figure onscreen swallows down barely-concealed anger.

“That is true,” Murphy concedes, no doubt with a certain degree of reluctance, though to the man’s credit, his voice remains remarkably even. “And we’d like to keep things moving in that direction. Which is why we need you, Mark. Your work is important to us, even if you don’t seem to agree.”

It’s not intended as a compliment, and Mark isn’t naïve enough to take it as one. Maybe he would have been flattered by those words once. When the hotel was still a passion project of his – a cardboard model created at the dawn of a new space-age – but that was before the reality of the business had leeched him dry and left him cold. Murphy doesn’t care for him any more than he cares for the cello player in the backup band; the only reason he’s bothered to learn Mark’s name is because he knows he can profit off of draining him dry.

He lets the silence stretch on to the point where it must surely be uncomfortable. His fingers have stopped providing him with ample amusement and he moves on to fiddling with the hem of his cuffs, fastening and unfastening the cufflinks in a comforting routine. Perhaps if he continues to say nothing, Murphy will grow bored of him and move on to terrorising one of his many other underlings. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

No such luck, it would seem. Though Mark doubts he could ever have predicted the words that his doppelganger would utter next.

“Are you happy there, Mark?”

The cufflinks suddenly become far less interesting. Mark forces his eyes to meet Murphy’s own and tries not to shrink under a gaze which is simultaneously alien and all-too-familiar. Murphy hadn’t sounded particularly concerned for Mark’s emotional wellbeing, and he’s under no illusions that the man actually gives a shit about him. No doubt there’s a game afoot, but the rules feel too convoluted for him to bother trying to participate on an equal footing. He’s not a gambler, contrary to the impression he likely gives off considering the star feature of his establishment.

It occurs to him that he doesn’t know how to answer the question. In simple terms – yes, he should be happy. He’s secure in a job he’s worked towards for as long as he can remember. His friends are here with him, both onstage and off, and he doubts he’ll ever stop loving the experience of performing music to an adoring crowd. He’s still relatively young and free in the grand scheme of things, and he gets to gaze out at the finest view mankind could ever hope to envision on a daily basis.

And yet, the moments of true happiness feel sparse and fleeting. Reserved to brief moments onstage, or the warm embrace of a friend, or an evening of heavy drinking and dancing in the arms of a stranger. Beyond that he mostly just feels... exhausted. Empty. Like there’s a chunk of his soul missing and he can’t figure out where it is or how to find it.

None of which he has any intention of admitting out loud, especially not to the man on the screen.

“Yeah, I’ve been doing good,” he lies with practiced ease, even summoning up a smile for good measure. It doesn’t linger, and he’s sure Murphy picks up on the way his face falls, but he doesn’t have the ability to care. “Just been a bit tired, like you said. That’s all.”

Murphy hums under his breath, but does not seem particularly concerned by Mark’s answer. Mark almost wishes he would say something else – start waffling on about hotel business or profits or even the bloody taqueria so he can zone out in peace – but there does not appear to be a particular agenda today. Now that the ‘Information Action-Ratio' is open for business, all topic of discussion seems to have dried up, and Mark is still awaiting the eureka moment which will precede his next bright idea.

As the continued silence becomes unbearable, a sudden madness takes hold and Mark begins to ruminate on the idea that has been forming in his mind for weeks now. The proposal is a ridiculous one, despite the fact that it shouldn’t be. Suggesting it to Murphy of all people feels even more so, but for some reason Mark has chosen today to be brave. Brave or stupid, it’s impossible to tell.

“I were actually thinking-” He stops, reassesses, and inwardly scolds himself for what he’s about to say, knowing full well the response he’s going to get. Against his better judgement however, he presses on, prompted by the slight twitch of his opponent’s brow. “I guess I were starting to think it was time for a break. Nothing too drastic, just a couple of weeks or so to get my head in order. Catch up on some rest. I’d stick around in case anyone needed me, but I reckon I could always hand the reins over to someone else in the meantime.”

The more he speaks, the more ridiculous the notion seems, until there’s little else for him to do beyond bow his head and finish with a feeble, “I dunno, it were just a thought.”

Murphy considers his proposal wordlessly, brows furrowed in silent concentration and expression guarded. He doesn’t look angry, which is unexpected, but he doesn’t particularly look like he’s been moved to action either. Instead, Mark watches as a subtle smirk tugs at the edge of his lips, and when he does speak again it’s in a low, calm tone that manages to seep into his very bones.

“And yet you changed your mind.”

It isn’t phrased like a question.

Before Mark can protest, he feels a warm fog settling over him like a blanket’s embrace, making his vision blur for a split second as his eyes grow heavy. The moment passes almost as quickly as it arose, though even when his vision returns to him, he still feels trapped in a daze. Murphy’s words resound through his skull like an echo bouncing off the walls of a cave, long after he finds himself pulled from his trance back into the present.

He suddenly recalls mulling over the possibility of a break, not long before losing himself to the charms of the VR mask, and ultimately deciding that it would be a pointless affair. That the tight schedule ahead of him wouldn’t allow a weekend off, let alone a two-week stretch of lazing by the pool or lounging in his hotel room or – god forbid – a lengthy trip back to Sheffield on a company rocket.

“Yeah,” he admits, though he frowns as his voice emerges as small and uncertain. “Yeah, I must have done.”

“Good,” Murphy says with a hint of what might be a smile. It’s hard to tell if he’s genuinely pleased with Mark’s answer or if he just seems less troubled than usual. “Well now that that’s settled, I won’t be keeping you much longer. I’ll catch up with you again next week.”

He doesn’t give Mark time to utter a dazed “yeah” before the call ends with a short beep. The screen is swallowed up by his homepage in a flash; an ancient image of him with the lads, off their faces and grinning stupidly in an old Sheffield pub which has long since closed its doors. He watches numbly as the image of his younger, carefree self morphs into a screensaver of hotel blueprints, before forcing himself to shut down the computer with an air of finality.

Murphy’s weekly calls tend to leave him feeling drained so his current fatigue is nothing new. Perhaps it all ties into his displeasure with business dealings and his particular hatred for the man and his smarmy manner, but more often than not the problem seems to run deeper than that. It always feels like Murphy is much closer to Mark than the thousands of miles between Earth and the moon would suggest, and his influence is inescapable no matter how valiantly Mark fights to resist it. Even the shorter conversations bring little relief. If anything, Murphy’s clear desire for the conversation to end only adds to the impression that he considers Mark to be little more than dirt on the sole of his shoe.

He’d tried to explain his unease to Jamie once, but his struggle to find the right words likely undersold his discomfort. Jamie had only encountered the man once before, having stumbled in on one of their earlier meetings, though to his credit he’d gathered enough of an impression to deem the man an “insufferable twat”.

That reminder is all it takes to break Mark out of his funk, and he indulges in a weak smile before lifting himself from the chair with a groan. At some point over the course of their conversation, the faint artificial lights lining his walls like tinsel have kicked in, signaling the arrival of evening. Well, as close an approximation of evening as one can have while living on a celestial body with barely any sunlight. Mark casts a glance over his suite and inwardly debates whether the king-sized bed or the fully-stocked fridge residing in his tiny kitchenette is tempting him more. Despite the creeping exhaustion which seems like an old friend at this point, the latter’s call is loudest, albeit it isn’t food he craves. Drinking himself into a vicious hangover has become the only appropriate response to a call from ‘God’, and many a night has been spent in pale-faced misery with his head resting against the toilet-lid in quiet anticipation. He doesn’t have a show to play tonight so he’s unlikely to be missed, and tomorrow’s guests aren’t due until well into the afternoon so there’s no need for him to put on a polished performance in the morning either.

He quashes that idea quickly enough. Not the part involving alcohol of course, but rather the notion of drowning his sorrows alone, even if there are certainly worse places to do it.

When he first arrived, his suite had certainly been elegant, albeit in a detached, clinical way that rooms for the ultrarich often are. Cosy, perhaps, but sparsely decorated and lacking any sense of personality that made it feel welcoming. Over the years, however, he’s indulged in several ridiculous purchases and dedicated countless hours to transforming the suite into a homely space. The result is a rather garish mishmash of accessories and decorations which many of his guests would likely baulk at, but seeing as this is the one place where he isn’t required to put on a mask of professionalism, he honestly couldn’t give two shits what anyone else thinks.

The four-poster bed, tidy kitchenette and oak-wood desk housing his computer and scattered notes are all fairly standard, but the seventies pop-art lining the walls and slender lava-lamps flanking his bed - bathing the room in a shifting aquamarine glow - are a tad more unconventional. Tucked into the corner beside his bed rests his beloved Steinway Vertegrand, draped in multicoloured lights which dance upon her ivory keys. Resting atop the wooden surface lies an opened notebook, the sight of which tugs at his heart insistently. If he were back home, those white pages would have so many notes scrawled into them that they’d have been rendered almost entirely black, but as it stands, he cannot remember the last time a song came into his head. Not that the guests or his bandmates seem to care, but his creatively stale mind bothers him more than it should. Though that certainly doesn’t stop him from playing well into the night, reciting the words to old Bowie or Cohen songs as his fingers glide effortlessly along the keys, gently so as not to earn a complaint from his slumbering neighbours.

Much as it pains him to admit, the piano is not the suite’s main attraction. The well-stocked bookshelf filled to the brim with dog-eared novels doesn’t hold that title either, though on peaceful nights those well-worn contents certainly play a vital role.

In the end, nothing can hold a candle to the large, circular window at the far end of the room; its shape and the stunning view beyond giving the impression of an observation deck on a drifting starship. There is no evidence of human interference on this side of the hotel, and the calm grey surface of the moon stretches endlessly beneath a pitch-black sky. Sometimes, if he squints, he can spot the dusty surface of Mars in the distance, and he has dedicated many long hours to resting on the curved, padded windowsill and simply gazing out at the stars. He could waste an evening doing the same now, if he so wished. He could cast aside any intentions of getting royally shitfaced and instead settle down with a good book in his little observation deck, letting the unspoiled view lull him into a sense of peace that not even Murphy can penetrate.

The notion is tempting, and a deep pang of longing grips his heart, but he quashes it down and tears his eyes from the window. Peace is not something that will come to him easily. Murphy had made that crystal-clear in his dismissal of Mark’s request for a break, though he can’t help but wish he’d fought harder. He’d intended to; had even considered the possibility of threatening to quit just to get a rise out of the man, but Murphy had ruined everything by sinking his claws into his brain with little more than a silky voice and the power of suggestion. It’s a remarkable skill of his which will no doubt drive Mark into an early grave one day, but at least then he’ll get some sleep. The urge to consume a large quantity of alcohol rears its ugly head once more, and he surrenders to it with little resistance.

Not here though. This room is too much of a haven for him to risk decorating it with wine stains and vomit. Of course, without the familiar comforts of Jamie, Nick and Matt, the company of the guests is unlikely to be any better than solitude, but he imagines getting drunk in public with a group of like-minded individuals is slightly less pathetic than the alternative.

Decision made, he staggers to the bathroom to splash cool water over his pale face in the hopes that doing so will wake him up, and stares grimly at the tired figure depicted in the circular mirror. All of his earlier fussing over his hair has at least tamed it to the point where it looks somewhat presentable, though he doubts even a week-long coma could erase the dark shadows encircling his eyes. The beginnings of a five o’clock shadow resides on his cheeks, but after staring numbly at his own reflection for several minutes he finds he cannot gather the motivation to shave. Instead, he simply scrubs his damp face with a towel and forces his lips into a weak smile, as though to reassure himself that he can still appear outwardly human.

Finally satisfied with the mirror’s image and once again grateful for all the tiny differences between himself and Murphy, he swans out of the bathroom with newfound eagerness and nabs his room key from its perch, before leaving Room 521 behind and exposing himself to the masses.

#writing #Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino #Simulation Theory #Muse #Arctic Monkeys #my fic

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fortunebuoyed · 3 years

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Daniel/ @sittimoranimiinterfectorem‘s Armand, mention of past Claudmand, 3.5k, beta read.

The music chasing after his fleeing feet paints Armand an altogether joyous thing. As he dances through the corridor, its high windows setting the streetlights to illuminate his hair like a blaze, the Vampire seems more a child than Daniel has ever seen him. Meandering after him, Daniel is led past a dozen eras, the Caliphate blurring into the Romanesque only a doorway apart, past a hallway offering glimpses of Velazquez and Goya standing at odds across from one another. This Spanish gallery offers a myriad of delights, if the pair have the time and inclination to discover them.

There are better museums in Spain, though. The terrible pair had not traveled so far just to settle on a speck of locked up art for its own sake. All that matters tonight is a single painting tucked away somewhere in a corner of the Renaissance exhibit. Peering again at the leader of their expedition, Daniel realizes too late that Armand has been talking, babbling about the piece they now seek. Words flicker through his pounding head, ‘furs’ and ‘silks’ and every decadent luxury that is a dozen lifetimes removed from Autumn 1982. Pulling his faded denim tighter around his frame, the mortal fishes in his pocket for the painkillers that will banish the previous night from the present..

The headaches come so often of late, spurred by a poor diet and endless adventures across his nights. In fact, the artisan of his migraines proceeds with an airy laugh through the empty gallery, offering a little spin of delight. These games always bring him joy. The sound of his laugh echoes inside Daniel’s beleaguered skull as he takes the pills dry. The things he does for love.

Armand vanishes through a doorway in a flash, before his name can properly form on the other’s lips. He calls it regardless, stopping adjacent to the path that had dragged the vampire away from him. “Armand--”

“I’ll catch up,” comes the reply. Violet eyes raise to study the placard beside him -- Romanticism. The soft lines and endless layers of the style seem ill-suited to the artist’s tastes, but Daniel proves grateful for the chance to let the pills percolate in his bloodstream anyway. Carelessly, he hounds the corridor for an out, ever obedient to the directions the sweet-faced woman at the desk offered him. Twenty minutes to closing, she advised, Castilian accent rounded out with matronly care. The words had chased him, Armand already tugging him along on their great quest.

As she had said, the Renaissance collection stood to the left of the endless stroll, nestled into the furthest corner of the first floor. He cannot fault the layout. The collection is worth the wait. His steps echo across the parquet flooring, shadow looming across the pale marble figure that stands guard over the paintings lining the wall. Harsh shadows and demure womanhood paint a fine enough contrast to soothe his aches. Snippets of frescos hang liberated above his head. He thinks, it is a pity Armand did not follow. Whether he feels at home or not doesn’t much matter. The exhibit is a feast for the senses, the kind that Armand’s breed so adores.

The boy ancient has a wall to himself, just as promised, his bare ass peeking out from between a silk-draped divan and the vibrant fur of some golden beast. The modern Narcissus stares spellbound into the mirror set before him, reflecting features that have remained unchanged in the long centuries since. Marius was -- is? -- a master of his craft, and the appearance is so accurate as to set the human desperate to touch the canvas, as if there will be flesh against his touch rather than pigment.

He is in love with himself, Daniel decides, studying the awed expression that stares back from the mirror. Scoffing, he digs his fists into the pockets of his jeans, fleeing the rooms in totality. There is nothing left in the display to compare, and besides, their twenty minutes is almost up. If Armand is to discover this portrait of his unending youth, then he must be led swiftly to it. He is not, in fact, catching up. Abandoning the Renaissance without a glance towards the neighboring Gothic and Neoclassical rooms, Daniel tells himself that he must still be a little drunk, that the effigies seem too lifelike through the door out to the sculpture garden.

He has grown too accustomed to marble flesh and unsettling gazes. Yes, the statues appear alive to him now, but never in the way that Louis has described. His nails form perfect half-moons around his palms.

Armand’s stillness is so complete that, for the briefest moment, Daniel mistakes him for part of the collection. The redhead has not made it past the first room, stagnant in appraisal of a piece. It’s not like him. The terrible, unmoving moment seems wrong to tread upon, wronger still to permit. Rocking to and fro on his feet, the mortal casts a glance about the collection, looking at the pastel displays of nature and portraiture. Among this ephemeral flood, what can there be to possess his companion so? Slowly, cautiously, he approaches the other. How long has it been since I’ve hesitated with him?

Her dress is carmine, her hair a dark coil of curls braided around the crown of her head. The otherwise pleasant expression stares defiant out towards her audience, night-black eyes fierce despite the distance. Settling beside Armand, he recognizes the style immediately. The former stands there a long, long while, studying her features, his own brushwork. Daniel comes to settle beside him, feeling ceaselessly awkward for intruding. The apparent youth is no longer Narcissus staring into his own abyss. This face is a stranger.

Unnamed Mulatto, the little gold placard reads.

“Who was she?” Daniel whispers.

“They were the last human I fell in love with,” comes the confession, comes the breath catching in Daniel’s throat. He studies her, then the chain of gold around her neck, clutches the locket against his shirt.

“She’s beautiful,” he says, because what else is he meant to say? This dark woman, frightfully made, defiant even in facsimile, gives him little else to go on. There is something discordant in that face which makes him a liar, her soft smile at odds with her sharp stare.

“You should have seen them swordfight.”

“I didn’t think women could do that back then.”

And he's already thinking, what in me will you admire after I am gone? He studies those dark eyes, which seem so lifeless to him, a dark abyss in a sea of white, a grave come to swallow him. She is dead. He knows that as surely as his own name.

“They weren't a woman. But at the same time they were.”

Daniel doesn't understand it. He can't, in the parlance of the era, except that she -- they -- are singular in Armand's eyes. Or perhaps they make a matching set, he and this lost muse. Her warm oval face, offset by the chill of his realizations, seems unfathomably more abhorrent in the ensuing silence. Her mortality is his. It sours in his pit.

He doesn’t recognize Armand’s absence, his searching around for something sharp enough that he could rectify some flaw in the presentation. All Daniel registers is the horrific scraping as the vampire scratches their name into the placard: Claudia di Montoya. The spell breaks. Autumn 1982 rushes back into focus. Inhaling, Daniel discovers that the room is suddenly too hot for him. Sliding out of his jacket, he forces a new purpose into the air.

“Right. So. we have less than ten minutes, if that, before security picks us up, and I have to show you where I finally found your ass in this gallery--”

Bloodless fingers trace the new marks carved into gold, lingering over the syllables of Claudia, brown eyes boring into their own. The hand drops, and Armand drags himself up from the depths of memory. “Alright, Daniel. Lead the way.”

He knows that he must have done so, that they stand studying the canvas depicting a then human boy. He knows that Armand does not react with his commonplace amusement, his rundown of the events leading up to the pieces creation. This is not like Naples, or Prague, or Ontario, where they have found similar depictions of his life as a muse. The most the immortal offers is a slow smile, a hushed “There it is,” and Daniel understands very well what the difference is between Naples, Prague, Ontario, and Leon.

Why are they always named Claudia?

The question hounds him on their escape, down the city streets, into the bar where Daniel carves out a small meal of hot tapas. The two of them remain quiet among the ebb and flow of locals seeking a snack between dinner, and it’s so unlike Armand. It’s unlike Daniel, too, to go without his customary drink. Armand has dragged him around the world so he could be a part of it, but he sits consumed, contemplative. In this walled world of smoke and voices, a dozen languages flowing like wine, Daniel imagines the other a world way. In his own mind, the vampire must still be in another room, far from Venice, long before this bar. She dances up to him, crimson swirling around her ankles as the band plays a waltz through a gilded palace. She’s staring his keeper down like a shark, that awkward smile a threat, and like any proper storybook villainess, she devours her target whole. Skin, blood, curls, and lace, Armand is engulfed into her, a wooden puppet fed into flames. Daniel holds his glass all the tighter.

That pensive mood fails to pass as they leave. There are no further stops along their walk to whatever passes for home, the rented room in a crumbling piece of ancient architecture. Daniel decides that he is tired of history, though he turns his question over until it is worn smooth.

It is the sole question he can tolerate. It is the only one without a clear or meaningful answer, and if he dares to branch out from it, he’ll be heading straight for bedlam. The overlap of names can mean nothing but coincidence. The golden chain, the choice of words, the melancholy that has settled inside of his jailer, these things carry far greater meaning. Thoughts, and his desperate attempts to block them, consume him so deeply that he hardly notices Armand slipping away when the moon is at his highest. In his absence, Daniel finds little to do but lean against the worn metal lining the balcony and smoke.

Armand returns, but not alone. Like an alchemist, he has gathered his tools, ready to perform some magic on the task he has chosen. He places the late beloved upon the desk with such care, the rags and chemicals he has brought along burning at mortal senses. His paints and brushes are at the ready, and Daniel feels fire build in his chest. Uncaring, the other begins his careful undertaking, hardly needing light to go about his restoration.

Daniel hates it, actually. hates this memento mori lurking under this rented roof, hates that this is all he will be one day. In another hundred years, will Armand point at some ash-haired man in a gallery and say to someone else 'That was Daniel, I loved him very much, he was a fool, but he was beautiful when he was in his right mind' ? His latest cigarette burns too close to his fingers. He drops it, careless, to the streets below, staring at the tiny, irritated mark it has left behind. Nothing is said, but the night grows cold, and his tactical retreat is pyrrhic. There is warmth within, yes, but also the ghost Armand chooses to set between them.

Shutting the door to the world outside, the pair become locked into that harsh company, the spectral Claudia with her hands around her lover’s throat.

Slumping into what passes for his chair, the human passes the next hour in silence, so pointedly ignoring the work that it consumes his every thought. Dexterous digits dance along the desk, seeking oils, seeking brushes, seeking that which will return his dead beloved to him. Daniel’s own hands twitch uselessly against the arms of his seat. Here, he is powerless, less than a thought, less than a long-dead stranger. The silence is broken at last by the devil himself.

“They never believed me, about any of it. I told them everything, Vampires, my past, and Claude always thought I was lying through my teeth. Even faced with proof, they blamed my theatricality and my staff’s skill with stagecraft. It never broke them, the truth, not like others.” Fondness colors his voice in spite of it. For every way in which this person might spite him, his voice is heavy with reverence.

Daniel must ask, in that soft, hesitant voice, “Is that why you never turned them?”

“No.” Armand does not pause as he speaks, a slip of a brush still swirling against the canvas. “They had a life. They loved someone else, their princess, named Haydee. They had children eventually. They had a human life, and I wouldn't take them away from that.”

How gracious, then, for the bloodsucker to show restraint with those that desired it. He’d never done a damn thing for those that actually want anything from him, after all. “Good for them,” Daniel says, and he reaches for his cigarettes, lights one. Standing, he resigns himself to the curiosity that colors his distaste, clears the distance between them to study Armand's undertaking so far. There's so much yellow paint. and he thinks, I am here, and I love you, only you. What does a human life have to offer me? But he simply exhales, silent, as smoke hangs in the air between them.

If he loves himself in death as he did in humanity, then Daniel need only reflect the vampire as clearly and coolly as Marius’ mirror. If he loved another and let them go, then there are no assurances between them, no safety net to catch Daniel as he struggles towards death or immortality. The architect of his salvation could choose to damn him instead, wholly untouched by his plight. He imagines the pitiless creature before him pristine as the white button up clinging to his form, absent of any trace of paint. The palette of Daniel’s desire for him, for everything he is, might never reach him.

Armand must feel the emotions rolling off him, but he ignores it in favor of continuing to fix the painting. The restorers cannot have ruined the original too deeply for as quickly as he rights their wrongs. The whole of his focus narrows to knifepoint over the abyss that had so captured his companion, which remain defiant in the dim of their quarters. Daniel watches her stare blaze to life under Armand's steady hands, gilded and bright. People have always spoken of his own eyes, like violets. Is this what the other likes best, the fire in eyes that give the rest of the world pause?

Once the golden irises are right, the master artist goes to refining the rest. The changes are small, but somehow urgent. Armand moves furiously to make the portrait as it should be, as it was originally. The barest twitch of his fingers transforms the image into something greater. Red curls slip free of the scrunchie that bunches his hair to a low bun against his spine, turning the vampire to a mess as he keeps at his artistic endeavors.

His lover might have kissed that pallid neck and drawn him from his efforts, were Daniel any more forgiving of this intruder and how Armand forces her into their life.

“She's not smiling anymore,” Daniel notes at last, when the change is finalized. Her face pulls into harmony as her mouth turns to a hard line. “Was that her mood then, or yours now?”

There’s age in the way he sighs, true age. For a moment, Daniel imagines himself catching a glimpse of what Armand should have been, had the chance to grow and dedicate himself to his first talents. Hunched over his workspace, world narrowing to his subject alone, the youth becomes a master. Daniel hates this, too, this thought that would mean his master’s death, nothing other than a historical footnote. He deserves more than that. He deserves more than this momentary obsession that tears at whatever trust the two have rebuilt in the months since Daniel’s return.

“They're not smiling because someone dared to touch their portrait that was not my hands. It's what they would want.”

Those hands dance smoothly across the stolen art, ensuring his vision return to the world. He must not want this ancient Lenore to return from her sepulchre to damn him for the mistakes of other artisans. Dead is dead, the mortal knows, and they are owed nothing. When had Armand last spared a thought for this loved and lost before the museum so rudely reminded him of her existence? She doesn’t belong here, this poorly lit room with yellowed wallpaper, because it is theirs, and she is worth far more than the entire building.

“Mm,” Daniel hums, and doesn't have much else to say. In spite of his mood, there is something riveting in this, actually, watching the master at work. He had been born far too late for the Palazzo, for the golden days when the boy in front of him assisted in his Master’s artistic pursuits. He’s only ever been left with the aftermath of that golden age, the pieces scattered across museum displays and private collections the world over. This should be a great gift, watching his lover keep at his ancient craft. But he's still so bitter about the shape his night has taken.

“What pendant is she wearing?” he asks, once he is properly braced for the possibility that the locket around his neck belongs to a cycle. He had once thought it was his own, a gift passed between lovers that said whatever else his keeper was, he was protective of what counted as his.

The other offers a comfortingly familiar shrug that sets his shoulders colliding with his ears, saying simply, “Some pendant. I don’t know. Perhaps a piece Haydee gave them.”

Daniel relaxes. Comforted, he steps away from their shared obsession, slumps into his chair, snuffs out his cigarette on its upholstered arm and flicks it towards a pile of books. Dragging a hand through his hair, he concedes there exist small mercies in Armand's presence.

He does not know what time passes in the euphoria of that small victory. He keeps time in the fact that it has been long enough for him to get lost in his thoughts, for the night to grow ever smaller. Whether it is minutes or hours later, Armand finishes his first phase of restoration and throws himself into Daniel’s orbit. The former’s body fits perfectly against his, straddling him, pushing him backwards with insistent hands as kisses the warmth from Daniel’s lips.

“You and Claude are not the same. For one, you love me back. For two, they are long dead. I loved them once, but that love is in the past. I only wish to honor them now by making sure their portrait is in hands that will care for it properly. I'll send it off to the Montoya estate in Sardinia once it's finished being restored.”

The mortal lays there, dispassionate, as he listens to these assertions. and what can he possibly say to that? God, his lover thinks he's jealous. If he compares himself to this fallen woman, it isn't in self-pity -- it is to outdo her, to look at where she failed and he might yet succeed. But he allows Armand to kiss him, kiss his lips cold as marble, and says nothing of how he refuses to be another portrait to be repaired. His mind is made. All that’s left is to make a plan of it.

Armand keeps up the kissing, down to his neck, to play at biting only to merely drag his teeth along pale skin. His hand reaching down to rub Daniel through his pants, falling into a pattern so familiar that it would be boring were it any less fulfilling. He recognizes what Armand thinks, mind gift or no. Perhaps sex will get his mind off of all this.

He lets Armand believe that it will. Lets himself give in, already deciding to make his stand, yet another escape. Tomorrow, perhaps, when the sun is up. Perhaps taking the unfortunate girl with him. It will be cruel, beyond any attempt he’s made in the past, to deprive the vampire of his companionship and a newfound project. It must be done, however, to speak what cannot be conveyed properly in words. There will be a statement in this even if he does fall again, consumed by the need for Armand, for his slender arms and white-hot blood.

He won't be content to be art.

#let's hear it for rock bottom [ DANIEL ; WANDERING ]#cutting each other without even knowing [ DANIEL X ARMAND ]#heaven sends and heaven takes [ claude & armand ]#drabbletagtba #this is the first longform oneshot i have written in.... years.

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ultimate-angst · 4 years

Note

Can you please do a scenario where Shuichi is dying and Kaede does everything in her power to save him, but ultimately fails he spends his final moments in a lot of pain? Bonus if Kaede indirectly lead to Shuichi’s death. Not really killed him herself, but she’s the main reason he’s in his position.

First request!! I’m still just getting back into writing, so there may be some mistakes. The setting is up to you, but it’s either post-game or in a non-game AU. I hope this is to your liking, anon. :)

It’s quite long, so I put it under a cut!

I’m Sorry I Couldn’t Save You (Saimatsu)

TW: character death, lots of pain (emotional and physical), probably inaccurate medical stuff (what, do I look like a human doctor to you?)

Shuichi had never really been a fan of hiking. It was always too hot, or there were too many bugs, or he got tired too fast, or some imagined predator would scare him back to civilization. His mind was always able to find some excuse to turn back, to return to the cool air and safety of their shared apartment.

Kaede, however, was stubborn as a mule and a master at talking him into situations he’d rather have no part in. It’s my birthday, she’d begged, doe-eyed and pouting, I’ve always wanted to go hiking. I don’t have anyone else to go with. That last bit was a lie, but he’d caved in to her demands anyways. He never could resist her.

That was how he’d ended up at a nearby trail, hat settled firmly on his head and a rucksack full of supplies on his back. Kaede sported a triumphant grin, squeezing his (admittedly sweaty) hand as they prepared to start their trek.

“Come on, Shuichi, this’ll be fun,” she insists, starting to tug him along. Although embarrassed at the contact, he doesn’t fight it, plodding alongside her with all the enthusiasm of a wet dish rag.

“I’m sure it will be,” he replies. He’s not sure if it’s to appease her or to reassure himself, but it sounds like the right thing to say either way. She seems satisfied with the response, and they fall into a steady pace as they make their way up the trail.

The atmosphere around them is calm, peaceful, quiet aside from the chirping of birds and Kaede’s gentle humming. She looks so content, and suddenly Shuichi doesn’t care that it’s too bright outside, that it’s too hot under his hat, that the pack is getting heavy on his back, that they’re slowly getting farther from the nearest town. Kaede is joyful and practically bouncing on her feet and still holding his hand, and that’s all he can bring himself to care about.

He listens as she points out the birds and squirrels that cross their path, the flowers she thinks are pretty, the trees she wishes she could climb. Occasionally, she pulls him to the side to examine a butterfly or a pretty beetle, and though he doesn’t want to be out longer than they have to, he doesn’t mind the little pauses, the moments where she grips his hand just a little tighter as she pulls him to her side.

They reach the marked halfway point, and Kaede pauses to awe at the beautiful valley below them. She releases his hand, and Shuichi doesn’t tell her that he misses the warmth as he watches her pull out her phone. She snaps a few photos of the view, then turns to him with a bright grin.

“Here, let me take your picture.”

The words throw him off guard, and he’s left stammering for a response. She giggles, reddening his cheeks further.

“Come on, please? I promise I won’t post it, I just want a picture of you,” she pleads, batting her lashes in a way she knows he’ll give in to. And he does, sighing in resignation as he averts his gaze.

“Alright, fine.” His voice wavers against his wishes, but Kaede doesn’t seem to care, perking up immediately with a little squeal of joy.

“Yay, thank you! Okay, I guess you should stand here?” She guides him closer to the edge of the path, squeezing his arm reassuringly when she notices his apprehensive gaze.

“Don’t worry, you’re fine, just don’t move too far back.” She takes a step back towards the path, studying him. Lifting her phone, she instructs him to smile. He obliges, tipping his hat back and flashing a shy grin. He feels a bit awkward, and he hates having his picture taken, but maybe he doesn’t mind as long as she’s the one behind the camera.

“Okay,” she says when she’s finished, lowering the device and skipping towards him, “now one of us!” She slides into place beside him, casually throwing an arm around his shoulder and pulling him against her side. His mind freezes momentarily, and he can feel his face heating up at the sudden close proximity. He forces his thoughts back to the present moment just as she raises her phone, trying to find a good angle. She grins, and she doesn’t even need to remind him this time as he flashes the camera a sheepish smile. She snaps a few pictures and then lowers the phone. Quickly, she presses a chaste kiss to his cheek before pulling away.

He feels his entire chest heat up, breath catching in his throat. The sudden release of his shoulders causes him to stumble, and he tries to find footing behind him.

He doesn’t have time to react. His heart drops to his stomach as his foot finds nothing but air. He blindly reaches out for something, anything, to hold on to, but he’s left flailing wildly as he falls backwards.

The first impact as he falls forces a strangled yelp from his throat, tears burning his eyes as pain shoots through his back to his extremities. The next impact hurts even more, and so it continues, each one stinging more than the last until he finally blacks out.

The first thing he registers when he wakes up is pain. His whole body burns with it, and the sudden force of it all causes him to gasp. The motion sends a stabbing pain through his chest, and he lets out a low whine, his breathing shallow.

He doesn’t even attempt to open his eyes until he hears a frantic voice crying his name, accompanied by footsteps and the skidding of rocks. The sound is unfocused, fuzzy, and he tries to push back the pounding of his skull as he attempts to open his eyes. The sunlight stings, and he squints at his surroundings as he tries to take them in.

He’s laying mostly on his side, facing a wall of rock and dirt. If he shifts his gaze a bit, he can see bushes and other small plants. Something on his head is warm. He starts to move his head, and his vision darkens as the pain returns tenfold. He whines, immediately squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to make it stop.

The whine is quickly followed by the same voice repeating his name, more urgently this time. He can’t seem to remember who it is, but it’s so familiar. He responds immediately to the voice, letting out a high whimper. The footsteps speed up, and through the haze of pain he can hear them growing closer.

“Shuichi? Oh my god, Shuichi!” The footsteps skid to a halt behind him, and he can hear how heavy her breathing is. He winces as a gentle hand is placed on his shoulder, a soft noise rising from him.

“Shuichi, can you hear me?” He groans in response, his mouth unable to form a proper response. He hears what is either a sigh or a sob, but his fuzzy mind can’t figure out which. “Oh thank god, you’re awake, you’re alive, you’re-” The words turn into a choked sob.

“I’m gonna take off the bag and turn you over, okay?” The voice is shaky but kind, and he lets out a small sound in acknowledgement. He feels the pressure on his shoulders being relieved, the weight against his back disappearing. The hand that had been on him slips to his upper back, just below the base of his neck, and the other moves to the front of his shoulder, applying a gentle pressure as she rolls him onto his back.

The movement sends a sharp pain through his chest, and the strangled gasp that escapes his throat quickly turns into a sob. He can hear the voice apologizing repeatedly, smoothing their hand over his shoulder in an attempt to soothe him. One hand reaches up, tenderly brushing the hair from his face. It feels sticky, and he can’t think well enough to wonder why.

“Oh, Shuichi, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry,” the voice sobs. The hand presses against his cheek - gently, as if terrified to hurt him further. He forces himself to breathe shakily through the pain, wishing it would subside quicker. As soon as it’s back at a manageable level, he cracks one eye open, squinting at the light before adding another.

It takes a moment for his brain to realize who the girl above him is, and he doesn’t even register the whimper slipping past his lips.

“Kaede-” His voice is pitiful, pleading. Pleading for what? For her to help him? For her to take his pain away? Her thumb rubs his cheek, wiping away the tears that are starting to build.

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” The hands pull away as she sits back, turning her attention to their bag. “I’m gonna call for help, okay? Just hang in there. You’ll be okay, okay?”

He closes his eyes, listening to her search for her phone. He breathes shallowly through the pain, his chest burning with each inhale and exhale.

After a few moments, he hears a groan. Another moment passes, followed by a frustrated cry. He can hear Kaede’s breathing quicken, her voice shaking as she holds back tears.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, this can’t be happening......” Shuichi pries his eyes open, glancing over at his companion. She’s frantic, pulling at her hair with one hand as the other holds her phone. She’s biting her lip, tears sliding down her cheeks, her face flushed with panic and frustration. The cycle of quiet and panic continues until she’s at her breaking point, letting out a sharp cry as she throws her phone in the bag. She hangs her head, her hands grasping tightly at her hair, allowing herself to fall apart for a moment.

It hurts him to watch, especially knowing that he can’t move to comfort her. His voice is low and strained as he speaks her name, but it makes her jolt noticeably, her head shooting up to look at him. Guilt washes over her features, and she quickly moves over to his side to soothe him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, there’s no signal down here,” she sobs. Her hand rubs his shoulder in a feeble attempt to calm him, but that doesn’t stop the panic that shoots through him.

No signal. No help. He’s going to die here, scared and hurting and-

He’s jolted from his thoughts as she slips her hand behind his shoulder. She’s wiped the tears from her face, and she looks like she’s trying hard to stay strong.

“Shuichi, you’re going to have to move. I’m going to get us back to the trail and out of here, okay? This is going to hurt, but I can’t call for help and I’m not leaving you here alone.” She pauses, allowing him to take in her words. Her hand smooths over his shoulder, hoping to keep him calm. “I’m going to start sitting you up, okay?” She waits for him to give her a pained nod, then starts to move. She shifts towards his head, both of her hands moving to his shoulders. Slowly, trying to be as gentle as possible, she starts to lift his torso, moving him to a seated position.

If he was hurting before, he can’t even fathom what threshold of pain he just crossed. His chest burns, the pain shooting through his body as he gasps for breath. Kaede doesn’t move her hands from his shoulders even after he’s sitting, rubbing her thumbs over the cloth of his shirt and muttering reassurances. Once his breathing becomes less ragged, she shifts.

“We’re gonna try to stand, okay?” Shuichi feels panic run through him, knowing how much this will hurt. He knows he doesn’t have another choice, though. He doesn’t want to die here. He feels himself nod.

Kaede is quiet for a moment, and one hand disappears from his shoulder. He hears the rustling of their bag, and he figures Kaede has put it on herself. After a moment, the hand returns to his shoulders, gently pressing against him.

“Ready?” He forces himself to nod, and he feels her arms slip under his armpits, starting to lift him up. It strains the ache in his ribs, and he instinctively cries out, tears burning in his eyes.

“I know,” she says, trying to soothe him. “I know, I know, I’m sorry.” She remains steady and strong behind him, lifting him to his feet. As soon as he’s mostly upright, she wraps one arm around him, the other hand guiding his arm around her shoulders. He’s gasping for breath, sobbing through the pain in his ribs. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe, and the realization of this causes panic to shoot down his spine. His shallow breathing grows rapid, and the tears begin to fall, dampening his shirt and the dirt below him. Kaede’s free hand finds his shirt, pressing against him to try and soothe his panic.

“Kae- I can’t- I can-” He hardly manages to push out the words before a cough bubbles up his throat. The force of it burns his chest and his throat, and he sobs as he inhales. Another one tears at his throat, and they continue to come until he can hardly catch a breath between them. He vaguely registers Kaede starting to panic, and he feels himself being lowered back to the ground. The pain shoots back through him as he sits, his back propped up against the wall of rock. Once he’s settled, Kaede removes her bag, digging around before pulling out a bottle of water.

“Hey, okay, breathe, Shuichi, can you do that? Just breathe for me.” He feels a hand on him, rubbing his shoulder gently. He tries to do as instructed, forcing back the rising coughs and drawing in a shaky breath. Light coughing pushes its way through as he exhales, but it starts to calm down enough that breathing doesn’t feel like a fight. He’s exhausted now, though, the exertion taking whatever energy he might’ve had. He becomes acutely aware of the taste of iron on his tongue.

“Here, drink some of this, okay?” He feels the rim of the bottle pressing against his lips, and he parts them, swallowing the water that pours out as Kaede tips the bottle back. The cool liquid helps soothe his throat some, but it’s not long before he coughs again, spilling some on his shirt. Kaede is quick to pull the bottle away, screwing the lid back on and putting it back in the bag. Shuichi gazes at her through teary eyes, his vision becoming fuzzy. Kaede is watching him, looking worried and scared and thoughtful, and he accepts the moment of silence as she thinks.

“I’m gonna go back up the trail,” she says slowly, sounding for the first time uncertain with her decision, “and see if I can catch a signal up there. You stay here and rest, okay?” He feels himself nodding slowly, though the movement hardly registers. His eyelids flutter.

“I’ll be right back, okay? I won’t be long. Just hang in there for me.” Her hand presses gently against his shoulder, soothing and warm. He wishes she didn’t have to go.

“I’m going to leave this here. Just in case you need anything from it.” He vaguely registers a weight against his side, and he figures it’s their bag.

A hand brushes his hair from his face, and soft lips press against his forehead. He’d be embarrassed if he weren’t about to pass out.

“I love you, Shuichi. You’ll be okay. Just hang in there.” Her voice is distant, foggy, and he exhales slowly as his eyes fall shut. His ribs still ache, pain hitting him with every shallow breath, but her words bring enough warmth to soothe him momentarily.

And just like that, her warmth is gone, her footsteps retreating as she runs back towards the trail. He feels himself falling, darkness clouding his thoughts, until he falls unconscious once more.

When Kaede finally returns, paramedics in tow, she’s quick to rush to his side, her eyes scanning over him to make sure he’s okay. She glances over the blood dried on his head, the red staining his right side, the scrapes and bruises decorating his arms and legs.

The last thing she notices is how still his chest is. Her heart drops, and her whole body goes cold. Without thinking, her hands find his shoulders, squeezing them worriedly, before sliding up to his cheeks. She cups his face, tears blurring her vision as she sobs, pleading with him to wake up, to open his eyes, to do anything at all.

Choked sobs turn into hysterical crying as an EMT pulls her away, giving the other paramedics room to examine the bloodied boy. Her chest feels so tight that she thinks she’s going to burst, and she screams as if that’s going to relieve the pressure. She can’t bear to think that Shuichi, her Shuichi, is gone, dead, that she’d left him to suffer his painful fate alone.

That final thought is what breaks her. He died alone. No one there to comfort him, to hold his hand, to wipe his tears and hold him close as he passed.

She was supposed to be there for him through thick and thin, through sickness and in health. And she’d failed him.

#for anyone curious: his cause of death was a punctured lung caused by broken ribs #shuichi saihara #saihara shuichi #kaede akamatsu #akamatsu kaede #saimatsu #writing #danganronpa #danganronpa imagines #danganronpa v3 #danganronpa v3 killing harmony #ndrv3 #death #death tw #i did cry writing this #imagine #mod hajime

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krumbine · 4 years

Text

The Insufferable Silence in Apartment 616

There's something terrifying about being alone with your thoughts.

For Lizzie Stevenson, even five minutes is too long––that’s why she’s always chasing that next distraction.

But when a home invader ties her to a chair, Lizzie finds herself stuck between a rock and a crazy space, forced to confront a surprising darkness lurking in her past.

***The following story contains adult themes. Virgin eyes, beware! (I’m looking at you, mom.)***

###

The darkness wasn’t so bad. It was a black void, absent any light, a dizzying plunge into terrifying, absolute nothingness.

But even that paled in comparison to the silence.

It enveloped Lizzie, wrapping around her head like a winter blanket soaked in water. The weight was crushing.

Then came the thoughts, banging against her skull as if they were baseball bats wielded by some doped-up player in the middle of a roid rage.

You’re a failure.

He left because you’re broken.

No one loves you. No one likes you.

You’ll never finish that degree.

You’re fat.

He left because you’re fat.

That bitch. That fucking slut.

You’re not even out of your twenties and you’ve already peaked.

Why do you drink so much? Because you’re a fucking alcoholic, that’s why, and honestly you’re okay with that, nevermind the consequences.

You’re a fucking coward.

Why did you let him leave you?

Can your parents possibly think less of you? Yes, definitely. They only ever liked you because he was with you.

The darkness wasn’t so bad but the silence was a fucking cunt.

Lizzie Stevenson jolted violently as she awoke. Her head jerked forward and her feathery cinnamon hair splayed across her face in a mess. She drew sharp breaths in through her nose, attempting to pull her breath back from the panic attack that clawed at her tightened chest.

The first thing Lizzie noticed was the ticking of a vintage Mickey Mouse clock hanging on the wall of her apartment a few feet away.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The second thing Lizzie noticed was that her arms and legs were securely tied to the chair she was sitting on. A few extra lengths of rope crossed her chest, tying her to the back of the chair.

Lizzie’s cry was muffled by the gag in her mouth.

A muted exclamation came from the kitchen.

Lizzie craned her neck and saw someone pulling a can of soda from the fridge. It was a man. Maybe a little younger than her––no, maybe older? His dark eyes were wide with excitement, a smooth face split in what looked almost to be a manic grin. He wore a dark green hooded blazer––

––seaweed green, Lizzie thought randomly––

––a black t-shirt and dark jeans. And black leather boots with heavy soles. Doc Martens?

The ropes bit at her wrists. Lizzie twisted her legs, pulling at the bindings on her ankles, unconsciously pulling her knees together. The tightness in her chest grew warm.

Lizzie’s focus was pulled back to the intruder’s face as he approached her––

––Tick. Tick. Tick––

Pale. Narrow. Black hair swept effortlessly back. And those dark eyes. As he got closer, she could tell that they were brown, but they were the darkest shade of brown she had ever seen.

As the intruder sat down in front of her, crossing his legs and popping the top of the soda, Lizzie became acutely aware of the gag that he had no doubt shoved into her mouth. A feeling a helplessness gripped her.

And then there was that particularly not unpleasant tingle.

Fuck you, Lizzie.

The intruder’s eyes sparkled and the manic grin expanded as if he could hear her thoughts.

Lizzie gulped, attempting to stamp down the tingle. She tried to speak but was again muffled by the gag.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The intruder was unfazed.

“Hello, Lizzie,” he said.

The tingle swam back, a spreading warmth accompanied by a twitch.

Goddammit, you fucking cunt.

His voice was warm and welcoming and infinitely nourishing, as if it was the only voice she would ever need to hear for the rest of her life. At the same time, he spoke with exacting precision, his words carrying an edge that threatened to cut as efficiently as they could comfort.

Two words and you’re already wet. You’re a worthless bag of shit.

Lizzie tried to speak again, but her mouth was otherwise occupied.

The intruder sipped his soda.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Let’s make a deal, Lizzie,” he said. “Gag comes off, you answer a question, and we both go on with our lives.”

He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, inches from Lizzie’s face. She could smell him and that only served to set the tingle on fire. Her eyes watered and she realized it must look like she was silently begging him to take the gag out.

Take it out. And shove something else in.

“How does that sound?”

Lizzie swallowed hard and her head jerked in an abrupt nod. The intruder leaned back in his chair and considered Lizzie with a pensive––

––fucking hard throbbing––

––stare.

Electricity pricked its way across Lizzie’s skin, starting from her wetness and traveling across her bound extremities until a chill crept up her spine, causing an involuntary twitch to seize her body.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The intruder reached around Lizzie’s head and untied the gag. As he pulled it away, his fingers brushed her cheek.

Lizzie gasped as the gag fell from her mouth.

He sat back down, crossing his legs again. “What are you so afraid of, Lizzie?”

Lizzie’s insides were twisting. She could talk, although her body was demanding the other thing. She closed her eyes and worked her jaw, sore from the gag. Finally: “Who are you and what the fuck are you doing in my apartment?”

No reaction, no missed beat: “My name is Peter and I’m here asking you what you’re so afraid of, Lizzie.”

Never getting fucked again? Never feeling like you’re being split in two––

“Your boyfriend dumped you. It didn’t go well. Not that those things ever do. But you check his Instagram every day. Not to mention the new girl’s Instagram—” he leaned forward conspiratorially —“the fucking tits on that one! Honestly, he should enjoy it while it lasts because she’s grade-A fuckmeat that’s just gonna move onto the next thick dick that crosses her path, am I right?”

Lizzie blinked. His words were a cold shower to her repressed libido. Who the fuck was this guy and how did he know?

As if he could read her mind: “Again, my name is Peter,” he repeated, leaning back and dropping the melodrama, “and I’m here asking you what you’re so afraid of, Lizzie.”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“How about this? Fun World. You have an annual pass and go there once or twice after work every week. That’s on top of weekend visits,” Peter said. “Your patronage of this park is like clockwork.”

Lizzie didn’t understand why she had to defend her recreational activities to a home invader. “I have an annual pass. It’s a great value. A good way to kill a few hours.”

Peter leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Reading a book is a good way to kill a few hours and infinitely more affordable, not to mention a great way to expand those mental horizons. Spending more time at a theme park than one of its minimum wage hot dog slingers is a tacit––albeit desperate––exercise in avoiding something else altogether.”

Peter’s impossibly dark eyes penetrated Lizzie.

“Something that terrifies you,” he said quietly. “So again: what are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid of anything!” Lizzie snapped.

“Ha!” Peter bounced to his feet so quickly his chair clattered to the floor behind him. “Everyone’s afraid of something. Everyone has that little voice inside their head pointing out all their failures. Maybe you’re afraid you were never good enough for your boyfriend, or anyone else for that matter. Maybe you’re afraid you won’t lose those few extra pounds. Or maybe you’re just afraid of the Big One.”

Peter grabbed Lizzie’s wrists and leaned in close, uncomfortable nose-to-nose. “The inevitable. The endless sleep. The darkness that comes for all of us. Tell me, Lizzie, are you so insufferably boring that you’re just afraid of death?”

Lizzie had no idea what was happening, but it was safe to say that all the sexual energy had evaporated. That tends to happen when someone calls you insufferably boring.

“Fuck you.”

Peter clicked his teeth and pulled away. “No … not death.”

He turned to the table and picked up a smartphone. Lizzie recognized her case. Peter tapped in a sequence of numbers and unlocked the device.

“Hey––!”

“Last I counted,” Peter said as he scrolled the device, “you were able to keep upwards of thirteen utterly random conversations going on social media. Concurrently. With complete strangers.”

Peter selected a thread and held the phone in front of Lizzie’s face. She couldn’t get her eyes to focus on the blue text bubbles.

“Why?” he asked with a half-shrug. “There’s absolutely nothing of importance in any of this—” he scrolled the thread of messages across the screen, “––no value, no purpose other than to keep your fingers busy––”

Peter paused and looked up, dark eyes glazed. The corner of his mouth quirked up.

“Oh. That’s it, isn’t it?”

Peter put the phone back on the table, picked up the fallen chair and placed it back in front of Lizzie. He sat down.

“You’re afraid of the quiet, aren’t you, Lizzie Stevenson?”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Fun Wold. Creeping on the boyfriend and his new fuck buddy. The endless scroll of social media.” Peter casually tossed a thumb over his shoulder at a day planner sitting on the kitchen counter. “A calendar so full it’s a wonder how you don’t have an assistant managing it all for you.”

Lizzie searched his eyes for some kind of plausible explanation for the home and psychological invasion, but there was nothing there. It was like the man was playing a role and he was wearing this ‘Peter’ character as a mask.

“You’re afraid that if you slow down, it might get a little too quiet,” Peter continued. “And if it gets too quiet, then maybe you’ll have to actually deal with that thing inside you. That emptiness. That blackness. Is that what you’re afraid of, Lizzie Stevenson?”

Fuck this shit.

“You’re a fucking lunatic.”

Peter shrugged dismissively. “There are worse things.”

“What the actual hell do you want from me?”

“I want you tell me what you’re afraid of, Lizzie,” Peter said again, as calm and patient as the first time he asked.

“And then what?”

“And then you let it go.”

“Fuck you.”

It was as if Peter had heard it a million times and was immune. Or maybe it was just because Lizzie was tied up and he wasn’t.

“I’m offering you freedom, Lizzie,” he said, that warm voice welcoming her into some unseen abyss, nourishing her and filling her with–– “I chose you, Lizzie. I chose you––of all the insipid, brainless shitbags in this city, you were the only one who mattered.”

Peter smiled. “I chose you, Lizzie Stevenson, to show the door to. You still have to choose to walk through it. Now tell me––”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“—what are you afraid of?”

Lizzie glanced at the shitty Mickey Mouse clock. This had been fun, at least for a little bit, but the time was up. Her shoulder’s slumped in defeat.

“… you’re not wrong.”

If Peter was surprised or satisfied or horny, he didn’t show it.

“… I’m afraid of sitting still,” Lizzie said softly. “I’m afraid of the quiet.”

She looked up and met Peter’s eyes.

“I am afraid of the darkness inside me.”

Peter shook his head compassionately. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Lizzie.”

“No, no,” she said, head rolling back and forth before slumping forward. “No—no. No.”

Peter’s hand rested on her thigh but she couldn’t feel it. He whispered: “You have to let it go. The fear. The anger. The loneliness. None of it matters. And once you let it go––”

“You don’t understand,” Lizzie said, keeping her head down to avoid Peter’s gaze.

A chuckle. “You cannot possibly comprehend the depths of my understanding,” Peter said softly.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“… it started a little over a year ago,” Lizzie finally said without looking up. Her shoulders quivered. “I was interning at Kelltech Labs. Doctor Jason Kell was an alum at my school––”

The first indication of genuine annoyance from Peter. “I’ve been over all of this already. Jason Edward Kell. Renowned Alzheimer’s researcher. And you, the bright young intern––”

Lizzie sobbed.

Fuck.

She couldn’t avoid it any longer. This mysterious home invader in the Doc Martens who had clearly done his homework––this asshole somehow knew the exact right buttons to mash.

How could he have been so right and yet so completely wrong?

Tick. Tic––

It’s time to end this.

“Stop crying,” Peter was saying in his bullshit hypnotic tone. “You need to accept the darkness and embrace the meaningless of it all––”

Snap!

The ropes binding Lizzie’s left hand fell to the floor and Peter scooted back in his chair in surprise.

“Whoa.”

Lizzie wasn’t sobbing. Her body was convulsing, muscles rippling and contorting under her flesh. Her right wrist bulged and strained at the rope, threads snapping and unraveling from pressure.

Finger bones cracked and twisted, lengthening as her nails darkened, hardened, and curved to a point.

When her right wrist broke free of the final strands, Peter shot to his feet and backed up. His eyes were wide but not with fear.

Peter was excited.

Lizzie Stevenson was far from insufferably boring.

Bones kept cracking and shifting as the violent transformation continued. Lizzie tore at the ropes straining across her chest and as the bindings on her ankles snapped. She rose up from the buckling chair. Her shoulders rippled as they gained an unseemly mass. They rolled backwards as she slowly straightened to her full height, head canted to avoid the apartment ceiling.

Peter looked up at Lizzie’s face. It was broader, flatter, but he could still see her features. That cinnamon hair cascaded all the way down her body, underneath her stretched and tearing clothes.

“… motherfucker.”

Peter’s mind raced, piecing together the missing bits of information that led to an abrupt end to Lizzie’s promising internship at the biotech company.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

Or at least, that was one way to look at it.

“You … are …” Peter searched for the right word. “… fascinating.”

Lizzie’s chest heaved as the convulsions of the transformation subsided. Peter cautiously approached her, raising a hand up to her head.

“… I knew there was darkness in you, but this … my dear, Lizzie, the things we’re going to do together—”

Lizzie bared fangs and growled a violent warning. When she spoke, it came out low and raspy, but without hesitation.

“How’s this for letting go?”

Lizzie smashed a bowling-ball sized fist into Peter’s face.

###

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jordan Krumbine is a professional video editor, digital artist, and creative wizard currently quarantined in Kissimmee, Florida. When not producing content for the likes of Visit Orlando, Orlando Sentinel, or AAA National, Jordan is probably yelling at a stubbornly defective Macbook keyboard, tracking creative projects in Trello, and animating quirky videos with LEGO and other various toys.

Leave a dollar in the Tip Jar: https://ko-fi.com/krumbine

Short stories: https://bit.ly/2XY5D7I Books on Amazon Kindle: https://amzn.to/3bsqK5Y YouTube: https://bit.ly/2W41nSG Twitter: https://bit.ly/2VH0Vbu Facebook: https://bit.ly/2VpnylZ LinkedIn: https://bit.ly/2xnmk1e

http://www.krumbco.com

#writer #writeblr #short story #home invasion #fiction #alone with my thoughts #monster #horror #scary #uncomfortable #sasquatch #bigfoot #werewolves #krumbine #jordan krumbine

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turtlepated · 5 years

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The Turnings of Fire

This is currently my longest chapter but I was anxious to get to the good part!

Chapter 4:

Stifling heat engulfed them, wafting up in stiff gusts from the hellish expanse yawning hungrily below. The forceful winds were oppressively hot, even for Hellboy, causing perspiration to break out on his forehead as he clung one-handed to side of the crevice and held Claire in the other. Sweat was dripping between his horns and down his sideburns and into his eyes, making them sting. He blinked away the discomfort, craning his neck around to get a look at just how screwed they were. Thanks to his demonic strength, he could hang there for quite some time without tiring even with the addition of Claire’s weight to his own. The problem was that with the fire raging and noxious gases filling the air there was a growing danger of suffocation, particularly for her.

She dangled at his side, gripping his arm for dear life while he held fast to her wrist. “Hang tight,” he grunted, shaking sweat out of his eyes. “I’m gonna get us out of here!” He made to pull her up to grab onto his shoulders so he’d have both hands free for climbing, his heart skipping a beat when she suddenly let go of his wrist to point at something. “Look!” It was the lantern. He’d lost it in the fall and in the time since he’d had more pressing concerns. It was perched precariously on a small outcropping of rock just a couple feet out of his reach. “Forget it!” he told Claire. “I’ll take you up and come back for it.” Claire shook her head, her own face shining with sweat and a determined glint in her eyes. “It’s not that far,” she said. “But if we wait it could fall and then we’re screwed. Let me go, I’ll get it.”

Hellboy gaped at her in some combination of amazement and dismay. “Let you go?” he repeated loudly over the roar of the blistering winds. “Are you outta your mind?” “There’s no time!” Claire shouted back. “I can get it, but we need to do it now!” Hellboy bared his gritted teeth, glancing between Claire’s resolute expression and the lantern swaying gently in the updraft, his thoughts swirling. With a hard exhale that was inaudible over the crackling and popping of tons of burning coal, he gave her a nod. “All right. Take it slow, make sure you’ve got a solid handhold before you let go of another one.”

Every muscle in his body tensed with the apprehension when he reluctantly let go of her hand, watching like a hawk as she lowered herself carefully down the side of the crevice.

Her hair, buffeted free from the plastic clip by the pitiless wind, lashed around her face and she slowly descended, hand over hand, while his pulse pounded in his ears. After what seemed like an eternity and also no time at all she had plucked the lantern off the narrow outcropping and started making her way back up to him. It was awkward and difficult now that she had to hold onto the lantern as well as keep her grip on the rough stone. “Here, pass it,” he said, extending his tail down once she was close enough. She held it out to him and he looped the tip of his tail through the handle and lifted it out of her grasp, reaching for her with his left hand. The relief he felt when he had ahold of her again expanded in his chest like an inflating hot air balloon until he thought he might explode, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

With Claire clutching onto his back like a baby koala he climbed back up the crevice wall, the lantern held secure in the coil of his tail. As soon as both their feet were on solid ground again they were running, hurrying further down the passage and hopefully away from the unstable ground. Finally they stopped to catch their breath, leaning against the tunnel walls. Hellboy slid the respirator up to rest jauntily over one horn, wiping his grimy and sweaty face against the sleeve of his jacket. Likewise, Claire was blotting her forehead and the back of her neck with her handkerchief. “All things considered, I thought that went pretty well,” she said with a weak, shaky laugh. Hellboy chuckled and nodded. “You did good,” he told her. “Maybe when this is all said and done you could come and work with us at the Bureau.”

She snorted, smoothing her tangled hair back with both hands while holding the clip between her teeth. Twisting it up into a bun she clipped it back into place and laid her hands on her hips, fixing him with an appraising look. “Maybe,” she echoed with a grin. “Hey, HB, do you copy?” “Loud and clear, Alice,” he replied. “Everything all right down there? We registered some massive temperature spikes around your beacon.” He raised his brow at Claire, who was still grinning at him, and then they were both laughing. Hellboy chalked it up to the instant adrenaline high of escaping a near-death situation. “Yeah, we’re good,” he answered when he was able. “Got a little dicey for a minute, but we’re good.” “There’s another hot-spot just over three kliks to the northwest of your location,” Daimio added. “Looks different from what we’ve seen so far. And it’s moving; could be our target.”

Hellboy mumbled a vague acknowledgement back, turning to give Claire a protracted sidelong glance. “Last chance to bow out,” he told her, his tone low and grave. “I can still getcha back up top, but if you stay then I can’t promise you won’t get hurt or worse.” All the laughter and levity of just a few moments ago appeared to have left them, and her face was just as set and stern as his. “I’ll be just fine,” she said firmly, a grim, wild smile playing about her lips. “It’s you I’m worried about.” He chuckled humorlessly, dipping his head in acquiescence and turning to lead the way with the lantern illuminating their path.

“You seem pretty sure of yourself,” he muttered as they tread cautiously in the direction Daimio had indicated. “I get the feeling this ain’t your first rodeo.” Claire didn’t answer, and he resigned himself to the unsociable silence from the beginning of their joint venture. “It’s not,” she replied, surprising him with her sudden forthrightness. “I’ve had my fair share of run-ins with the paranormal. You know how it is; once you’ve had one, more tend to follow.” Hellboy grunted in agreement. “Tell me about it. Haven’t had a real vacation in years. I don’t count that three-month bender in Mexico, on account of this thing with a grave-robbing demon that turned me into a chimp. At least I think there was a grave-robbing demon… either way I woke up with no pants.”

Claire laughed out loud at that and the sound made him smile. Here they were, heading toward certain danger, cracking jokes like they were the protagonist duo in a blockbuster action movie. “Sounds like you lead a charmed life,” she teased. “I might have to give real consideration to that job offer you mentioned earlier.” “You should,” Hellboy replied in all seriousness. “I think you’d be a real asset to the Bureau, long as you don’t get killed down here.” She scoffed, shooting him a shrewd look. “Hmm, asset?” she purred sardonically. “You do know how to charm a lady.”

He cleared his throat, bringing up his stone hand to scratch at the base of his skull so he wouldn’t have to meet her eyes. They lapsed into silence as they drew closer to the hot-spot ahead. Consulting his IR thermometer, Hellboy noted that the temperature was jumping up considerably. Whatever was in the tunnels, they were coming up on it fast. “Hang back while I check it out,” Hellboy murmured to Claire. Wyrms didn’t have particularly keen hearing, but they were very perceptive of even subtle vibrations. If he and Claire both came marching down the tunnel, it might get nasty.

He handed her the lantern and went on ahead into the blackness, pacing slowly with every sense tuned in to detect any movement or noise. The very tips of his flesh fingers traced along the wall to keep him oriented as his eyes picked out a faint, warm light emanating from what looked like the mouth of another tunnel branching off the passage. Hellboy let out a long, slow breath and pressed onward with caution, the illumination brightening the closer he got to it. As he reached the opening he stood with his back flush against the wall, peering around the corner to find the source of the light. “Well crap,” he muttered under his breath.

This had to be the thing digging all the tunnels, it was large and wide enough that the size of the tunnels was just sufficient to allow it passage. If it needed to turn around, it would have to back out or plow forward to create a new tunnel. And, despite Kraus’s intel, it was most definitely not a wyrm.

“Whoa…” Hellboy bit his tongue to keep from swearing out loud and alerting the creature, jumping at the sudden remark and spinning around to see Claire leaning out to look past him at what was hulking in the tunnel. She grinned up at him, looking not the least bit apologetic for scaring the shit out of him. “What are you doing?!” he hissed vehemently. “Backing you up!” she whispered back, leaning slightly further out to get a better look at their tunneling culprit. “What is that?” He glowered at her for a beat, pinching the bridge of his nose and exhaling softly through pursed lips before turning his attention back to the occupied tunnel. “Not real sure, but it’s probably an erdgeist.” Claire’s brow furrowed curiously, so he went on to explain.

“Erdgeist, it’s German: means ‘earth spirit’,” he said. “A sort of aggregate monster made of rock or soil. They’re related to earth elementals, but erdgeist tend to be smaller, weaker, less intelligent. Mostly they just burrow in somewhere dark and quiet and sleep, sometimes for decades without moving.” He frowned, surveying the enormous bulk of the one in the tunnel. “That one, though, somethin’s strange. It’s way bigger than normal.” And so it was. Typically erdgeist would top out at around four feet tall, but this one towered over him at nine feet in height, wide and long as a pickup truck. It had assumed a quadrupedal form, though Hellboy couldn’t tell much about it since it faced away from them. It was slowly swinging its low-slung head methodically left and right as though trying to shake off an irksome fly, fresh dirt and crushed rock piling at its feet as it did so.

“Erdgeist are made of whatever kind of earth is around in their habitat,” he went on in a low murmur. “They can get bigger by layering more rock and soil onto their bodies, but this one’s huge. It must’ve been down here for a really long time.” Claire watched the erdgeist with wide round eyes, seemingly awestruck. “Wow… I’d bet he’s the real reason they stopped mining here, even before the fire.”

Talking of the fire, the source of the illumination appeared to be the erdgeist itself. Gleaming through gaps and fissures in its hard, stony body Hellboy could see bright flares of orange and yellow. It flickered and pulsed in a very distinctive manner and he narrowed his eyes in thought. “Damn… of course,” he said to himself, figuring it out. “What?” asked Claire urgently. Hellboy laid an arm around her shoulders and steered her away from the tunnel entrance, retreating as well. “If you’re right,” he answered. “And that erdgeist has been down here since before the fire, then we can guess this has been its home for awhile. Which means it’d be made mostly of coal. The fire started in ’62, burning deeper and deeper into the mountain, feeding on the coal seams.” Claire gasped quietly as she worked out the conclusion of his theory. “It must’ve burned into his lair while he was asleep,” she said. “And if he’s made of coal, he’s been on fire for who knows how long. Poor thing…”

Hellboy grunted to himself. Yeah, he thought, not unsympathetically. Poor thing. Burning from the inside but unable to die, driven mad by pain and rage, the erdgeist had been plowing through the ravaged mines and doing serious damage to the structural integrity of the ground above. The highly unusual size might have been an attempt on its part to smother the fire, or else an unintended result of its frantic tunneling. Either way, something had to be done before the whole mountain sank in on itself or the fire spread to neighboring towns.

Out of sheer muscle memory he swept aside his duster and reached for the Samaritan with his left hand, halfway through pulling it from the holster before he remembered the extenuating circumstances. Right… he thought sullenly. Gas-plus-gun-equals-boom. With a sigh he tucked the oversized revolver away, patting the grip affectionately. “Next time,” he mumbled. “Plan B.” Claire looked on in interest as Hellboy began to rifle through the dozen-odd pouches on his belts where he stored all manner of trinkets, tools and tinctures. Packets of powders, bunches of herbs tied with twine, sterling silver amulets and blessed medallions, shell casings and small bones, and his trusty iron horseshoe.

None of which would be of any particular help against a living bulldozer made of burning rock.

At length he produced what looked, at first glance, like an empty wooden spool hanging from a leather lanyard. Claire eyed it and then him doubtfully, casting a pointed glance at the behemoth erdgeist filling the tunnel. Hellboy flashed her a cocky smirk which she couldn’t see through his respirator. “Hey, it may not look like much, but just watch.” He paused, pointing at a spot on the other side of the tunnel opening, well away from where he’d be standing when he got the erdgeist’s attention. “From over there,” he added sternly. Claire scowled at him, but shuffled out of harm’s way while Hellboy himself stepped forward until he stood in the center of the opening.

He took the lanyard in his left hand, letting the wooden charm swing freely. It had been carved from holly wood, reputed to assist in connection with animals and associated with healing and purity. Along the sides a collection of different sized holes had been carefully punched in a strategic pattern. Hellboy had also rubbed the wood with lavender oil, a strong-smelling fragrance proven to promote calm. “Knock knock, big fella,” he called in to the erdgeist, who abruptly stopped its back and forth head swaying. “I hate to be a hardass here, but I’m gonna have to evict ya.”

Despite the tight squeeze, the erdgeist began to turn around in the tunnel, it’s stony hide grinding against the tunnel walls with a sound like rocks in a tumbler. Hellboy winced against the grating, rumbling din, sucking in a breath as the monster finally faced him. A ridge of jagged black stone spikes ran up the broad, sloping back; two sets of pointed tusks, each about the length of his forearm from elbow to fingertip, jutted from the flat, boar-like muzzle. The eyes resembled a pair of burning braziers, glowing fiery orange with tongues of flame licking out of them as they fixed on him.

For several long moments they simply stood there, watching one another. The erdgeist appeared almost confused by the presence of another creature in its territory. The reprieve didn’t last. It stamped the ground with a rough stone hoof the size of a column footing, sending sparks flying. The mouth opened in a terrible roar, and Hellboy could see straight down into a gullet that shone white-hot from the furnace that raged within the erdgeist’s body. It pawed the ground, snorting and shooting plumes of cinders out of its mouth like sparklers on the Fourth of July.

It was going to charge.

Quickly Hellboy began to twirl the wooden charm by the lanyard in rapid circles, spinning it faster and faster until it began to emit sound as air rushed through and over the holes. As the hypnotic tone resounded through the tunnel, at the same time the scent of lavender filled the air. Hellboy could smell it faintly even with the respirator, so hopefully it was pungent enough to tranquilize the erdgeist. It seemed to be working for the moment, or at least it had distracted the erdgeist from running him down. “That’s it,” he droned softly as the erdgeist let out a low rumble, giving its head a little shake. “We’re gonna take this nice and slow.” Hellboy took one small step backward, the erdgeist copying him, compelled by the musical resonance of the holly wood flute.

All he had to do now was figure out what to do with the bad-tempered fire pig…

He was just thinking that if he could somehow get it out of the tunnels and up to the surface, where they could possibly find a way to put out the fire when, with a clatter of stones and a geyser of soot and cinders, an abbess somewhere in it’s burning body collapsed. As fresher air rushed in to fill the newly empty spaces flames erupted from every crack and crevice in its glowing sides and back, reaching like grasping claws, and the erdgeist let out another earsplitting roar. Hellboy withdrew, raising an arm to shield his face and eyes from the sudden onslaught of searing heat. The flute’s mesmeric melody was interrupted as Hellboy backed off from the agitated creature, and in that short time the erdgeist appeared to fully recover from the fragile enchantment. And it looked none-too-happy.

“C’mon now, Pumbaa, let’s just do this the easy way!” Hellboy coaxed it, hastily getting the charm whistling again in hopes that it would inspire a little civility or at least discourage a violent trampling. Unfortunately the erdgeist did not appear to be receptive to any friendly overtures. With another teeth-rattling bellow it charged at him, a locomotive of fire and ash and stone. Hellboy backed his way quickly out of the tunnel entrance and cut to his left, keeping the erdgeist in sight and hopefully keeping it focused on him so it wouldn’t notice Claire, hunkered where he’d told her to be on the other side of the opening.

The erdgeist slammed into the corner of the aperture and wheeled, swinging those foot-long smoldering tusks at him and forcing him to take large steps aside and away to avoid them. It was surprisingly quick for its size. “Claire, move!” he shouted to her, drawing the erdgeist’s attention by ducking and rolling beneath it while she hustled into the vacated dead-end tunnel and out of the line of fire. Laying flat on his back under the beast, he twisted side to side as it turned around over him, trying to stomp down on him with its massive feet.

He rolled again and came out on its left side, standing quickly. “You wanna play hard ball, huh?” he snarled. “Have it your way!” Baring his teeth he reared back and let fly with a right hook to the side of the huge stone head, sending out a spray of cinders and chips of coal. The erdgeist didn’t really seem to notice the impact, but it appeared to be displeased with his proximity. It lunged forward, catching his torso against its massive shoulder and nearly shoving him right on his ass. Keeping his footing he dodged the tusks again and brought both fists down together on the crown of its head. There was a terrific crack! as a new fracture split open in the stone, the orangeish glow of the internal inferno now visible.

Enraged, the erdgeist barreled forward, pushing Hellboy in front of it while he gripped the tusks in both hands, his feet sliding along the ground and it drove him like an antique hand plow. Digging his heels in and finally finding purchase, Hellboy slung the erdgeist’s head aside and into the side of the tunnel, pinning it there. They grappled for control, and Hellboy suddenly lost his footing as the erdgeist paced backward. Sensing his imbalance it plunged forward again, knocking him flat over its wide, slanted muzzle and hurling him with a fiery snarl against the opposite wall. The impact itself wasn’t too bad, but before he had the chance to right himself the erdgeist charged for him. Hellboy brought up both arms to protect his head and torso, curling his shoulders inward as the tusks tore at his jacket sleeves and the flesh beneath.

It tossed its head again and flung him back up the tunnel where they’d started. Hellboy gasped, hissing through gritted teeth at the shredded jacket sleeves and the blood seeping from a dozen minor gashes to his arms and shoulders. At some point he’d lost his respirator, spying it lying in the dirt between the erdgeist’s legs. He’d have to get it back, and soon.

A sudden sound drew his attention sharply behind them, the erdgeist going still as it too looked past him to find the source of the noise. Hellboy’s heart have a tremendous stutter when he saw Claire approaching them at a slow, calm pace, the holly wood charm spinning from its lanyard in her grip. It felt like a bucket of ice had been upended into his stomach, but he didn’t dare move or speak. For the moment, the erdgeist appeared lulled once more by the rhythmic music of the flute and he was afraid to do anything that might break its focus.

Claire stared it down, her footsteps unfaltering as she continued her slow and methodical approach. “Easy, there,” she said gently, her free hand raising slowly from her side to proffer her palm to the erdgeist for its inspection, like greeting a strange dog. She drew level with Hellboy still sitting on the ground, moved past him, and he made a quick grab at her ankle, trying to stop her going any closer but she shook him off without breaking stride. Something was happening to the erdgeist; the flickering internal glow of the fire inside it appeared to be dimming. The brilliant gleaming fire in its eyes had been reduced to a faint orange gleam, as though the fire were dying. Hellboy held his breath, feeling his heartbeat slamming against his ribs as Claire drew close enough to the erdgeist to lay her hand lightly on the pitted, flat expanse of its muzzle. “There now,” she crooned to it. “See? Nobody wants to hurt you. We’re here to help.”

Hellboy levered himself slowly upright, his eyes glued to the woman and the aggregate monster before him as he rose to his feet. He had just enough time to experience a moment of extremely cautious optimism before a thin drizzle of loose dirt and small rocks began falling from the ceiling overhead and drew his gaze upwards. The tunnel, already somewhat unstable, hadn’t taken well to the recent scuffle that had taken place, and looked in danger of collapsing. “Watch out!” he called to Claire as large chunks of stone fell from the weakened roof. Softball sized rocks slammed the pair of them, striking Claire in the shoulder and causing her to stumble. Another hit the erdgeist on the top of its head, managing to land square on the new crack Hellboy’s hammer fist had made and breaking the rock open.

The weakening fire abruptly flared back to life as though doused with lighter fluid, flames bursting suddenly through every crack and crevice they could find in the erdgeist’s body, and its mouth gaped open into an anguished roar of pain and frenzy. It slung its heavy head and threw Claire forcefully against the wall, ramming into her before Hellboy could reach them in time to pull it off her. As it backed off she crumpled to the ground and tucked into a tight ball before the erdgeist lunged for her a second time, sending her skidding through the dirt for a couple feet before Hellboy charged at it with a bellow, slamming his stone fist right between its eyes.

The erdgeist staggered back, stunned, and Hellboy stooped by Claire’s side as she slowly, painstakingly uncurled to lie on her back. Her face was drawn and pale, pinched in obvious pain as she looked up at him with pupils blown wide. Both hands were pressed hard against her middle, but Hellboy was still able to see the scarlet stain spreading rapidly across her clothes, gushing up through her fingers. Heart sinking, he reached out and pulled her bandana from around her face, her skin already feeling clammy to his touch. “Keep it as tight as you can,” he murmured, swatting her hands away to lay the folded over handkerchief over the slick, shiny crimson mess and pushing her hands back down on top of it, wincing at the wet gasp of pain that escaped her. “Just try to hold on, I’m gonna get you out of here.”

Hellboy lifted her gently into his arms and carried her back to the entrance to the dead-end tunnel as the erdgeist gave its head one final shake, recovering from the earlier blow. He laid her down as carefully as he could, propping her up against the wall before glaring furiously over his shoulder at the earth spirit for a second, turning to look back to Claire. “I’ll be back as quick as I can,” he promised. “Stay with me, kid.” Her face pale, her eyes shining, Claire smiled weakly at him. “I’ll be fine,” she rasped. “Like I said, I’m more worried about you.”

Behind him the erdgeist gouged furrows into the ground with hooves that spat embers, preparing to run at them. Hellboy stood, his pulse pounding in his ears, fury coursing in his blood. He still couldn’t risk shooting the damned monster, but he had a better idea. He stepped away from Claire, waving his arms to make sure the erdgeist would notice him and not her. “Hey, Porky!” he roared. “Why don’t ya try that shit again? I’m right here!” His gambit worked, and the erdgeist came hurtling down the tunnel towards him. Not wanting to get too far ahead of it, Hellboy waited until the last possible second before turning and running back up the tunnel the way they had come.

That’s right, you ugly bastard! He thought savagely. Come and get me! I got just the thing for you!

------

Thanks for reading! Reviews are, of course, greatly appreciated!

@accioturtur : PIG FIGHT, PIG FIGHT, PIG FIGHT!!!

#hellboy #hellboy 2019 #hellboyxoc #hellboy fic #alice monaghan #ben daimio

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midtownsparker · 6 years

Text

fortune’s fool; p.p.- 2

peter parker x reader

A/N: moving to my main from @midtownsparker-archive

requested: nope

Words: 2000+

Warnings: cursing, mentions of sex, mentions of drinking, mentions of death

summary: Two Empire State University students fated to meet

let me know if you’d like to be added to my tag list!

requests are open!

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | masterlist

2. Understanding-

21 year old Peter, 19 year old reader

She woke with her head buried in stark white sheets, a rhythmic thrumming pounding against the base of her skull as she tried to gather her thoughts. She was definitely not in her own room, but the scent that surrounded her cocooned body was a familiar one, and the easy, measured breaths that she could hear from beyond her wall of pillows was a symphony she’d learned by heart.

With a groan, she turned on her side and pushed away the pile of blankets that separated herself from her best friend’s body. His bare chest rose and fell, faint puffs of air escaping his slightly-opened mouth every so often. Soft curls fell across his peaceful face that lay smooth and unwrinkled as he slept.

This wasn’t the first time that she’d woken up in the same bed as Peter Parker. It was, however, the first time she’d found herself naked and twisted in his sheets. She couldn’t say that she was surprised. They’d been the closest of friends for over a year now, and they both knew that some sort of consummation of their friendship was inevitable.

It didn’t worry her. She knew that what had happened wasn’t serious, and therefore, that nothing about their relationship would change. She knew that Peter knew that, too.

That’s why it happened, she supposed. Because they both knew it wouldn’t ruin anything. It was bound to happen some day, anyway. Instead of worrying, she was content to lay in the peaceful silence until Peter woke up and they’d have to talk.

She breathed in the cool morning air that blew through the slightly opened window and caused the sheer white curtains to flutter. The rest of Manhattan was surely awake by now, evidenced by the honking of horns and shouting from street corners. This was what she loved most about Peter’s apartment. The building was squished between another apartment complex and a multi-level shopping center, which was all smack in the middle of the bustling city, one that she’d come to love, perhaps even more than her own home of Long Island.

His own space, however, was a simplistic haven that was just so him that she found herself spending more time at his place than her own home.

“Just move in already,” is what he’d said once on a warm morning after she’d slept over for the fourth night in a row.

“No, you’d get sick of me!” she’d laughed. He disagreed, but they never spoke about it again. Still, she continued to spend days on end flitting between his kitchen and his sofa and his bedroom, working on her own things, simply coexisting with Peter and not depending too much on his presence to get her own stuff done.

Most often, she could be found sitting on his bed with her textbooks and notes spread around her, all marked in her own code of colored highlighters as she studied or worked on homework while Peter sat at his desk, focused intently on his own work and typing away madly on his laptop, stopping only to remind her to stretch or drink some water or grab a snack. That was just Peter, though; the caring guy she’d met over a year ago who had saved her from days of hauling boxes and who still cared more than anybody else and always thought of her needs before his own.

She loved him, she guessed, but in the purest of ways. She couldn’t stand to lose him, and he felt the same way, because they both knew that the ease of their relationship was not a common thing. They never actively sought anything more from one another, believing that if something was meant to happen, it would happen. For now, they both coveted the freedom they had to see other people, and the knowledge that they still had the other to come back to and laugh about awkward dates and terrible hookups with.

“It’s easier this way,” she’d said. “I don’t want to start anything if I can’t commit my whole being to you.” “I agree,” was his reply. ‘We both love this whole ‘young college student’ phase too much for us to really be able to give everything to one another like we deserve. Besides, as long as I’ve got you as my best friend, I couldn’t really ask for more.”

Then they’d smiled, Peter with that bright, dazzling thing that you could see from miles away, and her with something soft and shared with him, like a secret she seemed to reserve only for Peter, and then they turned back to their work which had been abandoned only minutes ago.

Sighing softly, she let her eyes trace over Peter’s still-sleeping figure. She wished, sometimes, that they’d met ten years later, when she knew who she was and what she wanted, and she’d be able to love him fully like he deserved. She still wasn’t expecting more from him, but she think it might have been better, knowing their intentions from the beginning.

She didn’t know, though, if he’d be her same Peter. His “after school hobby”, as he’d called it, wasn’t easy on him. She’d seen how much it changed him, even within the short year that they’d known each other. He was more quiet, more self aware. He’d seen horrors and faced death, and there was no one who really understood it, that he was still a kid that had to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

She did her best to listen when he needed her to, when days were dark and he just needed to get things off his chest. He’d told her about Liz and the Vulture and the homecoming night that happened so long ago that changed him forever. He told her about the innocent people that he could’ve, would’ve, should’ve saved, but let their lives slip through his fingers, and how each one weighed heavily on him, every one of them a cold, unbeating heart that couldn’t speak the words of condemnation that he knew they should. He told her about his visits to the graveyards around his city where he stood before their graves and cried tears that he didn’t deserve to cry and apologized profusely, knowing that his words would do nothing to bring them back.

And she would listen. She would let him cry onto her shoulder while she ran soothing fingers through tangled, sweat soaked curls, easing that beautiful mind in its state of turmoil. And then he would push his face deep into her chest while she cradled his head and pressed soft kisses to his hairline while his body racked with sobs.

Who would he be without her? He couldn’t be like this with Ned, couldn’t confide in him like he did with her. MJ would tell him to take his feelings out on the punching bag that hung in the back room of his apartment. He couldn’t even begin to talk to May about it in fear of worrying her half to death. She knew that. She knew everything. And so she became his rock, his unmovable force that he knew would always, always be there for him.

If she wasn’t though? Who would he confide in? Who would ease his pain and help him carry his burden? If it had been ten years later, who knew that he’d even be alive? That there was even a possibility of them meeting at all?

He’d certainly be different. Not the same shining light that she’d come to know so well. Knowing him, he’d let him get lost in his selflessness, his need to be a hero, and push himself further and further into this other version of himself. She didn’t ever want to meet this version of Peter, and so she fought to keep him Peter and not just Spider-Man.

So far, she thinks she’s doing alright. He’s still paranoid at times, always checking over his shoulder, wrapping a protective arm around her waist when they’re out late, but he’s also trying, she knows. He visits Aunt May every weekend, takes a trip to Uncle Ben’s grave once a month, hangs out with his friends regularly. She thinks he’s doing great, all things considered.

Peter began to stir on his side of the bed, a soft groan emitting from beneath the protection of the covers. He rolled over to face her, opening one eye slowly and allowing himself to adjust to the bright light that was now streaming through the window.

“Whatimezit?” he mumbled, pushing his head up to eye her unclothed body. “Wha’d we do last night?”

“We had sex,” she spoke bluntly, giving him a small shrug. “We can talk about it, if you want.”

“Rather not, actually,” he groaned, pushing his head back into his pillow. “How much did I drink?”

“Well, you took three tequila shots straight out of the gate then shotgunned a beer and I kind of lost count after your fifth mixed drink, so I’d say you were sufficiently smashed by the end of the night. Not that I was any better, mind you,” she recalled, stomach churning at the thought of that last beer.

“I feel like absolute shit,” Peter grumbled, face muffled by the fabric of the pillowcase.

“You look it,” she joked, scooting over so they were shoulder to shoulder, pressed together like sardines.

“Hey, not nice,” he pouted, turning his neck so their faces were mere inches away from each other. He smiled at her, breathing in as he spoke again. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“Of course,” she responded. “We’ve talked about this before. As long as none of our feelings have changed, I think that we can both move past this.”

“Good. Now who’s making breakfast? Because I really don’t wanna get up right now, but if I don’t have something drenched in grease and hopefully some sort of cheese, my stomach will start eating itself,” Peter remarked, kicking her leg lightly under the sheets.

“Not me! I made you dinner before we left last night,” she answered, returning his kick.

“Let’s just order something in and that way we can stay in bed until it arrives,” he suggested.

“Fine, but you’re paying,” she insisted, and he agreed, allowing the peaceful silence to fall upon them again.

“I’m glad you’re my best friend,” he remarked after the silence settled, pulling her body closer to his with one hand.

“Don’t let Ned hear you say that,” she cautioned teasingly. She knew that Peter’s relationship with Ned was different than the one they had, but was still just as strong, and probably even stronger considering their history. She didn’t mind sharing his attention. She loved Ned just as much as Peter, and she was glad that he still had a close friend from home that always had his back no matter what.

“Ned knows it’s true. He doesn’t mind, I think. Ever since he and MJ picked up those jobs at the Rec Center, they’ve been closer than ever. Now they both gang up on me rather than just MJ,” Peter whined.

“To be fair, though, you deserve it more often than not,” she joked, nudging his shoulder.

“That’s probably true,” he sighed. “Anyway, I meant it. You’re the best person I know. Thank you,” he stated, reaching down to squeeze her hand.

“Thank you,” she responded. “You’ve done so much for me Peter. I’m so lucky to have you.” She smiled and squeezed his hand back, her grin only growing when he leaned over to press a kiss against her forehead.

They were interrupted by a knock on the door.

“One of us should really put some clothes on before we freak out this delivery guy,” Peter mused quietly, not moving at all.

“Yes, one of us should definitely put clothes on and get the food right now,” she looked at him pointedly.

“Fine,” he grumbled, sliding out of bed and pulling a pair of flannel pants on while she watched him in amusement, following his movements until he was out the door. Yes, she certainly was lucky to have Peter in her life.

#my writing #peter parker #peter parker fic #peter parker fanfic #peter parker imagine #peter parker oneshot #peter parker x reader #peter parker fluff #peter parker smut #peter parker angst #tom holland #tom holland fic #tom holland fanfic #tom holland imagine #tom holland oneshot #tom holland x reader #tom holland fluff #tom holland smut #tom holland angst

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archester-creations · 2 years

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just out of reach (yoi bb 2/5)

Dull pain was the first thing he registered. It pounded out from his skull with the beat of his heart. Yuuri lifted himself up and his vision swam. Rain drizzled around him, painting the world in muted greys. Trees surrounded him and a rock was behind him. Carefully, Yuuri felt at his own head. Past the wetness of his hair- the wetness that dripped down his entire body, making his clothes cling to clammy skin- was a bump that smarted even at his ginger touch. Apparently he’d fallen and hit the rock. Yuuri turned to see a touch of red on the grey surface. The feeling that he should be more worried passed through him. Because not only did he hit his head, he didn’t remember being outside. Or… and he wracked his brain the best he could… anything past his name. Yuuri . The rain and the muted world settled him, though. Etched into his skin and into his bones like a calm salve.

He stood up, going still for a few seconds when his head went dizzy and his vision checkerboarded. A breath filled his lungs to capacity and the feeling faded. He bit his bottom lip. Chewing on the chapped flesh till it went smooth. The ground was mostly dirt with patches of grass. Each tree rose tall overhead so the rain rolled over leaves and tripped over branches. Whatever had happened, he'd ended up right in the center of the trees. They spread out around him in a circle, as if waiting and watching to see what he'd do. Again, Yuuri got the distinct impression a shiver of discomfort should have gone down his spine at the thought. But it didn't. Somehow the thought just… fit. Like he was meant to be judged by the trees around him. Every blade of grass and tree and bush tilted toward him with an ear out and gaze firm, placed under trial by the very nature he woke up in the center of. Though what they would judge him for and what their verdict would be, he had no idea. Yuuri only hoped it would be good. He dipped his head respectfully in gesture to it all, feeling oddly like it was expected of him and distantly that the action would be deemed as strange in a time and place he didn't remember. Then he stumbled off, following the dirt despite there being no path. Again, it just felt like something he was expected to do. Even as his feet slipped on a patch of mud he couldn't find worry swelling in his chest. Trusting that if he fell, he'd be unharmed until he reached whatever place he was meant to go.

What time passed was unclear. The rain still drizzled warm and foggy. Trees passed, most the same kind, but he could tell they were all different. Like something in him was as aware of them as they were him. Yet, it could be hours or days that passed and he couldn't be sure he'd know the difference. In this place time was the construct and nature was the reality. Even his body didn't seem to process the length, not developing a single stitch as he followed the instinct through the ups and downs and turns. Yuuri got the impression whatever or whoever he'd been, he'd needed good stamina. He walked up another hill. Just past here , the air seemed to whisper. Noise filtered in and it suddenly occurred to him that he hadn't heard anything past the rain till now. His shoes squished uncomfortably against muddy grass, the fabric of them already soaked through. At the crest of the hill he looked down into a clearing.

Civilization. Or, something approximating it. There were brown tents in a circle, canvas lifted on poles above each one to protect from the rain. Under the trees closest to the circle were two horses, huddled away from the rain and presumably tied up. Carts stood like sentries between the two, but a little offset. All set up with a semblance of being able to simply lift up and away at a moment’s notice. Whoever made this small camp were obviously travelers of some kind. As he got closer different sounds filtered in. A muffled singing. Some sparks of laughter. A loud feminine voice followed by multiple voices groaning. No doubt coming from one of the tents. His steps sped up, helped along by a sudden slip in the mud.

Walking into the camp was like coming out of a haze. Sensations he didn't realize were missing- and some he did- crawled into his skin. Hunger and pain and stiffness and the worry that'd been with him so long he knew it'd been an old friend even without his memories. Though now that friend settled awkward, like a skin that fit too tight but he didn't know how to shed now that it'd settled back onto his bones. He hugged his arms to him. Cold drifted in, his skin clammy under his fingertips, and he shivered. The trees were distant eyes. They remained comfortably on his back, though they'd sharpened and Yuuri had the feeling he'd made it to their first test. What it was, though, he had no idea.

It felt more than awkward to follow the sounds toward the correct tent. A part of him badly wanted to leave. To continue walking and hope the trees would provide some different test. But a secondary, harder shiver went through his bones all the way into his chest and he felt his teeth rattle. Water dripped from his hair down into his eyes. His glasses were speckled with it, and fogged, and no doubt bent. If he was allowed inside he'd have to clean them off and unbend them. (Metal frames were a blessing.) The sound led him to the largest tent in the middle and he hesitated in front of it. It was canvas, he didn't think he could just… knock. Still his hand wavered like he wanted to try, an instinct he didn't really understand, before it went to the side of his mouth to hopefully increase his volume. “He-hello? Hello?”

There was silence for long enough Yuuri was worried no one heard him. Footsteps followed it, getting closer, and Yuuri took a step back out into the drizzle before the canvas was lifted aside to reveal a person. They were taller than Yuuri. Long silver hair fell over slim shoulders. The glow from a fire inside cast them in an ethereal light and a feeling like awe settled over Yuuri’s shoulders. For a moment, words were lost to him. Then he remembered where he was and that it was cold outside and that this was likely a test he’d surely fail if he simply stood out here, gaping at a stranger. He swallowed. “I-” followed my instincts, which I’m pretty sure were directed by nature . Definitely not. “got lost and stumbled on your camp? I'd very much like to come in. Please?”

Bright blue eyes widened, flicking up and down multiple times- no doubt taking him in. Then the guy turned away from him, back to the other occupants. “Yakov, Georgi!” They sounded panicked and confused. Yuuri could relate. Grumbling came from inside and those eyes were back on him. They looked like water. And they looked concerned. Before he could open his mouth to say he was fine, two more forms pushed the first to the side. An older man frowned at him, great wrinkles scrunching up in lines Yuuri didn’t fully feel were made from smiling. Not all from frowning, either thought. Just more that his life was filled equally with both. The other form had blue eyes, but they were darker than the first, and black hair, darker than his own. A black cuff curled around his left ear.

“Who are you?” The old man demanded. His voice was rough, like he spent a large amount of time yelling.

“Uh-” Yuuri floundered. “Yu- Yuuri, sir.”

“You sound unsure.” The man narrowed his eyes and Yuuri felt unease shoot down his spine. He hadn’t meant to sound unsure. That was his name. It was the one thing he knew .

“Yakov, look at him, he’s shivering. Let’s question him inside,” the other frowned concernedly. Behind him, the first person seemed to agree. With a ‘humph’ Yuuri was led inside the tent and to the fire. There were two other people inside next to it. A short-haired redhead and a long-haired brunette curled into each other. They both looked up as soon as Yuuri shuffled further in. Their eyes were questioning and he both wished he had the answers to whatever those questions might be and desperately that they wouldn’t ask. He was placed in front of the fire and he tried not to sit too close to it, eyes on the colours flickering inside it as the others sat on the other side. The first person, the one with long silver hair, wrapped him in a blanket without a word and he jumped at the unexpected contact. Georgi- if the old man was Yakov, this one had to be Georgi- handed him a bowl and he took it. Immediately the heat began to warm his hands. “So your name is Yuuri?”

Yuuri nodded. “Yes.”

“What were you doing out in that?” Yakov asked.

“I… don't know,” Yuuri said. It wasn't a lie. Not really. He couldn't remember why he'd been outside, all he knew was a feeling of memories he just didn't have and nature’s test. Would they throw him out if they thought he was crazy? That'd surely cause him to fail the test. Best not to mention it. “I can't remember anything?”

“Nothing?” The silver-haired one asked.

“Just my name.”

“Oh,” the silver-haired one said, a long, drawn out sound. Yakov humphed again.

“Guess that would explain why you seemed hesitant on your own name.”

“Right!” Yuuri agreed and then immediately flinched at his own volume. It didn't seem to bother anyone else.

“He doesn't remember anything, Yakov, we should keep him.”

“‘Keep him’?” Yakov repeated. “He's not a pet.”

“I don't know, I think he looks a little like a puppy.” A smile followed the words and it was pretty, but it sent a shiver of fear down his spine. Especially when it was directed at him. He gulped. Arms wrapped around his shoulders and red hair filled the corner of his vision.

“I think Vitya’s right,” the voice half-pouted, half-purred next to his ear and he felt fear . “It'd be a shame to kick a puppy out in this weather. We could probably even find a use for him, right Minako? Georgi?”

“She's right, Yakov,” the other woman said with a smile Yuuri wasn't sure was actually kinder.

Before Yuuri knew it, he was a member of a theatre troupe. He could only hope he’d passed whatever test he’d been given.

#yuri on ice #katsuki yuuri #viktor nikiforov #viktuuri #yakov feltsman #mila babicheva #okukawa minako #georgi popovich #minako okukawa #yuuri katsuki #minako x mila #twelve kingdoms au #yoi big bang 2021

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roxannarambles · 6 years

Text

heath/legault drabble-- rescue

He could see that the three young lords at the head of their group were deeply absorbed in discussion, but he couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. They spoke in hushed tones, which made it obvious they were discussing some kind of plan or strategy. Heath knew better then to eavesdrop, though.

He picked up his marching speed just slightly, drawing a little closer to the trio of nobles. Entirely unintentionally, of course. He just wanted to keep up a brisk pace.

Besides, it wouldn’t really count as eavesdropping if he just happened to overhear something while he was marching. Right?

Hector’s voice carried the most, even when he was trying to be quiet. Heath caught a few snatches of words-- ‘isn’t time’ and ‘smashing skulls,’ it sounded like-- while Eliwood gave soft-spoken, stern replies and Lyndis seemed to be trying to arbitrate the argument between the two men. Just as Heath was starting to make out what Lyndis was saying, all three of the lords paused and glanced about in unison. Their eyes fell upon him.

Heath paused in his steps. Shit. Did they know he was listening? But how . . .

“Heath! C’mere.”

The wyvern rider hastened to obey the request from the surly-looking Hector, shuffling over nervously through the snowdrift to meet the group, falling into step with their march.

“Yes, sir?”

Eliwood smiled at him kindly and spoke before Hector could.

“Heath. We were just discussing what our next move should be regarding the queen’s manse. Considering the urgency of matters, we’d like to send a smaller party ahead of everyone to scout the situation.”

Heath nodded slowly, absorbing the information.

“That sounds wise, m’lord. Would you like me to volunteer?”

Eliwood shook his head, his brow creased in thought.

“Actually, no. The three of us would like to go ahead and try to speak with the queen, if we can. We’re the ones most likely to have our warnings, ah . . .”

“Believed?” Hector supplied. Eliwood frowned and cleared his throat.

“Ah, well, yes. But you see, we’d prefer that the Emblem remain with the main group for now, for safekeeping. We’d possibly just be inviting more trouble if we rushed on ahead with it.”

“I see,” Heath replied, understanding his logic but failing to see why he wished to explain it.

“You want to carry the Fire Emblem for us?” Hector cut in bluntly. Heath balked, looking at him incredulously. He squawked,

“Me?!”

“Yeah.”

Heath stared. Were they mad? Out of the entire army, why him?

“Sir . . . wouldn’t you prefer one of your long-trusted vassals . . .?”

Hector gave him a pained smile, as if he had been expecting that reply.

“I would. Eliwood seems to think that would be too ‘obvious.’”

Eliwood bristled slightly and Lyndis jumped in to explain.

“If the Black Fang are still tracking us, they could try and make an attempt at retrieving their stolen goods. It’s best if we’re discrete about concealing it with someone who we, well . . .”

“Who we normally wouldn’t give it to?” Hector supplied again. Lyndis sighed.

Seemingly at Heath’s expression, Eliwood hastened to add,

“That isn’t to say we don’t trust you, of course, Heath. Quite the contrary. But I hope you see the method to our madness. Would you be comfortable with doing this?”

Heath felt the weight of their collective gazes as they waited for his answer. In all honesty, he wasn’t comfortable, but he wasn’t about to tell them that. He forced out a reply.

“Of course, m’lord. I’d be happy to.”

Eliwood smiled, looking relieved.

“Wonderful. All you need to do is keep it concealed on your person. We ask nothing more.”

Hector clawed at a little gold chain around his neck and pulled out a heavy-looking orange stone from inside his shirt where it had been tucked away. Unceremoniously, he reached over and looped the large chain over Heath’s head, letting the emblem thunk against the man’s chest. Heath stared down at the gem.

“Keep it out of sight. And don’t lose it, yeah?”

Heath glanced up at Hector, who was giving him a crooked grin.

“Yessir.”

Eliwood told him politely,

“We’re off to inform Marcus of our plans, then we’ll be leaving shortly. Thank you, Heath.”

“Of course, sir.”

As the lords passed him by, Lyndis added,

“I suggest sticking to the middle of the group so you won’t be a target. Take care.”

“Yes, m’lady. You too.”

And then they were gone. Heath watched for a few moments as some of the main group marched past him. He blinked, feeling a little dazed.

Okay. This was pretty strange, but it wasn’t so bad. He literally just had to carry the thing. Certainly, it was unexpected, but his task couldn’t be any simpler.

Heath plucked up the emblem in his hands, taking a moment to examine it; it’s not as though he’d ever expected to see his country’s most precious treasure so up-close like this. The smooth, polished gem glowed orange and had internal flecks that diffracted the light in bright red flashes. It was encircled by a delicately-crafted dragon of gold that curled around the gem, biting its own tail. The dragon was so detailed that Heath could make out its individual scales. It was honestly quite a marvel to behold.

Jolting back to his surroundings, Heath stopped gawking and quickly slipped the emblem underneath his shirt, the cool metal sliding down his chest and settling into place against him. Remembering what Lyndis suggested, he moved to march in the middle of the group, his gaze shifting about warily at his comrades. It felt . . . odd, skulking about with a secret like this, but he ignored the feeling and concentrated on the path ahead of them.

The walk felt as though it lasted forever, but in truth, only an hour had probably passed. They still had quite a ways to go in order to escape the Bern mountains. Heath had quickly grown paranoid during the trek and had glanced down his shirt, checking to see if the emblem was still hanging there from its gold chain; of course, it still was. He ended up checking again and again every once in a while, until he realized he was being quite ridiculous. It wasn’t going anywhere. It was fine.

Heath sighed, trying to settle his nerves. Why was he so worried? It really wasn’t like him to be paranoid. It’s just . . . he couldn’t stop thinking about things. The weight of his responsibility felt especially heavy to him. Perhaps it was because of how delicate a situation Bern had ended up in. Once the most powerful and respected country of all the lands, its fate now hung precariously in the balance, all depending on the tiny life of a prince who would hopefully grow up a far wiser ruler than his callous and capricious father. In a way, the situation seemed a lot like the precious gem suspended from its chain; so many hopes and dreams pinned upon something so small. Heath didn’t envy the young man who was to inherent that weight.

The wyvern knight became lost in his thoughts for quite some time, mind wandering to the past, to his experiences in Bern, to all the troubles that had beset him, to all the uncertainty he felt about the future. It was only when he stumbled slightly on a rock hidden in the snow that he glanced up and realized he had started to lag behind the rest of the group. He had better catch up. Patting at his shirt to reassure himself once again that the emblem was still there, he paused before picking up his pace. Frowning, he tugged at the neck of his shirt and peered down.

His heart skipped a beat. He yanked at the gold chain around his neck and pulled it up.

It was empty.

Heath felt a cold wave of panic wash over him, his heart pounding. Wildly, he patted all around at his shirt and tugged the hem from his pants, checking everywhere it could have slipped to. His eyes darted across the ground around him, finding nothing of interest in the vicinity, and he looked further out, his gaze reaching across the vast, white expanses of snow all around him.

It was a neat, white blanket, stretching for miles and miles.

Heath felt all the blood drain from his face as he glanced to Eliwood’s marching group, gradually moving away from him. No, no, no, no . . . how could . . . how could this be happening? How could he do this?

How could he lose the Emblem?

Heath was backtracking his path rapidly, searching through the snow and desperately trying to keep from screaming in raw frustration, when he heard the crunch of approaching footsteps.

He glanced up at the familiar figure of a purple-caped rogue. A wry voice commented casually,

“You drop this?”

The man opened his gloved hand to reveal the gold-encircled gem. Heath’s jaw fell agape, completely overwhelmed at the utter joy flooding him. Heath spluttered forcefully,

“L-legault!”

“I noticed something shiny bounce away from you back there. You should probably--”

Heath grabbed Legault by the cape bunched around his shoulders and yanked him forward, impulsively shoving his lips against Legault’s with enough force that his teeth mashed against him a little. He kissed him passionately for a few short seconds, then let go, babbling breathlessly in his face:

“You’ve saved my life just now.”

Legault, wide-eyed and red-faced, answered dumbly:

“Aaahh hnnggnnn?”

Heath reached to grab the emblem, saw the stunned Legault had dropped it on the ground, and quickly plucked it out of the snow. He turned, intent on rushing to rejoin the group, but stopped when he saw several people ahead of them were gazing back curiously at them.

Very curiously.

Heath felt a blush creeping over his face. Damnit. He probably got a little . . . carried away there.

Heath turned, seeing the thief still had a dumbfounded expression on his face.

“Er, Legault, could you. Could you possibly not mention this whole . . . incident to anyone? I was entrusted with the emblem, and . . .”

Heath trailed off, not really wanting to finish. And I don’t want people to know I fucking lost the thing. Legault mumbled a loopy reply.

“Mmmhmm . . . you do that to me a few more times I’d keep any secret for you.”

Heath grit his teeth, his face growing hot.

“Legault. Please.”

“All right, all right. My lips are sealed. That is, until you don’t want them to be.”

Heath turned quickly and hurried after the main group, trying to ignore the stares he was still getting, the crunch of Legault’s footsteps following close behind him.

#fire emblem #fe7 #heath #legault #heath/legault #heath/legault fic #mystuff #fanfic

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sincognito · 6 years

Text

And So The Dragons Fell From Grace | Chapter 1.

For even they have their monsters.

Pairing: Spicyhoney (Mapleblossom and papgore will be later).

Universe: Undertale, Underfell, Underswap, Swapfell (both versions).

Warnings: Slavery, Speciesism, Kidnapping, other chapters will be tagged for other content.

Overview: When the 'fell verse' monsters broke from their barriers and stepped out onto the surface they brought with them only war and death. They fought against human-kind and were victorious, enslaving all those who could not escape their reach. They then fought against the dragons that were hidden away from the world, killing them and stealing their souls, transforming the monsters into powerful draconic beings. When the other monsters were freed they were greeted by a world ruled by cruel dragons that were swift to hunt them down and enslave them as their playthings. However, some monsters escaped from the dragons, joining with the humans that remained and now prepare to take back the surface. But does kindness still lurk in the hearts of dragons? Or have they all fallen down?

A/N: Just a quick little fic I’ve been working on recently to help get into the mood for writing again.

Read on AO3: HERE

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The cool mountain air was a stark contrast to the hot wind that usually beat down upon the valley that Rus called home. The warmth of summer had begun to slowly fade when he had left his homeland, travelling for untold hours each day to put as much distance between himself and the border of the plainlands far behind him. He had crossed the mountains that lined the territory, continuing until they were a mere blur on the horizon.

He had started up the next mountain to cross his path without pause, and he had been seriously considering stopping and resting for a few days. Rus had never been a strong monster, and weeks of constant walking had worn him down to the very brink of exhaustion. Yet, with adrenaline racing through his body and the pounding of his soul clear in his head, he managed to run.

He gasped at the air, ignoring the burning of his chest and the numbness of his legs as he pushed on, ducking between the trees and stumbling through the dew-covered grass. It was early morning and the sun had only just risen, but it was evidently enough light for the large beast to have been awake and already patrolling the mountainside for potential prey.

The rhythmic beating of wings grew louder and louder, and Rus could only just hear it over the sound of his soul. He dove through the bushes, making a break across a large clearing, sprinting as fast as his body would allow him towards the trees on the other side.

He almost made it.

Something slammed into his back, easily knocking him to the ground and pinning him with its great weight. Despite being badly winded he refused to admit defeat and continued to thrash, squirming underneath his foe until even the adrenaline had worn off, no longer able to provide any further energy. He fell limp, his whole body heaving with each deep breath and his vision clouded by black spots.

A claw dug into one of Rus’ vertebra, causing him to hiss in pain before gritting his teeth to stifle any other sounds. “What is such a pretty pet doing on my mountain?” chuckled the deep voice, a soft hum accompanying his tone, “You’re very far from home, aren’t you?” Warmth trickled down upon Rus’ body as the beast spoke, obviously trying to make the question sound as though it had no underlying statement. He knew enough about dragons to know that the cursed creature was smiling at his pitiful state. He knew what thoughts his words betrayed. The dragon thought he had just found a nice little addition to his horde.

The weight lifted from Rus’ back and he was forcedly rolled over onto his back with a rather rough shove, coming face to face with his captor. He had never seen an undead dragon quite so large before, his large slitted eyes a deep, glowing crimson, and his skull severely marred by chips and scars. Most dragons wore an armour-like hide of richly coloured scales, but this creature was nothing but bleached bones and red magic.

While the dragon might have been in his prime, his face was marked with a deep crack from his forehead to just above where his teeth sat in his snout, running directly through one of his eye sockets. The visage was terribly familiar and left a nauseous feeling in the pit of Rus’ non-existent stomach. He tensed as a large claw drew close to his neck, abruptly looping around the thick steel collar clamped around his neck and wrenching him forward. He choked weakly, grasping at the dragon’s paw to try and lessen the strain.

“Where is your master, monster?” the dragon asked, leaning down to scent him briefly. While his ‘master’ might not have spent much time near him, the way the beast’s eyes narrowed and a displeased rumble broke from his chest signalled that a tiny part of his owner’s smell remained present, even after their long time apart. “So, you’re the pet that filth was searching for,” he snarled, releasing Rus’ collar, “The runt should learn to take better care of his possessions.”

Immediately Rus turned to run, consequences be damned. However, the moment he swivelled around on his foot, a large hand grasped around his middle, pulling him back so he pressed firmly against a hard, bony chest. “Get off me!” Rus shouted, finally managing to find his voice as he struggled against the hand in vain.

The dragon either didn’t hear him or didn’t care to listen to his words, for he merely gripped him tighter, taking a moment to survey his surroundings before giving a powerful beat of his wings. It took three massive flaps to gather enough momentum before the dragon could lift his huge body from the ground, pushing off from the grass with his large hind legs as he easily leapt into the air with an excited trill.

“No, no, nononono!” Rus yelped, holding onto the dragon’s arm for dear life. He had never flown before, and although they stayed relatively low to the ground, he couldn’t fend off the terror that gripped at his soul. The dragon was going to kill him, or worse; return him to his home. He didn’t realise when his eyes had closed, but he found he couldn’t open them, desperately gasping for breath. He could feel the way they rose and fell, the sound of the dragon’s wings beating steadily barely audible over the sound of the wind rushing past them.

He felt as the dragon dipped them forward, feeling as they dropped closer and closer to the ground, and sobbed loudly. He was not enjoying flying. Not in the slightest. “Please, please, put me down, please put me down!” His fingers were digging into the dragon’s bones as he tried to hold on tighter, magic threatening to leak out from the corners of his closed sockets.

He was so drawn into his panic that he didn’t notice the lack of wind nor the missing sound of beating wings, it was only when he felt another arm gently wrap around his tiny figure and warm breath trickling down his back that he finally opened his eyes, feeling the growing heat of his face as he realised they had already landed.

He braved a glance up at the giant beast, staring into the red slits of magic that were looking back down at him with furrowed brows. The dragon tilted his head with a soft hum, before seeming to suddenly snap out of his trance, beginning to slowly walk across the large ledge they had landed upon. He held Rus with one of his front paws while using the other to assist with walking as they headed towards a large cave entrance.

Rus attempted to struggle once more, trying to loosen the dragon’s claws enough for him to free himself. Unfortunately, the grip was far too tight for him to escape, and it only wrapped tighter around his spine the harder he fought against it. “Get off me!” he hissed weakly, kicking out his feet angrily.

His resistance was only short-lived, his legs quickly reminding him of just how little energy he had to spare. He wrapped his arms once more against the dragon’s long leg, using it to take some of the strain off his aching back. The cave was only shallow, light still easily penetrating the darkness and lighting up the large structure within.

There were large pillars scattered throughout the cave, and from the ceiling hung great plants that had broken through the limestone, allowing more light to fill the cool cavern. Rus watched as water from above ran down from the stalagmites, before dropping down into shallow pools of water or onto small, newly formed stalactites. While it might have seemed damp and cold, the cave was no mere simple hole of rock, it was a dragon’s lair and that meant a certain level of luxury was to be expected.

Further into the cave beyond a small river of water that flowed down beside the step-like form of the rocks lay a brightly lit area that shone with the light of the flaming torches that sat upon the surrounding walls. Each of the columns that stood before the den were each carved into intricate artworks of dragons and fierce warriors. One dragon, however, set apart from the others, in the very middle of the cave. It stood tall, every detail of its image carved with painstaking accuracy, and its eyes almost seemed to glow a bright red from the rubies that sat in place of the dragon’s eyes.

Before the draconic statue was a large, smooth plate of stone coupled with several worn pillows. Evidently, the statue was some sort of shrine dedicated to the dragon that had once ruled over the mountain range and its surrounding plains. However, the candles that sat below the dragon’s feet sat long since extinguished, and the pillows were grey with dust.

The main section of the den was lined with numerous exotic rugs of vibrant colours and unusual textures, and there were more than a few ancient furnishings stacked throughout. However, the most prominent feature of the cave was unmistakably the enormous pile of gold and silver. Goblets and necklaces and countless jewels lay strewn across the floor every which way and there were more golden coins than Rus had seen in his entire life.

He was so distracted by the ginormous pile of valuables that he let out a surprised yelp when he was abruptly dropped onto the carpet below. He landed heavily on his tailbone with a hiss of pain, reaching back a hand to gently massage the afflicted area.

There was no point trying to escape. Rus was deep within the dragon’s lair and he had little to no chance of being able to escape it without harm. He watched silently as the dragon clambered upon the giant pile of riches, turning around to face Rus’ direction before sinking down into the gold as though it was a pool of water. He saw the dragon give a shiver, nosing its face into it with a pleased hum.

After a contented moment, the dragon opened its eyes once more, watching Rus from its radiant bed. “Come closer pet,” he purred softly, eyes softening slightly and making the dragon almost seem peaceful. He waited until Rus had inched closer before speaking again, face still slightly obscured by the precious metal, “By what name does your master call you, monster?” he asked.

One of Rus’ arm reached up to grasp his elbow, his eyes drifting off towards the floor, “Rus,” he answered simply. There was a loud snort from the dragon, and Rus realised he had been forgetting himself, clearing his throat before quickly correcting his statement, “It’s Rus, mighty dragon.”

The dragon made a satisfied sound that rumbled all through its bones upon hearing Rus’ words. With its head now raised proudly the dragon spoke again, “I am the great and terrible Edge!” he boomed, voice still thick with the previous vibrations that had left his throat, “And I am your new master.” The dragon was smirking, his smugness evident in the way his posture straightened and his head turned to one side slightly.

“My new master?” Rus echoed, frowning slightly, “I’ve already got a master, and I’m pretty sure he won’t be to--” He was cut off by a loud snort from the dragon.

“I could care less about what that pathetic excuse for a dragon thinks,” he hissed, swishing his tail in mild agitation, “I believe the phrase you monsters like to use is ‘finder’s keepers’. That is exactly how the world works, it’s not my problem the brat can’t keep a firm grasp on his own pet.”

Rus fell quiet, pondering for a moment his new situation. He had fought tooth and claw to escape from his previous owner, only to end up back in the service of another. He doubted Edge was any different to the other ugly hearted beasts he had encountered since reaching the surface, he seemed just as egotistical and demanding. “Of course, your eminence.” His hands shook slightly by his sides from where he was curling his hands so tightly into fists.

Weeks of running, weeks of hoping that against all odds he might just make it, only to be crushed the moment the dragon had spotted him from his perch high up in the sky. It was cruel, painfully so, but there was nothing Rus could do as he stood silently, glaring at the soft rug below his feet.

He didn’t notice the way the dragon’s mask dropped as he regarded him with soft eyes and a heart full of hidden worry.

#a dragon writes #literature #fic #dragons #undertale #underfell #papcest #spicyhoney

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wolfeyeslonelynights · 6 years

Text

Stardust AU

Liam had expected the star to be a little bit of dust. Maybe even a rock of some sort that glowed yellow and was warm to the touch.

He did not expect to land on an attractive young man with dark hair and dark blue eyes with pale skin that seemed dull in comparison to the setting sun.

“You’re the star?”

Flat brows arched up as the star stared up at him with borderline hostile dislike.

“Yes, I’m the star, and before I kick your ass get off of me.”

It was only then that Liam realized their positions; legs tangled and faces inches apart.

Not sure what to do in light of this new twist to his story, Liam scrambled to stand before reaching down to offer a hand. It was taken after a brief hesitation, the guy eyeing him before taking it. Once he was standing, weight more on one leg than the other, Liam realized that he was taller and much more muscular then he had looked sprawled on the ground.

Shrugging those new unnecessary insights away, Liam tried for a stern look.

“Look, I’m not sure who knocked you out but I promised my love that I would bring her the star so if you would be so kind as to come with me?”

The star stared at him in open disdain, finely made lips curling in a sneer before turning to limp away.

“Yeah that’s a no. Thanks but no thanks.”

Watching the stranger limp away Liam struggled internally for a moment before walk/jogging to catch up to him. Reaching his side, Liam was graced with a glare.

“Go away human.”

He didn’t, instead reaching inside his pocket for the tiny silver magic rope, pulling it out inconspicuously as he spoke.

“I just want to say that I’m really sorry in advance.”

When the Star glanced over at him, Liam lunged for his wrist, quickly tying a knot. A small click ran through the air the knot disappeared and became a smooth circle around the Star’s wrist.

Liam hadn’t planned for the fist that collided with his cheek. Stumbling backwards as he brought a hand up to his face, he frowned at the other who was trying to pull the loop off.

“It won’t come off unless I do,” he quickly pushed on, “and I won’t until I give you to Hayden. I had promised her a star for her birthday!”

At this the Star scoffed and threw his hands up in the air.

“But of course! Nothing says true love like a kidnapped unwilling man!”

Liam ignored him; busying looking around to see how they will get out of the crater that he assumed the Star created when he crashed down to earth. He was jerked around when the rope was harshly tugged. Sliding until he fell onto his butt, Liam glared over at the other male who had flopped back down again.

“Don’t expect me to go anywhere with you.”

Sighing, Liam tried to reign in his anger. It was going to be a long journey. …..

Liam jerked awake sometime later. Not realizing he had dozed off at some point, he sat up to see the Star pulling at the rope around his wrist. Glancing around he saw that it was still dark, making him guess he hadn’t been out for too long.

Sitting up with a groan he brutally yanked the rope.

“Don’t you ever sleep?”

The Star looked at him like Liam was the stupidest creature every before sarcastically spitting out.

“Not at night. You know, genius, stars have better things to do then. Coming out, shining, those kind of things.”

Liam groaned as he stood up, twisted and stretching to get all the kinks out.

“Well, you aren’t in the sky anymore so coming out, shining, all that shit is cancelled until further notice. Sleeping during the day is no longer viable, etc etc. You should try to rest now before we have to start walking.”

The Star growled before twisting to look over at Liam.

“Get it through your thick fucking skull, I’m not walking anywhere with you.”

Heaving a huge sigh, sleeping obviously no longer an option, Liam stood up and reached for the other object in his pocket. It was time to try a little white lie.

“Well I mean, fine but I was going to send you back up ..there where ever stars go after show you to my Hayden but with your horrible attitude I guess I won’t be using this.”

As he said the last, he pulled out the black candle, creating the first gleam in the Star’s face. A grin split wide as hands eagerly reached for it. Liam danced out of reach.

“You have a Babylon candle!”

Nodding solemnly Liam rolled the thick short stub of wax in his hands.

“Yes, a babbling candle."

The Star gaped at him in disbelief.

“You mean a Babylon candle?”

Liam felt his cheeks flush and nodded again.

“That’s what I said.”

He only received a unimpressed stare. Struggling to get the male to help him out Liam gestured like he was offering it up.

“I was going to give it to you when we’re done.”

This was answered by a grunt and vague wave of hands.

“There’s barely enough left for one more use.”

Liam furrowed his brows.

“So? Be grateful or I’ll use it now to get us back home.”

The Star looked at him with an unreadable expression for several moments before sighing and slowly standing up .

“Fine but I’m holding you to your word.”

Grinning Liam bounced over to the wall and looking for good climbing spots. Slowly the Star limped over.

“You know you’re going to have to walk faster than that if I’m to get you to Hayden in a week.”

The Star glowered at him.

“Don’t push your fucking luck.”

…..

“Do you even know where you are going?”

They had been walking for hours. The sun was high in the sky, both were covered in sweat. When Liam glanced back at the limping Star, he was surprised to see how much duller the male looked in the day time. There were dark circles growing underneath the eyes that were either glaring or ignoring him.

Pushing away the sour bubble of concern building in his stomach, Liam turned away and looked around at the surrounding forest. Really it all look the same.

“My love for Hayden will guide me home.”

The star laughed rudely loud at this.

“Great we’re loss.”

Liam hissed back at him, tugging at the rope that was stretched between.

“Look star can we just-“

He was cut off by a particularly hard yank on the rope that sent him scrambling backwards. Looking with a shout on his lips, he was stopped by the Star speaking over him.

“My name is Theo.”

When Liam didn’t respond just turning to look around once more, Theo continued.

“You need to slow down or your true love is going to get a worn down worthless star. It’s midday, I never stay up this late!”

Liam whipped around to with a scathing reply but stopped short at the sight of Theo bent over, breathing hard as he gingerly poked at his ankle. Even from the distance Liam should the skin was an angry looking red with some swelling.

Swallowing past a lump in his throat he turned away to mutter.

“Yeah, yeah of course I can.”

He heard an almost silent sigh of relief. Feeling heat crawl up his neck in shame Liam looked up at the mostly covered sky.

“We must be going the right way. Look you rest and I’ll go…go find us something to eat.”

When he didn’t get a response beyond a small bob of Theo’s head, Liam wrapped the rope around a tree before setting off to the nearest village.

He only look back once. Seeing Theo’s form sitting against the tree, eyes squeezed shut in pain. He moved faster.

…..

That little shit disappeared.

Liam frantically searched the clearly, eyes wide in panic, kicking bushes and impatiently snapping branches. He hadn’t been gone that long, sure dark had fallen and the stars were starting to come out , but really he had thought he was being nice. Letting Theo get a few hours of sleep while he went and bought food.

Instead he comes back to an empty clearing and no star in sight. He couldn’t even find his rope.

Finally he had slumped against the tree, gasping for air and admitting the truth. Theo was gone. His only way to have Hayden finally notice him was gone. He was lost. Feeling angry tears prick at the corner of his eyes, Liam shoved some food into his mouth as a distraction as he scowled at the empty space beside him.

When he was done eating he took his coat off and balled it up into a pillow before slouching down in a more comfortable position. It was useless, he was just going to sleep a little bit and then head more and hope against hope that the story of a star was enough.

Except his dream was weird. At least he thought it was a dream. A woman’s echoing voice was whispering a sad tale of a star that had fallen. Three older woman took the star, made it shine, made it bright, and proceeded to cut its heart out. Just as they raised the faltering beating mass of muscle from a torn open torso - the voice whispered desperately for Liam to wake up and catch the coach that was coming. Then he was jolted awake a voice crying run in his ears.

Heart pounding, he quickly got up and stumbled around the truck of the tree jus time to see a black coach hauling ass down the road. Not bothering to even consider what the hell he was doing, Liam sprinted in just in time to launch himself at the coach as it raced past.

Hitting the side just a painfully resounding crack, he bounced away with a loud groan of pain.

Rolling on the ground to a stop a foot behind, he focused on breathing as his body ached. The sound of wheels creaking to a stop barely reaching his ears.

When a middle aged man stood over him with a sword pointed at his throat Liam noticed.

“I can’t believe they sent a boy to do their dirty work.”

Handing raising, shaking slightly, in peace Liam shook his head frantically.

“No, no! I am not working with anyone I was just trying to hitch a ride!”

When the man, who Liam now noticed was dressed very expensively, only continued to stared down at him unbelievingly he continued.

“No really, I don’t even know who you are, I was just trying to get a ride is all.”

He flinched in discomfort at a twinge of pain in his side, eyes wide at he hope this wasn’t going to be his death. After a tense moment the man back off, sheathing his sword before twirling away back to the coach. When Liam slowly got up he saw the man watching him.

“Well come on then.”

Limping, he smiled as he made his way to the coach.

…..

Not sure when he became the sir’s stable boy but since he did get a free ride Liam let the man boss him around when they reached the inn. Leading the horses into the stable, he started to unhook them from their leads.

Glancing up only when what he assumed was an inn barmaid came marching up towards him. She thrust out a tray with a large fill goblet in his face. Smiling nervously he took the cup, nodding in gratitude.

“Oh thank you, that’s super kind. I’m Liam by the way.”

Just as he started raising the cup to his lips, he heard her respond in a shockingly deep masculine voice.

“Benjamin.”

He stared as the girl turned and marched away before shaking himself. Whatever it’s been a weird day.

Raising the drink again he was stopped this time as a stall at the end of the barn burst open in pieces. He stared opened mouth as a unicorn - a fucking real life unicorn - raced out of the box. It didn’t even register to him that he was in the creatures path until the horse knocked into his arm.

The goblet flew out of his hand, liquid spraying the floor, as he spun before going down himself. His body, tired of the abuse, spasmed in pain. Squinting he looked up to see the unicorn actually lifting a front leg and pawing towards something. Feeling completely out of his depth with the situation he moved his head in time to see the straw and wood sizzling as if being burned from where the liquid had landed.

“Holy shit!”

Scrambling up he raced toward the inn he gave the wild horse and poison on the ground a wide berth. Rain harshly hitting his head as he moved through the yard, he stopped only to fight with the door before ramming it open with his shoulder.

“Stop! Don’t drink anything, they tried to poison-!”

His world tilted and spun as a beautiful older lady walked straight up to the man, who was oddly in a copper washing tub in the middle of the entrance, and slit his throat. There was a moment as he watch blue blood flood out of the opening and into the water. The murkiness swirling with its speed before he shot his eyes up to see the woman turning to look him.

“What the fuck?”

Spinning towards the voice behind him, he ran towards a robed Theo. Reaching him he grabbed his shoulders and took a quick inventory. Beyond looking damp, his eyes were clear as they met his.

“Are you alright?”

Theo nodding gaze slipping past Liam’s shoulder to, no doubt, look at the body. The woman shouted for someone to ‘get them’ and Liam felt his heart jump as he spun around. Pushing Theo, the star clutching at his arms, behind him as a man jumped over the bar counter and rushing towards them.

Moving back towards the wall, seconds passed when the unicorn raced through the ruined doorway, ramming the man. Who hit the wall in the form of a..goat? Liam felt his vision tilt dangerously again at the unreality of it all but snapped his head around to watch the woman hold up a sharp looking piece of glass.

One of his hands slipped down to entwine with Theo’s as the green flames burst around the horse, stalling it from coming at the woman. Witch? Liam didn’t care what she was except she was slowly heading towards them, her malicious eyes locked on Theo. He tried to get them up the stairs just to have the flames shoot up around them as well.

“Shit shit shit!”

Hands squeezing each others, Theo and Liam slowly back away from the witch as she advanced on them, muttering words of how the heart of a star was better then no heart at all. Most of it was loss on his panicked ears except that she wanted to cut out Theo’s heart and no way in hell was he going to let her.

Reaching a hand into his pocket he brought out the candle and muttered over his shoulder as he shoved his hand into the flames.

“Hold on tight and think of home!”

The last thing he felt was Theo’s other arm wrapping around his middle tight before they disappeared in a flash of light as the witch’s screamed surrounded them.

…..

“Why the fuck are we on a cloud?!”

Liam was rung out. He was wet, cold, hungry, and thoroughly traumatized by what he just witnessed. Plus he wasn’t even sure how he was still sitting on a cloud. They were made of water right? Shouldn’t he be falling through it and to his death?

Next to him Theo was looking even more miserable, hand still clutching Liam’s as he looked around.

“You said think of home!”

Liam yelled in irritation.

“My home!”

Theo yelled back, still not releasing his hand, eyes turning electric blue in the lightening that occurred around them.

“Why the fuck would I think of your home Liam! I thought of mine and you thought of yours and now we are stuck in between!”

Shoving him away so that their arms were stretch between without releasing their hold, Liam screamed back.

“You stupid prick! Some crazy lady wants to cut your heart out and you want specific instructions!”

Theo didn’t answer though as thunder boomed around them. Finally breaking their hold, he brought his hands up to clutch at his ears, eyes squeezing shut as another bolt of lightening shot dangerously close nearby.

“It doesn’t matter now! We need to get out of here before we die!”

Liam opened his mouth to demand just how they were going to do that when a heavy fishing net fell over them. Crashing downwards through the moist thick air they landed on hard wet wood.

“What the hell is happening now?”

Groaning, Liam blinking up past the rain and thick rope of the net to see a large group of men wearing large hooded coats and heavy thick dark tinted goggles. All of them seemingly okay to just to watch them until a figure parted a section. This man was older, gray liberally lacing his exposed beard and hair as he squinted down, taking their bedraggled appearances in.

Liam was suddenly very aware of how Theo was sprawled out next to him wearing nothing but a dirty cream colored robe that was soaked through and moved to block as much as him as he could.

They watched, shivering against each other, as the man - the apparent ‘Captain’ - conversed harshly with his crew. Liam couldn’t hear it all but it seemed sarcastic and cruel. Which didn’t bode well for them.

It seemed like minutes passed before two large crew members were hauling them up, taking the net off before marching them down stairs to the bottom of a ship.

How the hell did they get on a ship?

Letting the men tie them up with no resistance, Liam let his head go blissfully blank for the brief moment until the men finished tying Theo against Liam’s back and leaving. Then he took in his surroundings. Which wasn’t much. They were sitting atop two scratchy bales of hay, and they were in an obvious storage area going by the tied down barrels and boxes.

He chewed his bottom lip anxiously.

“You know it’s funny,” Theo started quietly “I used to watch people having adventures.” He chuckled darkly, “Even use to want to go on one.”

Liam huffed quietly.

“Didn’t you ever hear the saying ‘careful what you wish for?”

Theo’s head collided painfully with Liam's. He muttered a few curses as the pain shot across his skull.

“Are you saying I deserve to have my heart cut out?”

Images of the witch coming at them with the dangerous glass knife, Liam ignored the headache building behind his eyes and shook his head answering softly.

“No, no I didn’t mean that.”

They fell into an uneasy silence after that, both lost in their thoughts until Liam decided to offer up a truce.

“I use to want an adventure myself. Hell, I took Hayden’s silly request with joy. Thinking I would just find a crusty lump of rock, take it home and that would be end of it.”

Theo laughed quietly.

“And you ended with me.”

Liam started laughing too even as he thought that finding Theo instead of a rock wasn’t so bad.

“You know, as stupid as it sounds, from what I’ve seen watching humans. Is that where you end up is never where you think it’ll be. So, I guess, don’t give up? And..” Theo’s voice lowered self-consciously, “you’re a hero to me. You saved my life Liam. Thank you.”

Liam tried not to flinch in surprise when Theo’s hand curled around his. Biting back a smile, he looked down to hide it even though the other boy couldn’t see his face.

….

It was maybe a hour later, both sitting in exhausted silence, before Liam jerked up from the light doze he had unknowingly fallen into when Theo spoke.

“Tell me what Hayden is like?”

Liam stuttered and stammered, trying to figure out what to say and realizing he didn’t have a lot to say. That made him pause, frowning.

“There’s, there’s not a lot to say.”

Theo answered, sounding unimpressed but seemingly trying not to be mean.

“Well from the little I’ve seen about…love is that it’s not something you can buy.”

Liam straighten up with annoyance.

“Hold up a sec. This wasn’t about me buying her affection. It was about proving how I felt and showing my love.”

Theo leaned heavily against his stiff back.

“Ahhhh of course and what is she exactly doing to prove her feelings?”

This had Liam pausing again before a grin fought it’s way to his face.

“Yeah yeah, you made your point. Maybe you’ll understand when you meet her. Unless we get murdered by pirates”

Theo huffed quiet laughter, creating warmth skittering across Liam’s abdomen.

“Murdered by pirates, witches wanting to tear out my heart, meet Hayden. Can’t decide what sounds more fun.”

They chuckled until the sound of the door unlocking stopped them. Liam expected it to be thrown open in some kind of dramatic entrance but instead it was quietly and slowly eased open. Just enough for the captain to ease in before he shut it.

Liam tried to twist his head so he could eye the newcomer. Behind Theo was silent and tense.

“So! Now you are going to tell me who you are and where you came from or I am going to cut small strips of your flesh off!”

This was said loudly, Liam saw the captains eyes continuously dart towards the closed door. Tapping Theo’s hand that was still curled around his, he hope the star got the message to shut up before he spoke.

“My name is Liam and this is Theo who is my brother -“

The captain shouted, startling them both.

“You’re brother? He is much too handsome to be your brother. He would certainly be shared goods on my ship!”

Raunchy cat calls and shouts of agreement could be heard through the door. Liam tensed up, anger shimmering underneath his skin as he tried to look menacing at the older man.

“If you even try to lay a hand on him!”

The captain threw his head back and laughed loudly.

“Oh I like a little spunk. Look at you, trying to protect the lad. Well try interrupting me again and I’ll rip your tongue out and feed it to the dogs.” This last bit was said in a roar, the captain staring at the door.

Liam was was confused between the violence promised and the almost lack of actual interest the captain was showing towards them.

“Look sir,” Liam started.

The captain finally looked back at him.

“Better but still interrupting.”

Liam pushed on.

“Look, we are just trying to get home.”

Suddenly the captain had a knife against Liam’s throat, Theo growling low threats at the man, as he pushed the blade closer.

“You interrupted me for the last time boy!”

…..

“Get in here whore!”

Liam stood in his underwear, wishing he had worn more than just the briefs under his clothes, as he watched in confusion as the captain ‘tossed’ Theo through the doorway of the captain’s quarters.

There had been a weird moment in the storage area where the captain had muttered rapid instructions for Liam as he untied them. Liam had been dazed, following the instructions to undressed and climb up a small hidden ladder that led to where they are now.

Stepping away from the window where he had watched his clothes stuffed with hay fall towards the land, he took a moment to look over Theo and make sure he was okay. When he saw the star give him a small nod, he turned to see the captain lock the door before turning and smiling warmly at them.

“Well I think that went quite well.”

Liam and Theo moved until they stood close together, eyeing the guy. He saw that and laughed with embarrassment.

“I have to put a show on for the boys or they’ll think I’m getting soft but really, really I dislike the politics of it all.”

He gestured towards a closet and smiled warmly at Theo.

“Come lovelies, let’s get you out of these dreary clothes.”

Sharing another bemused glance, they followed as the captain heading towards a huge closet. There were costumes and rows upon rows of outfits. Liam couldn’t fathom why a pirate would have so many. Some were even dresses.

“For you my dear boy, I think this would go just splendid with your eyes. My goodness has anyone ever told you that they are such a wonderful shock of blue?” Liam took the set of hangers that were pushed against his chest, staring as the man turned towards Theo.

“And you, take your pick of anything. Anything would look good on you.”

Theo clasped his hands nervously.

“No I’m okay thank you.”

The captain raised his brows and lowered his head.

“Honey…you are in a bathrobe.”

Liam smiled as Theo glanced down, red staining his cheeks before he headed towards the closet of clothes. The captain gently nudged him towards a particular set.

“Let me trim your hair.”

Liam left Theo to getting dress, listening to the captain babble about his life and how he has to have two personas to keep the crew and himself happy. Just as Theo joined them at the table, quietly pouring himself a cup of tea, did Liam finally ask what has been brewing over in his mind.

“Why hide though? Why not just be your true self and be happy?”

Theo made a big production of taking a sip and sighing loudly.

“Exactly, why would anyone want to do that?”

Liam side eyed him as the captain continued trimming his hair. It felt like pieces of a puzzle were beginning to snap into place.

“Exactly.”

Then they listened as the captain explained his plan on introducing them as his long loss nephews at the next port and they were more than welcomed to travel with them until they reach the wall.

Liam listened absently while he stared at the reflection of the star in the windows.

….

“These are my nephews, Liam and Theo, who will be guest of ours until we drop them off near the wall.” The captain was gruff and growly, the mask of tyrant back on, “If anyone disrespects them I will personally rip their spines out.”

The screw looked them over. Liam was sweating nervously in his new coat and pants, not use to clothing that fit so well. Next to him Theo was eye catching handsome in a suit made of deep rich navy blue that made his skin seemingly glow and eyes glimmer.

Liam wasn’t the only one who had trouble keeping his eyes off of him. After a brief tense moments the captain broke the stares with shouts of work to be done. Leaving the crew to scramble to their places while Liam and Theo hovered near the railing unsure of what to do.

Looking over he smile awkwardly at Theo who was bent of the rail - a soft smile on his mouth as he looked at the world below them.

“This is almost like how it feels being up there.”

The wistfulness reminded Liam painfully that he used the las to the candle. Guilt pinched his insides and he moved closer to place a tentative hand on the star’s shoulder blade.

“Theo, I’m sorry I used the candle. I promise I’ll get another one.”

The star laughed but not unkindly.

“Liam I’m thankful you got us out of there but finding another Babylon candle is near impossible.”

Liam watched sadly as the other boy straightened up and looked at him. There wasn’t any of the hate or disdain he would have expected, just a look of ease.

“Don’t worry about it okay?”

Once he nodded, Theo turned and wandered away, going to where the captain was and seemingly asking questions at thing he pointed at. Liam stood, back against the rail, and watched.

…..

The next day, after a night of being served an amazing dinner and sleeping on a ridiculously soft couch. Liam found himself being steer towards the head of the ship where the captain placed a sword in his hand. He stared down at it.

“Uhm, what am I going to do with this?”

The captain knocked it easily out of his hand. Liam flushed and quickly went to pick it up, hoping Theo wasn’t around to have witness that.

“You are going to learn how to defend yourself and..your brother.”

He didn’t miss how the last part was said with a hint of teasing. As if there was a joke he wasn’t privy too. The sarcastic reply that Theo didn’t need a protector died on his tongue when he remember the Witch and the blade. That bitch had wanted to carve out the stars heart.

Getting a firmer grip on the hand he looked up with determination.

“I’m ready.”

…..

Later when they went in for lunch, Liam shoveled food down while Theo sat at a piano with the captain. They were across the room but Liam could hear the softy spoken instructions and hand movements. The sounds were sharp at first but slowly over the hour Theo warmed up and the notes became more fluid. An actual song.

After they ate, Liam hung out in the room while the captain took Theo up to go through some simple sword steps.

He wandered over and sat on the piano bench, plucking random notes and he listened to the noises above.

…..

Three days later they were up in the middle of the night. Completely clothed in heavy material rain jacket that seemed lined with some kind of protective gear, Liam and Theo were lined up with the captain on the deck. All around the flying ship lightening and thunder danced while pelts on their heads.

Today they were going to catch lighting bolts.

With Theo’s front pressed firmly against his back as they held onto the canister, Liam’s heart stuttered and raced at the contact. As the star breathed against his ear.

“Ready? Here it comes!”

Tightening their grip, they braced themselves as the blinding light raced down the various poles. Even with the gear they wore, Liam felt a trace of shock in his arms and chest as the light disappeared into the container. Once it was all in, the captain slammed a lid on it before cheers erupted around them.

“That was at least a 20,000 bolter!”

Caught up in the victory, Liam found himself turning around just as Theo’s arms flung around him. Their hug was tight and lingering before they moved apart, Liam grinning like an idiot while Theo was pulled away by some other crew member.

Even with the clothes and the dark, Theo seemed almost glow.

…..

Liam realized Theo really was Glowing.

As they messed around on the deck, one of the crew members playing a happy jig on a drum while another played a fiddle. Liam was in the midst of a harmless sparring session with the star when he realized that the warm light he had been blinking away was, in fact, from the boy in front of him.

It was like a brilliant outline and Liam was awestruck at the image in front of him.

That distraction earned him a sharp elbow jab.

“You’re looking at me but not paying attention. Am I too dashing?”

Liam rolled his eyes at the cocky grin and snarked lamely.

“Of course, you just simply take my breath away.”

Theo laughed happily at the sarcasm, glowing even brighter when he tilted his head back down to meet Liam’s eyes again. It felt like they were the only ones in the world at the moment. Liam hadn’t been lying. He did feel a little out of breath.

“Okay you two, give it a break and let me teach Theo something.”

The captain led Theo away, leaning close to whisper something to him. Liam watched, the smile slipping, when the glow winked out like a doused light at whatever Theo was hearing. He held back a growl, making himself stay where he was and not intrude.

It made him pause. The possessive protection he wanted to give the star. The zinging warmth he had felt when their bodies brushed against each other. Or when their eyes lingered on one another a little too long to be innocent. How he never had felt that way with Hayden.

Liam felt like he was going to vomit.

He was falling in love.

…..

They had departed from the ship the next morning. With well wishes in the form of threats from the captain in front of his crew, Theo and Liam had headed off with only two days worth of walking to reach home.

The home he wasn’t even sure he wanted to reach anymore.

With the realization of what he felt heavy in his mind, Liam was torn on what to do or say to Theo. The star, on the other hand, seemed to be in happy spirits. He was still a sarcastic shit, but the bite was mostly gone from his words, a smile on his face more often then not.

Liam kind of wanted to travel with him forever.

…..

“I’m not even surprised that the next person we met turned you into a guinea pig.”

Liam squeaked angrily as he attacked the water bowl that had been hung in his new cage. Apparently being this small meant he was insanely thirsty.

It wasn’t his fault that a peddler gypsy had met them on the road and struck up friendly conversation. It definitely wasn’t his fault that when the male had eyed Theo almost hungrily and asked if he wanted a lift that Liam had butted in and agreed for them both. If he had placed a rather possessive hand on Theo’s lower back while the guy finally took note of him, then well, he would take responsibility for that.

They had both been shocked when the man promised safe passage to the nearest town. They were even more shocked when, after they agreed, he pointed a finger at Liam.

Then he turned into a small rodent.

Theo had quickly scooped him up, holding his squealing form against his chest as he yelled at the man. Who had shrugged and said that once they reached the town Liam would return to his normal form.

And now here he was, in a cage drinking out of a water trough hoping that it had been cleaned since the last poor rodent had been in it.

“Can you even understand me?”

Liam paused, considering, before going on acting like he couldn’t. It was terrible but usually those questions were followed by confessions. Liam was burning with curiosity on what kind of confession Theo could possibly have.

So he continued guzzling water as if he was trying to drown. Later he was going to have to pee so bad.

“Guess now your brain finally fits your body.”

Asshole.

“Liam…traveling with you has given me a lot to think about.”

Unable to get any more liquid down, Liam turned to sniff at the sad looking piece of lettuce that was in the corner. Urgh.

“I’ve watched centuries and centuries of humans. Wars, pain, hate, always seemed to be the most prevalent thing. But love..what I’ve seen is that it …is unpredictable..unexpected…unbearable.. unconditional…” Theo eyes seemed to drift away unfocused, “very easy to mistake for hate…it kind of makes me understand why the rest of the world is easier to tolerate.” His eyes drifted back, almost hyper focused on Liam’s little form.

“Why people do such uncommonly selfless things.”

He froze as Theo opened the cage and slowly, gently, picked Liam up. He cradled him between his hands as he brought Liam up to nuzzle his nose against him briefly before settling him on his knees. His voice was a choked whisper as he continued.

“Witches wouldn’t find my heart. It’s yours.”

…..

As soon as they entered the town Liam popped back to his normal human size. Luckily he hadn’t been in the cage. Unluckily, or luckily depending, he had still been on Theo’s knee.

“Not that I’m upset, but you becoming a human again so suddenly…my knees hurt.”

Following that, Theo abruptly spread his legs, letting Liam crash to the floor of the small wagon.

“Shit that hurt!”

This wasn’t how he wanted it to go when he transformed back. After Theo has said those words, the star had fallen silent, staring out the window with the most pensive look Liam had seen on him so far. He had wanted to change back, reassure the boy that he felt the same. Maybe another hug or even possibly a kiss.

Instead he had pain radiating around his tail bone as the star smirked down at him.

“Oops?”

Slowly moving to his knees Liam paused when he was in front Theo, eye level with his waist. The air in the wagon suddenly seemed charged, harder to breathe as Theo looked down and Liam looked up.

He swallowed.

“Theo I -“

The door swung open, suddenly Theo scrambling to his feet, a wayward knee hitting Liam in the chin. He curled back down in on himself, clutching his face.

“Oh my god just stop.”

His whimper was ignored as the gypsy yelled.

“You are human again, not much of an improvement if you ask me, now get out of my wagon and life!”

Theo hurriedly dragged Liam up, half carrying him out of the small wagon and into the street. Looking around it didn’t seem that busy but it was also late evening. Theo’s arms held him tighter.

“Where do we go?”

Dropping the hand that had been cupping his bruised chin, Liam straightened up and stepped away from the star to look around. When he saw a relatively nice looking inn he pointed.

“We can stay there tonight,” then feeling bold he reach out and entwined their hands, “come on, maybe we can get dinner there too.”

Theo didn’t answer just followed quietly after Liam, eyes darting around at the stalls closing down. He made a note to make sure they took a long detour through the market tomorrow.

When they reached the inn, they were surprised to find only one room was left. Taking it and handing the money over, Liam sent Theo on ahead as he waited for the food. It was going to be their last night where it’d be just them.

Unless Liam spoke up and confessed.

It was funny because until Theo had asked; Liam had almost forgotten the original purpose he had gone looking for the fallen star. Hayden hadn’t been a blip on his mind for days, easy forgotten as he spent more and more time Theo.

He was never going to forget the star. More importantly, Liam didn’t want to separated long enough to have to worry about forgetting him.

Finally the two plates were handed to him with words that wine and water were already in the rooms. He was slowly made his way up the stairs, steps cautious but light as he realized that he was going to take the chance and tell Theo how he felt.

Even if Theo still wanted to leave.

Even if Theo wanted to stay.

It wasn’t a matter of results but of letting his feelings be known. He had never been upfront about it before, even chasing after Hayden he had been all assumptions and doing whatever she wanted him to do. Now though, now he just wanted to be able to go to sleep knowing that he tried his best. Even if it still ended with them going their own ways, he would at least be able to say he tried.

With that in mind, Liam stopped outside the door and took a deep breath before using a foot to ‘knock.’

He had planned to be suave about it; waiting until they were done eating or even during to bring it up. Instead his mind jumped ahead but blurting words out the moment Theo opened the door.

“IthinkIloveyoupleaseconsiderstaying.”

They both paused after the word vomit, Theo’s brow creasing in confusion as Liam felt his face flare up with embarrassment. Briskly moving past him to set the food down, he kept his back turned and tried again.

“I’m not asking you to stay if you really want to leave. I promised to find you another babbling candle and I will but I..Theo I wanted you to know how I felt.”

He turned to finish what he wanted to say, afraid to see Theo’s expression but also needing to watch as he said. Instead he was met with warm hands cupping his neck and a brilliant glow filling the room as Theo pressed his lips again Liam’s.

Stunned, he stood there for seconds, just letting Theo move against his mouth until his brain caught up with what was happening. Pushing back he opened his eyes to see a searingly intense expression on the star’s face, eyes locked on Liam’s mouth as his own was still parted - tongue darting out to wet the full lower lip.

Liam groaned before clutching Theo’s shirt, yanking him back in for another kiss. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when tongues became involved.

Or when Theo had removed their shirts.

Or falling back onto the bed before rolling them so he was hovering over the burning star - Theo’s face flushed even with it’s light as his eyes gleamed darker with desire.

He could pinpoint the moment when Theo slipped his hand down the front of Liam’s pants - the button almost magically coming undone in the boy’s speed. A breathless moment when fingers touched and wrapped around before gasps and sobs were all he could mutter against a kissed marked neck.

And then the rest of clothes were scattered around the bed. Liam crawling down the star’s body and preceded to send Theo over the edge again and again with mouth and tongue until the bedroom was a beacon in the darkness.

When there was nothing left but a human outline encasing starlight did he crawl back up and start all over again. This time, when Theo shuddered and sobbed beneath him, Liam was above, cradling him in, answering with his own.

…..

The next morning Liam had woken up just as dawn was peering through the window. Pausing to collect himself, he ignored the desperate need to pee in order to look down at the body slung over him.

Theo was completely out, mouth parted slightly as it rested on Liam’s sternum. An arm was wrapped tightly around his waist, legs tangled together rather uncomfortably. Lifting a hand Liam ran it through the soft dark strands idly.

Despite the..completeness of the previous evening he didn’t think they really talked about anything he had wanted too. Still, he wasn’t sure he could ignore what happened as if it hadn’t meant something either.

One way or another, he needed to visit home and explain to Hayden that he was keeping the star to himself.

Slowly, carefully, he placed a kiss to the fuzzy head before extracting himself from the bed. It didn’t seem necessary for Theo to accompany him to say goodbye. It would probably even be cruel to Hayden, what with how good the star looked naturally.

No, Liam planned to pop in, say adieu, and pop back out to return and figure out where they were headed too next.

Theo would probably still be asleep if he was lucky. They could even wander the market stalls for the entire day if he wanted.

With a firm plan in mind, Liam tip toed around the room, quietly pawing through the random piles of clothes until he was decently dressed. Using a little bit of the drinking water and a cloth, he tried to clean himself up best as he could - smirking at some of last night still evident on his skin.

When he was at the door Liam paused to look back at Theo. The star hadn’t so much as moved a muscle, snoring quietly under the covers Liam had pulled over him.

Smiling he slipped out the door and made his way down to the lobby. Paying for anther night, he didn’t realize he was whistling until he was halfway down the road.

#thiam #Stardust au #7k+#I didn't even want to start this #I wanted to write Gremlins au #but then this happened?#I made it more pg 13 than R rated #thiam fanfic #I might add the write of the move/story later

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galaxystony · 7 years

Text

fortune’s fool: peter parker II

peter parker x reader

A/N: multi-part fic based off of a twitter post which I won’t link until the end so as not to spoil anything :-) Each part can be read individually or as a series!

requested: nope

Words: 2000+

Warnings: cursing, mentions of sex, mentions of drinking, mentions of death

summary: Two Empire State University students fated to meet

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requests are open!

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