#and even though i washed and conditionned her hair it was so tangled and dry and everytime i brushed it more hair kept coming out

[wetslug]

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[do-not-lick-the-walls]

a devil put aside | chapter three - renaissance

masterlist | read on ao3

(gif by @goodsirs <3)

beelzebub x fallen angel!reader

summary: you wash off the blood, and make a deal with the devil.

(she/her pronouns are used for the reader, no description of any sexual characteristics for the reader, no use of y/n)

warnings: non-sexual nudity & being undressed, religious themes & trauma, aftermath of injury, references to slight cosmic horror, some sexual undertones

ineffable taglist: @sarcastic-sourwolf <3

-----

You don't want to go in the bath.

Filthy is an understatement for you right now. Sticky with dry blood, covered in grime, clothes ripped up and hair swept into tangles. It makes you want to crawl out of your skin, how dirty you are. Too many layers made for Heaven's air-conditioned climate stick to your body, soot and ash mix with sweat to cover you in smears of dull gray. It's the third-worst thing you've ever experienced.

But you don't want to go in the bath. Sixty centuries worth of instinct is telling you not to touch molten sulfur, not to go near anything this hot, and certainly not to sink yourself in liquid hellfire. Your brush with death mere hours ago hasn't left you eager for a second try, no matter what godawful sensations you keep discovering.

You don't want to go in the bath. Because if it doesn't kill you, you'll know what you are, and you're not sure that would be any better.

So you just stare at it.

"Yes, you have to."

You shake your head and keep your feet firmly planted on the tile. You do not want to. It's not going to happen.

Beelzebub sighs. "You have to, love. I told them you would."

Tongues of steam-smoke curl around the little room, slowly licking at the air as the fire throws shifting pieces of darkness along the walls. Whirls of yellow sulfur float lazily within the red-orange fire. Dried blood sticks your shirt to your back.

"I don't want to."

They place a hand on your shoulder.

Every time you look away, the swirling patterns of the bath draw your eyes back. It's mesmerizing, in a horrible kind of way. Bright, like you're meant to be. Glowing with the vibrancy of colors found in fine stained-glass windows; the shades of red somebody could cut a depiction of Eve's apple straight from, hues of yellow fit for halos.

"You'll be okay." Beelzebub's voice is gentle, coaxing as they pull your suit jacket down your shoulders. You move to cling to it, but by the time you manage to tear your gaze from the fire, it's already been dropped on the floor, and they're undoing what's left of the knot in your tie. "It won't hurt, I promise."

That's what I'm afraid of.

Your tie follows your jacket, and though your brain wants it back, your body untenses at the loosening of your collar. The air feels cool in comparison to the humidity that's been building between your clothing and your skin, despite its actual temperature.

They peel off the rest of your clothes like that; carefully, slowly. Every button undone lets your skin breathe a little more. It's a relief. It's a deathmarch.

You fall into a detached kind of state, simply exist while your clothes turn into a pile of ruined fabric on the floor. Let time move through you without intervention. Only when Beelzebub holds out a hand to help you into the tub do you return to the active world, and by then your fear has settled into something less frantic. You have to go in, whether you want it or not. The quiet sinking of the inevitable wraps around your hand as you brace yourself on theirs, and step into the bath.

It doesn't kill you. It doesn't even hurt. It is a little uncomfortable when you sink all the way in, but you're quick to start adjusting to the heat, and it's nothing you can't handle. You haven't been smelling the sulfur this whole time, either. The scent is still there, but it's like somebody turned down your receptors to it. You're both thankful and concerned.

Beelzebub sits leaning against the tub, fidgeting with their hands in a way uncharacteristic to the calculated mannerisms you've come to expect. You don't dwell on it; the bathfire is starting to feel good, and you want to get this filth off your body before you explode.

You take a breath, close your eyes, and sink underfire. It's oddly peaceful, not altogether different from being underwater. There's the same bubbling noise, the same semi-floaty feeling. It'll take scrubbing for the blood to come off, but some of it is already starting to loosen while you soak. You wonder if it'll still be you underneath it all.

A tightening in your chest reminds you of your new need to breathe, and you resurface with a gasp and a slosh, fire-soaked hair sticking to your face and the back of your neck. Rivulets of sulfur run down your skin to drip back into the bath, rolling over your face and along your neck like rain on a window. A quick glance to Beelzebub reassures that you didn't splash them.

The cuts and bruises from tumbling around the office seem to have disappeared, though a general soreness remains. It's your back that truly hurts. From your shoulderblades all the way down past your ribs, a deep ache pulses angrily beneath your skin. You decide to save the back and the wings for last. Hopefully the fire will soothe in the meantime. You pick up a cloth.

Scrubbing the dirt from yourself isn't easy, and the blood's even harder to deal with. Your legs aren't too bad, but from the hips upward you're caked in blood that ran over your shoulders and down your chest, or around your sides to your waist. Your hands are particularly disgusting, bits of dark red-brown are mashed into every line and stuck underneath your fingernails. So the hands go first.

You weren't bloody after the war. Having a full cardiovascular system wasn't really your forte as an angel. When you took an injury, it was always pure light that shone out of the wound, clean and easy to manage until you or someone else could miracle you back to full. And you didn't take blows very often in the first place. But now a beating, bleeding heart's been shoved inside your chest, and you have a feeling it won't be going away. You've been cursed with a heart and lungs and guts. Your wounds will never be beautiful again, just messy and impure.

"Tell me how it happened."

The suddenly-broken silence makes you jump a little, knocking you out of your bitter thoughts. You stop scraping the ash from your forearm.

Some things are hard to say out loud. Hope leaves you lonely when you run out of denial to feed it with, and once the truth is past your throat it's never going back in. Your cardinal sins cannot be unconfessed, to others or to yourself.

When you answer, you answer quiet.

"Pride."

"Yeah," they sigh. "That'll do it."

A silver thread of understanding passes between you. You don't really want to say any more, and they don't push. The silence becomes a little more comfortable. You return to scrubbing the blood and grime off your body, probably ruining the washcloth forever in the process, and things are okay for a minute. As long as you don't think about where and what you are.

Eventually, you manage to get most of the gunk off. All that's left is whatever mess your back must be. The fire's helped the ache some, but your shoulder starts complaining when you move to reach behind you. The other one fares no better, and after a few attempts on each side coming up fruitless, you swallow the pride that led you here. "Um... would you...?"

Beelzebub turns around, and you gesture to your back sheepishly. "I can't reach. My shoulders won't, ah..."

"Oh." They blink a couple times. "Oh. Uh... yeah. Sure,"

You must've caught them off-guard, to get a reaction so much less confident than their usual demeanor. Or maybe you've just been assuming their patterns wrong based on first impressions. This could be how they actually are, and the confident, authoritative Beelzebub could have been the outlier. You don't really know them.

And yet, you have a feeling the truth lies somewhere in between.

They pull off those odd little gloves of theirs, and their sash follows, then their blazer. Your throat catches at the sight of them left in mostly white, then catches again as they roll up their sleeves past the elbow, carefully tucking them so they won't unroll. As you hand them the cloth, your fingertips meet for half a second.

The fire-soaked cloth drags once across your back, and you're about to relax into it, when they inhale sharply. "Shit, angel..."

Their finger runs along the spot where one of your upper wings used to connect to your back. Ah. It must've scarred when they healed you, then.

"Did they...?"

You nod.

Beelzebub sighs, curses under their breath, and continues their work. The repetitive, slow swipes across your back are somewhat comforting.

"I miss the eyes more," the words fall from you suddenly, and without prompt. After all the crying and heavy breathing yesterday, your voice has gone hoarse, but you have an urge to talk again. Your thoughts have been racing around in your head like scattering rats, and you want them out. "I've still got two wings, I'm sure i'll be able to fly eventually, but the eyes..." you trail off, unsure of the right phrasing.

"You've still got two eyes. You can see, can't you?" They pour fire over your hair and start to work their fingers through it, and you lean into their touch without thought.

"No, I--- I meant the other ones. In here." You tap the side of you head.

"Well yeah, maybe you can't see in three-sixty or anything, but you can still see."

You pause, try to figure out a way to explain this to them.

"No, the ones on the inside aren't just eyes, really. They don't just see, they... they think."

"...How do you mean?"

"They're not just extrasensory, they're---" You struggle to find the right words for a moment, "They're a part of my brain. They're on it, they're in it. It's not just sight, it's foresight, it's insight, and now they're all closed, and I can't understand the things I usually do. It's like... like somebody's stapled a part of my mind shut."

The longer you think about it, the more frustrating it gets. You're stuck in the here and now, seeing only in three dimensions, unable to slip into bits of future or past or places far away. You can't see behind you, or through the walls, or what's going to happen. You can't see the answer to infinity, or how to divide by zero. You just sigh again, and stare at the curlicues of sulfur drifting through the bath.

"Do you want me to get your wings?"

You hesitate, then let them out. They fixed your wings themself yesterday, you can probably trust them with cleaning your feathers. You swear you can feel the missing sets unfurl too, but there's nothing left behind. Michael made sure of that. Sliced them clean off, left your upper and lower back flat like a human's. But Beelzebub healed you well. The remaining set feels perfectly uninjured, if a little sore, and all the other damage has been fixed alongside.

Nobody but you has ever groomed your wings before. It's a kind of intimacy you don't find in heaven. Even if you ever wanted to, if you had someone close to you, it wouldn't have been proper upstairs. It's probably not down here either, now that you think about it, but it's not like anyone's watching. The security cameras are all broken or fake. There are dark corners to hide in, dark little rooms to make secrets in. This can be one of them, you think, while their soft hands brush over you. I won't tell anyone.

They're careful not to dislodge any feathers, or bend them out of pattern while they clear away the blood. It's almost contradictory, how gentle their touch is for someone who's fallen so far.

Did their fall hurt just as bad?

A pang hits your chest at the thought. You want to ask, but can't bring yourself to.

How many did you send falling in that battle? How many lost their halos to your spear? How many did you put through this?

You beat the thought back. They're demons, it was justice when you struck them down. And it doesn't matter anyway, because if you didn't get them, someone else would've. It was inevitable for them all to fall. You were doing your job.

When your wings are free of blood and put away, Beelzebub offers their hand to help you out of the bath.

You shake your head. "I don't feel clean yet."

They give you a look that falls somewhere between sad and resigned. "You never will again."

You're dried off and wrapped in a long silk robe. The red looks wrong against your skin, replacing the beiges and whites and soft blues that should be there. While Beelzebub rolls their sleeves back down, you look at your pile of clothes, stained beyond repair, and let yourself mourn them. The last visible trace of angel is gone from you.

Your stockings lie at the top of the pile. They're ruined, of course. But maybe not quite so much as everything else. Maybe, if you could find a way to wash them...

You doubt they're compliant with hell's dress code, and although they've been kind to you, you really doubt Beelzebub wants you hanging onto a piece of heaven. But... they're pretty. And nobody would ever have to know.

You sneak a glance at Beelzebub. They're facing the other way, distracted with pinning their sash back on.

You take your stockings from the pile, and slip them up your sleeve.

Barely a second after you finish, Beelzebub turns back around, pulling on their gloves, and waves for you to follow.

---

Beelzebub's throne room isn't much of a throne room. It's a small, undecorated concrete box with a short platform, a gold-edged old sitting room chair, and as of last night, thanks to you, a bloodstain on the floor. But there's one thing to say for it: it's a lot cleaner than the rest of hell. The huge piles of newsprint and paperwork are tied into neat-ish stacks, likely never to be finished, and although the chair trying to be a throne is old, it doesn't look infested with anything.

Beelzebub flops onto it, throwing a leg over the side, and gestures vaguely to a collection of newspaper bunches stacked like haybales. Seeing no other chairs, and not wanting to sit on the floor beneath them, you follow their suggestion. It's not actually the worst place you've ever sat.

The silk robe moves and falls with you in a way so elegant it has to be borderline sinful. The feeling of it against your skin, too, is horrifically pleasant. Empresses from long-gone dynasties come to mind, in their bright dresses and golden hairpins, or perhaps more similarly the lush dressing gowns of golden-age Hollywood stars. You try not to look at yourself.

"So," Beelzebub starts, "We've got a lot to talk about here, I suppose."

An icy sinking along your spine pulleys your heart up into your throat like a double elevator shaft.

They sigh. "Don't look so tense, love. I'm not going to bite you. Go ahead, relax."

You make an attempt at relaxing into your seat, at first trying to mirror them before quickly realizing that's not going to work with your setup, then fumble around for another couple of seconds trying to find some other position. It feels unnatural, to lean back at a time like this. You're not sure you like it. You must not do a very good job of it either, because they wince, and wave you off. You go back to sitting straight up with your feet together like you're meant to.

"But you just did it in the--- no, not important, actually. We can work on the uh, relaxing thing later. More pressing matters." In a seeming attempt to reset themself, they exhale, and straighten their lapels. "Alright, I'm assuming you know who I am, or you would've asked by now, and I know who you are, or I would've asked by now, so thankfully we can skip that bit, yeah? Good. Okay," they pause, then reset themself again.

"I don't know how a Seraph managed to get the boot after so long. But however it happened, you've joined the Fallen now, and you're clearly not faking it. Making you," they sit up a little, focusing. You're stuck between wanting to break eye contact, and wanting to lean in closer. "An unprecedented phenomenon. And an important one, too."

Still stuck in your throat, your heart flutters.

"Point is," they sit up fully now, resting their elbows on their knees. "You're something special, pet. So,"

Their mouth twitches upward, so slightly that you would've missed it if you'd blinked. Their eyes flash like they're letting you in on a joke. You brace yourself for the words.

"I have an offer for you."

It was always going to come to this. To a deal with the devil. Your heart sinks back down the shaft, pulling the icy dread up again in counter.

"Let me train you."

You blink.

You're not sure what you expected. Maybe a threat, or something more candy-coated, an obvious temptation. Something other than an internship with the Prince of Hell.

Tentatively, you poke at the idea with your foot. "What's the catch?"

"No catch. I'm not trying to trick you into something. Be my apprentice, let me teach you to be a demon. There's still power in you, I'll help you tap back into it."

They look you dead in the eyes, and you almost say yes right then. A sudden want to bury yourself in that obsidian gaze comes rushing through your veins and down to your fingertips, hot, then cold, then hot again. You stare into the void, and the void stares back.

A second passes.

Cut it out, traitor! Your rationality slams you over the head with a laptop full of reasons why you're an idiot. They are a demon. They are Prince of Hell, patron unsaint of the flies that follow them. They are distracting you. Demons are liars, no matter how beautiful, how kind, and you cannot afford to forget that. You are in enemy territory.

You clear your head, and move with caution as you prod at this a little more. "What's in it for you?"

They chuckle. "You, sweet. You're drowning in potential. I'd be a fool not to want you on my side."

They say it as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, and you have to look away to avoid being hypnotized again. The idea of being wanted drips into your head, starts to melt into the cracks like honey while your brain tries to scrape it off.

Didn't they just say you're something unprecedented? Important? Whispers the scars on your back. Even missing wings and eyes, they still want you.

"Come on, love. It's a win-win. I get to teach you, you don't get fed to something, everybody's happy."

That sobers you again for a moment, furrowing your brows. There's the threat, then.

"You don't have to worry about it," they take your hands, moving closer, an honesty in their undertone that you want to believe is real. "I'm offering to bring you under my protection. Nobody would ever touch you again, and if they did, I'd kill them."

A finger traces your cheek, like it did yesterday, and your face untenses. Such a violent idea should scare you. Instead, it makes your heart skip beats and tremble in a different way, slowly trying to push the lid closed on your moral compass.

You swallow. "Tell me more."

"I'll train you myself. Teach you to be a proper demon, and keep you by my side while you learn. You'll assist me with things, if I need you to." They pull your hands in so slightly you might be imagining it. "And you won't just be some errand girl. You could have status. Who knows, in time, you could be a Duke of Hell."

You want to say that's not tempting, but so help you, it is. Technically, you fell high in the ranks of Heaven, but not in the way they're offering. Seraphim think, not lead; that's an Archangel's job. God trusted you with higher cosmic knowledge, but what else did she ever give you but commands?

Images flash through your mind: more red silk, jewels and pins, comfortable sofas, ignoring your paperwork. Darkness, depravity, hedonism. The kinds of sin that make your body go hot just thinking of it. Giving the orders instead of only taking them. Wine. Music. Velvet.

Suddenly, you become very aware of the stockings hidden in your sleeve, take another laptop to the face, and frantically shove your visions of grandeur back into the box labeled 'SIN: DO NOT OPEN.' You have to get out of here. You're being corrupted already, and worse, you're starting to like it. God forgive you, you're starting to like it.

But where else is there to go? If you say no, you're getting fed to something, probably over and over for all eternity. And short of an intervention from God herself, you're not getting out of hell entirely.

"So. What'll it be?" Beelzebub drops your hands, then reextends one of theirs, inviting.

Those hands have only been kind so far. Every touch from them has been to help you, to heal you. You want their touch again, that feeling of another that's so rare to find in heaven, their hand on your face, in your hair. You want them to want you.

You have nothing to lose, and everything to gain.

You slide your hand into theirs.

They smile.

[roosterbruiser]

𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 ☾☽ 𝐂𝐡. 𝐗

☾☽ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐅𝐚𝐲𝐞 "𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫" 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫

☾☽ 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: It’s been almost three years since the accident that took half of her, and Faye “Clover” Ledger seems fine, really. She loves her old house, she has a perpetually expanding vinyl collection, she’s got a job she likes on base, and she is only a short drive from the beach. She’s grounded--literally. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw feels like he’s been homesick his entire life. He’s always on the move;  jumping from one squadron to another, living one mission to the next. Somewhere in between losing both his parents and carving a successful career as a Naval aviator, he’s never found himself a home. When a call to serve on a high-priority mission with an elite squadron brings Rooster back to Miramar, he finds that home. Except it’s not a house that he finds--it’s the former backseater that observes and records the mission for the Official Navy Record. 

☾☽ 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐞𝐧 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟐𝟔𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗

The couch is dipping with the weight of our tangled bodies. Rooster is lying against the chartreuse fabric, flat on his back, eyes half-shut and mouth an undisturbed plane beneath his trimmed mustache. He is radiating a certain heat, one that isn’t just his hot blood and the perpetual stink of fuel that taints his peppery odor, and his fingers are absently grazing the skin in the middle of my back. He has found my spine, which I straighten just for him, and he marks each of my vertebrae from the base of my neck all the way to the waistband of my pajama pants. 

I’m squished on top of him: cheek pressed against the middle of his chest, the top of my head tucked safely beneath his chin, arms hugging him to me, my breasts flattened uncomfortably against the uniform plane of his belly and ribs, my hips just barely grazing the sofa between his spread legs.

He’s almost asleep, even though Stevie is draped between his right shoulder and the couch, making herself fit in whatever little bit of room he leaves for her. His breathing is long and deep. I can feel every breath that starts in his lungs and rises, rises, rises before it expels from his parted lips. 

I am not very comfortable, no not really, except this is the only place in the world that I want to be. I want to be here, on the couch that’s not new but very old. I want to be here, on his big body, listening to his breathing crescendo as he falls further into slumber. I want to be here, in the darkness of my living room, listening to a Sheryl Crow album while a maple-scented candle burns down on the coffee table. Here, where there’s Chinese takeout boxes stuffed in the back of the fridge and there’s two empty wine glasses in the kitchen sink. Where there’s a vase of dead lavender in the windowsill, happily drying out and crumbling in the California sun. Where there’s working air conditioning in every room and I don’t have to hand wash my dishes anymore and the lock on the backdoor doesn’t stick.

“Shh,” Rooster whispers, index finger settling the crease between my brow, “thinking too loud.” 

And I have to bite my lip even though I know he can feel the smile spreading to my cheeks as it grows and grows. 

“What’re you smiling at,” he whispers, his voice very sleepy and sweet, “too late to be smiling like that.” 

It’s not even eleven yet. I very softly press my lips to his chest and kiss him there, feeling his heart beating beneath my lips. So steady, so tranquil. He lets his hand fall on the back of my head, holding my skull and my hair and all my thoughts and all my words. 

“I wanna tell you something,” I whisper to him. 

I still feel like I’m going to faint when I say this to him. I’m letting it trickle, though. The boiling water, the truth. It is slow, very slow. My cup is overflowing, though, it really is. If someone bumped into me, it would spill all over the floor, the glass would shatter.

The last song on Tuesday Night Music Club is starting; I Shall Believe.  

He stills beneath me, grip on my hair tightening just slightly, just barely. Never enough to hurt me. 

“Tell me something, baby,” he whispers. 

Stevie is purring loudly, kneading Rooster’s sweatshirt with expert claws. 

Just like always, I can feel the words coming up my throat like bubbling vomit. It makes me want to clamp a hand over my mouth and take refuge in the bathroom, spewing all my syllables into an empty toilet bowl. But then he starts to brush his fingers through my hair, very softly detangling little bits and ghosting over my scalp when he starts at my roots. And then I feel like Maggie is right next to me, biting a silly grin, hands clasped as she begs me to keep him close. She was a truth-teller. She would want me to be a truth-teller, too. Even if it’s slow, so slow. Even if it hurts. 

“I’m in recovery,” I say, my tongue hot and bitter-tasting, “like addiction recovery.” 

His body doesn’t stiffen the way I thought it would. His fingers are still combing through my hair slowly, he’s still treating me like I’m a doll--very fragile, porcelain. My lips are still hovering his shirted chest and I’m breathing hot air onto the worn cotton--maybe I was too muffled for him to hear me. Fuck. The thought of repeating myself makes me want to wither away in a gust of hot wind. 

“Not alcohol, I hope,” he says. 

It disarms me. There’s a teasing lilt in his deep voice and he still sounds sleepy instead of suddenly wide-awake at this revelation. And just him saying that, just him nodding towards the kitchen where the empty wine glasses sit, it makes my shoulders deflate. I breathe a held breath onto him and let my eyes fall to his. 

He’s smiling at me in that sweet, tired way. His eyes are glimmering, shining as he surveys my expression. I am smiling and my cheeks are hot and I’m tired, too--suddenly so exhausted after telling him one small thing. 

“Pills,” I say softly, nodding, “vicodin. Xanax. Sometimes adderall.” 

He nods, his brow only slightly knitting. I know he wants more from me--he always, always wants more from me. And I somehow always have more to give to him. 

“The vicodin started truthfully. Prescribed after the accident,” I tell him, “and the xanax was prescribed, too. For panic attacks. PTSD, the whole thing. The adderall was to stay awake. I had, like, these foul nightmares after she died.”

I don’t even mean to tell him this, but here I am, my heart in my mouth and here he is, listening, his expression open wide and honest. His hand rests peacefully on the back of my neck now. He’s stroking my skin there with a calloused thumb. I have to swallow hard, with a struggle, because I feel like I’m swallowing sand. 

Open the door / And show me your face tonight / I know it's true / No one heals me like you / And you hold the key

“What were the nightmares?” 

If anyone else in the world asked, I wouldn’t be able to tell them. I would look at their face, at that strange expression that falls over people when someone starts talking about death, about loss. People get off on the morbidity of it all. People love the pain of others, love to screw their faces up and squint and sigh and apologize with half a heart. People love it when other people hurt and not them.

The words are coming out of my mouth before I can even stop them, though. 

“Everything is silent. I watch her fall a hundred times,” I whisper, “no words, no sound. Nothing. She’s there and then she isn’t.” 

Maybe I can tell him this, yes, I can and it feels easy. But I cannot tell him how bloody these silent dreams are--that I smell pennies when I wake up, that I am sweating and crying, that I have to stumble down the hallway and flip the record so that there is finally sound in my house. I cannot tell him this, no--it is my burden, my secret.

His eyes are soft, wide. 

“Do you have nightmares when I’m here?” 

My heart is going to stop. I smile and I feel like I’m going to cry again. I lean against his chest, letting my eyes fall to his throat, his perfect throat and the scars that scratch across it. 

“You know the answer to that,” I say because I feel like I’ll cry if I tell him the whole truth. The whole truth being that I’ve never had a bad dream in my life when he’s slept in my bed, that I have a hard time even having a bad day when he’s here in my life.

He nods, smoothing his hand on my forehead and pushing my hair out of my complexion. His breath is warm on my face--his breath smells like soy sauce and fried wontons. I could lie here and be breathed on by him forever and ever. I could, really, I could. 

“Well, then,” he whispers, sighing, securing his arms around me, “I’ll just have to stay.”

He looks like he belongs here, just like he always looks like he belongs wherever he is. But there is something holy about him here beneath me, on my couch in this quiet living room of mine. He hallows the room with his presence--makes everything glow. He blesses me, blesses Stevie. I don’t know if there is a God, don’t know if I hope for a God to be out there in the vast nothingness, but if there is--he must look like Bradley.

“Admiral Simpson,” I add, “he’s the one that picked me up. Extended my bereavement leave. Drove me out to Arizona to a facility on his own dime. Fed Stevie. Gave me the research job.”

Rooster hums. The soft spot. 

“Uncharacteristically warm of him,” he whispers, kissing my forehead. 

“He’s misunderstood,” I say, shaking my head, “no one else would’ve done that for me. Could’ve been dishonorably discharged.”

He’s smiling at me softly again, his eyes so tired.

“How long have you been sober?” 

I swallow. 

“It’ll be two years in August,” I tell him, “August eighth.”

He takes everything I’m saying, takes it so well, holding it in his big hands and his strong arms. I can feel him digesting all of it, can feel him adding all the new knowledge to my file. He squeezes my waist. 

“And now I wanna tell you something,” he says, “give and take, right?”

I nod because my throat is so tight. It’s my turn now, my turn to run my fingers over the highest point on his cheek bones, to let them fall to his jaw where they trace the bone. To touch him, to hold everything he gives me. 

“My last serious relationship was my second year of undergraduate. Lasted about eight months. Her name was Brigette. Ended amicably,” he tells me, watching my lips smile at him, “she still sends me Christmas cards. She just had her third baby a few months ago.”

Biting my lip, I nod, sinking all my weight onto him. He doesn’t shy away from it, doesn’t groan--he pulls me closer, so close that I think our skin would bind if we were to stay like this for much longer.

“Phoenix is my best friend here. But in college, I was close with a guy named Tommy. We still text every now and then--grab a beer when I’m passing through,” he says, “and when I was younger, my best friend was named Wade. He was my neighbor. Moved to Tennessee when we were in third grade and I never saw him again.” 

My heart has returned to its normal steady pace. I pinch his cheek. 

“Poor baby,” I coo. 

He pretends to be annoyed, rolling his eyes, furrowing his brows, but he doesn’t move to detach himself from me. In fact, he puts his legs over mine so I am pinned down. It feels good to be pinned by him.

And once my hand settles on his cheek and I’m looking at him with my eyes calm and quiet and sweet, his face becomes somber. Not a sad kind of somber--but a serious one. His brows are straight, mirroring his mouth, and his nostrils flare just slightly.  

“I think I want kids,” he says and his voice sounds hard, “but not until I’ve done enough.”

He means this: he thinks he wants kids, but not until he feels like he’s accomplished enough. He means he won’t settle down and have a baby until he’s done flying. And I know that he means this because of his father, his father that died so accidentally, so unceremoniously.

So I kiss his chest again, throat constricting when I think about it; being swollen with his child, skin stretching around a sweet little boy or girl, walking around the house in flowy dresses and bare feet. His hands holding my belly, his chin on my shoulder, sweet kisses on my throat. Endless sunlight streaming into our home, always being warm, no endings and no beginnings. Just this, a new life, a careful one. A precious one. 

“You?” he asks and his voice is a little bit hoarse. 

“Three,” I tell him and it makes my cheeks pink when a chuckle rumbles his chest, “wouldn’t ever want one of them to be alone.” 

What I mean is this: if one of them, God fucking forbid, died then there would be two left. And I don’t mean this selfishly--like I will still have two to love instead of one. I mean because they could lean on each other. They can mourn together. I was so, so alone when Maggie died. More alone than I had ever been in my entire life. More alone than what should be humanly possible

“We’ll be outnumbered,” he whispers. 

That’s when I know he sees it, too. Tiny toes in tiny socks. Binkies in the couch cushions, bottles in the sink. Bubbles in the bath, weeping cherry trees outside open bedroom windows, car seats in the Bronco, a bed that will never be big enough. Lullabies on the piano, Christmas Eves spent assembling dollhouses and gorging on sugar cookies and gingerbread, muslin blankets, stroller wheels on gravel. Film photos, golden skin against unblemished rosy cheeks, training wheels, banana pancakes. Pumpkin patches, birthday candles, endless laundry, the sweet stink of outdoors in tangled hair. He sees it. 

“Not up for the challenge?”

He narrows his eyes at me, squeezing the skin of my hips again. 

“‘M always up for the challenge, Faye.”

The record has ended. The softest of silences echoes in the living room, just louder than the blood rushing in my ears. Just louder than his heart beneath his skin, my hands. And I’m not afraid--I am not afraid of this quiet. I am not afraid that he knows about my recovery. 

Just like the way I feel about Bob, I feel like Rooster is finally close enough to me that he is behind my shield that deflects shitty things. He’s safe because the unthinkable has happened to me and it keeps him safe because I hold him against me. Even when he’s hundreds, thousands of miles away from me--I can touch him from here and he’ll be okay. Our string is elastic.

“I think your cat likes me,” Rooster whispers, smirking. 

Stevie is lying on her back now, her hind legs stretched out over the top of Rooster’s head and her front paws curled into themselves as she purrs, slumbering away. Bitch. I carefully raise my hand and bring it down between her ears, softly scratching her head. She mews, doesn’t stir, and keeps purring. 

“It’s your hands,” he tells me, “you’ve got the touch.” 

I purse my lips. 

“What touch?” 

There is that sober look on his face again, the serious one, the sweet one. But this time his cheeks are reddening, like he’s embarrassed even though it isn’t in his nature. He’s embarrassed only smally, despite himself. 

“The mom-touch,” he whispers. 

And now I’m blushing, now I’m mildly embarrassed. I’m embarrassed because I wonder if he can really hear everything I think. If he knows what is happening beneath my scalp, in my skull. If he knows that I’m thinking about having his children. If he knows that I am thinking about a vast future with him, a sweet and broad life, and I don’t even know his middle name. 

I want to tell him that he’s full of shit, but I know he’s not. No one has said those words to me, but they’ve shown me. They’ve asked me to play with their hair, to scratch their palms, to rub their backs. People have fallen asleep beneath my fingertips, pressed against my palms. 

Biting my lip, I just look at him and his sweet face. 

“Take me to bed,” I say to him finally.

“Aye-aye, honey.” 

And then it’s groaning and bones cracking and muscles unfolding as we separate ourselves from each other. It’s the routine I treasure. It’s Rooster blowing out the candles and grabbing our glasses of water to put in the sink. It’s me putting the vinyl away and turning the record-player off. It’s Stevie trailing behind Rooster like a love-drunk suitor, rubbing against his legs when he loads out dishes in the dishwasher he’d fixed the day before last. It’s me closing the curtains and fixing the pillows on the couch and Rooster folding a blanket. And then it’s us starting for the hallway at the same time and his arms wrapping around my waist and his lips on my throat and us just standing there, breathing each other in. 

Then it’s us in bed and he’s sprawled out and the fan is on and Stevie is preening, trying to find the spot closest to him, and there’s a candle lit. It’s us there in my bed with the curtains drawn closed, with his arms around me and I’m falling asleep, really falling when he whispers something into my skin. It’s quiet, very quiet, but I hear it. 

“Can I give you another piece?” 

I wish he knew that my hands are open for him, for every part of him, always. 

“Yes,” I say and now I sound like I’m on the verge of sleep, the way he had on the couch, “you don’t have to ask me, Bradley.” 

He kisses my neck, my freckles--the ones he can find in the dark, and exhales hot minty-breath over my face. I blink at the darkness and can only make out part of his silhouette when he sits up to look down at me. 

“My mom was really loving,” he whispers, one of his hands finding my hair again, “not in a polite way, not in the normal mom way. She loved in a big, exuberant way. It used to embarrass me--when she would go to my baseball games and actually weep when we won and run onto the field to kiss my face. I mean, what kid wouldn’t be embarrassed when their mom does that?”

I hold his hand in mine, kiss his knuckles and my eyes are watering. He’s still petting me. I lean into his touch and can feel adoration pouring out of his pores and into mine.

“When she loved someone, the whole room knew. And Faye,” his voice is hoarse, breaking as he lets his hand rest on my cheek, “she would’ve fucking loved you. She would’ve loved you so hard, so loud.” 

I don’t know what to say. I want to hold him against me. I know his cheeks are red. 

“It just makes me so mad that she’s gone,” he says, his body growing hot, “because what a shame that she never got to know you. What a waste. I have no one to take you home to, no one to show you off to.”

There’s precisely one beat where I reel, reel and reach for purchase. How can I explain to him that I don’t need to go home to any of his people to know that he’s good, he’s the one I want? How can I explain that I don’t need that, that he is more than enough? That he’s everything? 

“Bradley,” I finally whisper and that’s when his face falls back in my neck and a string inside him snaps. 

He weeps in the crook of my neck, his body convulsing in uniform sobs, his mouth open and sharply gasping for breaths. His tears are wetting my hair, my linen sheets. And I hold onto him very tightly--tighter than I’ve ever held onto anything. I hold onto him as tightly as I would have held on to Maggie if I’d known. 

“When she found out that it had spread, the-the cancer, she fucking apologized to me. She apologized to me. She said she was so sorry that she wouldn’t be there for me,” he sobs quietly, “said she’ll never forgive herself for leaving me.” 

How could anyone leave him alone in this world? Guilt climbs my body and sits on my chest heavier than all of Rooster’s weight. 

“And everything with Maverick and the mission and my fucking dad and it’s all just so--!” 

I kiss his face feverishly, pulling him away from me and moving us so he’s lying flat on his back and I’m hugging his ribs with my thighs. His hands secure themselves on my hips and I keep kissing his wet face, my lips salty, my own tears splashing onto his skin. He cries quieter now, softer. 

“It’s a lot,” I say against his skin, nuzzling my nose against his, “too much, even. For anyone. Especially you.” 

He nods, keeps nodding. And I keep kissing his face, keep giving him every piece of love that I have to give without even telling him that I love him. He’s gripping me tightly and I know he feels weighed down, like he wouldn’t be able to float away. Not when I’m holding him here on my bed. 

“You make me so happy,” he says, his voice so deep and very wet, “and I want to give you these things.” 

These things. He means a normal life. He means a mother-in-law and a father-in-law. He means a nice wedding, a marriage. He means coming home every night. He means children, three of them. He means love. 

“You’ve given me so much,” I whisper, “and I’ll take whatever you want me to have.”

 ☾ ☽

It is dark outside, but the sky is endlessly clear. The stars twinkle above and the waning crescent moon is a golden sliver lighting Flat Rock Beach. The ocean is very calm and soft tonight, which is the last Saturday before the squadron will embark on their mission. The waves kissing the shore are quiet beneath the booming conversations, beneath the speaker nestled in the sand. 

There is a certain chill in the air tonight, too. If I close my eyes, let my head fall back then it feels like the beginnings of a midwestern autumn. When we first reached the rock-walled beach, when Hangman and Coyote started assembling the firewood, I ached for home. I ached for Maggie. I ached for raking leaves into piles and jumping into them, for picking apples and carving pumpkins, for driving down country roads just to see the changing leaves. 

“Feels like Philly,” Bob had said to me, stepping beside me suddenly, “makes me miss it. Makes me miss college.” 

And while the squadron set up behind us, digging a circle around the sand for the pit and collecting anything resembling wood or paper and making trips up and down the stairs to unload the Bronco and set up the chairs, I smiled at Bob. We were so close to being alone, standing on the edge of the ocean, watching the pink sun sink.

“Would you go back,” I asked him, “if you got the chance?” 

I mean if he could go back in time--not just live in Philly. 

“Of course I would,” he whispered, “seeing you everyday, partying with Maggie on the weekends, reading Emily Brontë. Of course I would.”

I would, too. In a heartbeat. In a blink. In a breath.

Crystal Blue Persuasion by Tommy James is playing now.

Everyone is sitting in a foldable chair, mismatched ones I donated from deep within my garage. Maggie used to poke fun of me for buying them at garage sales and antique stores, but I was always the first to call when she had an invitation to a bonfire. 

I’m sitting between Bob and Phoenix now. Bob is wearing a suede jacket, the same one he’s worn since Temple and his eyes are gleaming with a sweet drunkenness. Phoenix is wearing a sweatshirt with her hair down and she’s drunk, too, tilting her head back and laughing big and loud at things that are mildly funny. 

It’s the first time I’ve seen most of the squadron in civilian clothing. It’s a sea of denim and sports-gray sweatshirts, of navy blue and cream, cable knit sweaters and tennis shoes. It makes everybody look impossibly softer, softer in a way I never pictured them to be. 

The fire before us burns tall and bright, flames licking the dark night. The flames are so tall and hot that we are all sitting a few feet away, and even then, our cheeks are all blooming. There is a barrier of thick, dark driftwood surrounding the fire, but carefully placed so it does not catch any sparks.

Across the bonfire, Rooster is sitting beside Hangman and Payback. He looks fucking beautiful draped in moonlight, radiating luminosity. Even if there was no light, though--I know he would glow just like he is now. He’s wearing his UVA sweatshirt under a leather bomber jacket, which is adorned with patches his father earned. He’s wearing a pair of faded Levi’s, too. His hair is not gelled and it’s curled so beautifully from the shower we shared before we rode to the beach together in the Bronco, two bottles of cherry wine in my lap.

There’s a paper cup in everyone’s hands, a box of some alcohol at their feet. Everyone, almost everyone, is drunk. Everyone is getting drunk like it’s the last time they’ll ever do this, like it’s their last Saturday here with their friends before everything changes. And it makes me want to know everyone, really know everyone, so they’ll be safe behind my barrier. Even just thinking that, thinking about their assignment barreling towards them, it makes my throat clog. 

“Is everyone drunk enough to play Never Have I Ever?” Coyote asks, his voice smooth and booming. 

My belly aches. I catch Rooster’s eyes, just once very expertly, and he drops his eye in one sultry wink before taking a long drink of cherry wine. My teeth are on the verge of chattering and I’m pulling into myself beneath the sweater that is definitely not thick enough--but his eyes, oh his eyes, they’re enough to make my fingers uncurl themselves. 

“Hell yeah,” Fanboy says, raising his beer in the air. 

“Oh, boy,” Bob mutters to me and Phoenix, “buckle in, ladies.” 

My chest is heavy, my vision just beginning to blur around the edges. I’m getting that loose feeling, like my joints are held together by chewing gum. 

“I’ll start,” Hangman grins, “never have I ever slept with someone twice my age.” 

There is a slight chorus of groans, a few of the pilots chuckling, others keeping their drinks firm in their laps. And if we were playing with someone else, if Hangman wasn’t the one asking, I think I could get away with taking a drink slyly. But he’s watching us all: his eyes darting around the fire.

And my heart is really hammering now and I thought I would be drunk enough to play this, that it wouldn’t matter if people knew, that no one would care. But there’s a pit in my belly growing, growing. I can’t remember his name, or really his face, but I remember the gray hair on his chest and the sag in his throat and the little blue pill he chased with a shot of vodka. 

Hangman catches me with my cup at my lips and I take the smallest of drinks, deciding to hold his gaze. His mouth is slightly ajar, his eyes widening. But he does something I didn’t think him capable of: he doesn’t draw attention to me. He glances around again, scouting out any other gazes. But it’s just us--me and Hangman. 

I blink at him and his eyes fall to my hands, which are cold. 

“Rooster,” Coyote sings, “your turn!”

Rooster is drunk, drunk enough that he’s laughing at everything, drunk enough that he keeps trying to watch my face across the fire and his eyes are warm enough to make my fingers bend. 

“Alright,” Rooster starts, smoothing his mustache, “never have I ever hooked up with someone I met online.” 

More laughter, some people drinking, everyone’s eyes darting around the circle. I take a drink--but so does Coyote, so does Hangman, so does Phoenix. So I am not alone. But I know my cup will be empty soon. 

“Never have I ever hooked up with someone in the first twenty-four hours of knowing them,” Payback says, grinning. 

And this time, this time it’s just Hangman and I that drink. Rooster is watching me, a smile faltering on his lips and I suddenly feel like this is all a mistake, like we shouldn’t be playing this game. Not now, not tonight. But maybe I’m just drunk. Maybe his smile isn’t faltering at all--maybe I’m just feeling sensitive. 

“Is anyone here capable of not turning every game we play sexual,” Phoenix snarks, rolling her eyes, “I mean, really?”

Phoenix is ignored largely. She leans back in her chair, pushing a tuft of dark hair from her face. She catches my glance and holds it with her deep eyes, shaking her head with her eyebrows raised. It’s the first time we’ve shared the silent language of friends. These fuckin’ guys, am I right? 

Fanboy is tapping his chin. I am sinking further into my chair, gripping my paper cup. 

“Never have I ever been turned down.” 

And thank God that the cherry wine doesn’t have to scald my mouth this time. I keep it there, in my hands, on my lap. Fuck. I feel like I need to bend over and catch my breath. My cheeks are burning. 

Almost everyone drinks--save Bob and Phoenix and myself. 

“Bob?” Hangman asks, quirking a brow. 

“Hey,” I say, pointing at Hangman with a tight smile, “maybe you have something to learn from Bob.” 

Phoenix guffaws at this and points her finger at Hangman, too, her cheeks pink. 

“Yeah, stop treating women like fire hydrants, you dog. Then see if you get turned down.” 

Hangman’s ego is impenetrable. He says nothing but he’s grinning truly, eyes crinkling, bringing his cup to his lips for an innocent drink. He winks at Phoenix before she settles back into her seat, grumbling playfully. 

The attention is off me, Rooster is not looking at me. Everything is okay. Everything is fine. But there is a sinking sort of feeling in my chest and it’s deepening with each minute that passes. I think I should maybe walk away, pretend that I want to look at the water.

“Here, boys,” Phoenix starts, “this is how you do it: never have I ever had a crush on a coworker.”

And now there are rose petals in my belly, tickling the lining of my sloshing stomach, fluttering down my thighs and to my curled toes. I am blushing when I bring the cup to my lips and sip again--Hangman and Rooster are the only other two that drink and they are both watching me. 

“Who would have thought,” Payback quips, nudging Rooster. 

Rooster is looking at me still, his eyes soft, his hair curly. He’s so sweet, so sweet it’s making my teeth ache. And now Hangman is looking between Rooster and I, so I turn my cheeks to the breeze and let the faux-autumn air cool my face. It’s okay. Everything is fine. 

“C’mon Clover,” Phoenix says, nudging me, “sock it to ‘em.” 

I screw my eyes closed, the vein on my temple throbbing. What haven’t I done? What have I never done? My throat is clogged suddenly. 

“Never have I ever…” I look out around me and everyone’s watching me, fingers eager, “had a brother?”

Hangman, Coyote, Fanboy, Bob, Phoenix, and Payback all drink. Just Bob, Rooster, and I keep our drinks settled on our laps. 

“So naughty,” Coyote laughs at me, “you kiss your mother with that mouth?” 

“No,” I quip, “but Bob does.”

And after everyone settles in, Bob is blushing with all the eyes on him. I am looking at his smooth cheek, free from blemishes and hair. His blue eyes which watch the fire, untrained. His twisted lips, the blood in his cheeks. 

“Okay,” Bob says softly, “never have I ever flown an F-18.” 

I squeeze his arms as everyone around us groans, bringing their drinks to their lips. I feel like he did this for me. I don’t have to drink. He isn’t being inherently sexual. And then I know it’s for me when he glances at me and nods one time. I’ve got you.

Then it goes back to Coyote, who’s smirking already. 

“Alright,” he says, searching the group, “never have I ever had a threesome.”

I am the only one that drinks and the wine may as well be vinegar as it runs down my throat, burning, burning. But only a few people are looking at me--Rooster, Phoenix, Bob. Everyone else is watching Hangman, who didn’t drink. 

“I don’t like sharing,” Hangman answers with a shrug. 

Dirty Laundry by Don Henley is playing now. 

“Clover,” Phoenix whispers, her brows pulled together, “damn, girl.” 

It feels like I’m naked and tied to a stake, feels like I’m being slowly spun over the fire and everyone is watching my skin sizzle and crack. Feels like everyone’s mouths are salivating, feels like I can’t say anything and that I can only watch them with glassy eyes. Feels like I’m gagged by an apple and the juice is running down my chin. 

“It was a long time ago ,” Bob quickly, quietly says. 

He only says it loud enough for Phoenix and I to hear.  

Rooster doesn’t say anything. I squeeze my paper cup. I shouldn’t be here. But before I can get up, before I can think of a reason to walk away, Hangman starts. 

“Never have I ever had sex with more than three people in one day.” 

Then it happens. I am the only one that drinks and I try to make my body small, try to keep my paper cup as low as possible. But now my paper cup is empty, the fire is roaring, and I think everyone is watching me. 

When you need a bit of lovin' / 'Cause your man is out of town / That's the time you get me runnin' / And you know I'll be around

No one says anything for a long moment and I can practically feel Bob scouring his brain for something, anything to say. Maybe I can feel it because my brain is similarly reacting--my skull actually aches because of how hard I’m thinking. There’s nothing, though. I don’t have anything to say. I know, just know, that people will know that I’m lying if I try anything.

“How many?” 

It’s Coyote that asks. His voice is deep and on the verge of laughter--somewhere between very serious and not serious at all. Bile rises in my throat.

Bob is quick to turn to him. 

“That’s not how you play the game,” he says, “Rooster, it’s your turn.” 

But I can feel it--I can feel the way the group is suddenly tense. I can feel everyone swimming in their drinks, blinking past the fire at me, wondering if they were comprehending everything correctly. Wondering if I am as fucked up as I’m portraying myself right now. Everyone is wondering if they’re just drunk, if I’m drunk.

Rooster doesn’t say anything.

“Well, now we’re all dying to know,” Hangman says, a grin twitching his lips, “c’mon.” 

My lips quiver. 

“This isn’t how you play the game,” Phoenix echoes Bob before turning to Rooster, “Bradshaw, go.”

But Rooster isn’t saying anything.

“What is it?” Hangman says again. 

I swallow. He doesn’t have to say it. I know what he’s asking. I know what he wants to know. He leans forward in his chair, closer to me, closer to the fire. His eyes look black in the night, but his teeth look long and sharp as he grins. This is not the Hangman I danced with at The Hard Deck--I’m not sure who this is. I glance at his feet and there are maybe nine or ten crushed beer cans nestled in the sand. 

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Hangman says before winking. 

My body count. They want to know. And I don’t know. Even if the slick snake of shame wasn’t coiling itself around my entire body and constricting me, even if I didn’t want to lean forward and vomit on the sand, I just don’t know. It’s plain and simple--cut and dry. 

“Hangman,” Rooster warns suddenly, his voice cracking.

It’s less of a warning. It’s more of a wavering suggestion.  

“Stop,” Bob commands, voice suddenly louder than the fire, the waves. 

A silence engulfs us, but Hangman is still leaning forward, watching me closely. He licks his lips, bites down and waits for me. 

I rack my brain, trying to think of something Maggie would say, trying desperately to think of a quip. I can’t, though. I can’t think--much less think of a witty response. I have nothing to say. My throat is dry. Fuck. 

“Don’t be shy,” Hangman whispers to me, “what, don’t kiss and tell?” 

“Why do you care, Bagman?” 

It’s Phoenix that finally says this, her tone biting. 

“Lay off,” Bob repeats, “really, man. You’re drunk.”

“Everyone’s fuckin’ drunk,” Hangman spits. 

I look at Rooster and he’s already looking at me, has been looking at me. My vision is fuzzy, my head is stuffy. But Rooster is watching me with his eyebrows pulled together, his lips twisted into an almost pained grimace. His cheeks are flaxen.

Under his gaze, under everyone’s gaze, I feel so ugly suddenly. In every single sense of the word--I feel ugly. Down to my molecules, to the dust that makes up my soul.  

“Not judging,” Hangman shrugs, “just curious, darlin’.” 

I feel his eyes on my cheek as I watch Rooster. 

There’s another pause and I just watch Rooster’s eyes, his eyes that are very glossy and very still. And that biting feeling comes back, that fist around my heart, that cold rush of panic. When he knows, he will leave. When I tell him, he’ll leave. He will leave and I will be ruined and alone. Bob will leave. I will be the kind of lonely that makes me want to sleep with a record on, that makes me want to invite strangers into my house, into me. 

“Here,” Hangman says, his smirk growing, spreading, “let me narrow it down. What number is Bob, what number is Rooster, and what number will I be?” 

For a moment, I’m sure lightning has struck. There’s a flash of light, of sound and Hangman is suddenly clutching his lip and his eyes are wide and his chair is rocking like he’s been hit directly. But then I see Bob standing from his seat, his bottle of cider tipped over in the sand and he looks equally as surprised as he holds his fist to his face and inspects his knuckles--which are split. 

The flash--it wasn’t lightning. Bob has leapt from his seat and punched Hangman square in the mouth. Hebusted Hangman’s perfect lip, busted it in half. And now Hangman and Bob are staring at each other and I don’t know who’s more bewildered.

No one moves, no one even breathes. I feel like I could faint. 

“You shouldn’t talk to her like that,” Bob says loudly, pushing his glasses back up on his nose, “you shouldn’t talk to anyone like that, man.” 

And now the shame, the hot slinky shame, is holding me tighter and tighter. I can’t breathe. Even when Hangman stands up and comes nose to nose with Bob, even as Coyote and Payback go to put their arms in front of Hangman’s chest and as Phoenix puts her hands on Bob’s shoulders, I can’t catch my breath. Now it’s not just the shame, but it’s a deep humiliation and it’s painted bright red and it’s flooding me like I’ve just jumped into the ocean. 

“C’mon,” Phoenix is saying to Bob, “walk it off.” 

Bob doesn’t need to be told again. He turns on his heel and looks at me. He looks bigger than I’ve ever seen him. His shoulders are broad, his chest is straight, his jaw is squared. The bonfire reflects off his glasses and his eyes look like they’re on fire. 

If It Wasn’t For The Nights by ABBA starts. It makes my fingers cold. 

He silently, very silently, holds his hand out for me and I take it. It’s his bloody hand--the one where the skin between his knuckles are split. If I could speak, I would tell him that I want to cry. I can’t, though, so I hold his hand and he squeezes me and pulls me from my chair.

“C’mon,” he whispers to me, “let’s go for a walk.”

The three of us start down the beach, and Bob is holding my hand tight, pulling me closer to him. He’s very warm in his suede jacket and very solid beside me. Phoenix is silent before she looks at our clasped hands, looks at Bob’s knuckles. 

“Nice form,” she whispers to him, kicking sand under her tennis shoes, “he had it coming.” 

And we are gaining distance from the group so quickly that my head is spinning, really spinning and when I turn over my shoulder, I realize that there are tears on my cheeks. The fire is growing smaller in the distance and Hangman is still standing behind a makeshift barrier of muscular arms and he’s watching us walk away. There is still a chorus of voices, loud and lilted, and Rooster is watching me walk away with his hands on his hips. He’s watching me, watching Bob tug me further down the beach. But he isn’t moving.  

“Fuck, I can’t believe I just did that,” Bob whispers, chuckling incredibly, “are you okay, Faye?” 

I feel like I’m sinking into the freezing sand with every step I take, feel like I’m falling into the earth. I think, very suddenly, of the day of the accident when I thought the sea would rise up and eat Maggie and I whole. When everything felt bigger than us. 

“Hangman had it coming,” Phoenix repeats, panting, “fuck, he gets like this when he’s drunk. Are you okay?” 

I stop then. I can’t help it--my feet won’t move. Bob and Phoenix turn to me and they are so much bigger than me here, standing straight while I cower. Fuck, I hate not having the other part of myself. I hate that Maggie wasn’t there to diffuse the situation. I hate that she died and that I filled myself the only way I knew how. I hate that this is all happening because of me, because of her, because of that day. 

“Your hand,” I croak finally, holding his bloody hand in both of mine.

His hand is shaking in mine, his skin cold. Bob’s chest is falling and rising rapidly. Phoenix is standing with her hand on his shoulder still, watching my face as I inspect his fist. 

Even if I wanted to tell them what I am thinking, even if I try to explain the shame and the hot burn of humiliation, they will not understand. 

“It’s fine,” Bobs says, quieter now, “doesn’t hurt. That bad, at least.” 

“You’ve never punched anyone before,” I tell Bob, and now I’m really crying, looking at Bob’s perfect skin that is broken and bloody, “oh, Bob. Your hand.” 

Then Bob and Phoenix are just looking at me. Bob knows me, knows me so thoroughly, knows that what I am saying is only a fraction of what I’m thinking. He knows that my gentle touch is just a facade, that I am burning from the inside out, that grief is swallowing me whole. Phoenix, who is sobering up by the second, is biting her lip hard. Maybe she thinks I’m too drunk to understand everything that happened. Maybe she thinks I just have thick skin. Maybe she doesn’t know what to think. 

Bob moves swiftly, shrugging his jacket off. He stands behind me and drapes it over my shoulders, rubbing his hands up and down my arms. It smells so much like him--like everything that’s clean, everything that’s bright. It smells like cramming for an essay in Charles Library at two in the morning, five cups of coffee between us, smells like tired eyes and old books and uncomfortable chairs. He smells like the best part of my life--the part of my life that happened without me even knowing it.

“I’ll take you home,” he tells me before catching Phoenix’s gaze, “you alright?” 

She nods one time, harshly. Of course she’s good, of course she’s alright. She can handle her own. Fuck, she reminds me of Maggie. Always down to snap the boys back in their order. 

“Let me grab your stuff, Faye,” Phoenix pleads. 

I sniffle hard and shake my head, wiping my cheeks very suddenly. I’m so fucking embarrassed. I’m so embarrassed that it’s their last weekend before the mission, so embarrassed that Bob had to defend me, so embarrassed that I couldn’t just make my voice work. Maybe a simple fuck off, Bagman would’ve diffused the tense atmosphere. 

“No,” I quickly say, turning already, “no, I got it. It’s okay. It’s fine.” 

And I’m already walking away before they can say anything. I don’t think they follow me. The dark night is swallowing me whole, and I am in the no-man’s land between the bonfire and Bob’s bloody knuckles. I think I can feel the heat of the fire from a mile away and as I get closer, I can hear Hangman. 

“--didn’t have to be a big deal. Who fucking cares? It’s sex, grow up.” 

I am close enough that I can smell the sweet smoke. The breeze bites my cheeks and I keep walking, keep trucking, but almost fumble when I put my arms in the sleeves of Bob’s suede jacket. I button myself in, feeling my nose tingle with more tears, but I don’t stop my pace. Being buttoned up in his coat, I feel like Bob is holding me. He’s given me his coat before, given Maggie his coat before, would give anyone the coat off his back.  

Coyote and Fanboy are by the water, gathering saltwater in empty paper cups and glass bottles to put the fire out. Rooster is standing beside Payback, both their backs to me as they guard Hangman from walking in the direction of Bob and Phoenix. There’s blood dribbling down Hangman’s chin, a straight stream. 

Then I slow down when I reach the chairs. The never-ending pit in my belly is growing broader and deeper. I want to be turned inside out--to simply pop right out of existence. But I keep my feet moving, sand kicking under my feet. 

Hangman is shaking his head, hair messier and softer than I’ve ever seen before. He’s rubbing his eyes, bringing his fingers to his lips, licking the blood on his lip. His face is red like a poppy flower. 

He sees me first, before anyone else. 

I can’t help it--when his eyes find me, I stand completely still, right behind the chair I had been sitting in before everything happened. Where I was sitting when he humiliated me in front of everyone, when Rooster was catapulted into the ugly history of mine before I could do anything about it. 

Like there’s another force, like someone is scoring this moment; If It Wasn’t For The Nights ends and Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door by Bob Dylan starts. Everything feels softer, even the roaring fire that is lighting half my body as I stand before the men.  

Rooster and Payback are looking at me now, too. There’s sand in my teeth that crunches under my molars when I bite down. I won’t look at Rooster or even Payback. I’m only looking at Hangman and his hateful gaze.

“Your boyfriend okay?” Hangman sneers. 

“Relax,” Rooster warns, snapping his attention back to Hangman. 

“Calm down, man,” Payback pleads, still sounding drunk, sounding genuinely exhausted.

Hangman’s eyes are burning my skin. I think I can feel his anger and it’s hotter than the fire. So I lean down and pick up my purse, the one I’d set just beside the leg of my chair. Carefully, I pack Bob’s things in there--his wallet, keys, phone. Then I rummage in my bag for a moment, opening the plastic first-aid baggy I keep in there always. 

My throat aches and I approach Hangman with lead shoes. His eyes are still hot, his gaze still like a blade slicing me in half. Rooster and Payback part just so, making a small opening for me when I am close enough to touch him. He even smells angry--smells like beer, like smoke, like skin and sweat.

 I feel like I’m knockin’ on Heaven’s door

He’s glaring at me. It makes my eyes water--and as soon as they water, warm tears spill onto my cheeks. I bite my lip to rid it of its quiver and don’t bother moving to wipe my tears away. Who fucking cares? Grow up.  

Silently, very softly, I raise my hand and start to bring it to him. He flinches and for one terrifying moment, my belly drops and I wonder if I am not supposed to be here, if he is not in his right mind. But there’s something in my gut, something deep in my gut, that tells me that Hangman’s hands will stay at his sides. So I keep nearing him and gently press a cotton ball to his lip to soak up the blood. 

Then he goes completely still. He just gazes down at me, his entire face going slack, the crinkle of his brow smoothing. His shoulders fall. I keep my finger there for a moment, applying pressure. The blood soaks through the cotton rapidly and makes the pad of my finger warm. His breath is hot and yeasty as it fans out over my hand and wrist.

Glancing at Payback, I catch his eyes. 

“Hold it there,” I whisper and my voice sounds shaky, “it’ll stop the bleeding.”

For a moment, he just stares at me, stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. Then he nods rapidly, bringing his hands over mine. When I release the cotton ball, the pad of my index finger is stained red with Hangman’s blood.

I have to walk away then. I have to walk away then without looking at Rooster, without looking at Fanboy and Coyote’s approaching figures. I have to walk away from the chairs and the paper cups and the fire because if I don’t, I will fall apart. The gum holding my joints together will separate and I will crumble piece by piece until I am as good as driftwood here in the sand. 

And when I think I hear Rooster whisper my name, I don’t turn around. 

 ☾ ☽

Bob is sitting beside me on the couch and we are both looking at the blank television before us, at our reflection in the black mirror. I’ve settled my cheek against the shoulder of his sweatshirt and his head is on top of mine. We are both in our socks now and his jacket is hanging by the front door. His hand is wrapped in gauze and bandages, slathered in neosporin. 

Levon by Elton John is playing now--Bob’s pick. 

We haven’t spoken very much to each other, no, not since we walked through the front door and I asked him to sit in a kitchen chair so I could bandage him up good, clean him up. It’s a comfortable silence, but it’s a silence that is just buying time until we have to speak to each other about what happened.

I chew my lip, clearing my throat. 

“Say something,” I finally whisper to Bob. 

I’m not crying anymore and I’m not as drunk anymore, but my throat still aches and my voice still cracks when I speak. The vein across my nose throbs.

“Okay,” Bob starts, sounding pained, “please don’t be mad at me.” 

I shake my head and sink into his shoulder further. I have never been mad at Bob. How could I ever be mad at him? Especially when he was the one that took action--he was the one that dismantled the imbalance of power between me and Hangman. Him--not me, not Rooster. Not Maggie.

“I couldn’t be,” I say, “even if I tried, I couldn’t.” 

He sighs and pushes his glasses back up his nose. 

“He can’t talk to you like that,” he follows softly, “I couldn’t sit there and hear that. You understand that, right?” 

Nodding, I suck in a stuttered breath. My lungs feel like they’re full of cotton. 

“I know you’re tense, too,” I whisper, “the mission. I know.” 

And like it’s too painful to even talk about, Bob just nods, nods his head. We let the mission go unuttered. 

We sit there in the quiet music for a minute. Stevie is sitting at the top of the stairs, blinking at Bob because he’s inexplicably not Rooster. There are candles lit--there are always candles lit. The window-unit is humming quietly beneath the record. 

“Don’t know what game he’s playing at,” Bob mutters and I know, somehow, that he’s talking about Hangman, “asking me about you and if you have a boyfriend, then pulling that stunt.” 

Bob’s fist clench and I bring my hand over his very softly.

“My hero,” I whisper to him and I try very hard to not sound condescending because a part of me, a part of me deep inside, really means it, “but don’t get yourself in trouble.” 

The air changes--it feels like we are on a swing set together, feels like we are subdued mid-air with our mouths open and our hair floating in the atmosphere. We are about to fall backwards rapidly, our bellies dropping, the breath leaving our lungs. 

“You know it’s what she would’ve done.” 

I do know that. If I close my eyes, if I think back to the moment and imagine Maggie there, I can see it. I can see her sitting beside me, can see her leaping out of her chair like a mad woman and scratching the plastic varnish off Hangman’s pretty face. Except I don’t think she would’ve stopped until the other men physically peeled her off him. I imagine her biting him, tearing his skin, pulling his hair. She could be a wild animal when she wanted to be. She would attack a man for me--even if it was another pilot. 

“Yeah, she would’ve. But you’re not her,” I say and I am choking through my words, tears plucking my eyes again, “and I don’t need you to be.” 

It is so hard for me to say that to him. So hard that I have to screw my eyes shut. Because I am telling the truth--he is my best friend. He doesn’t have to be more than that--shouldn’t have to be more than that. No one can fill her shoes and I have to accept that, even if it burns the wound on my chest.

Instead of speaking, either because he has to screw his eyes shut too or maybe because he is hurting or maybe because he misses her as much as I do, he squeezes me. 

“You’re okay?” He asks. 

“I’m embarrassed,” I say, sighing, “shouldn’t have played.” 

“You didn’t know they were going to be gross,” he says, “how could you have known?”

I sniffle. I wipe my face with my hands and my skin is warm under my cold fingers. 

“They’re Navy boys, of course they were going to get gross. Should’ve lied,” I mumble, which is true, “should’ve just pretended like I didn’t know how to play.” 

Bob swallows, squeezes me again. 

“You’re not a liar, though,” he says, “even when you should be.” 

My belly aches and my throat hurts. This feels like the first night in my life that Rooster isn’t here. It’s almost midnight, minutes dragging past us like both their legs are broken, and he’s not here to put our cups in the dishwasher. He’s not here to fold up the blankets on the couch. He’s not here to put his face in my neck. 

“Bob,” I whisper, “I think I might be in love with Rooster.” 

He nods, not stiffening like I thought he would. I don’t know if it’s because he’s my best friend or if it’s because he is just a human being with eyes, but he isn’t surprised. 

“I know, Fee,” he whispers, “everyone knows, I think.” 

It’s the first time he’s used my nickname since I was in rehab. It’s what he calls me when he pities me--it’s what he calls me in place of a pet name. It’s what he calls me when he really wants to call me honey or sweetheart, but never wants to offend me with a silly pet-name. 

I want to fold myself up in an envelope and mail myself to another country. I want to cry again, but I don’t. I just sigh. 

“How?” 

Bob laughs quietly. 

“Don’t worry,” he says, “it’s not you that gives it away. It’s Rooster.” 

Then I see Rooster’s face--his face across the fire as he stared at me. It was so blank, so emotionless, so still. Maybe he was just drunk. Or maybe it was his face when he fell out of love with me. The thought makes me want to rip the velvet couch fabric under my fingernails. 

“Asking me all about you whenever he gets the chance,” Bob starts, softly scratching my arm, “always talking about you, your house--even Stevie. Tells all of us about your records, about your cooking. Not to mention he’s never in his dorm.”

There’s a beat where I’m trying to swallow the bile rising in my throat.

“He let him talk to me like that,” I whisper.

Bob nods, sighing. 

“I know he did,” he whispers, “but don’t get yourself worked up about it. Rooster is a good guy, really. Maybe he just froze.”

A coil of anxiety springs through my belly and up into my chest. I can’t remember how to steady my own heart. I can’t remember how to lessen the rapidity of my pulse. 

“And if tonight ruined it?”

He shakes his head. 

“It’s not that fragile,” he whispers, “give him some credit.” 

Give him some credit. The words are familiar, uttered between Rooster and I in my most vulnerable hour. It makes me think of our flushed naked bodies. It makes me think of telling him what I was so scared of, reminds me of his reluctance to leave me.

“Bob,” I whisper and the honesty is sitting heavy in my gut, “I don’t know how many people have fucked me.”

He stiffens for only a moment and I suck in a breath. 

“Whatever number you think, it’s higher,” I whisper, “it genuinely disgusts me.” 

Bob sits up then and I’m reeling at the sudden loss of contact. He’s looking at me through his glasses very seriously, his hair clean and soft, his cheeks red and his eyebrows knit. 

“Don’t do that,” he commands, “don’t do that to yourself, Fee. You fucked up. Okay. So what? Everyone fucks up.”

My mouth is full of sand again. 

“You picked yourself up, didn’t you? You aren’t stuck, are you?” 

I want to tell him that I do feel stuck sometimes, that sometimes I think that I have lead shoes on, that sometimes I can hardly stand to walk around this world without Maggie here with me. I want to tell him that when he and Rooster aren’t here, I’m dazed. Going through the motions. 

“Listen,” Bob says, softer now, coming closer to me now, “you aren’t as fucked up as you feel. And I know you feel fucked up. But you’re still you--even without her here, you’re still you. You’re still my best friend. You’re still you and you still deserve to live.” 

It feels like I’m coming up for air after living underwater my entire life. Like I have just been sleep-walking, like everything has been a dream. I have had moments of being awake and years of sleepwalking. 

“You’re my best friend,” is all I can muster in return. 

Bob wraps his arms around me and holds me securely. I am not sobbing, but I’m very close to it. My throat is warm, very warm. 

And after a long moment, he pulls away and is smiling sheepishly. He smooths his hand over my hair. 

“Do you happen to know where my phone ended up?” 

So I’m up and laughing, pushing tears from my cheeks like unwanted pests, composing myself. The record spins soundlessly. 

“Flip it,” I command over my shoulder and Bob sallutes. 

I navigate my dark hallways and step into my bedroom, which feels suddenly very cold and very empty. My bed looks very big when it’s made up without Rooster in it. My purse is sitting at the end of the bed, on a throw blanket. 

My phone is singing in the purse, muffled, Elton John crooning beneath first aid baggies and chapstick and sunglasses and packets of gum. I have to dig for a moment before I find my phone. The call ended by then. 

Three Missed Calls from Tramp

Two New Voicemails from Tramp

One Missed Call from Unknown

One New Message from Unknown

Four New Messages from Tramp

I sit on the end of my bed, thumbing the notifications, opening the messages from Rooster first. My heart is beating in my throat. Fuck. Fuck. I’m terrified. 

Tramp: We need to talk

Tramp: I’m sorry I didn’t take you home

Tramp: Please answer 

Tramp: Can I come over? Please. I want to see you. I’m so sorry

I feel like I’m going to vomit. With shaking hands, I click on the first voicemail. Immediately, I know that Rooster was in the Bronco when he left it forty minutes ago. The engine purrs and the wind whips in through the soft top. I can almost see his blonde hair waving in the wind, his cheeks warm and wet, his throat tight. 

“Faye,” he starts and his voice sounds groggy and sad, “I hope you’re not ignoring my calls. I hope you’re--fuck, I hope you’re okay. I’m sorry--I’m really, really sorry. I’m the sorriest I’ve ever been in my life. I don’t know what happened, I think I froze, I think I just…”

There’s a few moments where he doesn’t speak, where all I can hear is static and his deep breaths. He’s driving in complete silence--the radio is not on like it usually is. It’s just him and the Bronco.

“Please call me back.” 

The voicemail cuts off there. I scramble to press the other one, which is new, brand new. It’s only been a few minutes since he left it, all those minutes I was sitting here at the end of the bed. 

“Faye,” he sighs, “it’s okay if you don’t want to talk to me. It’s fine. I just, fuck…I just really want to be with you. Can I come over? You don’t have to say yes, honey, you don’t, but I just. I want to see you. Want to hold you. We need to talk.” 

Wherever he was when he left the voicemail, it’s quieter. Everything he says echoes, too, like he’s standing on tile in a long hallway by himself. He sounds more alone than I think he’s ever sounded before. I almost throw up thinking about him being all by himself. 

Before I call him, which makes me want to barf, I click on the Unknown Number’s message. It’s a short message. No emojis, no anything. Just words and punctuation.

Unknown: Went too far. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Hope Bob’s hand is okay cuz my mouth is fucked. Plz don’t block my #.

Here it is. A message from Hangman, a missed call from Hangman. I reread it for a few minutes, digesting, wondering if I am really truly seeing this or if it’s something I’ve imagined. No, it’s real. It’s real and right in front of me in my hands. 

“Fee, y’alright?” 

I clear my throat before I yell back to Bob, trying to catch my breath. 

“Yeah,” I call, “coming.”

☾☽ 𝐚/𝐧: everybody say THANK YOU, BOB!!!! and I know that canonically Bob would probably never hit Hangman but this was supposed to show how much Bob adores Faye and how protective he is of her and I think that's damn sweet!!!!!

☾☽ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Crimson Ties (Bela Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 2

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village

Rating: T for language and mild medical drama

Warnings: Typical Vampire shenanigans

Genre: Hurt + comfort

Summary: Bela is somewhat unprepared to deal with a soulmate who has no clue about her condition, her family, or any of the village's secrets. Thankfully, her sister Cassandra is more than willing to be a bad example. Also there's some fluff.

Notes: For reference, each of my soulmate stories take place in their own contained timeline, since they each involve different types of soulmates. So in this one, Cass doesn't currently have a soulmate.

Previous Chapters: 1: Stem the Flow

2: Tangled Strands

A gentle humming fills the space around you, as fingers slowly run through your hair. As far as you can tell you had fallen back asleep, for several hours, and you were just now waking back up. No longer holding you down, your soulmate is curled up next to you. There’s still a needle in your arm, much to your irritation, but now you can finally see what it’s connected to: An IV for a transfusion. Explains why I’m feeling so much better than before, you think. Then you’re turning your head to the other side, eager to finally get a good look at your soulmate. Instantly you’re blushing, tongue tying itself into a knot, because wow are you lucky.

“Feeling any better?” She asked, as soon as your gaze met hers. You try to stutter out a confirmation, but you’re too distracted by the soft curve of her smile to speak, and barely even manage a nod. That beautiful smile grows wider in response. “Good. I couldn’t stand the thought of you suffering more, after what you’ve already been through.” Now her smile fades, and she looks away for a few moments. Watching it makes your heart ache. So you swallow the lump in your throat, willing yourself to relax, before trying a little comforting of your own.

“I am safe now, am I not? Moreso, we have too much to talk about for us to dwell on the ill circumstances of our introduction. Let us cherish this time, in respite, with our hearts open wide to one another,” you said, donning your softest smile. Somehow your words fulfill their purpose, and your soulmate is once again grinning. Slowly she leans forward to rest her forehead against yours. Then she’s speaking, voice as smooth as the sheets you lay on.

“You are right, of course. I simply wish I could have saved you sooner,” she replied, tone betraying the sadness that her expression otherwise hid. Before you can protest, she continues talking, and you soon forget all about your qualms. “To think I don’t even know your name yet… nor you mine, I suppose. Let’s remedy that, yes? I am Bela Dimitrescu.” Something about her last name feels familiar to you, but not to the point of clear recognition. Instead of inquiring, you return her favor, giving her your own name. She repeats it back a few times, letting the syllables roll off her tongue, and you feel your heart skip a few beats. “A lovely name for a lovely soul, perfectly paired.”

A pause, followed by Bela reaching out to examine your IV. Following her gaze, you turn to the metal hook adjacent to the bed, where a blood bag hangs. Only a few drops remain inside. Just as when you first awoke, Bela gives a soft hum, then rises into a sitting position. Your first instinct is to copy the motion, and you’re relieved when (this time) she doesn’t push you back down. Both of you quietly inch your hands closer until they’re laid on top of each other.

“I wish I knew more about medicine, but unfortunately my family is more experienced in the creation of wounds than the treatment of them,” Bela said, scowling. Confused, you tilt your head at a slight angle, watching her with interest. Am I supposed to know who she’s referring to? My memories of the past couple days are still hazy, you think. “Do… do you remember how you ended up in the dungeon? I know you wanted to speak of happier things, and we can, soon. It’s just… Knowing how you arrived here may help me deal with the consequences of freeing you. Mother will be dreadfully upset that I’ve interrupted a draining, even if we are soulmates.”

“Wait, are you saying…? The intimidating giantess who strung me up and attempted to bleed me dry… is your mother?” You asked, jaw nearly dropping to the floor. This was an unexpected development, for sure.

“You didn’t know?” Bela replied, eyes going wide for a moment. Clearly she wouldn’t have said anything if she realized you weren’t already aware. Suddenly the tension in the room is palpable, with an uncomfortable silence overtaking the two of you. In the moment, you cannot even bring yourself to look at Bela, too stunned by this new knowledge. Eventually she breaks the silence, voice sounding unsure for once. “I realize that this is a lot to take in, if you need time to process it, I… I can go. But you need to understand that our situation is far more complicated than it might appear. We cannot survive without the blood of others- it is what sustains us when nothing else can.”

Now you’re staring at her like she’s crazy, and she’s standing up, moving to the other side of the room. She draws back a curtain, gazing out into the snow covered hills. Every muscle in your body is urging you to run while she’s distracted. Thread of fate be damned, this went far beyond anything you had ever imagined having to deal with. You come so close to ripping the IV right out of your arm. But a gentle tug on your soul string makes you pause, remembering all the times this bond gave you hope in dark times. Had she felt the same way, all these years? What had she gone through, in this absurd castle, on the very edges of civilization? You pull on the red thread, feeling a wave of composure wash over you.

“It appears there is much I need to learn. But is that not the very nature of our connection? We know, simply, that we are bound to each other, though we know not what shapes our souls take so that we might put them together, nor even what roles we must play. I cannot say that I understand your plight, my dear, but I will try, as is my obligation, and my honor,” you said, wishing you could hold her, and cursing your IV. As soon as the first word leaves your mouth, Bela is turning around, watching you with a bittersweet expression. Once you’re done she’s moving closer, as if reading your mind, extending a hand to cup your cheek. Then she leans forward to press a brief kiss to your forehead. “Oh, how I have longed for this- to be with you, to get to know you.”

“As did I,” she murmured. You can’t help but lean into her touch, closing your eyes and enjoying the moment. “Perhaps I should introduce you to my family? I imagine you’ll be needing breakfast anyway, and bringing human food back to my quarters would raise more suspicion than I’d like.” Well, the moment couldn’t last forever, could it?

“Only if you promise that your mother won’t suspend me by my wrists again. Or by any other part of me. Shall we simply put suspension off the table altogether?” You asked, half teasing. To be entirely honest, you were equally worried about Bela’s sisters. Well, the people you had heard other prisoners whispering about, who were the daughters of the giantess, and by connecting a few dots were also, presumably, Bela’s sisters. Apparently they preferred to play with their food. Unless, of course, Bela was one of the daughters you had heard about, and would have easily torn into you if not for your connection. Let’s not dwell on that concept, you think, glad to be distracted by your soulmate.

“I will not let anyone harm you anymore, my beloved. My mother would not stand so firmly in the way of my happiness,” Bela reassured, though you detected a hint of uncertainty in her tone. Still, there wasn’t much you could do other than trust her. “Now, let me take care of your bandages, then we’ll head downstairs…”

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

“Who the fuck is this?” An unfamiliar voice asked, as you meandered down the corridor, arm around Bela for support. As soon as she hears the person speak, your soulmate is freezing in place, casting a worried glance over her shoulder. When you turn as well, you spot someone dressed almost identically to Bela. However, the woman wears a yellow pendant, as opposed to a red one, and her hair is a dark brown. It feels safe to assume that she’s one of the sisters you’ve heard about. Which understandably makes you nervous, to the point where you almost want to hide behind Bela. Instead, you stand tall, attempting to seem unfazed by either her presence or her vulgarity.

“Mind your manners, Cassandra,” Bela hissed, taking more of an aggressive stance than you had anticipated. “This, dear sister, is my soulmate. And if you even think about harming them, or getting in our way, I will tear you apart.” While you’re downright shocked at the intensity of Bela’s statement, her sister doesn’t look at all impressed, and eyes you with minimal interest. Better than looking at you with hatred, right? Apparently not, as Bela moves to stand between the two of you, eyes narrowed. There’s a clear stiffness in her posture that leaves you anxious. Cassandra seems to notice it as well, and laughs, before taking a few steps in your direction. Then your soulmate mimics the movement, forcing you to do so as well.

“They’re human,” Cassandra snapped, pausing to sniff the air and scowl. “Here I thought your soulmate would have to be special, if they’re to compare to your ego. You’re disappointed, aren’t you? Having to settle for this.” With that she shifts, flesh writhing, making your stomach churn as you watch her disintegrate into a cloud of… flies? What the hell is wrong with this family? Can Bela do that too? I hope not, you think. Soon you’re pulled from your thoughts, however, as the swarm circles around you, single insects occasionally surging forward to cut at your skin. But Bela is grabbing you by the sleeve and tugging you to her chest, moving against a wall so that her body shielded your own. Your eyes clamp shut as you shake in her arms. When the buzzing stops, it is quickly replaced with cruel laughter. “That fragile, hmm? I can’t wait to see what mother thinks. See you at breakfast, sister!”

Then the two of you are alone, still pressed against the wall, staying still until the sound of footsteps fade. You’re stunned, unsure of how to react. The fact that a few drops of blood roll down your cheek only makes things worse. Still, Bela managed to prevent you from getting too hurt, and the few wounds on your body are negligible. Ever filled with gratitude, you hold her close as you try to stutter out a few sentences.

“Is she always this hostile, or am I truly not what you had expected? No, pay me no mind, it hardly matters. Thank you for protecting me,” you whispered. In response, Bela gives you a little squeeze, then pulls back enough to wipe the blood from your face. There’s a hint of something odd in her expression, which you interpret to be related to her apparent ‘need for blood’. Thankfully, she is in perfect control, and does not frenzy the same way you had read about fictional vampires doing. But she does hesitate, words dying on her tongue, like there are a thousand things she wants to say, and no words to say them with. “It’s alright, my dear. Let’s just go to breakfast, like we planned, and hope your sister behaves better when supervised.”

Bela nods, quickly, before taking your hand in her own. Whatever awaited you in the dining room, the two of you would be ready. Hopefully.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

OH ANTONI 🥺🥺🥺 my poor baby. I hope he will find it within himself to come clean to Jake or SOMEONE about this :((((

(((ALSO CANT WAIT FOR MORR))))

One Two Three Four Five Six

CW: Wound cleaning, burns, touch aversion, aftermath of torture, BBU, conditioned fucky headspace

"Lift your chin for me," she commands, and he doesn't really remember that he could choose not to obey.

Antoni dutifully shifts, his eyes moving to roam over a line of framed photographs along the wall behind her. A wedding photo, faded with time, a much, much younger version of the woman currently dabbing a cotton ball dipped in something cold and stinging to the fresh burn on his throat with a man he's never seen. The two of them are smiling, holding hands, looking right into the camera.

Bright white wedding dress turned cream with yellowing paper, with time, covered in lace. Powder-blue tuxedo. Brilliant smiles.

She touches the cotton ball to his skin and he hisses, hands tightening where they grip the edges of the chair he's sitting on. The sting rockets through him, only a pale echo of the original pain, but it's enough.

It's enough.

Fuck, that's hot.

He catches the sob before it can leave his throat, forces the burn behind his eyes to stay there and not turn into tears. He will not cry over this again.

Not now.

"There we go, just a bit more," She says, her voice gruffly compassionate. She presses a small rounded bandage against his throat, her fingertips are warm against his neck.

His skin crawls at even this slight, indirect touch, but he doesn't protest.

He wouldn't dare.

"All done. That's not s'bad, I think with a good bandaging it won't scar half so bad as all its little friends down south," She mutters, more to herself than him, really.

Where her fingers touch, he feels the echoes of other hands around his throat. Thicker fingers, heavy with rings. Smiling down at him.

Beg for me, love.

"Please-" It's automatic. He's drifting, in and out of this old kitchen that still looks like it must have looked thirty years ago, when the man in the wedding photo would still be here maybe cooking or cleaning or chatting up a storm to anyone who popped by for a visit.

"Hm? You say something, sweetheart?" Miss Ruth looks at him, and those dark eyes are shrewd. They know more than anyone is supposed to, they know things Nat hasn't told her. Hasn't had to.

"Ah, no," He whispers. "Just. I am very tired."

"No doubt. I'll finish these up and you can get back to your own bed and no doubt you'll be glad to get there." She looks him over, and his eyes dance to hers and away again. Back to the photos.

He sees a family photo, the two people from before and a daughter and son. Everyone is smiling, looking carefully just off to the side. They wear matching outfits.

"Get a look at 'em?"

There's a 35th wedding anniversary picture with a big banner behind the happy couple. The two people, much older, stand in front a cake nearly as tall as they are, surrounded by others. Everyone in the photo smiles in sort of the same way.

The next photo is a birthday, he thinks. There's a boy and a young baby in the photo, and the man from wedding and anniversary photo isn't there. Miss Ruth, holding her grandbaby he thinks, is wearing all black. The photo was taken in a church, and there's a spray of white lilies just visible at the edge of the picture.

Another, with Jaden, who Chris plays basketball with. The kid who more or less effortlessly opened his life for Chris when Chris badly needed a friend his own age, or closer to it, to remember what being a kid was like.

He is reading, in images, the story of this woman's adult life. Marriage, and death, and birth. Children. Life going on.

A life he won't have, that he gave up every possibility of having, because of... of whatever is inside him that Mr. Davies knew about, that the people who just hurt him could see in him even though he cannot see it himself.

He must look like someone who deserves to be hurt.

"Young man." She taps on the back of his hand and he flinches, blinking at her, struggling to pull himself out of his reverie. Her words filter through his mind, shift into the language all his thoughts are moving in, come back out in hers. He swallows, feeling a lump in his throat that refuses to move.

"I'm... sorry," He says softly, with difficulty. "I did not hear."

"I can tell. I asked did you get a good look at whoever did this to you." Her eyes roam over his chest, his stomach. The circle of new burns, placed so carefully compared to the haphazard placement Mr. Davies had favored, no pattern at all. "Looks like they took their damn time, anyway, to get you so much."

"N-... no." Antoni's eyebrows furrow, and he tries to think, but all he can remember is their hands holding the lit cigarettes, the quiet one touching his face, ruffling his hair. He can't... he can't remember their faces at all. "I am sorry."

You're fucking gorgeous, buddy, you know that?

"Hm." If she's disappointed in him, nothing changes about her expression, still held in a kind of skeptical compassion as she wets a new cotton ball in liquid from a small frosted plastic bottle and touches it to each burn, one by one, in the circle. It's like a ritual, the sting, washing away a bit of sin with each hint of pain. He clothes his eyes and breathes carefully through it.

When he is done, each circle covered with a bandage that is shades darker than his skin, she steps back to look him over, critically. She steps away and he takes in deep breaths free of her air, the powdery scent of her. He breathes in her absence, no one nearby.

She returns with a washcloth and he takes it, scrubs at his face until his cheeks are red but clean, until you can't tell anymore that he cried while they burned him.

Good boy.

"You can stay here," She says, voice low now. "Sleep it off for a while. I've got a guest room."

"No. No, I will go home. Thank you. I will... I want to go home." He looks out the kitchen window right at Nat's house next door. No lights are on... yet. But there isn't much time before they will be.

"Fair enough. You plan to tell 'em what happened to you?"

He looks back at her, searches for the judgement, finds none.

"No," He says. Confesses, really, his sin. "I will not."

I will lie to them.

"That's your choice to make, I suppose." She lays a hand on his arm. He doesn't pull away from her. He wants to unzip himself from his skin and step out of it, let them all have what they seem to want to touch so much.

Instead, he holds himself perfectly still, until she pats him a few times and steps away again.

"I've done what I can do. You come back over here tomorrow or the day after and we'll look 'em over again and make sure they're healing up nice, you got me?"

"Yes," He says. He is good. He can be good.

"Right. Off you go, then, before your people wake up and you get to come up with a story about why you're in an old widow's house at 4:30 in the morning, hm? You're pretty enough, but you're no Wilbur." She laughs to herself, a dry and crackly sound, and he thinks that her laugh was the sort that could set a whole crowd to laughing, when she was young.

It still is.

The corners of his mouth twitch in an answering smile.

"Yes, ma'am," he says, and pushes himself off the edge, standing up again. No one has seen his scars, no one but this old neighbor woman who looks at them like they are simply part of living, not something to be pitied. "I go. S-... thank you."

"Paugh." She scoffs, waves a hand in dismissal. "Go on, now. You've thrown off my morning coffee time. Tell your young man that Jaden will be over this afternoon."

She all but shoos him out the door, and the air is clear and clean and quiet. The only dirty thing is Antoni himself, smudged and mussed, still feeling in his scalp the prickles of Quiet One's hands, still feeling on his arms the sharp pressure of the shirt tied around his wrists.

Still aware of every single burn under the slight pull of the bandages pressed over them, the gentle sting that feels like a return to how he was always meant to be.

Even the walk from one yard to another feels like too much. Antoni's eyes move over the empty darkened windows of the houses all around him. How obvious he must be, if three people saw him in the darkness and knew him for a pet pretending to be human.

He shouldn't have left, shouldn't have gone on those walks. He'd left himself open and vulnerable, hadn't he? His scars are deeper than skin, and they must shine like the streetlights to anyone who knows what to look for.

Antoni stops at the porch, where he carefully lifts a loose bit of board from the porch railing, finds the small box hidden inside. The slightest scrape of metal on metal as he pulls off the lid makes him freeze, but no one is awake to hear it. He takes the contents of the box, moves it quickly back to its hiding place, replaces the board.

Like nothing ever happened.

Everything can be made as good as new, as long as it isn't him.

He slips inside the safehouse, where everything is still quiet, in the silent inhale that comes before the exhalation of morning. The clock in the kitchen reads 4:45, fifteen minutes until Jake's alarm will go off, until he - and likely Chris - will stir.

Fifteen minutes for Antoni get upstairs and look so deeply asleep that no one will realize he was ever gone.

No time to shower.

He will have to sleep with the grime of their hands still ground deep into every single pore. He will sleep with Deep Voice's we know what you are in his ears, with Quiet One's fingers tangled in his hair, running over his skin. He will sleep with Lookout's eyes locked on his chest as he presses the cigarette in.

Antoni hasn't worn a collar in years now, but he buckles it on, just one notch too tight like Mr. Davies would have, and climbs under the covers, pulling them over his head.

He breathes in as deep as he can, to feel the constriction. Breathes out, and runs his hand up over his chest, over the bandages that cover his burns.

They knew what he was.

Everyone always will.

Good boy.

The ashtray falls asleep humming a lullaby, afraid that if he pulls the blankets back down he will see bars on the windows.

[alreadyblondenow]

6:44 am “Hyung, she was about to cum” - Mark Lee

It was almost 12 am when Mark got home tired, exhausted and a little mad from practice. He’s also too tired to eat dinner so he just took a quick shower, careful not to make too much noise so he wont bother your sleep. When he entered your shared room, he saw you sleeping soundly wearing only a thin shirt and your laced panties.

Mark’s mind battled between covering you up and let you sleep or waking you up with kisses on your thighs and have a quick adult stress release with you. He sat on his side of the bed and just stare at you. I think I should let her sleep. He lean forward to your face and left a good night kiss on your cheek.

But before he knew it he’s peppering your neck with kisses making you flinch a little and open your tired eyes. Catching your boyfriend kissing you softy while his hand rest on your waist, “I’m sorry I woke you up. I was just going to give you a good night kiss but somehow I ended up on your neck” he continued to kiss you while you reach for his face. “Hows your day?” you asked him, giving him back the kisses he gave. “Not good. Manager Lee gave us a hard time today” you’re now face to face with each other, hands on top of each other’s waist, legs tangles under the sheet.

Before you could even start another conversation with him, Mark’s lips crashed into yours. Giving you soft bites, sweet kisses, and quiet giggles in between. He lift up your thin shirt, hand went straight to your right boob kneading them gently. “Promise to be quick” he nuzzles on your hair smelling your shampoo and leaving a peck on your lips before he goes on top of you. The sheet covers both of your bodies so you wont shiver from the air conditioning. His removed your laced panties with both hands leaving it somewhere in bed and went back to face your pussy, opening your legs a little to kiss your inner thighs.

The next thing you know, he’s pushing inside you. Quiet moans and whimpers escaped your mouth while you gasp sharply and heavily. Feeling Mark push more of his thick cock inside your dry walls without enough foreplay. “s-shit” you voiced out.

“Does it hurt?” Mark asked with a smile that makes your heart flutter even though it does hurt. “No no, keep going. You’re doing great” he pushed his entire cock inside you not minding the sting of the stretch and just let Mark make you feel good.

Leaning for a kiss and rubbing his fingers on your nipples to make it sensitive, you grabbed his hand and intertwined it with yours to make him stop. The soft kiss is becoming sloppier and filthier because Mark is getting close to his release, you on the other hand let out noises you didn’t know you can make, high pitched moans that are music to Mark’s ears, “I love coming home to this. I love you” with hoarse voice he told you he loves you over and over again while he cums inside you and thrust continuously until he’s satisfied.

It made you smile and reached in for a kiss, making Mark double his pace and it made you part your lips. “yes baby, part your lips like that”

Then Mark felt someone slap his face.

“Dude, were waiting down stairs did you even packed already?” Johnny woke Mark from the dream of having sex with you, finally hearing his alarm clock and turning it off.

“Hyung, she was about to cum”

“You can continue and make her cum once we get on the plane. Now please, everyone is waiting down stairs” Johnny grabbed Mark’s stuff and waited for him to finish brushing his teeth, washing his face and putting on clean clothes.

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Wash Day

Yall I just really want Trisskel to be a solid couple from like, day one and be happy and in love and hhhnnngggg. I have feelings. (specifically Netflix Triss and Game Eskel) 

Summary: Modern AU Eskel helps Triss with wash day when she cant use her arms. 

Warnings: Mentions of burn injuries and burns in healing process, nothing gorey, just the mention of scabs, temporary dependency, dealing with the shitty mental part of recovering from major injuries/surgeries - not fucking bathing, eskel is not flexible and tries so hard to do things right. bless, lol swearing as is usual

I’d like to put a little disclaimer that I did a bunch of natural hair care research for this but I have no experience save from helping my friend diffuse her hair before class. 

________________

Triss groaned and tossed her phone to the other end of the couch she was perched on, wiping her one good hand over her face. Her burns over her chest still weren’t allowing her much range of motion with her right arm and her hair was starting to drive her absolutely insane. Yennefer was going to come over and help with wash day, but Ciri got in a fight at school, leaving Triss to sit with an itchy, ratted, and, frankly, horrendous head of hair. 

She leaned her head back against the arm of the couch and sighed, not even able to adjust the bun Eskel had helped her with that morning. 

Speaking of…

She scooted over the couch to pick up her phone, tapping the little call icon under his nickname, “Hey, Yen can’t come over tonight. No need to pick up the wine,” she sighed. 

“Are you sure? Nothing wrong with a little treat, babe.” 

“I’m sure. It was more for her efforts than my treat anyway.”

“If you say so… How are you feeling?”

“Less shit than this morning. I’m just tired,” she didn’t add the feeling of hopelessness that went along with not even being able to bathe on her own. He worried enough for the both of them and then some. 

“I’m picking up the good wine. I’ve got one more client then I’m done. Maybe take a nap?”

“Skel…”

“I will spoil you if I want to. Oh! Look! There’s my 3:30! Bye Bug! Love you!” he hung up on her before she could protest.

She rolled her eyes as she lowered the phone into her lap, smiling a little despite her annoyance. 

Gingerly, she made her way to their bedroom and laid down, running the risk of taking out the bun to lay comfortably. She turned on a podcast she told Jask she’d listen to and hoped to zone out at the least, if not actually sleep. 

-

Triss was woken by Eskel stomping in their front door and dropping his gym bag with a dramatic thud. A few moments later she could hear grocery bags settling on the kitchen counter, the distinct sound of wine bottles bumping together reminding her what he probably had planned. 

She ever so slowly tipped over and pushed herself up with her left hand, catching a horrifying full-body reflection in the mirrored closet doors. 

The scabs and little spots that were still bandaged she was starting to get used to, but the rest of her? Looking at herself in sweats that hadn’t been changed in two days, a summer tank top with no bra and coffee stains, and mismatching fuzzy christmas socks was… difficult. Her hair was wild, all the curls stretched out and sticking together in big frizzy clumps that stuck out at odd angles. 

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It had only been four weeks. No one was going to be back to normal after four weeks. Her body was using all its energy to heal, not look put together.

Regardless of her efforts she felt the tears well up in her eyes and her breath hitch with the effort of holding them back. 

It still fucking sucked.

Eskel’s soft touch on her thigh made her jump, “Is it hurting again?”

She shook her head, opening her eyes to see him knelt in front of her with his eyebrows drawn up in worry, “No. I’m okay,” she whispered, pulling herself together and resting her hand over his. 

Eskel tilted his head, “Then what’s wrong?”

“I… I look like I fell down the garbage chute,” she laughed. It wasn’t her usual, musical laugh, though. She laughed because she knew, in the grand scheme of things, it was ridiculous. It felt stupid to be worried about how she looked when she’d lived and, well, laughing was better than more tears.

“You’re always lovely to me,” Eskel hummed, brushing her tears away with the back of his knuckles.

She leaned into his touch and took a steadying breath, “I just don’t feel like me.”

He stretched up to kiss her forehead, “I’m sorry, Bug.”

She just shrugged and squeezed his hand. 

“Yen called. I got a very long lecture on wash day and firm orders to help you wash and deep condition your hair. If you’re feeling up to it,” Eskel flashed that crooked grin she could never resist and she shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. 

“Are you prepared to follow instructions?” she teased. 

“Babe,” he raised one eyebrow, “the only instructions I don’t follow are on Top Ramen packs.”

-

Eskel seemed to have confused ‘instruction’ with ‘directions’.

“I swear to God, Eskel. You don’t have to read the ‘how to use’ blurb,” Triss groaned, sitting on a kitchen chair they’d moved into the bathroom with dripping wet hair, “Just section off my hair and do what I tell you.” 

“But I don’t want to use too much,” he protested, “This says to use one tablespoon!”

“Yeah! For natural blondes! I have completely different hair and know what I’m doing. Use half the bottle! I don’t care! Just get it fucking clean!” 

Eskel rested his hand on her good shoulder and gave her an apologetic look in the mirror, “I’m sorry. How many sections do you want?” 

“I- it’s not a number. You just- kneel down for me I’ll show you,” she pointed at the floor next to her and sighed, missing Yen more than ever. She drew little lines with her nails through Eskel’s hair as she explained just how to scrub while making the least amount of tangles possible. He watched her in the mirror and pointed to the points on her scalp she was talking about with a look of serious concentration. 

It was cute. Even if he was a little inflexible he really did want to do a good job. 

Conditioner was easier, even combing out the tangles went fairly smooth. They took a break and made dinner, breaking open the good wine. 

Just having her hair down and somewhat bouncy again made Triss feel a million times better. The sweats were exchanged for yoga pants and the tank top for one of Eskel’s sweaters too. It almost felt normal. 

They ate ice cream while he worked the deep conditioning mask through her hair. 

“You sure I’m not using too much?” he asked, leaning over her shoulder to take the bite she held up for him, nice and small so he didn’t get a brain freeze. 

“Fbe moreb fbe bedder,” she tried speaking around a giant bite of ice cream, giggling at the face of confusion he made with the spoon still sticking out of his mouth. 

She swallowed and scrunched her nose at the light brain freeze, “The more, the better. We’ll rinse it out in the morning and I don’t want any dry spots.”

He nodded and waited for her to take the spoon back before getting back to work, “Yes ma’am.” 

“Mmm, I like that.” 

Eskel rolled his eyes as she let down a new section, “Oh do you, now? I had no idea.” 

“Mhm!” she nodded with a proud smile, taking another bite of ice cream and earning a chuckle from him. 

She walked him through a couple rough twists and adjusting the plastic soaking cap before attempting to explain how to tie a headscarf. He was… truly awful. Somehow she ended up almost blindfolded before she just gave up and found him a video to follow. It took him a few tries, but eventually he got it the right level of snug. I 

She tried to tilt her head back to look at him but that pulled at some of her new scar tissue, so she tried another angle and another before she huffed and resorted to standing up to look at him, “Thank you Skel.”

“No problem, Bug,” he hummed, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her nose. 

Triss laid her head on his chest, the perfect height for him to rest his chin on top of her head, “No, I mean it. It… helps. A lot.”

He rubbed soothing circles over her back, swaying them slightly, “I’m just glad I could do something…” he took a breath like he wanted to say something more but settled for pressing a kiss to the sloppily tied scarf. She hummed and leaned into him, snaking her hands around his hips and up under his shirt to rest over his back dimples. 

Triss could have stayed there forever. 

[hale-13]

Conditioned

By Hale13

For the Summer of Whump Day 16 - Touch Starved

“Can I take a shower?” Peter blurted out, shifting uncomfortably. He felt gross from the dried sweat and the bloody residue that was left on his scalp and around his hair line felt the intense need to get cleaned - broken arm be damned.

Words: 2084, Chapters: 1/1 (Complete), Language: English

Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Rating: Gen

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Helen Cho

TW: Literally None - Just Fluff

Read on AO3 or below the line break.

“Well Peter, I see no reason why you should have to stay here any longer as long as you promise to actually rest and allow yourself to heal,” Helen said firmly but with a smile toward him and Peter nearly sagged with obvious relief.

“Oh thank god,” he said he’d, already struggling in his attempts to climb out of the MedBay bed he had been sentenced to since the day before with some help from Tony. He flinched a little as he tweaked his sore arms, moving the wrong way, but trying to keep his muscles as relaxed as possible to prevent any further damage. His recovery is going to be annoying enough as it is without making it worse.

In his most recent fight against the Shocker the night before, he had caught a direct hit on his right arm which had successfully and cleaning broken his radius and ulna in two. In his haste to get away and then catch himself on a poorly shot strand of webbing he had dislocated his left shoulder. The pain had been so stunning he had barely been able to finish webbing up Shocker and get away before the police showed up.

It probably didn’t do much to help the injuries when he had swung back to the Tower but he had been numb and delirious by that point so he probably wasn’t really thinking straight. He does remember Tony not being super impressed with him when he nearly passed out as soon as he landed.

“I’m serious about resting,” Dr. Cho warned him as she helped him settle his, still sore and recently reduced, arm into a sling. “You need to take it easy for at least another few days or you’ll risk re-injury and possibly surgery.”

“Oh that shouldn’t be a problem,” Tony said breezily. “I have no problem cuffing him to a bed if I have to.”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter whined, trying to stand and balance without using either of his arms – it was much harder than he thought it would be – and already trying to edge toward the door. Tony just quirked up an eyebrow at him.

“Your aunt, definitely against her better judgement and with an amazing amount of misplaced trust, is letting you stay here with me so you don’t get into any more trouble during your convalescence so if you could just work with me for a couple of days here that would be much appreciated,” he told Peter very pointedly with a final wave at Helen as he herded Peter toward the elevator at the end of the hall.

Peter just rolled his eyes at his mentors dramatics but allowed himself to be directed – to tell the absolute truth, his arms still hurt pretty badly and he wasn’t really looking forward to his oral painkillers (that made him sleepy and emotional) and his anti-inflammatories (that made him into a right bastard if he was being honest) and trying to convince Tony that he didn’t need either. He wasn’t super confident about his success rate with that. “Can I take a shower?” He blurted out, shifting uncomfortably. He felt gross from the dried sweat and the bloody residue that was left on his scalp and around his hair line.

“You know that you can’t get your cast wet,” Tony reminded him holding up a hand when Peter opened his mouth to interrupt. “I mean, I suppose I can wrap it in a bag or something if you really want to shower that bad.”

“Yes please,” Peter eagerly agreed. Ever since the Bite all of his senses had been more sensitive but none more so than his sense of smell and he wasn’t a particularly big fan of the fact that he could currently smell himself. It made his skin crawl and was completely disgusting.

“Alright then,” Tony nodded. “Shower first and then a movie marathon slash prescribed nap directly after. Do we have a deal then Mr. Parker?”

“Only if we can get pizza for dinner later,” Peter bartered as the elevator opened up on Tony’s floor of the compound. “With pineapple this time,” he continued with a wrinkled nose, “the olives you got last time were disgusting!”

“You have astonishingly terrible taste but yes fine. Pizza later.” Tony nodded, herding both of them into the kitchen with a single-minded determination. The Wal-Mart and cling wrap cast protection apparatus Mr. Stark rigged together left a fair amount to be desired in the looks department but was completely functional when it came to water-proofing which was good enough for Peter.

It took some skill to slip away from his mentor but Peter was soon slipping into his room, struggling to get out of the sling on his own and finally succeeding. It made him wince from the extra pain it caused but it didn’t overshadow the relief of doing it on his own. He knew his limits from previous dislocations and knew that it was crucial to not overdue it while the joint was healing or he risked the chance of re-injury and, as Dr. Cho had reminded him earlier, surgery.

With a grimace, Peter rested that arm across his stomach and used his bagged up right arm to pull his shirt over his head. He was barely able to manage it when it pulled at his sore muscles and broken bones. Maybe he should use a button down or zippered hoodie instead.

Thanks to FRIDAY (bless her seriously), the water of his shower was already running and warmed up to his preferred setting of skin melting and he was quick to turn his back into the spray and luxuriate under it for an extended time. The high pressured water felt amazing on his back and shoulders, loosening up the knots and clenched muscles and providing relief.

“You doing okay in there kid? You drown yet?” Tony asked, knocking on the door and indiscernible amount of time later and knocking Peter out of his stupor.

“I’m good!” Peter called back, hurriedly reaching out for his body wash and cloth painfully and cleaning himself up to the best of his – limited – ability. By the time he was ready to wash his hair and hairline he felt exhausted and achy despite the excellent water pressure and all the good work it and the heat had done to relieve the pain in his shoulder and back. “Fuck,” he cursed, trying to lift his arm above chest level and spectacularly failing, finding himself unable to without making his muscles seize.

Peter was pretty bendy due to his powers so he attempted a couple different contortions to reach his head before just flat out giving up, turning off the water and taking his towel off the heated towel rack installed in the bathroom (rich people – seriously). It took longer than Peter cared to admit, but he was able to dry and dress himself in sweats and a zippered hoodie. He was even able to shuck the bag off his cast with little struggle so he was feeling pretty decent when he ventured into the living room with his hair sopping wet and dripping onto his shoulders since he wasn’t able to adequately dry it. Whatever. It would dry on its own eventually.

“And what’s all this supposed to be?” Tony asked, glancing up from his phone and wrinkling his nose but not moving from where he was leaned against the counter in the kitchen. “Why are you dripping all over my floor?”

Peter fought off a blush and tried to hunch his shoulders, stopping when it hurt. “I couldn’t reach up to get my hair,” he grumbled, failing to completely push down his blush.

“I guess that explains all the blood still caked in there,” Tony hummed, leaning over to move the dampened curls around to look at the blood still matting some of his hair together and crusting up around his scalp. “Well that’s pretty easily remedied. Welcome to the salon Underoos,” Tony said, pulling over one of the barstools and setting it in front of the kitchen sink, gesturing for Peter to sit.

“Uh… what?” Peter questioned, brows furrowing in confusion.

“I’ll wash your hair for you,” Tony clarified, looking pointedly between Peter and the stool again. “Just sit down while I go and grab some things!” And, with that, he took off in the direction of the bedrooms and associated en suites.

Peter, still pretty confused but (mostly) trusting his mentor, sat down unsteadily on the stool just as Tony came back around the corner with an armful of towels, shampoo and conditioner bottles along with a wide-toothed comb and an expensive looking hair dryer. He triumphantly arranged everything on the counter next to the deep sink and wrapped one of the towels around Peter’s neck. “Lean back buddy,” Tony said, using a finger to push on the center of Peter’s forehead until he gave in and let himself be pushed back to lean back with his head in the sink.

Doing his best to ignore the weirdness of it all (weirdness was pretty common around Tony Stark after all), Peter closed his eyes and crossed his arms across his stomach as the water turned on. He tensed up a little when he felt fingers start dragging through his hair but was quick to relax and release the tension in his body under the careful massage of his mentor’s hands through his hair and the warm water cascading across his scalp. He let out a little hum of contentment.

Tony let out a soft chuckle, squirting a healthy dollop of the shampoo into his hands and lathering it up before applying it to Peter’s hair, working through the snarls and tangles with care and scrubbing the leftover blood out of the curls. Peter went nearly boneless under his ministrations and Tony would definitely be lying if he said he didn’t milk the washing and conditioning portion at least a little bit. He knew that Peter had to be feeling pretty miserable and it settled something buried deep inside him to provide just a little extra comfort.

All too soon, though, he had rinsed out the last of the conditioner leaving Peter’s hair clean and dripping as he turned off the water. Peter made no move to get up or to open his eyes, breathing deeply and seemingly on the very verge of sleep, so Tony grabbed one of the towels and started to wring the extra water out of the kid’s hair, running the towel through it cautiously. “Just need you to sit up for a second here kiddo okay? Then you can nap, scout’s honor.”

Peter grunted and grumbled but did slit his eyes open and let Tony help him sit up, swaying back and forth and little on the stool and Tony ran the towel through his hair a couple more times to really get rid of the water as much as possible. He dropped the towel on the counter in exchange for the comb and the hair dryer. He ran the comb through the mess a few times before starting the hair dryer up. Peter practically melted as the warmed air fluffed up his curls. It didn’t take long to dry at all and, by the time he was done, Peter was listing forward nearly into Tony’s chest.

“Couch or bed buddy?” Tony asked with a fond smile, running his hands through Peter’s warmed and clean hair.

“Couch,” Peter muttered, leaning into his petting and making Tony’s chest warm up. This kid… god. He ended up supporting most of Peter’s weight but was able to quickly get him lying face down on the supple cushions with his head pillowed on one of the throw pillows resting on Tony’s lap, the ratty fleece blanket Tony kept draped over they back of the couch draped over him and a heating pad resting across his healing shoulder.

“Let’s start a Star Wars marathon FRI. Volume at thirty percent,” FRIDAY was quiet as she dimmed the lights and started the movie, the familiar logo and music making Peter relax even further into the couch, completely gone. As the opening theme ended and the camera panned to the shots of Leia’s ship, he felt Mr. Stark’s hand rest on his back, digging into the knotted muscles of his back.

It maybe wasn’t ideal to mess up his arms so much but, Peter thought, he couldn’t think of a better way to spend his recovery.

[tentenpropaganda]

Naruto Characters Ranked On The Quality Of Their Hair

Hashirama. Just look at him.

Kushina. It’s naturally perfect, but she also cares for it when she must, if only to spite the people who mock her hair.

Yamato. The forcibly-experimented-on war orphan doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Neji. You’d better believe that he takes VERY careful care of his hair. If he can’t have social power over the main branch, he can at least be stronger and prettier than them.

Ino. She always smells really nice, too, because she uses these amazing homemade floral shampoos.

Minato. How does he never have a hair out of place or a single tangle despite running around at the speed of sound? No one knows. (ultimate good hair power couple with Kushina)

Shisui. His hair is super cute and he KNOWS it. Too bad he doesn’t have the eyes to see it anymore </3

Choji. Don’t @ me, his hair is BEAUTIFUL and y’all only sleep on his great hair because we don’t appreciate good hair unless it’s on a skinny person. But he can’t be in the top five because his hair is part of his attacks, which means there’s probably some dirt and blood in there. :/

Orochimaru. What’s the point of being immortal if you can’t be beautiful?

Itachi. Can’t slaughter your clan if you don’t have the proper hair care routine.

Sai. Not much going on with his hair, but he takes care of it. It’s probably super soft.

Hinata. Brushing and washing her hair calms her down, so she does it ALL the goddamn time. But she also plays with her hair when she’s nervous, so it’s typically a bit tangled.

Deidara. He takes care of his hair, but I’m taking a few points off for the fact that every time he touches it, he’s getting hairs in his hand-mouths.

Sasuke. No self-respecting Uchiha lets his hair go unkempt, but his clan got slaughtered before they could pass down all the tricks.

Kurenai. Her hair has to be AT LEAST as striking and beautiful as her eyes, or else it’ll look weird, so she really has no choice but to take care of her hair.

Iruka. He doesn’t care much about how his hair looks, but he does care about maintaining personal hygiene, especially in a professional environment.

Kabuto. None of Orochimaru’s henchmen can get away with improperly-maintained hair, and Kabuto took that to its extreme. So soft and fluffy. But after Orochimaru died Kabuto really let himself go. Now it’s full of shredded bits of snake skin probably.

Madara. He’s an Uchiha but you can’t condition properly when you’re presumed dead by most local and international authorities.

Karin. She takes care of her hair, but being on the run with Sasuke means constantly getting tangled up in weird shit that leaves her with tangled hair.

Tobirama. He doesn’t do anything with it but it’s probably SUPER soft.

Tenten. Her hairstyle is cute as hell, but she doesn’t spend much time taking care of it.

Killer Bee. He’s got nice hair, but it probably smells like fish because of Gyuki.

Suigetsu. It’s never dirty because it’s constantly turning into water which is basically a really thorough shower. But like he’s never brushed it once in his life, and probably doesn’t know what a hairbrush is.

Lee. His hairstyle is fine I guess, but he looked so good with the long hair as a kid... bring it back...

Gai. His hairstyle is fine I guess, but he gets points off because, were it not for him, Lee might still have the long hair.

Sakura. She cut off all her hair, realized how little maintenance a short hairstyle requires, and proceeded to never brush her hair again. But it looks cute though.

Konan. Nothing of note, like Obito below, but she looks cuter because she’s got ornamentation.

Obito. Middle-of-the-road; he just washes it when he bathes and brushes it when it gets tangled. Nothing of note.

Jugo. Hard to comb your hair when your hands sometimes grow into huge hard lumps. Poor guy. He does care about his hygiene though.

Gaara. He combs it but it’s full of sand.

Temari. She combs it but it’s full of sand.

Kankuro. He combs it but it’s full of sand and sawdust and he probably has terrible hat hair.

Kakuzu. It looks fine I guess, but points off for those weird hair fibers that come out of his mouth.

Naruto. He has never owned a hairbrush and even if he did he wouldn’t know how to use it. Iruka used to help him with his hair but now he’s on his own.

Hidan. That shit’s SMOTHERED in gel and you know it.

Shikamaru. He washes his hair exactly as often as he needs to in order to keep Ino from yelling at him, but doesn’t brush it unless ABSOLUTELY necessary.

Tsunade. Look, she’s gorgeous, but if you get too close you will realize that her hair badly reeks of alcohol and she probably just sprayed dry shampoo in there after rolling out of bed this morning. At least she can hide it, though.

Asuma. His hair and beard both smell like cigarette smoke 24/7.

Sasori. That shit’s probably full of sawdust and iron powder and if you touch it, it just feels like doll hair.

Kiba. Doesn’t wash his hair, Akamaru just licks his scalp and then he calls it a day.

Kakashi. See above, but at least Kiba cuts his hair. Kakashi just lets stray kunai trim his hair in battle which is also why it’s so lopsided. Looks like a scraggly wet cat, ironically enough.

Shino. He carefully washes and trims it. But it’s full of bugs and, sorry Shino, that loses you a ton of points.

J*raiya. His hair is probably super sweaty and full of dirt and toad slime because he’s a slob and I hate him.

Danzo. Probably has trouble washing his hair without getting soap in his stolen eyes.

H*ruzen. Greasy receding hairline bitch.

Nagato/Pein. He literally doesn’t have any free hands with which to wash his hair, and his bodies are dead. Their hair probably feels awful, greasy and stringy and the scalps are all wrinkly and dry. Ew.

Zetsu. Is that even hair.

[gretchensinister]

I’m Your Boogeyman

A tense summer. A hot night. The need for touch, and the need to stop worrying about what’s normal.

A man in his late twenties is living in an apartment with a boogeyman, but naturally he doesn’t know that. The boogeyman is wildly obsessed with him, though, and one night when Zander lets his leg hang over the side of the bed, they finally meet. And a lot more besides. Classic meet-cute, right? 13,314 words. A whole lemon.

*** 

Zander had always run hot. That was the problem, and there was really nothing to be done about it. Oh, sure, there were mundane ways of addressing the issue—sleeping in just his shorts, getting a fan, making a dry cold-pack with rice and a couple of old t-shirts. He told himself if he ever got rich he’d set the air conditioning to whatever he honestly needed it to be at night and to hell with everyone else.

But right now he wasn’t rich. He lived in an apartment that was the west side of the second floor of a massive, venerable Victorian, and while there were many lovely details about it that had survived the renovations that made it into four homes instead of one, the large windows in his bedroom did not seem quite so lovely when they gathered every bit of the sun’s heat on long summer evenings. Even insulated blackout curtains didn’t do much to help his bedroom stay cool, which both baffled and frustrated him. The reason he’d had such curtains in the first place was because he’d lived in Texas for a few years before moving much farther north. They’d been effective there! But then again, a lot of buildings in Texas, even old, shitty ones, were built so that the people in them could easily shave a few degrees off the interior temperatures. If you didn’t do that, you just died.

Zander would concede that the place he lived now regularly experienced long periods where if your house didn’t retain as much heat as possible, that would be the situation where you just died.

Still, when he tried to sleep during the summer in his current apartment, he very much resented that the original architect had been so good at their job. If he had just needed to be a little cooler to sleep well, maybe running hot wouldn’t have been so much of a problem. Fans did work wonders when much of his body was bare, and the rice bag in the freezer was extraordinarily soothing when laid across his wrist where his all-too-warm blood rushed by so near to his skin. But his needs were not just about temperature. Zander needed to be cool to be comfortable as he slept, but to feel safe enough to sleep in the first place, he needed to be covered.

He wished he could let go of this feeling, he really did. He’d even tried to slowly ease himself out of the habit: falling asleep with one arm outside the sheet, then both arms, then his chest, but habits and instincts were harder to break than that. Whenever he woke up, usually from being too hot, he would be completely wrapped, even tangled, in the sheet.

The thing was, he suspected he might have been able to succeed in learning how to sleep without covers if it hadn’t been for…something…about his bedroom. Nothing had happened in it to make him feel unsafe. (Nothing much had happened in it at all, to his great disappointment, if he was being honest.) But there was something undefinable about it. After the sun went down, it always seemed a little darker than it should have been, no matter what kind of lightbulbs Zander put in the lamps. Sometimes, as he was getting into bed, the quiet of the room seemed expectant. Which was a bananas thing to think or say to anyone, so he didn’t.

He had asked his landlady about the history of the house. She’d only shrugged. “A few people have died here, I guess. Nothing crazy like a murder. But people mostly died at home back in the day.” When he’d asked her, she’d been out in the backyard, chain-smoking. “If you can get or fake some halfway decent ghost evidence, I’ll knock fifty bucks off your rent. Love to know there’s an afterlife with a habit like mine. But if you find a way to quit that sticks, I’ll knock a hundred bucks off everybody’s rent.”

It had been an unhelpful conversation, to say the least. He couldn’t stop thinking about paying for her cigarettes for weeks.

Anyway, he didn’t really believe that his room was haunted, nor that a standard bedsheet would prove a barrier to any sort of ghost. Whatever was off about the space probably had to do with old walls falling slightly out of true, and wiring that was somehow incompatible with modern technology (it was not his area of expertise). Or maybe he subconsciously hated being alone so much that he couldn’t get totally comfortable in the room he was alone in.

I wouldn’t have been such a big deal, except for the heat that made his compulsion almost unbearable.

And what good could it possibly do? What protection did a bedsheet possibly offer if there really was something malevolent about? (Which there wasn’t. Couldn’t be.)

***

It was a creature of instinct more than intellect. This was mainly due to the fact that it didn’t exist continuously. While it was intelligent, it was difficult to understand the world and form opinions about anything in it when it didn’t have a solid form most of the time.

It vastly preferred existence to non-existence, though, and the hours it was most coherent all took place in the presence of its otherbeing. It was aware that there were many otherbeings, even sensed that it existed because of otherbeings, but distinct memories were a luxury of form. It hadn’t had a form for a long time before this otherbeing moved into its territory, so it didn’t have many clear memories. When coherence was brief, only the broadest strokes of physicality returned—limbs, teeth, eyes. Only the memories, only the thoughts, necessary for survival. But when coherence lasted longer, as a more stable state—as it did when its otherbeing was close by—that was when it gained details: skin texture, claws, memory, continuity.

Its otherbeing was often close by, and the creature had become, to put it simply, obsessed. It knew every different way the otherbeing’s breath sounded, it knew every subtle variation of the otherbeing’s heartbeat, it knew the way the otherbeing smelled just before washing and just after, it knew every scent that was just the otherbeing, separate from anything the otherbeing brought in from the world outside. It knew the sound of the otherbeing’s voice, and could pick it out from any of the cacophony of sounds the otherbeing was often surrounded by, even though, for a very long time, the otherbeing rarely spoke at all. It knew the way the otherbeing moved, all the fantastic shapes the otherbeing was made of, the colors of the otherbeing’s skin and hair in moonlight and starlight and streetlamp light and indoor lamp light (even if it was uncomfortable to observe anything in such brightness).

All this knowing felt mostly normal to the creature, though the way it brought it so much joy did not seem typical—but then, there were no others like itself present to confirm its strangeness.

But maybe that was better! If it was a creature that was not supposed to feel this way about its otherbeing, it would rather not know. It did guess that some kind of line had been crossed, because it had spent enough attention to know that this otherbeing was a he-otherbeing named Zander. Sometimes the creature would whisper the name to itself, when it and Zander were in the places that felt most right: Zander sleeping in his bed, the creature curled on the floor beneath it.

Sometimes, the nights like that were so lovely and peaceful that all the creature’s instincts faded away, and it even fell asleep during the precious hours of darkness.

But the real line that it had crossed had been more recent, only several months ago (how sophisticated it felt for thinking of months rather than moon-cycles! So proud in its knowledge of Zander’s world!). It had still been winter, then—a wonderful season for the creature, when the nights were longer and Zander was more often indoors. But inevitably, the nights grew shorter, and the creature felt terribly, terribly cheated. Not of coherence. In a strict sense, it could survive with very little of that. But of its time with Zander. And in defiance of all its scant knowledge of itself, of the rules of its existence, it held itself together through the slow flare of sunrise, huddling in the greying dark under Zander’s bed, saying his name over and over again. It hurt to do this, and that was a warning, wasn’t it, that the creature was endangering itself? But Zander was still sleeping so peacefully, with such good deep breaths, such a steady heartbeat. How could it be expected to fade in the middle of that?

And in a thoughtless and sublime expression of desire, it had clawed its way up the side of the bed in the searing sunrise. Indirect, weak winter sunlight fell from the large windows upon Zander’s face, and the creature had thought it looked like the ultimate contradiction: the sun, but safe and beautiful.

What an irrevocable instant! Its being flooding with unfamiliar emotions, its physical body burning with pain it could never have imagined—it would have howled if the sun had not forced its dissolution in the very next moment.

That night, when it formed again, the memory of Zander’s sunlit face had returned immediately, sharper than any teeth it could form after such a harrowing morning. And it curled its vague form into a tight ball and held its head and shook.

Before, it had known that it lived and cohered because of Zander—the fine aether of his unease, the miasma of his nightmares: these were ultimately its daily bread. But now it also knew that it lived for Zander.

It had no idea how to face a craving that could draw it into the sun.

For a time, all it could do was continue as before, though its scrutiny became bolder and more reckless—enough to glut it on its actual sustenance, but doing nothing to appease its other pangs.

It took to exploring Zander’s bedroom as soon as it got dark, storing up memories, storing up knowledge.

It would stand in the shower behind the curtain, smelling the shampoo, the soap. What would it be like to use the shower, as if it was a being like Zander?

It would watch Zander watching movies on his computer in the living room, standing just inside the doorway of the bedroom. It would have the courage to approach and watch him from behind the couch soon enough—and that was but another sign of its derangement. The risk of being seen would be so great, and being seen was dangerous. It would…it would produce too much fear to process, and risked driving Zander away.

The problem with that was that it couldn’t know when another otherbeing would move in, and it could be consigning itself to nonexistence for a very long time. But the bigger problem was that it didn’t want to lose Zander, and if it did…it found it didn’t really care if any otherbeings ever moved into its territory or not.

The sun continued to gnaw away at the night, but not many days before it consumed over half the day, something wonderful happened. Zander started staying home much, much more. He started using his computer to talk to other otherbeings much more, giving the creature more of his voice to listen to and remember. His dreams and nightmares grew more powerful than ever, and the creature thought that if it had been normal for its kind, it would have been the most content of them all: strong, well-nourished, with peculiar otherbeing things to observe all the time.

Unfortunately, despite gaining much happiness from this new routine, it started to dwell on what it could not have of Zander.

It could not touch. It could not taste. There were rules to its existence that were truly impossible for it to break. Bearing the touch of the sun was excruciating, but there might be reasons for a creature like it to do so—moving from hiding place to hiding place, perhaps. But other choices didn’t result in an action and some accompanying pain. They resulted in nothing at all, as if the creature had not even thought of moving.

For example: the otherbeing was never to be touched with the creature’s mouth. The creature understood this. It didn’t feed with its mouth, and didn’t have a digestive system like that of a continuously corporeal creature. Bites and mouth-touches might produce sustaining terror, but as in the case of being seen, this terror might be enough to overwhelm a creature, or it might be enough to drive a creature’s otherbeing away. Mouth details, like fangs, were for…well, this particular creature had no idea what they could be for, when it tried to think about it logically. Just another instinct. (Though this one could be overcome, at least partially. For a while now, when the creature re-formed at dark, it had been experimenting with how small it could make its fangs. It had managed to make them small enough to easily speak like Zander did, which was interesting, and exciting, even, until the creature remembered that it would never have the need to speak this way.)

But the strongest instinct of all, and the strongest prohibition, was this: no matter how perfect the opportunity, no matter how dark the night, no matter how deeply the otherbeing was asleep, the creature could not touch any part of the otherbeing unless two conditions were met. The first condition: only parts of the otherbeing that weren’t covered by bed-fabric could be touched. The second condition: only parts of the otherbeing that extended over the edge of the bed could be touched.

The creature had lost count of the times it had stood at the side of Zander’s bed and tried to make itself reach out—to touch his face, to finally learn the texture of his skin and hair! But it could never move. It didn’t matter if its muscles were newly formed or if they were hours old, if it tried to concentrate on the action or move without thinking about it. Nothing. More than anything else, this prohibition seemed inherent to its very being. It was the kind of creature it was because of this.

Did any others of its kind feel that this was cruelty? That their existence as substantial beings depended on bonding with one particular otherbeing, and yet it was all too simple for this otherbeing to remain forever untouchable?

Then again, perhaps it was not such a problem for others. Perhaps Zander was an exceptionally careful otherbeing.

***

It was August, and Zander was pretty sure he was losing it. He understood that this was not a particularly unique feeling, but it still wasn’t good. His vague weird feeling about his bedroom had progressed into a full feeling of being watched, which occasionally hit him in the bathroom and the living room, as well. He would swear that sometimes his things had been moved, just slightly, as if someone had been picking them up and putting them down for some reason. None of the lights seemed to be as bright as they should be.

He toyed with several explanations, and tested each of them. Could there be another person secretly living in his apartment? A thorough search produced nothing. Could he be experiencing carbon monoxide poisoning? The two detectors he ordered online showed the same very low reading. Could he be developing a diagnosable mental illness, not just “losing it”? He was a few years past the average onset age of schizophrenia for men, but times were weird. This one wasn’t as easy to rule out, but he didn’t have any family with the illness, and as far as he could tell, he didn’t have any symptoms during the daytime. At least, no symptoms that were notable, considering the isolation. He decided he couldn’t dwell on this and if he saw or heard anything really off, he’d follow some advice he’d found and try recording it on his phone.

His phone had acquired a few new apps during the whole investigation. An infrasound detector told him that he was not being affected by infrasound. A sleep monitoring app remained unused.

It remained unused because even if he knew he wasn’t being haunted, because ghosts didn’t exist, it still seemed…foolish, somehow, to pay extra attention to whatever might be happening while he was asleep. He was waking up every morning, after all. But then again, how was he supposed to find answers if there were means of investigation that he was deliberately ignoring?

Return to the first premise: he was simply losing it.

He entertained the possibility that he was losing it and there was something strange in the neighborhood, so to speak, but this only led to more questions about how he was supposed to respond. He certainly wasn’t going to pay for a psychic cleansing over Zoom. Not with what only amounted to weird feelings, anyway.

But probably there was nothing weird going on, not in a supernatural sense, anyway! He was just losing it because the only people he could justify seeing face to face were his coworkers, and screw them, if he couldn’t be around his friends he certainly wasn’t going to voluntarily be around not-friends for eight hours a day; he was losing it because even if he could be around his friends what he wanted was to be held and sure everyone was queer and cool but he’d never been able to ask before all this so why did he think he was going to be able to ask afterwards, when he would doubtless be even weirder than five months (and counting) had made him?

And he was losing it because in order to keep whatever it was, he needed to sleep, and that was so often the most difficult thing about his day, because of the heat!

So he lay awake in his astounding solar oven of a bedroom, staring up at the ceiling with the sheet pulled up to his neck, while his fan failed to act on his sweat and his little animal thoughts chased their tails in his mind.

I need to be cool. I need to be covered. I need to be held. I need to be cool. I need to be covered. I need to be held.

Somehow, he always drifted off eventually.

And one night, he drifted off with the sheets less firmly anchored under the mattress than they usually were. As he floated off into sleep, the higher order of his thoughts that insisted on the necessity of covering quieted well before his body’s insistence on reaching a comfortable temperature. He shifted and turned, gradually freeing himself from the sheet, slipping ever deeper into dreams. With the sheet discarded, his body discovered one more helpful adjustment: with his leg hanging off the mattress, the airflow around it helped his body release heat very well.

***

A pounding heart, a dry mouth, even overwhelmed tears—these are all things that belong to continuous bodies. But the creature could tremble, and it did, even as it reached out, hardly able to believe its good luck, hardly able to believe this incredible blessing that had finally been bestowed on it.

***

It was from an instantly forgotten dream and to the unfamiliar, unexpected, and uncanny sensation of a light, cool grip on his ankle that Zander awoke. Fuck, I knew it! was his first thought, followed by a nervous, panicky negation. This couldn’t be happening. This was the remnant of a dream. In a few seconds he’d realize he’d misinterpreted the sensation.

Moments passed, huge moments where the grip on his ankle didn’t change at all, and Zander soon felt like he’d never been so awake in his life. And then the…hand? It did feel like a hand, with fingers on one side and a thumb on the other—had he missed someone living in his house somehow? The hand began to slowly move up his calf. Carefully. Gently. It was…it was honestly a caress, and Zander had no idea if that made it better or worse, more or less likely to be a hallucination. But the fingers and thumb were long enough that even at the midpoint of his calf, they almost wrapped around his leg entirely, and that meant that this hand was definitely not human.

This was bad, probably, but it was also something that he was sure no one expected him to just put up with and carry on through, and that felt like a relief. His mind cleared. First thing: determine if this was a hallucination. He lifted his phone from the windowsill, thumbed open the camera, and aimed it at his knee, where one…claw? Oh God. One claw was carefully poking at the scar from a childhood bike accident. The screen showed nothing he could see at this angle, as the only light in the room came from the phone itself or the line between the curtains where the streetlights shone faintly in. He tapped the screen.

The auto-flash worked just as it was supposed to. It also completely disoriented Zander, but not before he caught a glimpse of a gaunt humanoid figure with a mouth far too large and full of fangs crouched by the side of his bed. One or both of them gave a horrible yelp, and Zander was mentally confronting the possibility of being eviscerated when he realized the creature’s hand was still wrapped around his knee, unmoving.

***

Awful, awful, the sudden light! Zander must have seen it, but it was an accident, it was not breaking its rules. There was no light-pain anymore, in fact the light-pain had probably been a good thing, as healing used up much of the energy it was getting from Zander’s fear right now. And so it did not let go. This might be its only chance to touch Zander, and it was not yet satisfied, only ever more curious from its touches so far. His leg was so much softer than the bottom of his foot, and covered with hair, too. It was fascinating, and it suspected that this was far from the only fascinating thing about Zander’s body.

But it was so unlikely now that Zander would indulge it by leaving the bed. Or! If he did leave the bed he would leave forever, and there’d be no point in having a form ever again because there wouldn’t be Zander to watch and listen to and touch.

Unconsciously, the creature gripped Zander’s knee more tightly. Was there anything it could do? Was tonight to be the culmination of all its hopes, and the threshold of an existence of nothing but void? Had it been worth it to face the sun, when it would all end like this?

But! Oh! This was the power of memory. It had faced the sun. The things it felt were different. It was different. It could do things that were unaccounted for in the rules of its existence.

***

The image on the phone screen showed a dark gray entity with a huge mouth full of fangs, a collection of slits for a nose, two very large round eyes, and pointed, animal-like ears on the sides of its head that were probably bigger than Zander’s hand. It had a long skinny neck and long skinny arms connected to a torso that was, probably, also long and skinny. It didn’t have any hair. It looked very solid, blocking the view of his desk in the picture like any real thing in that location would. It also kind of looked…surprised?

You and me both! Zander thought. He found he had no idea what to do now that he had evidence that there was really something in his room. Something that was still holding onto his leg. Something that was, in fact, an actual fucking monster!

No, no, no, part of his brain chanted, a desperate negation, a call for the world to be as it had been. It’s not a monster, there’s no such thing as monsters, people see things and misidentify them all the time, it’s usually something like a starving bear with mange, that’s what this must be, a starving bear with mange, something that at least EXISTS—

Zander stifled a wild laugh. This wasn’t a bear of any kind, for one thing, and for another, how would it possibly be better if a starving bear with mange was in his apartment and holding onto his leg? That would be an almost certainly fatal situation. A monster, though? Well, who the hell knew?

“Zander. Please don’t leave.”

He dropped his phone. That had to be—that had to be the monster talking to him. And it knew his name, knew how to speak English, and knew how to be polite. And it was asking him to stay? Okay. Okay. Sure. This gave him something to work with.

“Why do you want me to stay?” he croaked out. “Are you going to kill me?”

“NO! No, no, no! I only want to touch you! I’ve waited for so long, and this was my first chance!”

“Wh—what do you mean, so long? How long?”

A short pause. “Since you became my otherbeing. My…human. Since you first dreamed in my territory.”

Zander’s mind raced. Did it mean since he’d moved into the apartment? That was almost four years ago! “Why…was this your first chance?”

“Because of the rules,” the monster said. “You have to be asleep. You have to be uncovered. You have to be off the mattress.”

Just as he’d always suspected. The part of his mind that had suggested the mangy starving bear tried to tell him this situation was weird and incomprehensible and was sending him slipping and spinning into totally unknown territory. But the thing was, if he accepted the scenario totally and completely as something that was happening, it was easy to understand. “Do you live under my bed?”

“Yes, or at least I did. As I got more and more curious about you I moved around more. I learned many things. And now that you’re around more, I have more energy to keep my form. I can remember more things.”

“You don’t always have a body? Where does your energy come from?”

“My energy comes from your nightmares and your waking fears, though there is a danger of waking fear being overwhelming. I am not sure how I withstood your reaction to seeing me. There is a correct level of energy for taking a form at night. It takes much more energy to maintain a form against light. It is…by instinct it is impossible to keep a form in sunlight. It is very painful. But I did it once.”

Zander stared up at the ceiling, which he could now make out the edges of thanks to the faint light from the streetlamps. He might be feeling like he was starting to understand this situation, but looking at the monster again—yeah, that would really loosen his grip on things. “So you…feed off my fear, but only a little at a time. You can only exist in the dark. You live under my bed. You can’t touch any part of my body that’s on the mattress and covered. You honestly sound like a childhood boogeyman, except that I’m not a child.”

“It is hard to remember, but I believe I came to exist because of a child. When a child dreamed in this room. I think there may have been other children, also. Others of my kind. But formlessness erases memory, and I was formless for what I think was many years. But then you came. And now I’m no child’s boogeyman. I’m your boogeyman. Only, only yours.”

Zander took a slow breath. Two things were occurring to him.

One: this boogeyman had kind of a nice voice, low and a little scratchy. It sounded like it had a bit of an accent, too, but that was no doubt because of the fangs and maybe—maybe never speaking to anyone else before? That seemed unbearably sad, but maybe it was normal for its…species? Kind?

Two: Maybe he didn’t have as good a grip on this situation as he had hoped.

“Do you have a name?” Zander asked. “And, um, I’m a he, other humans are she, or they, or…well, there are a lot of options. What about you?”

“No name,” the boogeyman answered immediately. “And I…I am an it.” It sounded puzzled with this last statement. And why not? thought Zander. Surely if I admitted to secretly living in someone’s house for four years, I wouldn’t expect them to ask my pronouns! There’d be other, more relevant, questions!

“Do you want a name?” This wasn’t one of those more relevant questions. But it was the only one that came to mind at the moment.

“Zander…you would give me a name?” The pure wonder in its voice. Had anyone ever said Zander’s name like that?

“Only if you want a name.” What was he doing? Why was he doing it?

“Yes!” It sounded a little different, now. As if it was shaking? “Zander, name me!”

“I—” He finally let out a little laughter. “I want to give you a good name, but I can’t hardly think now. Could I just—could I just nickname you ‘Boo’ right now, and come up with something better, later?”

“Boo,” the boogeyman said. “I am Boo!” It really sounded delighted, and Zander wondered if anything would have bothered it. Maybe not, as long as he had good intentions.

When the boogeyman—Boo—spoke again, it was quieter, more subdued. “I do not think that having a name is a usual part of being what I am. What you call a boogeyman.”

“Is that…a problem?”

“I don’t know. I like it, though. Anyway, it is not the first strange thing I have done since becoming your boogeyman.”

The mangy bear part of Zander’s mind posited that everything the monster had ever done was strange, because it was too strange to exist in the first place. Zander told that part of himself to pipe down. It was past time to accept that Boo was real, and as a being of a certain type, some things would be strange for it and others would be normal. Boo had even mentioned one, earlier. “Yeah. You said you braved the sun, once. Why did you do that?”

The hand around Zander’s knee twitched nervously. Oh. Yeah. Best not to forget about that. The claws, very close. (And also, Boo’s one stated desire so far: to touch him.)

“I was…curious,” Boo said. “No. That is not the right word. I wanted to know more of you than I already did. It shouldn’t matter to a boogeyman, but I liked watching you, whether you were uneasy or not. I liked knowing how you looked in different amounts of moonlight, in different colors of lamplight. You’re my favorite thing to look at. But I can only do that at night, when we both have forms. Last winter when I noticed that the nights were getting shorter I felt like you were being taken away. I wanted every sight of you I could hang onto. I hadn’t ever seen you in sunlight. An ordinary boogeyman wouldn’t have thought of it. But I did. I wanted to see your face in another kind of light, and sunlight was the only kind of light left. And I managed to endure it, and now I know what your face looks like in the sunlight.”

“Was it…was it worth it?”

“Yes.”

Zander’s first impulse was to push the story away, to tell Boo that maybe it needed to see more faces if it thought Zander’s was worth pain, but he held his tongue. Because there was something about what Boo had done that seemed understandable, familiar. To see someone and then begin to desire and to act in previously unthinkable ways—to irrevocably abandon normal—to risk pain for the sake of joy that it seemed so few others would understand—oh, he’d done it. If Boo’s experience was at all related…he didn’t want to make it seem small.

“You’re being strange for a boogeyman right now, too, aren’t you?”

“I was never supposed to talk to you,” Boo said. “I didn’t understand human language so much before I started paying attention to you. I couldn’t speak it. In the form I have by instinct, my fangs are too big to make all the sounds correctly.”

Are you FUCKING kidding me those are your SMALL fangs? Zander’s fear returned in a rush, and he heard Boo shift by the side of his bed. He forced himself to take deep breaths and did his best to push his fear to curiosity. What did it feel like to Boo, to be feared all of a sudden like that? Would it be like sipping water through a straw and then having someone pry your jaw open to dump a gallon down your throat? But maybe there was no metaphor, because the physical was always a limit for a human, and that didn’t seem to be the case for Boo. Unless Zander was totally wrong and it did need large fangs to chew up nightmares.

“You okay, Boo? Guess I wasn’t as calm as I thought.”

“I am okay. I will have to expend this energy soon, but that will not be dangerous to you. If I don’t find a way to use it myself, the excess will manifest as darkness. The lights in your apartment might not work for a few hours. It is enough energy to seek a new territory if a human leaves the original territory after seeing one of my kind. I did not understand this before, because leaving my territory had never occurred to me before you saw me. Another instinct. But you should also know that my fangs are only for the frightening appearance. No bites or mouth-touches are allowed. I have no digestive system. Any bites would be pointless.”

“Mouth-touches,” Zander repeated. It was an odd phrase for someone who otherwise used English so well. It sounded like a little word-veil, drawn between them so that they could both ignore what mouth-touches not part of eating would be. Or maybe that was a completely bonkers interpretation. Boo wasn’t human. Who could say how it would use language?

The obvious thing to do was ask for clarification. Zander closed his eyes for a few moments. He was going to have to come at this from an angle, and he wasn’t sure he was up to it. If he was wrong, he would create an awkward roommate situation that couldn’t be equaled, and if he was right…well, what did he plan to do?

“Anyway…you’re not supposed to be talking to me, but you can. I get that, it’s a new thing. Your instincts don’t have anything to tell you about it. But what about the way you’re still touching me? Is that also strange or…what am I not getting?” He felt a faint twitch from Boo’s hand once he fell silent.

“I can touch you because touch could make you more afraid,” Boo said. It sounded like it was trying to pick its words very carefully. “But…yes. This is also strange. And I am surprised that no instincts have made me let go. I think…it is better for a boogeyman if its human is not sure if it is really there. So touch should be fleeting. It is not…a need. But maybe that doesn’t matter. You must be very certain I’m here.”

“Yes,” Zander said. Oh, he had to be careful, now, very careful. Just because Boo would undergo the worst of boogeyman agonies just to see his face in the sunlight didn’t make his half-formed idea good. But then again, even if what he was thinking was a bad idea, at least it was fully his own bad idea. And he’d been buffeted around enough by other people’s bad ideas lately. So…let it all come together. Survival and need and want and…touch. “But maybe…maybe your instincts don’t have anything to say to you now because you don’t have any needs right now—is that true? I mean…from what you’ve told me. You have my fear, and that gives you energy to hold your form and do whatever else, and you’ve got the dark.”

“That is all a boogeyman needs.” Boo sounded troubled. “Zander…it does not feel like these are my only needs. Not when you are here.”

Zander swallowed. “Well, it sounds like you have some really strong wants, then. I think that’s…that’s part of being alive. Wanting more than the bare minimum of what’s needed to survive. I mean, that’s one of the first things you said to me.”

“That I wanted to touch you. Yes.”

Boo drew out this last word into a hiss, and shiver ran down Zander’s spine. Sure it was fear, Boo was a creature formed to scare—but that wasn’t all of it.

“I still want to touch you,” Boo said. “Much more than I already have. Now that I know that I can while you are awake, while I am talking to you—I do not know if any other boogeyman has wanted a want like this. And I don’t care, because you are my otherbeing, my human, my Zander. Everything I have of you only makes me want more, and it doesn’t make any sense, and I don’t care, because even getting a little bit of what I want is wonderful. If you were all the way out of your bed, all the way uncovered, I—I don’t know if that would satisfy me. I don’t think it matters, I want that anyway.”

Zander’s heart beat faster—how could it not, when being talked to like this, even when he’d seen the terrifying form the pleasant voice belonged to? It was clear that Boo had no concerns about approaching this subject delicately. He took a deep breath, trying to clear the feeling of lightheadedness that had come upon him. It didn’t really help. This was weird! Very weird! But it really boiled down to this: Boo wanted to touch him. He wanted to be touched.

And he was starting to get curious, now, to see if Boo would like to be touched, and how.

“Boo, I think I want to have you touch me, too.”

“Zander! I…” In contrast to the declaration of its desire, Boo now sounded shy, even a little confused. “I want to make sure I touch you in a way that won’t make you leave. I don’t want to have to be anyone else’s boogeyman.”

“Yeah, we can talk about that, we can figure it out,” Zander said. “We’ve got all night, don’t we?”

“Yes!” Boo said, and again the word turned into a hiss.

This time Zander was able to find it more fascinating than frightening, though now he guessed that being frightening was the whole point. Whenever Boo didn’t think about what it was doing, it would probably end up doing something scary. It was probably the best way for a boogeyman to survive as a boogeyman, even if it was doing something unusual like talking—err on the side of scary. Zander smiled a little, just at the idea that something as strange and incredible as Boo should exist in the first place.

“What are you feeling?” Boo asked. “It’s because of me, but it’s not fear.”

“W—wonder, I think,” Zander stammered. So Boo could feel any emotion it caused, not just fear? That was bound to get interesting.

“Wonder. It feels good.”

Very interesting.

“Boo, before you get to touch—two things: Would it be safe for you if I opened the curtains a little more? To let in the streetlights? It’ll help me be less afraid if I can see what you’re doing, at least a little.”

“The streetlights won’t trouble me—but I don’t understand. It has become less frightening to see me?”

“Well, surprise adds a lot to fear,” Zander said. “If I can see your movements, I won’t be surprised when I feel your hands.”

“I see,” Boo said.

“And the other thing is—you did give me a good scare earlier. I have to go to the bathroom before we do anything else.”

“All right.” Boo made no move to let go of his leg.

“That means you have to let go of me for a couple minutes.”

“Oh. But I could come with. I’ve been in your bathroom lots of times. I like being behind the shower curtain.”

The thought so sometimes there actually WAS something there clashed with has Boo watched me pee?! and Zander pushed them both aside. It was time to focus on the now, and he didn’t want to fall down a rabbit hole of wondering what Boo might have seen him doing. Though, to be very, very honest, there was a sort of dirty little frisson to think that Boo could have seen him taking himself in hand—he really had lost it, hadn’t he?

“But you’re not coming with me now,” Zander said. “Hey. You know that bathroom doesn’t have any windows. I’m not going to run away.”

There was a pause, and then Boo gave a sigh. The hand at his knee slid back down his calf, over his ankle and foot, and then was gone.

“Please don’t grab my ankles when I step on the floor,” Zander said. “I’m guessing that might be—it might be another instinct.”

When Zander had taken a few steps away from his bed, Boo spoke again. “You were right. It was.”

Zander grinned, even as his ankles tingled with the apprehension of touch, and continued into the bathroom.

When he returned to his bedroom, he found that Boo had already opened the curtains. Zander had left the light off in the bathroom (after all, he knew the boogeyman wasn’t in there at the moment) to keep his night vision. Now, the orange glow from the streetlights outside was more than enough to reveal everything in his room. Including Boo.

At first, he couldn’t take another step forward. The sight of Boo pressed buttons older than wonder or sympathy or even curiosity, and he had to close his eyes before he could even pull himself together enough to speak. “Boo, can you say something? I’d gotten used to your voice, but, uh, seeing you was still a surprise.”

“I did use my time alone to use some of my extra energy to change my form,” Boo said. “I wanted…I wanted to try out hair.”

Zander sensed that this was not the whole truth, but he wasn’t going to get into that now. He took a deep breath. That was Boo’s voice. He’d talked to Boo. He’d—well, he’d really liked hearing that confession of desire from Boo. And yes. Boo was a monster. And when he opened his eyes, he was going to see Boo, and step closer to Boo, and check out Boo’s brand new form with hair. The seconds of preparation helped, and when Zander opened his eyes, fear gave one last jolt before swiftly receding in favor of wonder.

He walked forward slowly—his legs still felt a little weak from the first shock—never taking his eyes off Boo. To look at Boo properly barely seemed possible—to look away and back again? Absolutely not.

When he got within Boo’s reach, he paused and tried to take in as much detail as the streetlights allowed. Boo was the same color as before, that dark gray. Its skin was more matte than a human’s. The body that skin covered was very, very tall. At least seven feet, maybe a little more, it was hard to tell how close Boo’s head was to the ceiling in the low light. And still—Zander’s stomach lurched like it did when he looked out from the top of a roller coaster—from his earlier brief look, Boo had probably been even taller before. Whatever shapeshifting it had done had included changing its proportions so that it looked a little bit more compact, a little bit more human, now. But really, only a little.

Zander wondered if there was some mass Boo had to take on when it solidified, because in addition to being shorter than the first picture indicated, Boo now had a little more muscle and flesh on its body and limbs. Though it still made you wonder if it was hungry enough to make you its next meal. Too, the slight musculature it now had was…off…in some indefinable way. Zander had never made a study of human anatomy, but what Boo’s said to him was that it wasn’t an elongated human, but something else entirely. And there were other, far more obvious differences. Boo had only four toes on each foot, each of which ended in a sharp black claw. It had no navel, and the area between its legs appeared as smooth as a mannequin. And its hands, the hands Zander had invited it to touch him with…well, they had five fingers each, but he was almost sure each finger had an extra joint compared to a human finger. They definitely all had significant claws. But, perhaps…he wouldn’t know until Boo touched him again, but he thought maybe Boo had done its best to tone down the claws.

After all, Boo had done quite a bit on its fangs.

Boo’s face was what he had seen on his phone, and Boo’s face was where the changes it had made were clearest to Zander. Though its jaw remained somewhat prognathous, its fangs were now small enough that its lips closed over them easily. Its ears, too, were much smaller, even if they were still much larger than a human’s and still pointed. But they didn’t remind Zander so much of a bat anymore. But even with these changes, some things about Boo had stayed the same. Its nose remained as it had been, just a slight protrusion with two large nostril slits framed by two smaller, additional slits. Boo’s eyes were still enormous, and very round. They had no whites, but in the lamplight Zander thought he could see the distinction between iris and pupil. Incredible, that this faint light would cause such a contraction.

And, yes, finally, Boo had hair on the top of its head, now. It was black, several inches long, and quite messy. Of course, it has been formed rather hastily. It made Boo look—well, it was hard to say. Less alien. More uncanny.

Zander knew that most anything with hair or fur liked having it groomed. Would that be a built-in side effect of his boogeyman’s changed form? Who knew? No one, absolutely no one, and that was the most wondrous thing about this moment. They were both so far outside, and so hidden from any norms that either of them knew, that they were both looking at each other completely as themselves.

And this was where, and how, they were going to touch each other. It might be glorious. It might be terrible. It might simply be monstrous. But most of all, it would be theirs, and only theirs.

“Zander,” Boo said, and Zander saw its long, clawed hands flex, “now can I touch you?”

Zander realized that Boo must have been studying him with the same intensity as he had been studying Boo—perhaps even more, considering that Boo could see much better in the very dim light. And still this was its reaction: this desperation, this desire.

Seeing Boo’s whole form had not made Zander any less vulnerable to being desired. And, hey, some part of his mind that couldn’t let a numinous moment stand pointed out, you’ve always liked lanky guys.

He smiled, and Boo’s already-wide eyes went wider. “Boo, I was thinking. Your rules say you only get to touch me when I’m uncovered and hanging off the edge of the bed, but now that I know you’re here—now that we’ve got an understanding—well, is that still the case? What I’m saying, is…can I invite you onto my bed?”

Boo visibly shivered, but not, Zander thought, with revulsion. Anticipation, maybe.

“I have no idea,” Boo said. “I want to find out.”

Zander took a deep breath and another step forward. “Take my hand,” he said. “It might make it easier.”

Boo reached out, and Zander, focusing only on the wonder of it, found it easy to reach back and put his compact, soft hand into Boo’s spindly fingers. Its skin was smooth and dry—no natural oils like human skin, Zander guessed, since it didn’t really have that biology to maintain from day to day—and barely seemed warmer than the ambient temperature of the room. He must feel much different to Boo; would that be good, bad—?

“Your warmth,” Boo breathed. “It’s the first wonderful thing about touching you.”

Ah. Good, then.

“Well. Warmth I can guarantee,” Zander said. “It’s why I had my leg sticking out in the first place.” Keeping hold of Boo’s hand, he eased himself back into bed. “So far so good, huh? Nothing made you let go, even though I’m completely on the mattress.” He smiled up at Boo, and Boo blinked down at him, its lips twitching in a tentative answering smile. Sure, there was something unsettling about it, but also Zander guessed that most expressions might not come naturally to Boo. It probably learned them…from him. Astonishing. “Come on up, however you like, though you might end up getting another shot of fear if you—” He broke off, as Boo immediately took his invitation and climbed onto the bed.

And on top of Zander, which was what he’d expected, because it was the most frightening way to get close. Boo moved in a rather spidery way (of course) and when it stopped moving it had its hands planted on either side of Zander’s head, its knees to either side of Zander’s legs. The light from the streetlights no longer helped so much to see Boo’s face, though he could see a glint of eyes and oh, again, the fangs. Boo was grinning as it was poised above him.

“Comfortable?” Boo asked, and Zander immediately wanted to giggle. He held back, though, because despite all the absurdities in this situation, he didn’t want to risk Boo feeling laughed at in this moment—the first time it’d gotten into bed with someone it really, really wanted to touch.

“Yeah,” Zander answered softly. “You all right with that jolt I gave you just now? I couldn’t help it.”

“Yes.” Boo sounded thoughtful. “I am less worried about having too much energy now that I’m not trying to escape your notice. And you are still wondering at me more than anything else.”

“I suppose I am,” Zander said. He stretched out his arms and legs under Boo. Had he ever even been this vulnerable to another human being? Sure, he still had his boxer shorts on, but that was pretty insignificant compared to the fact that Boo knew him better than literally any other human being. Also, if Boo had been lying about itself and what it wanted—if those fangs and claws were about to be put to their more typical uses—he’d basically served himself up on a silver platter. Though that image did cause some sparks in some crossed wires in his brain.

He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “All right, Boo,” he said. “You can touch me.”

Boo immediately lifted one spindly hand and cupped Zander’s cheek. It was a bizarrely human gesture, but it lasted only for a moment. Boo didn’t have any script to follow; all it knew was that it had been given permission to satisfy its desires, its curiosity. And still, Zander felt as though some kind of tightly wound spring inside him was easing with such a simple touch.

Boo’s fingertips poked gently at the softness of Zander’s cheek, and its claws were noticeable, but not in an uncomfortable way. Boo seemed to have the intent to treat Zander as carefully as it could, as it found his cheekbones and jaw and traced them, as it circled his ear and brushed across his forehead, as it investigated the shape of his nose and eyebrows.

And then Boo held the side of his face again, and slowly dragged its thumb over Zander’s lips.

“Boo?” Zander whispered, when it left its thumb at the corner of his mouth and hung over him, perfectly still, just looking.

“I think I’m changing, somehow,” Boo said. “Like when I become substantial. But I already am. I don’t understand.”

“Does that feel good or bad for you?”

“I think…good. But I’ve never felt anything like it before.” Boo shivered, a familiar motion made unfamiliar by the undercranked-film quality of it. Still a boogeyman. “Zander. I am going to touch you more, now.”

With only that much of a warning, Boo bent down and pressed its face against the side of Zander’s neck. Zander’s heart raced, some part of him still convinced that Boo wanted to rip his throat out, the rest of him clamoring that Boo was kissing him, actually kissing him on the neck. He could feel Boo’s lips moving gently against his skin, and though he could also tell that there were fangs behind them, he didn’t care at all. He hadn’t been kissed at all, anywhere, in so long, and if this wasn’t really kissing, but rather what Boo had distantly called ‘mouth touches’ earlier, well, it was impossible for his skin to tell the difference.

Boo didn’t stay at the side of his neck. It made a line of kisses up to his jaw, over the lower part of his cheek—and there was really no denying now that they were kisses, kisses from a being very new to the practice of kissing, but kisses nonetheless—

And then Boo kissed him on the lips.

Does Boo understand? Does it? Does it? His mind whirled while Boo lingered at his mouth. Maybe? Probably! He answered himself, as reality began to supersede any of his earlier half-formed fantasies. You were the one torrenting classic Disney to combat depression and the creepy feeling in your apartment!

It was really so absurd. And yet he still felt as though his heart was being cracked open like an egg, and instead of yolk and white flowing out there was all his loneliness and his curiosity and his fear and his wonder and his desire. There was so much of all of it, more than he’d ever realized he was holding onto, and it made it impossible to think lightly of kissing Boo.

Oh well.

He kissed Boo back. He kissed Boo back and raised his hands to touch Boo in return. It had said it liked his warmth; let it have the warmth of his hands, then, roving along the smooth, dry skin of its spindly form, back and waist and shoulders.

Boo gasped at Zander’s touch, and let itself sink down onto him, its narrow body pressing full against Zander’s soft and substantial chest and belly. Boo twined its fingers into Zander’s hair, and even that eagerness pierced his heart—his grown-out hair wasn’t neglect and isolation to Boo, it was something new and wonderful to touch. Zander closed his eyes, thrilling at the light touch of claws on his scalp and no longer trying to distance himself from any desire he felt. Boo was doing exactly what it had told him it wanted to do, so why not enjoy it? He hoped, oh he hoped that Boo was taking pleasure in these moments, because he was; he felt like he wasn’t just unwinding thanks to the ability to touch someone, but like he might unravel entirely, lose all the stress and constraint of having a form.

Maybe that wasn’t the best simile, considering Boo’s existence, but was he supposed to come up with a better one while making out with the thing under the bed?

He held Boo ever closer, and with very little conscious thought, slipped his tongue past Boo’s lips. He brushed up against Boo’s fangs, and his body tried to set off every alarm system that it had. However, most of his systems were already highly occupied, and all the signals of his nerves and hormones could only merge. He felt like he was blushing all over, like he’d been given a jolt of electricity just this side of lethal, and, oh yeah, his cock was now straining at the fabric of his boxers. He hadn’t gotten so hard, so fast, in a long while. His state would be immediately obvious to anyone familiar with hard-ons; the question was, did that include Boo?

Boo made a soft sound in its throat and pulled away from Zander just far enough to speak. “I—you—I can feel your desire,” it said.

That sounded way too much like a euphemism in a novel where the author wasn’t allowed to say “cock” and Zander was momentarily baffled as to why Boo was talking like that. But then—Boo lived off his fear. Boo could tell when Zander was wondering at him. So when Boo said it could feel his desire, that’s literally what it meant.

And was that a good thing? Well—

Boo sat up, laughing a little. It ran its long, strange hands boldly over Zander’s chest and belly, and Zander could see the glint of its terrible, sexy fangs in the streetlight as it grinned. “Zander. Zander. Zaaaander. You like it when I touch you and—I don’t know if any boogeyman has ever felt this. And I don’t care. It’s so good. I can’t tell if feeling your body under my hands or feeling your desire is better. What—what am I doing that makes you want me? I—I want to do more of that.”

“Boo—I—it’s easy to want you when you’re touching me like I’m the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen in your life!”

“You are,” Boo said, continuing to caress him with earnest hands. “And your desire…” It took a shaky breath. “I had noticed it, before. It was always faint because it wasn’t directed at me. But I was still curious because it was something of you.” Boo’s touches became lighter, but not teasing. It traced a claw around Zander’s nipple, almost shyly.

Zander shivered, but it felt like he was almost feverish, how hot he was. How much of a strange dream all this seemed. “Boo,” he whispered.

“I never realized what it would be like to have desire directed toward me,” it said. “I only hoped to touch you and try to satisfy my own desire, but now I—I think I might be insatiable.”

Zander reached out and covered one of Boo’s hands with his own. “Hey, Boo. We can figure it out. I mean—you’re doing things with your body, with me, that you’ve never done before. I mean, there’s probably some way you can be satisfied. You just don’t know it yet.”

“Yes.” Again, that alien sibilance, and Zander found that a monster accepting his promise to help satisfy it somehow only made him impossibly harder. And he should probably say something about that, but what? Boo had clearly been in the room, at least, while Zander had taken himself in hand, but how much did it understand about what he had been doing?

“Boo,” he began, “this desire that you’re feeling from me to you, it’s…there’s a physical component—”

“Yes,” Boo interrupted. “I’ve noticed it all. The speeding of your heart, but not in fear. The slight changes in your scent. The hardening of your nipples and your cock.”

To hear Boo say “cock” was nearly as disorienting as when Zander thought he was using a euphemism. But then, what other word would it know for penis? It would have had to learn from the porn Zander watched to associate any word with the actual body part.

“Okay,” Zander said, his feelings about Boo watching him masturbate much more ambiguous now that it had apparently been the case in reality, “then you probably know some, uh, other things.”

“Yes, and I…” Boo hesitated.

“Boo, if you don’t want to do anything with my cock, I, well, it’s not what my body’s hoping for, but I can deal.”

“No, that’s not…” Boo flipped its hand over and squeezed Zander’s, really seeming nervous now. “I’ve touched you, and you’ve touched me back, and it felt—it felt so good. I didn’t know the kinds of things my nerves could tell me. I don’t know to say all this. But I’m not shying away because I don’t want to give you the most pleasure that I can. Now that I know I can.”

“Well, all right, do you just need a little guidance or—”

“Maybe, but first I need to show you—” Boo broke off, and lifted itself up, moving forwards until its knees were on either side of Zander’s waist. Its fingers fluttered and it dropped Zander’s hand. “I changed myself when you were in the bathroom. I said I wanted to try hair, but that’s not all I did.”

Zander’s eyes widened. He didn’t want to look too surprised, considering how shy Boo seemed now, but if this was going in the direction he guessed it was, it seemed almost impossible not to be surprised.

Boo picked up Zander’s hand again. It guided him to the place between Boo’s legs. “I don’t know if I did it right. But I made this change before I knew how much you wanted me, because I knew how much I wanted you.”

Zander looked up at Boo, trying to get a glimpse of its face as he left his fingers gently resting against where they had been placed. But then again, what could Boo’s expression tell him that Boo’s actions didn’t? Boo had made an orifice, apparently on the wild wish of an off-chance (or so it had thought) that “touching Zander” would lead into “getting fucked by Zander.” He allowed himself a moment to ask himself if this was too weird but shoved the question away before answering himself. It was the wrong question. Tonight was about Boo and him, and if it was weird it didn’t matter. There were better questions. “Boo, do you want me to be inside you?”

“Yes,” Boo said, quietly, and with no hesitation.

Zander traced his fingers around the edge of the opening Boo had led him to, and he heard Boo pant above him. I wonder if I can make your nerves tell you some really incomprehensible things, he thought, as he continued to carefully stroke Boo. “Any particular word you’d like for this new part of you?” The question wasn’t just a courtesy. Zander wasn’t hugely experienced, but he had enough practical knowledge to know that what he was feeling wasn’t really like any human orifice.

“Oh,” Boo said, again sounding embarrassed even as it breathed heavily and tilted its hips towards Zander’s hand, “I—I don’t really know—it’s just a hole. Is that all right?”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Zander said. With his free hand he stroked Boo’s side and bony hip, doing his best to clear his mind of any negative reaction. Boo had claimed “it”; Boo had a hole. That was all there was to it. Nit-picking the language used by a wondrous, unknown creature was no way to proceed.

Especially not when that wondrous, unknown creature was relaxing and opening thanks to his fingers. “I’m going to put a finger inside you,” Zander said, and Boo made a soft sound in its throat, followed by another as Zander did exactly as he said. Inside, Boo was slick, wet—biological details that it had to have chosen. Zander didn’t know exactly how Boo formed their body, but this didn’t seem like something it had come up with on the spur of the moment. “I think you did really well, remaking yourself this way,” Zander said. It felt like another of his fingers could slip in easily, so he tried, and was right. Boo pressed its hips towards his hand, and when Zander started to gently thrust with his fingers, Boo soon started moving in counterpoint with him, seeking deeper stokes, seeking to be filled. Its smooth inner muscles wrapped around his fingers with a tight strength that made his cock throb and ache in anticipation.

But he’d be careful, no matter how much his body was screaming for Boo. He was giving it its first time, after all, and, well, he wanted to prove himself worthy of its obsession with him.

“Boo, tonight wasn’t the first time you thought about making yourself a hole, was it?” he asked softly.  

“I thought about it but I—I couldn’t think about thinking about it,” Boo said. “A boogeyman doesn’t—but I tried to figure out how to construct myself for pleasure—the plan was ready in my mind when you said I could touch.”

“It feels like it was worth the effort,” Zander said. “You feel good to me, Boo. How wet you are, how tightly you hold my fingers—I just want to know if you feel good in yourself, like this?”

Boo took a shuddery breath. “I feel—wonderful,” it said. “I don’t have any way to compare this with my existence as an ordinary boogeyman. And still—the bodies I make have a lot to do with yours. The nerves I make are based on yours—you’re the only living thing in my space. So—is your whole body this attuned to pleasure, too?”

“You know, I think I read that humans do have some nerves that are just meant to feel good when we’re caressed,” Zander said. “Like this.” He ran his hand down Boo’s side, over its hip, down its thigh. Amazing that Boo could instinctively create all the complexity of a living body, that it could guide those instincts when it wanted to—when it developed new and strange desires. And was Boo still changing? During those first touches, Boo had hardly seemed to give off any heat, but now, now it felt distinctly warm, more alive, more fleshly, than ever.

“Then why—why are you not always touching?” Boo asked. Its hand slid up his arm and tangled in his hair.

Unexpected tears burned in the corner of Zander’s eyes. “We—we want to be. I think we really want to be. But sometimes we can’t.”

Boo bent its face close to his, as terrifying and wonderful as ever. “I don’t understand,” it said. “But I am here to touch you now, and you are here to touch me, now. We can have this pleasure of touch and touch-back.”

“Yes,” Zander said. “You’re right, you’re right.” He smiled a little; started moving his fingers in Boo again. Boo arched its back, raising its long body.

“This feels—I don’t understand, but I want more,” Boo said. “I—I showed you my hole with your hand to—to show you it was there. But I want to feel your cock inside me.”

That disorienting shift—from the alien first-timer to the pornographically familiar. Zander wasn’t sure he was getting used to it, but he was certainly ready to roll with it. “Yes—I—I think we’ll both like that.” Boo smiled and reached down between them, and with claws that Zander now realized must be much sharper than he had been thinking, deftly reduced his shorts to rags and tossed them away. It should have been terrifying, but Boo hadn’t dealt him even the slightest scratch. There was only delight in this destruction, and as Zander’s cock stood free, it was practically dripping, just like Boo’s hole.

Despite both their states, Zander reached over to the bedside table and took a small bottle of lube out of the drawer. It would never be a bad thing to have, especially in this uncharted territory. He slicked himself up more carefully than usual, trying to ignore any sensation for the moment. “All right, Boo,” he said, about to guide them back that crucial small distance, when a thought occurred to him. “Do you like the position we’re in now? You on top, and me underneath?”

“Does it make a difference?” Boo asked. “I’m ready. I want to be filled.”

So matter-of-fact when it said these things! It wasn’t trying to seduce him, and yet he was as seduced as he’d ever been!

“With you on top you have more control over how deep you take me. The—the pace, also. But if you were underneath me—how do I even put this? You wouldn’t have to constantly be deciding how to fuck? You could just let yourself feel, if you wanted to do that?”

“Oh,” Boo said slowly. “I think I like the sound of that.” It grinned. “I’ve spent a lot of time under you with the bed in the way. I’d love to find out what it’s like with nothing in between us.”

Amazing, Zander thought. Amazing. Humor, or a very near relative of it. Just another thing that a boogeyman wouldn’t strictly need to survive, but that this wondrous being was able to use.

With Boo on the bed, and only the streetlamp providing light, it was harder for Zander to see it than ever. But there were glimmers enough, of eyes, of teeth. There was suggestion enough, in the subtle variation of shadows. Boo’s new, messy hair spread out on the pillow. The long, narrow shape of its body, with all its suggestions of curiously attached muscles. And now, rising into the clarity offered by the streetlamp, Boo’s strange hand, with its fearsome claws. It cupped Zander’s cheek and he nuzzled against it.

“Even now that I’ve touched you, I’m still going to love looking at you,” Boo said. “I understand that now. I’d thought it was just something to go before touching. But now I know more about pleasure, and I know that looking is a pleasure, too.”

Zander quashed the impulse to laugh this off, to say something cliché about flattery. He didn’t want to build any barriers between them for Boo’s first time, for Boo’s sake. And for his own sake, he didn’t want to force any distance between himself and someone who so plainly and earnestly desired him.

So he didn’t say anything that went back to himself. “You’re the most astonishing being I’ve ever seen, Boo.” And he leaned down and kissed it. Boo sighed and arched up towards him, a vivid reminder of what they both so wanted. He ran his hand lightly down Boo’s body, traced the path of its hipbones, and again found that soft, wet opening. Boo had said it was just a hole, but it was incredible that it had made one at all—that it had gone so far outside its version of normality as a boogeyman in the hope of making a sexual connection. Zander could only hope that Boo would find it everything it’d hoped for. He eased the head of his cock against Boo’s hole, and, taking a deep breath, slid inside the body of his boogeyman.

Immediately, Boo grabbed his shoulders with its hands, its claws pricking against his skin. The tiny points of pain were immediately subsumed in the heat of desire, however, as Boo lifted its hips urgently against Zander’s.

“Am I really giving you this much pleasure?” Boo asked, sounding dazed.

Zander gave a single, breathy laugh. “Just you wait.” He hoped the connection between them would be strong, that it would help Boo figure out how it could find the satisfaction and relief that Zander knew he was going to find in Boo. He began to thrust shallowly, Boo at once joining him in his rhythm.

“Yes,” Boo said, a sigh and a hiss at once. “Yes.” Its hands crept over him in ever-greedy caresses, boldly grasping handfuls of his flesh with alien, yet ardent, delight and desire. Its wet heat held him close, inner muscles tightening around his cock every time he withdrew. It drove all thoughts of biological artistry from Zander’s mind, leaving room only for the thrill of this deepest, closest touch.

“Tell me—tell me what you want,” Zander said. “Want to make you feel—as good as I do.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know—” Boo wrapped its long legs around Zander and pulled him closer. “Just—more, more. Harder, faster!”

Boo’s groan of pleasure when Zander obeyed was nearly his undoing. He had no clear idea at all how he managed to hold back, save that he suddenly craved to know what other sounds he could coax from Boo. Every little moan, every little gasp seemed to speak volumes, but volumes that would contain only the simplest statements, over and over again. I want you. I need you. You feel good on me, you feel good in me. But what more needed to be said in the bizarre little paradise his apartment had become? It could never be shared, never be explained, but that didn’t matter. It only mattered that he was real, and Boo was real, and no matter how astonishing their first meeting, they were both finally getting the touch they had been so desperate for.

Zander bent to kiss Boo’s fanged mouth, their disparate bodies pressing together as if there was no reason for them ever to have been apart.

“Zander,” Boo said softly, breaking the kiss for a moment, and Zander smiled down at it and impulsively nuzzled his cheek against its. Then, “Zander!” Boo cried out, baffled and worshipful, arching up against him and clenching around him tighter than ever before.

The thought “did I just make my boogeyman come?” just barely had time to form in Zander’s mind before his thrusts lost their steadiness and his own orgasm washed over him in a bright wave of pleasure.

“Zander,” Boo murmured, once they had both collected themselves a little and were lying side by side, “I want to sleep here. In your bed. With you.”

“No going back, huh? I’m happy with that.” He lightly ran his hand down Boo’s arm. “But what if you sleep too deeply? I can close my blackout curtains, of course, but they haven’t worked great here and the sun might still get through. I don’t want you to get injured after all the—all the good things of tonight.”

“I’m not worried. I…even if I’ve changed, I’m still a boogeyman. I’ll wake when the light is too much. And I feel like…I have reserves of energy. Even more than I did at the start of the night.”

“Well, all right,” Zander said. “I’m going to guess that you won’t mind cuddling?”

Boo flashed a grin. “Oh no, never.”

*

When Zander woke he wasn’t disoriented that Boo was in his bed; he knew very well he hadn’t been dreaming last night. But he was surprised that he was able to see Boo so clearly. The sun wasn’t fully up yet, but it was undeniably dawn. And Boo was still sleeping peacefully, an absurdly elongated little spoon. Zander did want to spend some time looking at Boo, at the form it had made of both instinct and desire, but its description of the terrible effects of the sun made him reach out and shake its shoulder instead.

Boo blinked sleepily, as if it had a lot of experience with sleeping and not just phasing out of existence during the day. “The daylight, Boo! The daylight!”

It yawned, revealing every single one of its astonishing fangs. “Can’t be daylight,” it said. “You have more uncomfortable lamps.”

“Boo, really!” Zander started trying to move Boo’s miles of limbs around so he could get out of bed and get to the blackout curtains. Why hadn’t he just taken the time to close them last night? It wouldn’t have hurt, it might have helped, and now Boo was way too close to being burned by the sun for the second time because of him! And apparently it was too disoriented? Unused to waking up? To stop hindering Zander from trying to keep it safe—wow, how weird, to go from terrified to protective of one’s boogeyman within a few hours—wait. Did the boogeyman thing explain the situation he was having right now? He was afraid for Boo, Boo naturally did things that were scary, and so Boo’s arms and legs were trapping him in his bed. It was the same thing as not being able to run in a nightmare.

Zander flopped back down and tried to calm himself. Boo was a grown boogeyman, much older than Zander if he’d correctly deciphered its comments on when it had come to exist. If it was going to take these risks, let it! It had come back from the other sunburn just fine!

Zander had maybe three seconds of calm before Boo sat upright quickly enough to make the bed springs squeak. “This IS sunlight!”

“Yeah, and don’t you need to hide from it?”

“I…I hide from light because it hurts me. Or it hurt me.” Boo slowly turned one of its hands back and forth in the dawn light. “But I barely feel anything now. It’s just a tingle. I think the light still might be dissolving me, but somehow it’s so much easier to heal, now. More sunlight would probably still be too much. But I don’t feel any need to dissolve for the length of the day.” It frowned. “I have changed.”

“Boo.” Zander sat up. “How?”

“I couldn’t have guessed…” Boo spoke softly. “But then again, maybe I am the same. Maybe this is part of being a boogeyman, but a boogeyman that followed its instincts, a boogeyman without a Zander, would have only ever tasted fear.” It fixed its gaze back on Zander. “You wondered at me. You were curious about me. You felt desire for me. And now, this morning, you were afraid for me. All of these emotions…I think they are more powerful than your everyday fear. At least for me. At least when they come from you.” It paused, and when it spoke again a note of trepidation had crept into its voice. “Do you think you could continue to wonder at me? I…want to have continuity. In your space. With you. If I don’t have to worry about the sunlight so much, and staying out of sight…there are so many ways I could do more than just exist.”

“Boo.” Zander took its hand. “I think I’ll be wondering at you for a long, long time.” He paused. “Do you still need fear, specifically, now?”

Boo shrugged. “Nightmares are always enough for a boogeyman. I just…ended up different.”

“I’m glad you did,” Zander said. “I’m glad you ended up different with me.” Boo immediately sprawled around him in a clumsy embrace, and Zander laughed. “But it’s a hell of a time to start being part of the world, you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” Boo said.

Zander sighed, though he smiled, too. “Well. I’ll be here as you figure it out. Now, let’s find a safe place for you to spend the day.” And though he didn’t say anything then, the question still bloomed within him—if wonder can carry you through the dawn, what might love do?

[pocket-luv101]

First Impressions // Chapter 4

Fandom: Servamp Ship: LawLicht (main), KuroMahi (side), Tetsono (side), Jekuni (side) Characters: Hyde, Licht, Kuro, Mahiru

Summary: After Licht meets the wealthy bachelor, Hyde, she was certain that she could never be friends with him. Their paths continues to cross and she slowly comes to know him. Licht wonders if she judged him too quickly. (LawLicht, Pride and Prejudice AU, Fem Licht)

Ch.1 // Ch.2 // Ch.3 // (Ch.4) //

Hyde leaned against the door while he waited for Licht to change out of her wet clothes and into dry ones. He asked the maids to prepare clothes for her to wear while they sent her wet clothes to be washed. After the times he saw Licht protect her sisters, he predicted that she would visit Mahiru after she learned that she was ill. He never expected her to leap over the creek and almost trample him with her horse though.

The door next to him opened and Licht stepped into the hall. The dress she wore belonged to Hyde’s sister who was taller than her. Licht gripped a handful of the skirt and lifted the fabric slightly so she wouldn’t trip as she walked. She addressed the maid before she spoke to Hyde. “Thank you for the clothes and drying my hair, madame.”

“I don’t know many people who would be so polite to the staff.” His comment turned Licht’s attention to him. Her sisters worked closely with their staff and she considered them friends. They would tell her that noble families were often haughty and unappreciative of their work. Licht’s eyes narrowed at the thought that he could be the same. He appeared surprised by her kindness towards the staff.

“I believe a person’s character is shown through their work rather than their rank or wealth. I enjoyed speaking with her. She told me that my sister is resting in the room down the hall.” Licht nodded to the room and then she walked in the direction. Hyde fell into step next to her and he held his arm out to him. She knew that it was customary for a gentleman to offer his arm as he walked with a lady. “There’s no need to be so formal. It shall only take a few minutes to reach the door.”

“I was worried that you’ll trip on that long skirt. You can hold onto me so you won’t fall even if you become tangled in the fabric. I wouldn’t want you to twist your ankle. May I escort you to your sister, Angel Cakes?” He continued to hold out his arm to her. After a moment of hesitation, Licht let one of her hands fall from her dress and she placed it on the crook of his arm. She was able to feel his warmth and his toned muscles through his jacket.

They walked down the hall and Licht glanced to the family portrait at the end of the corridor. Hanafield’s manor was a grand building and the rooms inside were even more so. Licht couldn’t imagine how they were able to collect enough flowers to cover the tall walls. Despite how extravagant the manor was, her gaze would always fall onto Hyde. She had to admit that he was handsome but she didn’t know if his heart would reflect his exterior the way Hanafield did.

They stopped in front of the room they gave Mahiru and he opened the door for Licht. He noticed the way she leaned forward slightly to peer into the room and search for her sister. He thought the subtle gesture was endearing. Before he moved into Hanafield, he learned that his neighbours were a prestigious family. Hyde had assumed they would be cold and formal but he could see that he was wrong. He wanted to learn more about her. He considered asking her about her opinion on the play he gave her but he knew it was better to wait until after she spoke with her sister.

“Mahiru!” Licht almost tripped over her dress as she walked to the bed where she laid. She sat on the edge of the bed and she found that her sister appeared only slightly flushed. It was a relief that her cold wasn’t as dangerous as she feared. “We were worried sick when we learned you caught a cold in the rain. Mikuni and Misono wanted to come to see you but they had to attend to family business. They will come as soon as the work is done.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you or any of my sisters. I thought I would be able to reach the manor before the rain started. As you can see, the weather did not agree.” She told her through several sniffles. Licht took out a handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to her sister. “Thank you, Licht. I’m glad you’re here but there was no need to fret. The Servamps would’ve written that they are caring for me. What would’ve happened if you got sick coming to see me?”

“Your motherly instinct would fight off your cold and you would rush to the kitchen to make me chicken soup.” She joked and Mahiru giggled. Her laughter was quickly overtaken by a cough and she pulled the blanket to her chin. Licht could easily see that she was trying to hide the symptoms of her cold and lessen her concern. “You’ve taken care of us for years but it’s my turn now. I’ll pour you some tea.”

Licht turned to speak with the maid but she saw that Kuro had already made a cup of tea for Mahiru. He placed it on the table next to the bed. “Would you like sugar in your tea?”

“Only a spoon, please. Thinking simply, it wouldn’t be good to have too much sugar while recovering from a cold.” Mahiru smiled up at him. Her face was a little red and she didn’t know if it was caused by the cold or Kuro’s kindness. “Thank you for staying by my bedside and making sketches for me. They have lifted my spirits even with this cold.”

“This man was alone with you while you were weak from a cold?” Licht’s eyes narrowed at Kuro. It was improper for a man and a woman to be alone in a room together. She knew the assumptions society would make if they knew. She hated the thought that people would whisper rumours about her sister. A scandal could quickly grow from the rumours and limit Mahiru’s future choices. She started to rise to her feet but Mahiru placed a hand on her sister’s arm to stop her from turning her anger to Kuro.

“Kuro has done nothing but treat me kindly and be respectful, Licht. Wrath has been with us this entire time as well. There is no need to worry about my reputation.” She nodded towards Wrath who sat next to the window. Licht had been so concerned for her sister that she didn’t notice the others in the room. With a light tug on her sleeve, Mahiru urged her to sit down again. “I know you mean well in your heart but you shouldn’t be so impulsive.”

“Licht is your sister. I understand why she would want to protect you.” He didn’t appear to be offended by Licht’s anger as others would be. Mahiru felt a warmth spread through her heart. She could only be with a man who respected and understood her sisters with their quirks. Kuro placed a sketchbook onto her lap and said, “I should go so you can speak with your sister alone. It has been a pleasure. Wait, I don’t mean to say I’m happy that she got sick.”

“I understand,” Mahiru laughed and her warm voice made him relax. She watched Kuro leave the room and she waited for the door to close before she turned to Licht.

Her sister sat in the chair next to the bed where Kuro had been. Mahiru tilted the sketchbook to Licht so she could see the drawing of a rose. “When I fell ill, Kuro came and asked if I wanted something to pass the time. He didn’t want me to be bored or lonely in this large room by myself. We both enjoy art and we took turns drawing in this sketchbook. He kept me company. He’s a good man.”

“You don’t need to convince me of his noble character. My sisters are fellow angels and their divine judgement is never wrong.” Licht told her confidently. Mahiru had always been able to make friends quickly and she trusted her opinion on people. As long as the Servamps didn’t give her a reason to object, she would support their relationship.

“I feel guilty that I might have caused you worry while I was here in a warm bed. Mikuni is already stressed about the house and Father’s will.” Mahiru let out a heavy breath. “A wealthy marriage would solve our problem because our husband can buy the house or inherit it. I like Kuro but I don’t know what I’ll do if he starts courting me. I don’t want him or anyone to think I’m with him for his wealth. Thinking simply, it’s not fair to either of us if we start a relationship with such doubts.”

“You’re not the type of person who uses others in such a way. I’m certain that Kuro will be able to see that as well. If he doesn’t, he wasn’t worthy of your heart.” Licht reassured her sister. “Maybe we can write a petition to the court and ask them to grant property rights to women. There must be other families with only daughters in a similar situation to ours.”

“The house’s title might fall to Haruto before the law can change.” Mahiru was the most optimistic of the sisters but she couldn’t deny that it was nearly impossible to keep their home. Mahiru laid back against the pillow and she stared at the tall ceiling. The golden leaves painting on the ceiling was beautiful but she closed her eyes to imagine the simple wooden roof she would see when she woke up. Others would call her strange but she preferred her modest home.

She felt the bed shift beneath her and Mahiru opened her eyes to see Licht lay next to her with her face buried in the pillow. At first, she was scared that her sister would catch her cold by lying next to her. Mahiru noticed how stiff her shoulders were and she could tell that there was something in her mind. She patted her hair like a mother would. “We’ll find a way to keep our home. Haruto might be a reasonable and progressive person who we can compromise with.”

“I yelled at Mother before I left the house. She deserved it but I know she’ll be angry at the both of us once we return home.” Licht chose not to tell her the reason she lost her temper at their mother. Anger still lingered in her blood at how their mother had been so cold towards Mahiru’s condition. How could she be more focused on matching Sakura with a Servamp when she learned Mahiru was sick?

“Families fight but we can understand each other after a talk. You won’t have to face Mother alone when you return home because I’ll be there with you. We’re sisters.”

Licht stepped out of the room and she carefully closed the door so the soft click wouldn’t wake her sister. She asked a maid to watch over Mahiru while she slept and to call her if her condition changed. She wanted to stay by her side but she thought she should take the chance to thank the family for caring for her sister. The maid gave her directions to the library where the family would likely be. The manor was large and she could easily imagine becoming lost in the winding halls.

She followed the faint sound of voices in the distance and she recognized Hyde’s laughter. Licht stopped in the doorway and there were a few other guests she didn’t recognize. The family sat with their back to the door so they didn’t notice her. Most of the group were seated around a table playing cards while Hyde was at a writing desk. Occasionally, he would look up from his letter to speak with his guests.

“I hope we are not boring you, Lady Hina. You came to visit in a very short time and we didn’t have the opportunity to prepare anything for your arrival. We’re cousins and we enjoy your visit but letters are a formality to help prepare us.” Hyde folded his letter and handed it to a butler. “You’ve caught us in the middle of work and we already have guests.”

“Do you mean the woman with the dark hair? I saw her briefly in the foyer but she didn’t stop to introduce herself to me when she passed. I would excuse the rudeness as shyness. It must’ve been mortifying for her to be seen in such a state. Her skirt was caked in mud. I overheard from the staff that she rode through the rain. Whether she is mad or stubbornly inclined to show her independence above other women, I cannot say. I can only assume she was a spectacle when you found her.”

“I assure you, Cousin, I thought no such thing. Licht is not the type to shy away from people due to social pressure either.” Hyde corrected his cousin. “She had something more concerning on her mind than polite greetings. Her sister has fallen ill in our care. I understand her motivation but I would not like the thought of my sister riding in this weather.”

“Your sister is from a prestigious family while I hear that the Eves hold a modest income. The Eve sisters can afford to be more reckless when their prospect for a husband is already so little. It must be difficult to find a match in their situation.” The feigned sympathy in Hina’s voice made Licht’s hands tighten at her side. “I stopped at a cute little ribbon shop and the seamstress told me that Kuro danced with an Eve.”

“Kuro never cared for the family title or wealth so he won’t consider those things when he chooses someone to court.” Hyde envied his older brother who had decided to retire to the drawing room rather than gossip with their cousin. He wished he could do the same but it would be impolite to leave now. “I would like to find a wife who is refined, witty, and talented in the dramatic arts.”

“Talented is such a belittling thing to call something.” Licht’s voice turned the room’s attention to her. She didn’t step back from their surprised stares and she stood with her back straight. She entered the room and she met Hyde’s red eyes. “The word implies that someone is born with a gift when most would pour hours of practise into perfecting their craft.”

“How would you show your appreciation for someone’s craft?” Hyde asked her, intrigued. He thought most would be happy to be called talented.

“I cannot know the preference for each artist or performer. I play the piano and I enjoy when a person dances along to Choppin or cry after I’ve played one of Beethoven’s Sonatas. It helps me know that I have moved the audience and properly portrayed the emotions of a song.” Licht stopped in front of Hyde and curtsied slightly. “I came to thank you for housing my sister while she’s sick.”

“It was our invitation that caused her to be soaked by the rain. How is your sister? I would wager she’s better since you’re willing to leave her side.” He moved from his spot on the writing desk to offer his chair to her. Hyde thought the tea would be more fun with Licht present. “We only arrived a few days ago and the staff haven’t moved the furniture in yet. You may sit here.”

“I wouldn’t want to take your seat while you’re working.” Licht nodded towards the letter on his desk. “The doctor says that Mahiru is recovering well and it’s possible she will be fit enough to return home within a few days. My sister fell asleep a few minutes into our talk and I thought it best to let her rest. I only came to thank your family so I should go now.”

“Sitting by yourself will be boring. Would you like a book to read and pass the time.” Hyde walked to the bookcase and took down a few novels. “I’m an avid reader myself. Did you enjoy the Shakespeare play I suggested last night? I could give you something similar.”

“I read the play with my sister and it was fun. I do enjoy gothic novels though.”

Hyde smiled at her words. “As do I. Though, Shakespeare is my preference.”

[hopetwink]

maybe. just maybe. angsty anti love potion with kamukoma?

ask and ye shall receive 

Title: Aftertaste

Pairing: Izuru Kamukura x Nagito Komaeda

Genre: Angst; (Emotional) Hurt No Comfort (Unrequited Love/Pining)

Category: Oneshot

Background/Briefly Mentioned Characters: Junko Enoshima, Seiko Kimura, Kazuichi Souda

Content Warning(s): Implied (one-time) drug abuse, unhealthy idolization, use of a substance that results in emotional numbing

(ao3 link)

Komaeda turned the bottle over in his hand for the eleventh time that morning. He’d nicked it from Kimura’s lab once Souda had finished ripping the place apart in a frenzied search for spare parts. Something about building “the biggest, most awesomest beacon of despair known to mankind” which sounded an awful lot like another attempt to win Enoshima’s affection, or more accurately, a catastrophe waiting to happen.

In his humble (though honestly quite worthless) opinion, affection was overrated. Love that couldn’t sustain itself without reciprocation was just one’s selfish desires masquerading as romantic feelings, and no different than senselessly believing in a false hope. Souda’s feelings for Enoshima were tainted by despair; he could never expect to win her rotten heart through underhanded tactics such as flattery. 

However, on the subject of true love, Komaeda, Souda, and most of the other Remnants seemed to agree on one key philosophy: usefulness was the variable that determined whether or not one was worthy to be loved in return. 

Once someone stops being useful, they no longer deserve love. 

Repeating the mantra several times over in his head, he ignored the icy fist that had an iron grip around his heart. If only Komaeda was simply unworthy of love, he might not consider such a reckless course of action. But two days ago, he had proven to Kamukura that he was the lowest of the low, tactless scum so wretched and disgustingly filthy that he no longer deemed himself worthy of his own humanity. He no longer deserved to love Kamukura--no, perhaps he’d lost that privilege long ago, the moment he’d presumptuously offered his unsolicited services in return for permission to bask in the Ultimate Hope’s glory. As if he had any right to ask for something like that in the first place.

Pathetic. 

Komaeda’s fingernails scraped along the outside of the bottle as he unconsciously tightened his grasp, screeching unpleasantly against the glass. Despite his obvious shortcomings, he really was grateful for this stroke of luck--to think that the accomplished Ultimate Chemist had found a way to decrease the production of both oxytocin and cortisol in the brain at once without rendering the subject obsolete, a truly groundbreaking feat! If she were still alive today, he would be completely indebted to her. His predicament would only be temporary, and he owed it all to Kimura. Maybe there was even a chance he could still be useful to Kamukura in some way. All he had to do was drain every last drop and dispose of the evidence. 

But for some reason, Komaeda couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

He fidgeted with the cap, nonchalantly smoothing his thumb over its grooves and edges. While his feelings inconvenienced Kamukura greatly, he couldn’t help but fret over whether or not a version of himself incapable of love would show him the appropriate amount of respect. Of course pure, unbridled love should never be a precursor to respect, but the thought of being unable to understand why it would be inappropriate to complain about the conditions of his servitude mortified him, and as far as he knew, he’d still be capable of feeling shame. 

Komaeda wondered what Kamukura would do if he was here, watching him mull over the possible outcomes for each choice at the pace of a snail. He’d most likely be indifferent; perhaps feel some semblance of relief that Komaeda, who was no doubt a constant thorn in his side, would no longer cling to him like a shadow during his every waking moment. (Assuming Kamukura’s chemically altered brain allowed him to.) Or maybe even somewhat curious about what might happen to his deteriorating body and mind. Perhaps he’d object, claiming the hassle of dealing with any potential side effects outweighed the benefits. But otherwise, Komaeda could think of nothing that would cause the Ultimate Hope to actively dissuade him. 

As he closed his eyes, the image of dark, cold pity was seared into his memory. It burned sharp and white hot behind his eyelids, every line and muscle of Kamukura’s face etched into the skin there with jagged lightning. While he felt unsure of how best to proceed, one thing was certain: he never wanted to provoke that expression from his master again. It had hurt more than when he severed his own hand, fractured him into tiny little pieces that were crushed into dust under the heel of those shiny black shoes. No matter the personal cost, he couldn’t allow that to happen again.

Before Komaeda could consciously choose to drink it, his body decided for him. In one swift movement, he pulled off the cap, tilted his head back, and held the bottleneck between his lips until no sticky green residue remained. The bitter taste it left behind made him grimace, and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t stop himself from gagging and subsequently wiping his mouth with a sleeve. The experience was more unpleasant than he’d expected, and he caught himself before he could regret his actions.

But none of that really mattered now, as long as he could still be useful to Kamukura.

Tossing the empty bottle into a nearby pile of rubble, Komaeda went about his day and waited for the medicine to take effect. After washing their dirty clothes in the abandoned laundromat and hanging them out to dry, he wasn’t tired. If anything, it felt as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. 

Slowly, Komaeda forgot what it felt like to love. After five minutes, he didn’t remember what he’d been so worried about in the first place, and after ten, the memory of earning Kamukura’s disdain faded from importance. Once half an hour had passed, Komaeda found the entire ordeal foolish--Kamukura was undoubtedly a great man, but surely one little mistake was nothing to worry about. 

An hour passed, and Komaeda gradually lost the ability to care what Kamukura thought of him. In the back of his mind, an inkling of a thought tickled his brain, telling him he shouldn’t think of the Ultimate Hope as just another man, but he brushed it off. By the time his master came home, reeking of sweat and blood with his long black hair tangled ferociously, Komaeda almost recoiled at his presence. What had he found so attractive about this walking mess in the first place? His own past self’s desires were beyond his comprehension. 

The poker face must have slipped, because Kamukura immediately seized on the tension in the air. He crossed the room with a few long strides, tilting his head to the side. Komaeda could practically see the gears in his head turning, but for some reason, not even the wheezy laugh that tickled the insides of his cheeks escaped him. 

“Something is… different.”

Those words came out flat and apathetic, tinged with wariness, but the glint in his eyes betrayed him. 

Komaeda shrugged. “So?”

“What have you done.” Spoken not as a question, but a command. An order Komaeda supposed he ought to follow.

“Surely someone as intelligent as you can figure that much out on your own.”

Narrowing his eyes, the man stepped forward once more, into his servant’s personal space. “I have no interest in whatever game you are attempting to play. If you do not want to cooperate, I will simply leave you to your own devices and continue my search for entertainment elsewhere.”

Komaeda met his gaze unflinchingly. Deep down, a part of him vaguely wondered if his former self would weep at the next words that left his lips. 

“Go ahead.”

[gloriouskiaa]

Tips on how to make hair silky naturally?

Thick, smooth and glossy hair is indicative of a perfectly healthy hair regimen. Everybody doesn't get born with silky hair. If you don't follow a good diet or use incompatible hair products with for your hair type, then your hair can become brittle and dry.

The moisture in your hair can decline with the stripping off of natural oils secreted by your scalp.

Do not worry; by inducing a few improvements listed below, you should be able to accentuate your hair's natural silkiness in no time.  

How can I make my hair smooth and silky at home?

Given below are home-remedies containing all-natural ingredients that you can try. These remedies can, sooner than later, help you get the best results for your weather-beaten hair.

1. EGG Whites

Step 1: Whip 2 Egg Whites in a bowl with 1spoonful of olive oil and 2 Honey drops. Mix well.

Step 2: Spread the paste throughout your hair using a brush.

Step 3: Cover your hair for 20 minutes with a shower cap.

Step 4: Rinse off with water and a soft scented shampoo.

2. Coconut oil.

Step 1: In a cup, add 3 tablespoons Coconut oil and warm for some time.

Step 2: Rub warm oil on your scalp for nearly 15 minutes with your fingertips.

Step 3: Cover your hair for nearly 20 minutes with a shower cap.

Step 4: Wash off using cool water and a light shampoo.

3. Onion Juice

Step 1: Cut an onion and blend for removing its juice

Step 2: Stir well with 3 drops of Essential Lavender Oil next.

Step 3: Rub your scalp carefully with this treatment and leave it on for about 15 minutes.

Step 4: Rinse off using water and shampoo.

4. Apple Cider Vinegar (ACV)

Step 1: Dilute 2 cups of Apple Cider Vinegar in a bowl with 1 cup of water.

Step 2: Wash your hair as you normally do.

Step 3: Wash with your recently concocted Apple Cider Vinegar solution after the hair has been conditioned.

Step 4: Cover with a shower cap, so that your ACV solution can be kept dry for 15 minutes.

5. Olive oil

Step 1: Add three olive oil tablespoons to a bowl and heat until mildly warm.

Step 2: Rub warm oil on your scalp for 15 minutes with your fingertips.

Step 3: Cover the hair for 20 minutes with a shower cap.

Step 4: Wash off with cold water with a soft shampoo.

You can skip the hassle of preparing these home-remedies by simply buying Kiaa Republiks' Ultimate Anti-Hair Fall and Anti-Dandruff Regime - containing shampoo, conditioner and hair mask for nourishing dry hair to reduce split ends and frizz. The product combo contains almost all the ingredients listed above, and is suitable for both men and women!  

How to make hair silky for men?

Nobody likes straw hair type, but a lot of hair care items sold for silky hair for women are used by men too. To get silky hair especially when you're a male, you'll need to comb out a gentle shampoo, natural conditioners and natural hair oil from the hair care aisle of a departmental store (or an e-commerce website). Plus, you'd need to wash your hair regularly but sparingly.  

Although exact routines can differ with hair type and quality, it can really be very easy to get silky hair as long as you do it right.  

Pick a mild shampoo:  You have to keep your hair clean, but not too clean to strip off the scalp's nutrients. The natural oils in your hair help to keep your hair strong and stable but they can also attract dirt and make your hair filthy. You must coordinate between your hair washing routine and your hair type, so that a mild shampoo is an essential part of your cleansing ritual.  

Try using natural shampoos to eliminate heavy chemical scents in mass-produced shampoos for men.  

Even if you are not a child, kids or child shampoo will keep your hair silky very effectively with a minimal amount of toxic ingredients.

Also use a natural conditioner: One way to get silky hair, even though you don't wash your hair, is by conditioning it daily. Conditioner helps to improve hair tips, to keep each strand long and stable and to prevent split ends and issues with hair that can influence your hair texture.  

Conditioner helps to improve hair tips, to keep each strand long and stable and to prevent split ends and issues with hair that can influence your hair texture.  Just with a shampoo, check for an unnatural perfume and dyes in your conditioner. You can't avoid using a conditioner on your scalp if you have short hairstyles. To prevent the hair from being weighted down use a gentle or a volumizing conditioner.  

How to make hair silky for women?

In this world, there is not one single woman who is forever content with her hair. Sure, some nice hair days are always around, but the operative term is 'some.' Such downers progressively play on your tresses due to sun exposure or excessive usage of hot hair appliances, until you eventually start noticing too much damage.

The good news is that you still need not to lose heart. You can read our well-tested home remedies below to know how you can get silky hair.  

Frequently oil your hair: Do not wash your hair for at least 1 hour after oiling your hair. Any hair-free oil, such as coconut oil, olive oil, almond oil and argan oil can be used. The scalp becomes particularly good when massaged with a good-quality hair-oil oil. Apply hair oil only on strands and ends if you have an oily scalp, and prevent the hair's roots.

Use hair masks: Using hair masks once a week will help to preserve your hair with its natural oils. Apply each of the hair masks as mentioned below, keep it on for 1 hour, rinse with shampoo, and then apply a hair-conditioner.

Frequently use natural conditioners. After washing your hair, you can use the following ingredients as a conditioner:

Applesauce

Apple Cider Vinegar 4. Be mindful of the weather:In line with the season's requirements, you can choose to wash your hair per week. During the summer, particularly when sweat and dirt blocks your scalp and the roots of new hair follicles, you can wash your hair every alternate day. However, it is enough to wash twice a week during winters. Don't torture your hair with a harsh product instead of a mild shampoo and conditioner. Natural or homemade hair care items are safer to be used than pricey industrial products. 5. Battle the tangles: Brush your hair and remove the tangles carefully every morning. Next, massage your scalp for at least two-three minutes. Bend over and put your head upside down for a couple of minutes for better circulation of blood which also helps in boosting hair growth.

Some general Do's and Don'ts

Try various DIY hair masks to keep them healthy.  

Your diet plays a major role in the wellbeing of your hair. So be sure to take good protein, rich foods for thick and shiny hair.

Practice meditation and yoga for relaxed hair, as stress and anxiety have been shown to cause hair loss.

Sleep enough each day to let your scalp and body rest well so that your hair looks good

If your hair is too dry, a reset in the form of a new cut could be required

Start picking up hair-building supplements

Add to your diet omega-3s and antioxidants.

Avoid daily hair wash.

Instead of wrapping your hair with a rough towel, try drying with a cotton shirt.

Heat styling reduction.  

Try to take cold showers.

Use natural oils.  

Can we make our hair silky permanently?

No magic trick can ensure the high quality and texture of your hair. In taking care of it, you must be consistent. Otherwise, it's pretty straightforward!

If your shampoo contains sulfates: SLS, SLES or Ammonium Laurel Sulfate (ALS), it could cause your hair to dry up. These are strong surfactants.

Massage 2–3 drops of argan oil in your hair after shampoo, if it is already dry.

Use a silk pillow cloth to wrap your hair after a wash, since your hair can get frizzier by using a towel.

Before you go to bed, braid your hair.

Wrapping Up

Improving your dry hair with home remedies is easy enough and risk-free. However, long-term hair loss and breakdown can be a symptom of other health problems. If you have all of these signs, talk to a dermatologist:

Falling of hair in clumps.

Bald spots or baldness cycles.

Hair breakage when brushed.

[cosmiclatte28]

College au! Doyoung (>,<)

Okay I am in the mood for some domestic boyfriend Doyoung! 

Fluff! Doyoung x reader

Enjoy!!

I open the door to my small shared apartment. I've just finished studying in the library for finals. It's snowing outside and I forgot my umbrella. Therefore, I am drenched in the snow after walking from the bus station near our flat. The lights are on and a pair of shoes greets me over the welcome mattress. I smile to myself as I quickly enter the flat and lock the door. I drop my belongings on the floor (quite a commotion. It made a loud bang!) Quickly, while jumping over my feet I fumbled with my jacket zipper as my mouth mumbles "Cold cold cold cold" . A frustrated groan slips when my frozen fingers can't cooperate to unzip my jacket. Just as I was about to call help, the shower door opens and a steamy hot air escapes along with a man in a comfortable pajamas.

"You're home!" he grins and walks to greet me.

"Gosh! You're frozen." He said when he saw how my lips and body trembles.

"The zipper, help" I control my breath when the urge of sneezing tickles my nose.

"There." He gets it off in one go, and takes me out of the thick jacket.

"Go shower first. You need that. I'll make hot cocoa. Have you eaten yet?" his voice comes from the pantry.

I yelled my answers back to him after grabbing my towel and clothes.

"Yeah just a sandwich," And shut the toilet door.

The man with his damp hair and round eye glasses walks to the refrigerator. He checks and grimaces when he realizes they have to go shopping. There's not even a single egg and milk. All they have is a bottle of soju and two packs of Yakult; those two and nothing else.

He feels bad but he has to feed her. So, he boils a pot of water and pick out two packs of ramyeon.

He hums his favorite song as he took out two mugs and fills them with water. He place both into the microwave and picks out a sachet of hot cocoa and coffee.

His hum and cooking come to an end just as the girl who has been singing under the shower opens the door and appears in a better condition.

I return in a couple pajamas and my body is not as shaky as before.

"I can smell it from the bathroom. Ramyeon! Gosh you know what I've been craving!" I walk excitedly to the kitchen.

The table was set and two bowls of ramyeon and two mugs of hot drinks are steaming before our eyes.

"Thank you Doyoung! Let's dig in" I pick up my chopsticks and start savoring each taste of this wonderful mankind discovery.

"I'm sorry we only have ramyeon. We ran out of kimchi and eggs." Doyoung said after they finish their bowl.

"My bad, I forgot to check them. I should've gone to the supermarket." I gulp down the hot chocolate liquid and hold the glass between my hands to keep them warm.

"We can go shopping tomorrow. It's Sunday and I'm free." Doyoung gulps his coffee.

"Is that coffee?" I ask when I notice the different color and fragrant.

Doyoung nods and smiles his bunny smile, "I haven't drunk one today. And I need my caffeine."

I shrug my shoulder and focus on him in front of me.

"How's studying? Is the library crowded?" He starts asking about my day.

I nod my head, "it's two weeks to finals. Every corner of the library is filled."

"Were you alone earlier?" Doyoung asks carefully. Well he's the type who needs to know if his girl is safe.

"I'm with my friends. We studied together for the Korean studies. You know I'm still foreign with the idioms." I said. Well being born Korean and raised in USA was great, but then when I return and start college here, I struggle with the Korean language studies.

Lucky me, Doyoung, my boyfriend for two and a half year is best at teaching me all the hard Korean test.

"Ah! You could have gone home and study with me." He picks his glass up to drink some more coffee.

"You're going to have finals too! And I know you need to focus well. That's why I asked Jaehyun's help to teach me. Don't worry; I completely understand the test materials now." I place my hand over his free palm on the table and gave it a small squeeze.

Yes I saw the spark of jealousy in his eyes, and I realize maybe I shouldn't have mentioned his name. Jaehyun is a big no no in Doyoung's dictionary. And I happen to forgot that today.

"Sorry, but there are other friends too: like Yuta, Mark, Claire, and Scarlet." I tried to make the situation brighter.

The air is too thick now, as I mentally curse myself for letting Jaehyun's name slipped. But how can I not? That guy saw me struggling and offers me help. I who was completely clueless and hopeless gratefully said yes and thank him tons of time.

"Good. That means you'll ace your Korean test right? Guess that Jaehyun is a nice guy." Doyoung's sinister sound launches from his tongue.

He stands up, grabs the dirty plates and empty glasses.

"I'll wash them. How's your day hm?" I get hold of the washing glove and sponge faster than him. I ask him question while washing.

"I'm dismissed early. Class ends by five when the weather forecast warned there will be heavy snow coming at seven. That's why my professor dismissed the class earlier when he saw most of us did not carry umbrella or drive a car." Doyoung helps me drying them and putting them on the drying rack.

"Oof lucky you. Wish my professor thinks like that too. But no, he told us he has to finish the lecture. I got soaked under the last drops of snow. Not that heavy, but you saw my jacket." I glance to my jacket.

Doyoung has hung it nicely beside his.

Upon remembering how I shivered and got drenched under snow just to have extra lesson to not disturb him, Doyoung feels soft and grateful. He's lucky to find himself a girl, as simple, loving, caring, cheerful, and cute like what he wished in his girl friend list.

She's not the type to fuzz over small things, thus they rarely fought. She doesn't get jealous easily, while Doyoung is especially jealous of Jaehyun (just him). We get along well because some times they can comfort one another in silence. We find peace in our quiet times, only exchanging small quick gazes, we laugh over the same jokes. Enjoy the same type of music and likes singing to it. And many more!

"Come, let's stay warm. I turned the heater on already before and it's starting to feel toasty. Let's stay under the warm covers." He leads me to our room and turns the lights out.

"The stove is off right?" I ask him while I charge my phone and do my night skin care routine.

"Uhum. I turned it off. Don't worry. Now quick! It's starting to feel so empty." He attempts aegyo and succeeds

"How cute," I jump to the bed and dive under the cover. He quickly pulls me by my waist and tangles his long legs over mine.

"Cold," He mimics me while snuggling deep into me.

"You want to be the little spoon tonight?" I chuckle. Doyoung always wants to be the big spoon, and yes he fits that better. My body fits perfectly in his.

"Nope, of course I will return to being the big spoon after this. You can't even wrap me completely with your petite figure." He leans in for a quick kiss.

"I'm tired. I need sleep." I yawn

"I can't sleep."

"Who told you to have coffee at this hour?" I stuck my tongue out.

"Just sleep. Tomorrow we have the whole day to fight." He giggles and brings me into his arms.

Doyoung plants a soft kiss on my forehead and plays with my hair.

He hums me a melodious lullaby and I drifted to dream land.

--

We dated for about two years already. I met him on my freshman year. Unlike the usual science geek gets attracted to another science geek, or a cheerleader who loves their team's football captain, or name any other expected couples! No. Doyoung is from another faculty plus he's a year older than me. He's majoring in arts and culture, while I'm pursuing my dream to become a doctor. How do we meet? We did not bump each other in the hallway, nor did he started as a bully and fell for me, no one set us up, and our first meeting happens to be a coincidence. Not an accident.

We were participating in the campus' annual athletic championship and both of us happen to be a team for the archery game. I'm one of the aces in archery and Doyoung is someone I never heard of during practices. He looks like someone who doesn't do sports. I'm surprised when my coach told me he will be my partner.

At first I almost gave up on the competition. From the first glance, I had a feeling he only participated here to attract the female students attention. He's cute and attractive. Don't get me wrong, I only judge him by his first look.

He's not like Baekhyun, my fellow doctor classmate who happens to be my best friend though he is loud af (I often question myself how I can keep up with him.) Doyoung is more of the cold and short-answers guy.

True enough, within 30 minutes of preparation and warming up. I only got his name and faculty. We never met before, we don't know how good our partner is, and my ego tells me to not practice here. I just feel like using all my potentials directly in the field. He seems relaxed and I, even though I won several competitions before, am feeling nervous. This is my first game and the whole school is rooting on us. The game is held between schools; today's match came from our top three rivals.

I touched my bow and closed my eyes, calming down myself on the waiting bench and anxiously bounced one of my leg.

"Nervous?" his voice suddenly enters my ear; a gentle low voice.

I jumped a bit from my daze and stop moving my legs. "No, it's just a bit loud here." I let out a weak reply. My sound's shaky though.

He patted my shoulder and gazed into the field, where the other players were aiming their arrows. "You'll do great. The field is always loud."

I tried to control my heart beat. What's this feeling? No. I should not fall for him this soon. I don't even know his class and I don't even know him for more than an hour.

We were called to enter the arena, I pull myself together and we walked side by side.

I turned to see the score board and smiled when I saw the scores our competitors earned.

Doyoung started first and as he took his stance, the whole audience gets even louder. I grimaced at the deafening sound but he doesn't seem bothered at all.

He launches his arrow neatly and hit the 8 points.

A good start I thought. The other teams started with a 6 or 7.

He finished his part perfectly with a ten twice in a row.

The game requires each member to shoot 5 times and combine the total point for 10 shoots.

Doyoung scored a total of 46. He bowed to the audiences and judges then switched place with me. He threw me a smile and nothing else.

I waited for the property team to pluck out the arrow and I prepared myself.

Let me show you who I am. Well, like I said I'm very good in archery. Not to brag but I caught everyone's attention and breath away when my first arrow hits the center point. I smiled satisfied and gain my confidence. The next four arrows all hit a 9 and 10. I won over Doyoung's 46 with a 49.

He seemed surprised, but his face showed no readable emotion. We won the game and I won his attention.

No we did not exchange number or emails, we both left one another just knowing each other's name and faculty. I even got the information that he's a year older than me from Baekhyun.

I skipped my archery routines during the final exam weeks. I spent most of my time in the library with my fellow striver. And after that sleepless and busy month, I return to the club.

That's when I met Doyoung for the second time. And that's where he got my phone number and my interest.

He brought me to lots of quick coffee dates and accompanies me in the library whenever I have exams tomorrow. He's also busy with his laptops. Typing in essays and presentations.Sharing the same hobby, liking the same style of music and dance, enjoying peace and quietness over loud atmosphere, helped us get along well.

After a good four months of knowing one another, he gets down on one knee and asks me if I'm interested to be his. He did this after we finish our archery routine

Well, I said "Only if my arrow hits the 10 points it'll be a yes."

He almost complains, but seeing how I'm enjoying my time teasing him, he reluctantly agreed.

I pull my arrow without much focus and doubt. I just launch it quick and I knew it'll be his happiest day.

He totally lost his cool. He screamed and jumped to me when the answer means yes.

I kind of regret knowing he can be this loud and so Baekhyun-like. But we'll see how this goes. That's what is in my mind.

On our first anniversary, I agreed to move in to his apartment. He said his room mate graduated and move out. So I started sharing the same roof with my boyfriend.

Things sometimes gets rough, but trust is our foundation, and through our trust we finish our little fights well and get all lovey-dovey in the next 1 hour.

Doyoung is always busy with his laptop. Be it typing an essay, editing videos, doing covers, and writing scripts. Well, he's in the main committee for our school's theatre club. Every three months they hold a small musical show, romance, comedy, or a classical play. I tried my best to come and support him whenever the musical takes place. There are one timewhen Doyoung returns to the apartment with several clothing that needs modification. I was watching my favorite TV show when he and one of his friend, Suho-if I'm not mistaken, brought two packs of costumes.

I remembered what happened that night.

"Hey you're back!" I stood from the sofa and rush to greet him.

He looks tired, but returns my hug with a kiss.

"What are those?" My curiosity can't wait any longer; I kneel on the floor and open the boxes. My eyes lighten up when I see the costumes.

"Are we playing dress up tonight?" I tease him a bit, and it successfully brought a smile to his face.

"Actually.. I have to make some modifications. We kind of went over the budget for this upcoming show. But it will be the best! I can feel it. We tried to cut down the costs, but ended up having to modify the clothes by our self." He explains.

"Oh! I thought you have a team for the costume department?"

"There used to be, but the last one graduated last year and the freshmen are not interested in entering the costume department. So, I asked around for help and no body is brave enough to take the responsibility." He huffs and slackens his shoulder.

I consoled him with a pat on his thigh, "Hey, it is hard being in the committee. It is also hard to take the responsibilities. But seeing that these babies are now in our house, you know what I'll do."

He smiles, "You sure?"

"Nah. I'm going to support you on the side. I thought you're the one responsible. Come on start! I can fetch you needles and thread." I grin

His face goes white and he's about to cry and faint right then and there, but I failed to hide my laughter and bursts laughing out loud

"Silly! You know I'll help you eventually. Besides there's nothing your girl friend can't do." I winked and stand up to fetch all of my sewing kit.

I return to a living room full of colorful costumes and Doyoung in the middle with his papers.

"Here are the designs. It'll be simple. We only add things and glue some gems here and there."

"We better start now. We still have Saturday and Sunday to finish and rest." I cheer him up and we both spend our night chatting and telling stories while our hand works nimbly.

"2 down! 6 more to go!" Doyoung screams joyfully when we finished the main characters garments.

"I will make sure to mention your name by the end of the credit."

"You don't have to. I like doing this. Besides my anatomy book is quite killing me, this sewing session calms me down."

--

Just as we thought our boat can sail a smooth journey, things got worse when my studies requires me more time learning and thus going back home late. Doyoung who frequently text me what I am doing and where am I, suddenly vanished. I no longer receive simple caring text from him. I think he sometimes did not realize I'm not homed yet.

I heard from my friends that Doyoung has been close with a younger girl from the arts faculty. I know he has the right to befriend anyone, same way where he allows me to be friend with other guys. But still, I lately feel I've been distance from him.

I forgot what it feels like to clean my mind from everything for a while and just relax in his embrace. I forgot how a simple dish can taste like a 5 star restaurant dish. I forgot what it's like to have a 2 am laundry session because we ran out of fresh clothes. While I am suffering from the big gap between us, he seems fine and happy. Heck he checks his phone every minutes and smile stupidly as his fingers dance over the keyboards. Gosh had he given me that smile in the last few months?

"Hey," he tapped on my back.

I glanced over my book and raised a brow.

"I need to go out for a while. I planned to go for a night out with the boys, want to join?" he asks me.. I think he dare offers me to join since he knew I'm studying for a test tomorrow.

"gosh.. out of all nights.. why does it have to be today." I sighed at my fate.

Doyoung seems a bit sad, well the night out is a routine he and his best friends held since freshmen and I've been joining every single one of it. Except today, the test tomorrow is a hard one and I badly have to pass this or I'll flunk my GPA.

"Is it okay if I go?" he feels bad asking me this.

"Can't you skip this one?" I pleaded

"Is that what you want?"

"Fine. You can go." My mood is ruined. Of course he will try to go his secret girl is there.

"You're not mad are you?"

"I'm not wasting my time for a useless argument. Just go. You're not even helping me with my studies. Have fun." I turn my body to face my book and heard him close the door.

He left.

He freaking left.

I close my book and silent sobs escaped my lips tears stream down my face.

Doyoung fucking left, He doesn't even hesitate to be by my side during this horrid night. Plus who goes to a night out with boys all dressed up?! I mean he usually wears his favorite blue sweater and cap. But tonight? He dressed up nicely. Even his hair is on point!

There's no use in studying anymore. My brain will not be able to stick anything. Instead I took my laundry basket which surprisingly is full and walk my way to the laundry room downstairs.

That's when I accidentally met Mark, who happens to bring his laundry in to.

"Mark?" I utter his name in a confused tone.

"Hey! Didn't see you there.. Where's Doyoung?" he asks while putting in his clothes and soaps.

"I thought you were having your night out. He told me he's leaving for the routine.. and I skipped this one to study for a test tomorrow." I explained while turning on the washing machine.

"Hey it's the third week of the month. Our night is on the fourth right... we're doing it next week and you must join!" Mark said in his astonishing voice.

"Oh.. Right. Then where is he?" I ask myself, but I think Mark heard me.

"Then where is he?"

"Don't know. Probably hanging out with somebody else, I happen to be busy lately and Doyoung seems to find some business to do too."

We talk and talk, Mark consoling me and telling me to look at the bright side: focusing for my test better.

We tell jokes and talk about the upcoming gathering, what we should do and others.

I return back to my room after I dried my clothes with a better mood. Laughing with Mark over some corny jokes really ease my stress. I come back right at the same time Doyoung hugs a girl good bye. He seems surprised seeing me doing the laundry by myself. Usually we go together.

"Oh, good evening eonni." She greets when I reach the front door.

I gave her a small nod. Dark round eyes, smooth long hair, petite figure, and a sweet voice! No wonder Doyoung enjoys his time with her.

"You are Doyoung's roommate?" she asks curiously.

I look at Doyoung, and he did not flinch nor reacts.

"Yes, she is my room mate. Now, please step aside so she can go in first, I'm sure those laundries are pretty heavy." Doyoung pulls the girl to step aside from the door and I enter the room. He closes the door and stayed outside with her.

I put my clothes in my room and walks to the kitchen. Actually I just want to see Doyoung again. After all, Mark told me maybe I've ignored him too long and I need to reach back to him.

After some minutes the door opens and Doyoung rushed inside with a small smile. He looks ashamed being caughtlying.

"Night out with the boys huh? I met mark earlier in the wash room."

Doyoung stares at his feet.

"It's next week babe. You miscounted. Anyways, she's an interesting girl. Who's she? You never told me... Right?" I ask him nicely. No, there's no reason for me to be angry. He's not cheating; he's only hanging out with a girl not the gang.

"I've mentioned her before, but you're too busy with your books. Sorry, she's my junior. She just moved from Japan and she needs a lot of helps. She called me earlier to accompany her to the library." Doyoung steps closer to me and reaches for my hands.

"It's not that I'm cheating on you.. I have to lie because.. I don't know.. I'm afraid you will think I cheated on you and your head will hurt then you won't study to the max and it'll hurt me if I see you cry while holding your grades. I will feel bad. Sorry for lying." He explains (ironically) sweetly.

My heart softens at his remarks. Even when most people cannot relate, I am really relieved and thankful for his explanation. Gosh the stress of these finals really impacts my mood and hormones. If I lose my temper earlier, I might blame him for something he did not do and this might end with a big fight.

I laugh and hug the man who has been my reason to smile. "Yak you should've told me the truth like now, that way we'll both feel good and have no doubt or silly ideas about one another."

"I'm sorry.. it's because Yuta is supposed to be the one taking care of her. He's from Japan, but he's sick for the whole week; thus leaving me in charge. Since the other guys can't speak Japanese."

"It's okay Doyoung. I get it. Don't make this a big deal. I'm fine. Besides I trust you. I trust you that you're not the silly type to play with fire behind my back. Also lately I ignored you so much.. I'll make it up to you." I snuggle into his embrace.

He tightens the hug, "Hell yeah, you forgot I exist for a good two weeks. You've been ignoring my words my texts; those are why I stop sending them fearing it'll disturb you and you even slept on the couch or table. Do you know how tiring it is for me to bring you to bed and tidy up everything?" He rants out while still hugging me tight.

"But you love me right. You love me for always falling asleep in the middle of learning... You love me for trusting you... you love me for my panic actions when things don't go as I planned and I love you for everything you do that suits me and understands me. Thank you babe."

"I like that you are the type to think rationally and not emotionally drive. Gosh I was afraid before that you might lose control and things ended. Oh such horror!"

"Lucky you. Now, I have to return to my desk and cramp everything." I pout as I let go the hug.

Doyoung pats my hair and shoulder then pushes me lightly to my room. "Let's go. I'll accompany you tonight. We'll sleep by 10. You need your 8 hours bed. No buts."

I smile knowing that tonight the gap is slowly disappearing and I know I have my sweetheart back and he gets his girl back.

Because in a relationship, you bicker, you fight, but mostly you trust, you forgive, and you move on with the blooming love.

[dollswow]

Encounter

A story about my warcraft oc’s, Lyrinde and Tsuuli I’ve been writing on and off for a little while now, about how they meet.

Characters: Lyrinde (night elf demon hunter) & Tsuuli (Zandalari troll paladin)

Story: ~4800 words (jfc, me), non-explicit sexual situations, minor sass. Set shortly after end of the 4th war.

*

As far as being stranded in what was questionably enemy territory went, Lyrinde supposed it could be worse. She floated lazily in a small, refreshingly chill pool near the summit of one of Zuldazar’s lush mountain peaks. The blaze of the late morning sun was oppressive as ever. It was tempered though by the cool water, the foliage overhead filtering some of the sun’s rays out, and the general peace of her crash site. 

She spared a thought and a frown for her poor mount’s condition, after their escape from a flock of especially aggressive pterrordaxes flying through Nazmir’s southern swamps. Lixahl was formidable both in a fight and in flight, and her sharp talons and agile maneuvers had secured their escape. Somehow though, the steep ascent of their chase into Zandalar’s main province had caused her to sprain a wing. They’d landed on the top of an isolated mountain, where Lyrinde had been quick to immobilize the felbat’s injured limb. Searching for cover around the summit, it wasn’t very long at all before they located a dusty, disused cave perfect for Lixahl to roost in while she recuperated. Following the sound of water a little ways out from the cave and through the vegetation, Lyrinde came upon the clearing where she now rested. 

Of course, proper safety measures had been taken. Once she’d taken water back to Lixahl and secured the site, she used the strange Gnomish messaging device given to her for just such an emergency, to communicate her location and predicament to the extraction team. The site seemed truly secluded, with thick overgrowth showing no footpaths up, and only signs of sparse wildlife tracks. She had little else to do but wait. 

The machine sent a small drone carrying her message to a predetermined location. A homing device of sorts, though she’d soon gotten lost in the technical terms of Kelsey’s explanation of exactly how it worked. All she remembered was that it would probably be a day or so before she could expect any kind of return communication. 

She sighed, and sank a little further into the water with the exhale. If circumstances had been different, the location would be idyllic. Idle birdsong, nearly drowned out by the soft bubbling of the wellspring feeding the pool, and the whispering rush and distant crash of the waterfall spilling from it’s rocky edge, combined with the warmth of the sun on her body, the cool feel of her hair swirling about her in the water, unbound from it’s tight braid for once, the gentle rustling of the brush and a twig snapping—

She was lunging out of the water in a blink, already gripping the glaives she’d placed at the pool’s edge for just such a necessity, growling as she swung the sharpened blades into place; one to rest at the intruder’s throat, one poised and ready to slice him across his belly. 

“How did you find me?!” Lyrinde demanded, teeth bared in a snarl. “What do you want?”

She was vaguely aware that the tall troll in front of her had dropped a wooden pail he’d been carrying, and seemed to be without weapons or armor. The golden glow of a protective spell shimmered around his body however, marking him out as one of the Zandalari’s elite paladins; capable of wielding the powers of light even without a sword or shield. 

He held his hands up at chest level, and though she’d spoken to him in Common out of habit, he answered in Zandali. “I was not looking for you, Miss Elf.” He paused, and his eyes obviously dipped to focus below the blades that were ready to strike. “But what a find to have made, this fine day. The loa have truly blessed me.”

Lyrinde then took time to realize the pail he had been carrying seemed to be full of bathing supplies, and also to recall that her clothing was drying on a nearby rock, where she’d laid it after washing the dirt of travel out of it. It had seemed fortuitous that she’d had the opportunity to clean her garments as well as bathe at the time, but now she was caught out, literally naked. 

At least she had her weapons. Even if Horde and Alliance were at a truce for the moment, she could hardly expect that a troll wouldn’t be opposed to her presence in his home territory. The war was barely over, after all. She backed away, weapons still at the ready just in case. 

“I mean not to intrude upon your lands,” she spoke in halting Zandali, “and will leave at first opportunity.”

“Where is the fun in that?” The paladin’s eyes were back to her face, though he was grinning—actually grinning!—at her now. “I should like to know more about you, and how it came to be that the loa have guided you here, to my private retreat.”

She dropped her weapons a fraction, still wary that he would attack, and said, slowly, “It is only  accident that brought me here, nothing more.”

He gave a little “Tsk!” at her and, telegraphing his movements clearly so as not to appear to be readying an attack, knelt to collect his toiletries back into his pail. Once he finished, he stood again and met her eye. 

“Miss Elf,” he began, sounding like a lecturer, “this retreat was created by myself and my brother, who used his shamanistic powers to divert the upwelling of water here, where I assisted in the formation of the pool’s borders and, as you may have noticed, seating within the water along the edges for better relaxation, although you had cleverly bypassed such amenities, it would seem, by simply floating—“

“You talk a lot for glorified manual labor,” she cut in, impatient. She gripped her glaives tighter, half expecting him to take offense and decide to attack after all. 

He only looked startled for a moment, perhaps needing to parse her strange, stilting accent, then burst out laughing. 

She lowered her weapons all the way, relaxing her stance, and frowned at him. He was so taken with giggles that she even saw him wipe a tear from his eye. “Is there something wrong with you?” she demanded. 

As he caught his breath, he looked to the sky, ignoring her question and mounting agitation. “Loa help me,” he said, still smiling, “but I think I’m in love.”

She knew he was being facetious, but his words still caused her to take a half step back. Was he trying to lower her guard, in order to take her by surprise for an attack? She needed to be cautious, just in case. There might be other threats nearby. He might not have been alone, only ahead of any others coming, this strange behavior a ploy to distract her until backup arrived. 

She empowered her spectral sight, to see deeper into the shadows, through more layers of the jungle surrounding them, to see if he was hiding anything.

Oh… she thought.

“Oh!” she breathed out, involuntary.

His gaze had dropped again, and, well. Expecting treachery lurking in the forest behind him, what she found instead was that he was not unaffected by her appearance, standing in front of him with her weapons drawn, but without armor, without clothing, flushed from the adrenaline and fel fire coursing through her body. It appeared the only thing he was hiding was a growing interest in her nudity. 

Well, she was stuck here for at least the day, and possibly the night, too. He was handsome, seemed disinclined to fight, and physically attracted to her. Might as well have some fun, right? 

She grinned at him when he realized he’d been caught staring, feral and toothy, and stalked forward.

*

Lyrinde woke up slowly, warm and heavy-limbed, the impromptu nap leaving her sluggish, but well-rested. As her senses came back to her, she realized several things that should have worried her, and might have if she wasn’t feeling so satisfied.

One of these things was that she wasn’t directly on her bedroll; she was lying on top of a well-muscled, warm body, gently rising and falling with each breath. She could feel hands resting loosely on her lower back. The large, three-fingered hands of a troll.

She knew what she’d done was dangerous and would earn her a lecture, at the very least. Disciplinary action was more probable, armistice be damned. She burrowed her face into the chest beneath her for a moment, and the hands on her back tightened their embrace to hold her more firmly in place. She could tell by the troll’s—Tsuuli, he’d told her was his name—breathing and slow, steady heartbeat that he was still asleep.

He’d certainly earned the rest. It wasn’t every man that could keep up with her.

She chuckled to herself, and the motion must’ve roused Tsuuli, as she felt him beginning to stir. She turned her head to the side, taking in the last vestiges of the sunset blazing around them. They’d begun their activities shortly before midday, and hadn’t gone in for more than a brief respite until perhaps the third hour of the afternoon. Then, they’d finally settled in more or less their current position, after approximately three quarters of an hour together in the spring, cleaning up, getting messy again, and cleaning up all over again.

So the nap had been about two hours. A day well-spent, she thought.

Now though, it was time to send him packing so she could check up on Lixahl, and make sure she was prepared for the extraction team that must be on it’s way.

Bracing her hands on Tsuuli’s broad chest, she made to push herself to her feet. Instead, she found herself being flipped over onto the bedroll beneath them, tangled in the blanket that’d been draped over her backside. 

She squawked, and experienced a brief moment of wild fury at being betrayed now, after the time they’d spent together enjoying themselves, her adrenaline spiking as her mind raced, planning for retaliation and a fight likely to the death.

The sting of betrayal Lyrinde felt ebbed away as soon as it’d come however, when she realized Tsuuli was nuzzling at her neck, embracing her as a lover would, not as an enemy searching out vulnerable points. She felt the press of his upturned tusks, his lips moving over the racing pulse in her neck, the deep rumble in his chest as he hummed out a chuckle.

“You thought I was going to try to kill you, yes?” he asked, leisurely stroking her flank with one hand as he continued to kiss his way from just behind her ear down to the juncture of neck and shoulder. He lingered there for a moment, then raised up onto his elbows to look at her. 

Her vision was still hazed with green from the expectation of battle, but she could see him peering at her, saw as he brought his hand from her side to rub his thumb over her cheekbone, gently skirting the edge of her blindfold.

She reached up to grasp his wrist, not to move his hand, but to ground herself. He began to lean in, and just before his lips touched hers, she murmured, “You might have tried, but you would not have succeeded.”

*

“You must go back.”

“Lyrinde, technically, you are the intruder here, being a member of the Alliance in Zuldazar. I know you said you were on your way out of Zandalar, as the terms of the armistice dictate. But, as I am sure you are aware, the Zandalari have allied with the Horde, and from what I have learned over the course of the war—are you making ‘talky’ motions with your hand at me?”

“I am, because you talk incessantly.” Lyrinde sat back from attaching her bedroll to her pack. “An extraction team is coming for me, and it would be unwise for you to be here with me when they arrive.”

It was full dark now, and their only light was from a small campfire in the clearing. Tsuuli sat on the other side of the fire, watching her finish up her preparations. They’d both dressed again, Lyrinde’s hair tied back into it’s long braid. She crouched on her side of the fire, and gazed over at him as he sat quietly, for once, his eyes directed into the flames and seeming pensive, chewing his lower lip.

“If it’s the darkness that you wish to avoid, I can give you a small lantern,” she began. “It would ease your way home—”

She was interrupted by a small, metal thing slamming into her chest. It didn’t hurt, but it’s wild fluttering combined with the impact pushed her back onto her rear from her crouch, and she wrenched it off of herself with a snarl, ready to throw it into the fire.

“Wait—” Tsuuli was kneeling at her side in a heartbeat, one large hand at her back, steadying her, the other gently prying the now still item from her grip. “It is some kind of device, perhaps from your contact?”

She snatched it from his hand, petulant. Then she took a steadying breath and said, “Sorry. You’re right.”

It was similar to the device she’d sent upon arrival, though fashioned after a small bird. She unscrewed the head, “Morbid,” she thought, and pulled out a tightly coiled scroll. 

The message was encoded, but easily enough deciphered, as she’d committed the key to memory before setting out on this mission. 

She read out loud for Tsuuli’s benefit, “Expect extraction two hours past dawn. Stay safe.”

She let the scroll fall into her lap as she pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, letting out a groan. “I thought they’d be here tonight.” 

“Well, no use pouting. We should make the best of it, yes?”

Lyrinde huffed. “We aren’t making the best of anything.” She poked Tsuuli in the chest with one finger. “You still need to go back to your home.”

“Now, now,” Tsuuli soothed, taking her hand in his, “the night will be safer with two of us.” He tipped his head to one side, considering. “You could...come to my home? No,” he dismissed, “no, I live too far into the city, you would be discovered. I will have to stay here with you.” He gave her what he clearly thought was a winning smile. 

And damn it all, if he wasn’t growing on her. She let her shoulders slump a little. “I must go check on Lixahl—my mount—” she clarified, “and I’d thought to spend the night in the cave where she rests.”

“Oh, the cave just around the summit from here, yes?” He waited for her confirmation, then continued, “Yes, I know the one. It will provide a perfect shelter from the damp of night. We should smother this fire before moving there.”

Lyrinde briefly thought to warn him off of coming to the cave, that Lixahl was likely to be hostile, but she’d already accepted that he wouldn’t listen. Or more precisely, he’d  talk for several minutes without actually saying anything, and then still tag along no matter how much she tried to convince him otherwise. Besides, she had some of the anti-venom that would clear up a bite from Lixahl. It wouldn’t hurt—much. 

Probably. 

“You said you had a lantern?”

She shook herself out of her reverie to unhook the lantern from her pack. Handing it to him so he could light it with the last of the fire before he covered it over with damp earth, the embers scattered and burnt out. He stood, brushing the dirt from his hands, and holding an arm out to her. 

Paladins. 

She snorted softly and took it, allowing him to escort her to the cave, through the brush. 

*

Lyrinde couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She stood still, hands uselessly hanging at her sides, mouth slightly open, as she watched Lixahl, fierce matriarch of the felwings of Mardum, happily receive scritches from Tsuuli. 

She suspected the sweet tropical fruits he detoured to pick on the way to the cave helped bribe Lixahl’s good favor, but Lyrinde’s mount just really seemed to enjoy the attention. He’d managed to work his way under Lixahl’s armor to scratch behind her ears, which must’ve been the winning move. 

“I think she likes me!” he said, unnecessarily. 

“I suppose she does,” Lyrinde shrugged, finally moving to action and bending to unclasp her bedroll and lay it out. 

She felt him sidle up behind her before he smoothed his hands down her arms, effectively halting her progress, and the rumble of his voice reverberated through her back as he drew her against his chest, “She is a sweet girl, but don’t tell her I like you best.”

Lyrinde turned in his arms and said, “Fancy words when we’ll never see each other again after I get out of here.”

“Nonsense.”

“What do you mean, nonsense?”

“Nonsense!” Tsuuli grinned and held her tighter. “The loa sent me to you. You to me. Do you think I am going to give that up easily?”

Lyrinde huffed, “I crashed, no one sent me—“

“On the very day I decided to visit the grotto, after being away for more than a year! It had been so long, the footpath was completely grown over and wild.” He hunched down, burying his face in her neck. “If it was any other day, I would have missed you.”

She hesitated, then said, “Still, I am leaving. First to Kul Tiras, then back to Stormwind. You are Horde—“

“Meet me in Dalaran.”

“—and, what?”

“I am traveling soon, and will be going to Dalaran in two months time. Meet me there.” He pulled back, resting his hands on either side of her neck, stroking his thumbs over her cheeks. “Please?”

“I—that is not something I can commit to.” She turned her head to gaze in Lixahl’s direction. “I don’t even know what my next assignment is yet,” she murmured. 

Tsuuli considered her for a moment, then offered, “Perhaps we can write to each other. I believe the goblins can route mail anywhere, even to members of the Alliance. Do you have spare parchment I can write my address on for you?”

He was coming up with plans all on his own, and Lyrinde could only wordlessly retrieve the writing implements for him, still reeling a little from his invitation as she was. She even let him coax the address of her rooms in Stormwind out of her. At least she wasn’t in the Illidari camp anymore. She doubted she’d be able to receive mail there without nosy demon hunters prying into her affairs. Sometimes others of her kind could be very annoying, she thought with a snort. 

“What are you thinking about over there?”

Instead of answering, she shook her head and moved to inspect where he’d finished laying out the bedding. There had been an old fire pit in the back of the cave, and after he’d shown her the vents in the ceiling that lead to the outside and assured her they would not suffocate from smoke inhalation, she’d agreed to let him make a new campfire there. He was quite handy with her flint and tinder kit, and had set the bedroll close by the cheery little blaze. Zuldazar was a warm territory, but at this altitude especially, she’d already begun to feel the chill of night, and was glad for the heat. 

She also wondered at Tsuuli, still only wearing the brief wrap about his waist he’d arrived at the grotto in, having only expected to stay for a relaxing bathing session during the heat of day.

As she approached, he stood and moved towards her, his profile glowing with the firelight. “Are you not cold?” she asked as he stepped closer. She absentmindedly lifted a hand up to the golden tattoos on his chest at her eye-level, ghosting her fingers along the bold lines. The muscles of his abdomen contracted, and she looked up to find him gazing at her, an indecipherable look on his face. 

“The grace of the loa keeps me warm,” he said before cracking a smirk. “As does my burning passion.”

Lyrinde would’ve rolled her eyes, had she still been in possession of them. She settled for an exaggerated sigh. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you are ridiculous?”

“Of course, Miss Elf,” he replied with a laugh. “It is part of my charm!”

“Charm,” she echoed. “I’m not sure that’s the word I would have used.” 

As she spoke, however, she reached up to hook a finger around one of his tusks, pulling him down to meet her upturned face. 

That’s one way to silence him, she thought, before being lost in the moment. 

*

“Wake up, you oaf!”

“I refuse.”

Tsuuli’s breath puffed against Lyrinde’s neck, and she could feel a deep rumbling hum emanating from his chest, though it was very nearly sub-vocal. He clung to her like a barnacle on a ship; arms wrapped around her middle, and a leg draped over hers, pinning her in his embrace. 

She was actually terribly, horribly comfortable, and could’ve luxuriated in such a position for a couple more hours at least. But, dawn was breaking, and she needed to prepare for her rescue party’s arrival. 

Tsuuli could not be there when they came. She shuddered to think at what might happen if he were. 

“Lyrinde,” he mumbled into her skin. 

“Yes?”

“Lyrinde,” he repeated, nuzzling behind her ear. 

“Tsuuli,” she said with a little huff. 

He finally loosened his grip enough so she could begin to extract herself from the tangle of his limbs. When she was free, she turned where she sat to look at him, still laying on his side and watching her. 

He reached a hand out, and ran a finger along her jawline. “You will write to me, yes?”

She thought to just say yes, with no intention of doing so. 

“I—”

He sat up to face her, and leaned in, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. “I will write to you,” he said. “You may reply if you wish.”

“I—I would like to,” she blurted, a little too forcefully. She felt heat in her cheeks. Ridiculous, she thought, frowning. She hadn’t felt shame at facing a would-be enemy while fully nude, but the prospect of corresponding with someone made her stomach flutter? And someone with whom she’d already been extremely intimate? 

She shook her head and stood, bouncing on her toes to get the blood flowing into her sleep-heavy limbs. Tsuuli stood as well, shaking out her camp blanket and rolling it neatly, before stooping to do the same with the bedroll. Lyrinde watched him work, efficient and tidy, seemingly at odds with his somewhat goofy personality. 

But he -is- a Zandalari paladin, not some common townsman, or foot soldier, she reminded herself. 

As she watched him take the bedding to her pack, securing it in place, she decided she could make an effort. It wouldn’t hurt anything, after all, to write a few letters. It would break up the post-war monotony once she was back in Stormwind at least. 

Right?

“You really must be going home now,” she began. Tsuuli turned to face her, tall and imposing as he was, looking grave; accepting her statement for the inevitable truth. 

He let a breath out, not quite a sigh, but suggesting one. “Yes,” he agreed, “I suppose it is time.”

He turned to face the cave entrance and walked towards Lixahl, stopping to give her a scratch behind the ear. Lyrinde walked up next to him, watching him keenly. 

He faced her, and drew in a breath. “Lyrinde,” he began. 

She cut him off, reaching up and pulling him down by the neck, standing on her toes to reach him better, kissing the breath out of him. Her fingers found their way into his hair, bumping against the golden circlet he wore, threading through the thick strands to hold him where she wanted him better, anchoring herself as he wound his arms around her and let her take all she wanted. 

When she finally relented, sinking back down onto her heels and ducking her head as he stood upright again, she said, into his chest, “Write me, and I will write you back.” 

She splayed her hands on his sides, slid them to his stomach and pushed herself a step back, finally looking up at him again. “I will be expecting a letter when I arrive in Stormwind.”

Tsuuli smiled at her, and she was charmed. Reluctantly charmed, but charmed all the same. 

*

“‘Twas a lucky landing spot, it was!”

Lyrinde hummed agreement as the Wildhammer agents strapped Lixahl into the special harness they’d brought to airlift the felbat to the ship. She’d attempted to help, to keep herself occupied when they first arrived, but she’d been very politely shunted off to the side so they could do their work properly without her getting in the way. 

Gryphon rescue wasn’t entirely unexpected, and she did like the fierce dwarves, but she still found her mind wandering. Most of all, she wanted to figure out why she was, well, mooning over a troll, of all people. 

She sighed. 

“Don’t worry lass, the ol’ girl will be just fine and well get ‘er back to the stable master to get fixed up in no time.”

“Thank you,” Lyrinde replied, firmly giving herself a mental shake. 

No time for distractions. The dwarves were finishing up their flight preparations, and it was time to leave Zandalar, and everyone in it, for good. 

*

Epilogue 

After the third try, Lyrinde finally slotted the key into the keyhole of the door to her rooms. She’d been waylaid nearly an hour and a half ago, getting stopped for drinks and chatter in the inn’s tavern. After several rounds with some friends as well as some new faces, she retrieved her key from the innkeeper and made a stumbling retreat. 

She was happy for the warm welcome and the company, but she was tired. 

She’d only spent a couple days in Kul Tiras before the long journey by ship back to the Eastern Kingdoms, and finally, finally into Stormwind harbor. With no upcoming missions, and orders only to, “Get some rest, champion!” she fully intended to spend at least a couple days lounging in or near her bed. 

Dropping her bags inside the door and tapping the rune on the wall that activated the room’s soft, magical lamps, she locked up behind herself, fully intending to fall flat on her face into the newly refreshed bedding. 

She started towards the bedroom to do just that, when something caught her eye—a stack of letters on her table. She wasn’t surprised the staff would’ve brought her mail in when they were preparing her rooms for her return, but that she had mail at all. Unless—

—unless Tsuuli really did write to her. 

She honestly thought he wouldn’t, despite his insistence. She’d thought he was caught up in the moment, probably hadn’t bedded many women lately what with the war in his own homeland. She thought he was just eager for companionship and the coincidence of their meeting along with his, well, if she was being honest with herself, both of their desire for a release, no matter if it was a one-time and done, was a lucky happenstance. Lucky their meeting ended with mutual pleasure, and not with bloodshed. 

She’d put away all the inconvenient feelings she’d felt at his kind words, infectious smile, and soft touches. Had decided it would just be a memory, and perhaps a scandalous war story to tell at a pub, at some future date, further away from the actual conflict. 

Bah, she thought, giving herself a shake. You’re soft when you’re drunk. 

She snatched the mail, rifled through it, and found that there was some correspondence from friends she’d made in Stormsong Valley, and even Nazjatar. And two letters that were curiously postmarked, with no discernable return address. She concentrated her slightly wavy vision, and it seemed they bore stamps through— 

“Booty Bay! The goblins!”

She covered her mouth in surprise at her vocal outburst, then kicked off her shoes on her way to the bedroom, carrying the letters with her. She flopped on the bed, squinted at the dates on the envelopes, and cracked the seal on the older of the two, only half paying attention to the image of a roaring tiger’s face stamped in the gold wax, and unfolded the pages inside. She then settled further into her bedding and began to read, a smile on her face.

[permanentcrossfics]

Blurred Lines Part 3 // h.s.

This kinda just keeps… growing. Think this is the last of their forward moving journey for now, but never say never. I’ve struggled to find time and energy to tie this up for a few weeks now – sorry about the delay. Enjoy x

“Hello?”

“Hey.” Harry cleared his throat. “You busy?”

“Just got in.” Your keys clattered in the background. “What’s up? Good day?”

Yeah, but that wasn’t why he was calling. “Know I should’ve checked with you first, but turnabout’s fair play.”

You were silent and he swallowed before continuing, “Booked a flight today. Was wondering if you’d mind if….”

Silence. For as long as it lasted, he wondered if he’d fucked up.

“When?”

Harry’s shoulders sagged and he exhaled. “A month,” he said. “I was thinking maybe two weeks. Stowaway in your flat, f’you’ll have me. Can always kick me out.”

You laughed and he wound the hand that wasn’t holding the phone into a fist. “So, you’ll let me?” Harry’s face screwed up, bracing himself for your answer.

“What am I going to say?” you asked. “‘No’?”

Read NOW on Patreon // Tumblr // Wattpad 

The short time you’d been in London had, poetically, been the best of times and the worst of times. For the first day after you left, Harry kept finding proverbial footprints of your presence — the tube of toothpaste you’d left on his counter, the knife that wasn’t in the spot he would’ve put it, some of your hair on his jumpers to go with the smell of your shampoo that seemed to be part of the fibers of the yarn at the collars. When he first got back from the airport, he’d held his favorite one in his hands and stared it down, weighing the decision of whether to throw it, his sheets, and the rest of the traitors that reminded him you weren’t there in the washing machine before sighing heavily and tucking it away undisturbed.

It was at least a week before the smell rubbed out of the collar, and no longer than one month and eleven days until he was sitting in his kitchen, phone pressed to his ear and a lump for an Adam’s apple, listening to the ringing and calculating what time it was for you. You should be done with work, so—

“Hello?”

“Hey.” Harry cleared his throat. “You busy?”

“Just got in.” Your keys clattered in the background. “What’s up? Good day?”

Yeah, but that wasn’t why he was calling. “Know I should’ve checked with you first, but turnabout’s fair play.”

You were silent and he swallowed before continuing, “Booked a flight today. Was wondering if you’d mind if….”

Silence. For as long as it lasted, he wondered if he’d fucked up.

“When?”

Harry’s shoulders sagged and he exhaled. “A month,” he said. “I was thinking maybe two weeks. Stowaway in your flat, f’you’ll have me. Can always kick me out.”

You laughed and he wound the hand that wasn’t holding the phone into a fist. “So, you’ll let me?” Harry’s face screwed up, bracing himself for your answer.

“What am I going to say?” you asked. “‘No’?”

If the month between when you’d left and when he’d made the call had been long, the month until he flew out of Heathrow and landed in Philadelphia to avoid the city airports was even longer. His leg shook the whole drive to Manhattan, and by the time he got out, bags over his shoulder and under his eyes, he was so exhausted he could be knocked over with hardly a huff or a puff.

Stil, though, when you embraced him, he managed to stay still long enough to squeeze you close, nose buried in the scent of the shampoo that had long since faded from his jumpers.

“You must be tired,” you mumbled against his neck and he nodded wordlessly but didn’t make a move to let go of you. You stepped back first and pulled the strap of his bag from his shoulder. “Do you want to shower before dinner?”

“Might be nice.” It would be, and it was sorely needed, but he wrapped his hands around your forearms again. “C’mere….”

One kiss. Just one to say hello and to make him feel like his two months of penance for a crime he couldn’t name were over.

“Go,” you said into the kiss. “Before the food gets here and cold.”

“What food?”

“I ordered.” You pushed his chest. “Go!”

He always had to crouch awkwardly under your shower to wet the top of his head, and it always took him longer to wash up and rinse off with all the extra maneuvering he had to do, but after the flight, he couldn’t care less, and when he got out, he rolled his neck while drying his hair with the towel. Sweats, bare feet, and a hoodie to bear the frigid temperature of your air conditioned studio was the uniform for the night, and he tapped the light off before shuffling out and sniffing.

“Tacos?” he asked.

You nodded from your counter, unpacking a paper bag. “Two tacos, two quesadillas, nachos, guacamole….” You lifted out the final container. “And churros.”

Harry groaned weakly, hand on his stomach. “After my heart, you are.”

You smiled softly and he picked up the remote for the Roku. “Forget how your buttons always stick a bit,” he said, jamming down hard with his thumb.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, turning this way and that. “Where’s the—?”

“You’ve been watching without me!”

“Hmm?”

He gestured towards the television.

“I didn’t know I was waiting for you,” you said. “How was I supposed to know you’d turn up?”

“Gonna have to pick up where we left off,” he said, tapping your ass with the remote when you skirted by with plates of food, making you yelp.

“Ass,” you said and he grinned, bending to grab a quesadilla triangle.

Pick up indeed — it was like the last two months apart had never happened and you’d both been asleep for a very long time and woken up in a different city on the other side of the ocean. You snuggled into his side and the sense of urgency was at absolute zero. There was time — all the time in the world for you, and just you, and you could take your time to eat, and chat, and watch television, and clean up, and crawl into bed at the end of the night. Yours was smaller than his, but he found himself not minding at all in his dizzy delirium when you were practically half on top of him, legs linked and torsos wedged just so.

“See you in the morning,” he whispered.

You nodded against his chest and scratched it lightly with your blunt fingernails.

***

Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a proper holiday, let alone one where he was on his own. This, he reasoned, must be what Dotty felt like waiting for his mum to get home from her outings. Every weeknight, he waited for your text that said you were leaving the office, and he busied himself with either cooking you dinner or picking up a takeaway. Cafe Habana was his first stop — a bicoastal taste test was how he explained it when you’d arched an eyebrow at him — but he also treated you to one of his curries and a roast that lasted for days. He got used to gauging your mood and determining if he should pop open a bottle of wine to pour you one a glass, and on nights he did, it took all of two sips before you were spilling your frustrations. He couldn’t keep up with the nameless, faceless people of a world he didn’t know, but he nodded and interjected his agreements appropriately, and when you slumped into him at the end of the night, he crossed his fingers that he’d done his job well.

The weekend was reserved for both of you together. It rained on Saturday, and he spent the morning peeling you out of your pajamas to fuck you slowly as rain pelted the glass panes that thunder shook. Not urgently going at it like time was running out, but there was a definite air of making up for lost time. It wasn’t until the storm cleared in time for the sun to set that you brought up the idea of venturing out.

“We could go to the park,” you said.

“Now?”

You shivered when he stroked your bare arm and curled closer. “Not now,” you said. “Tomorrow. We could bring a board game or some books. Make a few sandwiches for brunch….”

“People might think m’your boyfriend or summat. F’we do that— oomph.” He grunted when you pushed down on his solar plexus.

“Don’t be a dick,” you groused.

“M’not!” he said. “They would, wouldn’t they?”

You scowled and a slow grin spread over his face.

“Shut up,” you said.

“Didn’t say anything,” he said.

Every weekday, after you’d dressed and gotten yourself together  and escaped his kisses, he stood in your place and absorbed the silence, entirely at a loss for what to do.

Mostly he went to the markets — Chelsea Market, the Farmers’ Market in Union Square, and back again — and the parks. Those were riskier than the markets because people didn’t have their noses in goods to try to get the best for their money, and he rather liked being in the city without streams of people trickling after him, but with a pair of sunglasses on and his hood up, he was more or less innocuous. Galleries were another favorite — they were empty in the morning, and he’d walk the highline after popping into a few to see the trends. Restaurants were out of the question unless he was picking up to take back to your place, and he usually did this at about 2:00 in the afternoon, which left him with a chunk of time during which he had absolutely nothing to do and he flitted between television, writing, and dropping off for a nap. It was, he told you, the laziest he’d been since the sleepy summers of his adolescence before he was old enough to work.

“That’s the point,’ you whispered, tangled up with him and the duvet pulled up over your shoulders.

“M’twenty-five!” he slurred indignantly. “Got more t’do with my life than—”

“It’s good for you to relax,” you said. “Stop worrying about doing it all — it’ll be there when you go back.”

God help him he loved you dearly, but that was easier said than done.

No work — he’d promised you — but he cracked one afternoon and opened his laptop to log into his work email. The window was open on the first cool day the entire time he’d been there, and he was tapping away at the keys when your lock clicked and he froze. Seconds later, your door open and his head snapped up just as you slipped through the door. You were casual, timeless, and summary in jeans and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to your elbows, and, bag in hand and sunglasses on your head, you set your keys down before kicking off your flats.

“Bit early, innit?” Harry asked, hastily clicking out of his draft and shutting his laptop. You smiled almost nervously with shining eyes while setting your sunglasses down, and instantly he sat up some. “You ok?”

“Yes,” you murmured short of breath. You strode towards him, popping the button of your jeans, and you pulled his laptop off his legs and set it on the table before straddling his lap and his hands fell to your thighs to steady you.

“That’s alright, then,” he mumbled just before you kissed him. Deep, warm, he leaned into it and groaned his offense when you broke away.

“I couldn’t focus.” You took a deep breath and he gulped. “All I could think was I didn’t want to—” You kissed him again— “mmph… leave this morning, but I did, and I just wanted to come home, because I—” Another kiss, deeper and longer, and you sighed. “I don’t usually have someone waiting here.”

“S’a good thing,” he said. “Might have a few questions f’you did.”

You ignored his cheek and continued. “And I couldn’t think why I’ve spent the last two weeks you were here at work,” you moaned. “And you’ll be going, and—” You swallowed and shook your head, thighs squeezing around him. He was hyper aware of your weight and the solid feeling of you on top of him, and he was listening to you, he swore he was, but he was also doing his damnedest to try to keep his blood flowing instead of funneling to a head.

So to speak.

“Still here for a bit more,” he said.

“But only a bit.”

You plucked the buttons on your white button-down and his mouth went dry when his eyes dropped to watch the tantalizing bit of skin he’d had his eye on this morning become more exposed. “And you—“ you swallowed. “You came here for me.”

“Came to London for me, didn’t you?”

Whimpering, you shook your head, face crumbling, and pulled your shirttails out of your jeans. “No, that’s not… that’s not the same, that’s not—“ You whined and covered your face.

“Ok, hey,” he breathed. “Shh, shh, shh, it’s… s’alright.”

“I just—” You tugged your shirt half heartedly down one arm and he licked his lips, trying to will himself to stay focused where it mattered, but…. “I’ve been waiting all day, and I don’t want to wait anymore.”

“K,” he said dumbly and your chest heaved when you laughed. You cupped his cheeks and tilted his head back to force him to look you in the eyes, but rather than looking cross, you were glowing. Your throat bobbed and your mouth moved soundlessly before you got it out.

“I love you.”

Harry let out a breath like you’d taken a pin to his lungs. “Oh,” he said. “Well, that’s… Yeah, me too.”

Giggling under your breath, you shrugged your shirt off the rest of the way and, weak as he was, his eyes dropped again.

“I love you,” you repeated. “I love you, I—“

“Love me, yeah,” he said, drawing you in by the back of your neck to kiss you properly again. You groaned, fingers digging into his face, and the kiss grew increasingly heated when you pulled his T-shirt. Once you’d gotten it over his head, you stood and pulled your zipper down before shimmying out of your jeans while he struggled with the knot he’d tied in the drawstring for his joggers. “Shit,” he whispered, fumbling and plucking. “Shit, please… there.” He forcibly pulled them down his hips just as you dropped your underwear and kicked them from around your ankles, and his feet his the ground with a thud when he sat up and leaned forward, reaching for you.

“C’mere,” he said, holding you steady when you swung one leg over his lap.

“Wait… wait…” you panted. You nearly toppled backwards in an effort to hook your leg behind him, and you pulled a face when you attempted to do the same with the other.

“What’re y’doing?” Harry asked, fumbling with you on top of him. “Watch it, watch—”

“I’m trying to—” You grunted when you finally managed to lock both your legs behind his lower back and he held onto you for dear life, keeping you precariously balanced on his knees. “There,” you breathed triumphantly, looping your arms around his shoulders. “There,” you repeated, leaning in to press your mouth to his in a slow kiss, moaning into it. Harry exhaled shakily through his nose, cock on your stomach, hard, but growing harder. The selfish part of his brain was clamoring, wondering when he’d get to get in you, and the valiant part of him pushed back weakly because he could stand to take two minutes to kiss you, couldn’t he? Despite that, relief flooded him when you wrapped your hand around him and pumped slowly before lifting up a bit. A groan died halfway up his throat when you first pressed his head against you before the whole tip of him slid inside.

“Easy!” he rasped when you squeaked and nearly fell back. “Really making this difficult, aren’t you?”

“You can take it,” you slurred and he barked a single laugh and grit his teeth when you shifted forward. “There!” you gasped. “There, see? Oh God….”

Harry’s lip curled. Yes, there. Chest to chest with him and balls deep, pelvis pressed tightly against his, his knees shaking from how hard he was tensing his thighs for you. Not that he’d mind terribly if you took time off for him, but he’d prefer not having to explain to the doctor how you got the concussion. When you first rocked forward, a look of pure bliss on your face, he wound his arms tighter around your torso, hands spread wide across your shoulder blades.

“God, you feel good,” you whispered between pants, grunting when you ground against him more forcefully. “Ah!”

“Yeah?” He nudged upwards once, twice, and a third time, and legs locked around his back and arms hanging over his shoulders, your head tipped and you let out a throaty call close to agony.

“Harry! Oh!”

“Got me up to my balls, don’t you?” He grit his teeth, hand slipping against your back. “Shit! Got me.. got… oh fuck…”

“Please!” Your hips undulated quick, hard, mindlessly in their reason, and he could swear he was getting a cramp in his glutes from the force he was using to meet them. “Please, please, please, please--”

“M’here!” he groaned. “M’here, I’m here, I’m… I’m....”

His eyes rolled up when you leaned forward, chin on his shoulder and nails digging in hard, shuddering and panting wetly against his skin between incomprehensible mumbles. Pressing his own mouth against your skin, he held you close with one arm while his other hand slunk between you both. “Lemme help,” he muttered when you hiccoughed and your thighs tightened. “Lemme help, love, lemme….”

Chest heaving against his, you grappled his back as he stroked your clit, and after a few strong pulses of your cunt around his cock, you tensed and trembled, contracting quickly around him and sucking in sharp breaths.

“HarryHarryHarry…!”

“Christ!” he ground out, eyes burning from the flood of wetness. He picked up his thrusts, the sloppy sound of it music to his ears. He had the fleeting thought to not let go of you no matter what before he squeezed his eyes shut and he let out a shout against your shoulder, toes curled, thighs shaking, and balls tight as every rope of cum spurted high and deep inside of you.

“That’s it!” he said, voice reedy. “Oh, s’my girl!” Harry fell against the sofa, wincing when your ankles dug into his lower back. “Ouch!” He laughed under his breath and you apologized under yours, squirming before slumping against him in defeat.

When breathing had slowed and limbs had goose bumps from the chill of dried sweat, untangling yourselves was a chore. His heart about leapt from his throat when you nearly fell sideways on wobbly legs. “Watch it!”

“I’m ok.” You gulped, grabbing him to steady yourself. “I’m ok, just—“ You laughed and teetered again. “Let go,” you said. “I’m f-fine, I’ll be fine….”

Stumbling like a foal, you made your way to the loo and he sat there, a dopey smile growing increasingly broader. He’d heard it, hadn’t he? What you’d said? Hadn’t made that up when he was lost in a daze staring at your tits?

The shower turned on and he lay there listening until it shut off. Moments later, you strolled out wrapped in a towel and he watched you cross the room to his duffle bag.

“Why is it I’m never allowed to have a shower after?” he asked. Wordlessly and paying him no mind, you unzipped his bag. “What d’you need?”

You answered him by pulling a jumper out and burying your nose in it before scurrying back to the toilet. When you reappeared, you had it on, hood up, and you shuffled towards the sofa to settle in next to him.

“What f’I wanted to wear that?”

You looked at him, eyes wide, and his heart twinged. “Don’t look a’me like that,” he muttered, throwing his arm around your shoulder and drawing you in close. He kissed your temple and you slung your arm over his midsection, turning your nose into his skin and taking a deep breath.

“It’s early still,” you said.

“Yeah, it is.” He stroked your arm through the jumper and you shivered. “Could watch something.”

“We could.”

Neither of you made to move, and it was several minutes later when you said, “Harry?” and pulled him from his doze.

“Yeah?” He smacked his lips and looked at you, momentarily seeing double. “What is it?” he asked when you didn’t say anything.

“Nothing.”

He grunted and his eyes drifted shut again.

“Harry?”

Without moving, he answered with, “Yeah?”

“Do I have to say it? For you to know how I…?”

He opened his eyes and braced himself before asking, “D’you have to say you love me?”

“Yeah.”

Swallowing, Harry said, “No… s’pose not.”

You grunted softly and settled against him again.

“But it’s kinda nice,” he added. “Innit?”

“You didn’t say it back.”

Small, unassuming, and not at all accusatory, but it stung the worst and made him cower.

“Sure I did,” he said. “Told you ‘me too’, didn’t I?”

You shrugged.

“Said it first, too.”

“Said what first?”

“You know.” His mouth was dry and he cleared his throat. “That I love you.”

“So, what does that mean?”

Harry bristled. “Means I said it, and I said it first,” he said. “I won.”

You gasped. “You did not!”

“Don’t remember it another way, do you? Ouch!”

You pinched his hip and made to sit up but he pulled you back. “Quit it, I’m leaving aren’t I?”

“Not for a bit,” you echoed him but settled down. “I hate you.”

“Thin line, innit?”

“Shut up.”

Smiling, he pressed a long kiss to the top of your head, lips smacking when he stopped, and he smoothed his hand over the spot. “Some of us are trying t’have a kip, y’know,” he murmured.

“You should get clothes on.” Still, you didn’t move, and his mouth twitched.

“S’just my dick. You’ve seen it before.”

***

“Don’t go.”

Harry’s face screwed up and his hands fisted in the plain t-shirt he was rolling up to stuff in his bag. Your arms were locked tighter than a python around his waist and his back absorbed every one of your choked breaths. This was the question he’d been fearfully waiting for with each passing day, and now they were both here.

“Baby, please....” he uttered weakly in a single breath.

“Please,” you repeated back to him. “Please, please, please.”

With stiff fingers, he peeled yours back and gripped them tightly to keep you from fastening even tighter to him, and he turned until he was face to face with you. It was worse looking at you, and with your eyes closed, you seemed to agree.

“Don’t do this t’me,” he moaned, throwing his shirt behind and smoothing his palms over your cheeks. Your mouth twisted.

“You could stay,” you said. “You could—”

Heart squeezed tightly in his chest, Harry kissed your forehead hard.

To say it was a breakdown would be putting it lightly.

“Not sick of me yet?” he asked as an attempt to patch the situation with humor and you shook your head. “I can come back,” he said.

“When?” you asked flatly.

“As soon as I can,” he said.

“You’re doing things,” you said. “You’re about to—“

“I know,” he said. “And I’ll be back here then, won’t I? Just like old times? Could meet you at that dodgy spot after.”

You sighed, eyes wet when you opened them and mouth trembling, and he cleared his throat. “Yeah, I know,” he said thickly. “C’mere.”

You tucked your head into the crook of his neck and he squeezed you tightly to him.

“It didn’t used to be this….”

“Be this what?”

You grunted and he chuckled. “Yeah, well… things change.” He paused, heart thrumming in his ears. “And… they could change again. You never know.”

“Change how?” you asked, voice muffled.

Harry licked his lips. “You know,” he said. “Depends on how much y’liked London. Did you?”

“Yes….”

“Yeah, so. F’you liked it, then… I dunno, s’just a maybe, innit? I like it here, too. Or maybe we could like--”

“What are you talking about?”

Harry huffed. “M’saying we might not always have to travel f’we wanna see each other -- d’you get it now?”

“Maybe.”

Snorting, he kissed the top of your head.

“Shut up.”