#it brings me visceral pain when i see how much effort it took to make the same pieces that barely get any commentary like GOSH

[yuriyuruandyuraart]

YURI. YURI

YOUR TAGS ARE KILLING ME MAN AUGH

Like I’m just sitting here getting smacked in the face over and over by your compliments on my art aughhh you can’t do this to me /pos/pos/pos

Thank you so much dude wawawa

dude trust me when i say i legitimately feel insulted whenever i see my favorite artists get lower than 60 notes on their works like!!! you're KIDDING ME guys how can you just bypass that and not reblog it??? COWARDS<33333

[kuroopaisen]

dawn. (sakusa kiyoomi)

➵  even monsters should have someone to bring them flowers.

wc: 3k

warnings: gn!reader, vampire!sakusa, visceral depiction of raw meat?

a/n: the biggest of thank yous to ren, as usual :( she doesn’t even like fantasy aus and yet she’s beta’d a fair chunk of them. as always, her advice is invaluable, and she helped polish this into something worthwhile. 

A note on the table.

The only sign you’d been here. That, and your lingering scent – warm, golden, comforting. 

He was almost sad that he’d missed you.

But the words in your letter would have to tide him over until your next conversation.

“Good morning! I hope you are well-rested this evening. I have left this meat here as requested. I couldn’t help but wonder what dishes you make with it. Are you much of a cook? If not, I am happy to try and prepare something for you. I cannot guarantee that it will be to your taste, but I will try my best!”

He let his eyes linger on it for a moment. He wondered how his chest might feel, if he was fully alive. Tight, maybe. Fuzzy.

Now, the thrum of emotions just made his senses sharper.

And that made him uncomfortable.

He turned his eyes to the parcel sitting to the side of your note.

He unwrapped the paper packaging with a trembling gloved hand.

The ripest cut of the belly. It sat in a pool of its own liquids, a crimson slab marbled with white. He knew that there wasn’t a sufficient amount of blood in it – but it’s all he could handle. All he could stomach. 

He took a deep breath. The air in his lungs did nothing for him, but some habits were harder to break than others, even if it had been a couple hundred years. 

He picked up the meat with both hands, holding it just shy of his mouth. His face crinkled as the scent filled his nose, putrid, offensive, intoxicating. 

It’s disgusting. But it’s what he had to do.

He sunk his fangs into the meat, the damp flesh pressing against his chin. He could feel the juices running down his chin, and he shivered. His eyes fluttered shut, perhaps in some attempt to steel himself. 

It’s not blood. It wouldn’t sustain him.

Instead, it would just make him sick.

This meat, this scant amount of blood threaded throughout it, wasn’t enough to sustain him. But he’d rather go hungry than go out for a hunt, either for animal or human.

The thought was absolutely abhorrent, both in its ethicality and hygiene.

This meat was not enough to sustain him. But it would stave off the hunger, at least for a few days. At least until the next slab of meat, when he would feel this all again.

He’s trembling as he drank, hoping, wishing that it would be over soon.

A loud gasp sliced through the kitchen.

Sakusa tore his fangs out of the meat, his head whipping around.

You were stood in the doorway, eyes wide and hands clamped over your mouth.

At your feet laid a bunch of sunflowers.

You stared at each other for a long moment.

What was he supposed to do? To say?

He knew what he looked like. Sharp fangs poking through his lips, red staining his chin, the veins running along his jaw dark beneath his skin as he fed.

“Sakusa, sir…” There was a tremble in your voice. He despised the sound.

“Get out.”

“Sir—”

“Get out.”

You knew now. You knew that he was a monster. That he was disgusting. You’d seen it with your own eyes – eyes full of terror. Eyes he’d never wanted to look at him like that.

You waited for just a moment. And then you were gone.

Sakusa let the meat fall out of his hands and plop onto the wrapping. His appetite had entirely disappeared despite the fact he wasn’t nourished. He closed his eyes, trying to round up his whirling thoughts. 

You’d seen him. You’d seen him in all his disgrace. You’d seen him as the monster he was. 

He swallowed roughly, turning his gaze to the doorway. 

The sunflowers were where you’d dropped them, scattered across the floor.

Were they why you’d come back? You shouldn’t have been here. You should’ve left after finishing your jobs.

But it was just like you to bring him flowers on a whim.

He sighed, stalking over to them and picking them up with a grimace. The least he could do was to give them some water.

✧ ✧

Vampires didn’t need sleep, but Sakusa liked to pretend he did anyway.

He always had. He just did his best to quiet his mind, lying under his covers as he waited for the hours to ebb by. He couldn’t leave the house during the day; if he tried, he would simply shrivel up and crumble in the sun.

He’d tried facing the sun, once. The burn had been unlike any pain he’d felt before.

And yet sometimes he'd leave the curtains open, just a crack. And he'd lie on the couch, watching the light filter in. Sometimes, he'd even let himself remember what the sun felt like.

But every evening, he had to ‘wake’ as the sun set, watching the light shrink away from him.

That evening though, something was different. Something shook him from his self-induced slumber with an abrupt shock.

That scent. Blood.

He shot to his feet, head whipping around in the direction of the smell. It was heavy, oppressive, so thick that he couldn’t think of anything else.

He stumbled into the kitchen, hoping, begging that he might find some relief.

In the middle of the kitchen table sat a bucket. Sakusa took a series of slow, laboured steps towards it, gripped by some half-conscious fear.

A letter laid next to it, written in a familiar scrawl.

“Sir, I admit that I am confused as to how to comprehend what I saw yesterday, but if my suspicions are correct, then I believe this will do you more good than a simple cut of meat. If my imagination has gotten away from me, then simply ignore this – my father told me that mixing this into the dirt makes for a fantastic fertiliser.”

Had you really brought him a whole bucket of blood? There was more than enough here to sustain him for a week – maybe even two. How had you gotten your hands on it? How had you snuck it into his house? How had you felt, lugging this foul liquid all the way to his estate?

He closed his eyes, trying to quell the thoughts tearing through his mind.

He looked into the bucket. A dark shadow stared back.

He’d forgotten what he looked like. He’d forgotten how his dark, curly hair framed his face, how two dark moles crowned his forehead, how dark and deep his eyes were.

This was the monster you’d seen savaging a slab of meat in the kitchen. This was the monster that you’d somehow gotten your hands on a bucket of blood for. This was the monster you’d given a reprieve.

On the other side of the bucket sat a vase of sunflowers; the ones he had arranged the other day. He could swear they looked fresher than yesterday.  

✧ ✧

That awful, intoxicating scent.

He had awoken to that small three times this week. But on that Monday morning, he wanted to see you. To ask you the questions that had been hounding him through his days. 

He stood at the far end of the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest as he slouched against the wall. 

You were humming to yourself as you walked in, your knuckles blanching as they gripped onto the handle of a deep bucket. 

You flinched as you caught sight of him, your eyes wide and owlish. The jolt caused the blood to slosh around in the bucket. Sakusa feared, for a moment, that it would splash on the floor.

You placed the bucket on the floor and bowed sharply.

“Where did you get that?” Sakusa asked, his voice low and sharp. He suspected that you would interpret his tone as an angry one. In truth, he was frightened more than anything. Frightened of how this conversation could go. 

You straightened up, fixing your eyes on him. They were still wide, still afraid. It almost looked like they’d pop out of your skull. “The butcher… they drain the caracsses before, you know…”

Ah. Your body language, your scent. It all screamed of discomfort. Distress, even. Of course you would feel that way, talking of such things. You were much too sweet for such talk.  

This was his fault.

But you continued.

“So, when I saw you in the kitchen that day, I thought that…” You finally dropped your gaze. He was grateful.

“I know,” he murmured. “I read your note.”

You looked up at him again, a new expression on your face. He realised, not without some surprise, that it wasn’t fear. Perhaps something closer to hesitation.

“You were quick to make such an assumption,” he muttered, looking up at the ceiling. Sakusa wouldn’t lie to you; not when you’d gone through all this effort for him. Though, perhaps he should tell you that it was safe for you to leave his employ, if you wished.

“Well, it didn’t come out of nowhere, did it?” You smiled gently, tilting your head at him.

His head snapped around as he raised an eyebrow at you.

You giggled. It didn’t sound intentional, and you cut it off quickly. But he was glad to have heard it. 

“You’re most active at night, you seem to actively avoid the sunlight, you’ve always kept a distance between us…” There was a hum in your voice. A pleasant sound, but an out-of-place one.

He frowned. Your last piece of evidence had little to do with his affliction, but he wasn’t about to point that out. He would’ve kept that distance regardless; perhaps he would be even more stringent with it, if he was still human. But it was of no matter.

“So, you’ve suspected I was a monster for a while,” Sakusa sighed. “And yet you kept coming back?”

You bit your lip, folding your hands in front of you.

He scoffed. “That was foolish of you.”

“Well, I…” You swallowed, scratching the back of your neck. “I… I thought you seemed lonely.”

Something about those words set his heart aflame. Him? Lonely? What right did you have to say something like that?

“And… and you’ve never tried to hurt me,” you mumbled, interrupting the rage swelling in his chest. “If you wanted to… to drink my blood, or, or…” You took a deep breath, closing your eyes. “Well, you would have done that by now, wouldn’t you?”

You’d been tending to his house for the better part of a year. The longest anyone had.

He just frowned, looking away from you.

But you weren’t done.

“And… well, you wanted me to bring you meat, right? Which means… you probably weren’t hurting anyone else,” you bit your lip, tilting your head at him. “It may be foolish of me, but… I didn’t want to judge you for what you are.”

“For being a monster, you mean?” Sakusa snarled.

He couldn’t stop himself. He hadn’t meant to be so harsh, but he knew he sounded repulsive. He wanted to push you, to stop you from looking any closer. From seeing how horrible he truly was.

You looked at him for a painfully long moment. A moment he wished would shatter.

“You’re not a monster.”

“I’m disgusting.” A hiss. A baring of fangs. Responses made on instinct.

“And yet you won’t feed on humans,” you murmured, eyes scanning his face.

He faltered. Were the fangs not enough to make you turn and run? Was the bucket of blood at your feet not enough to make your stomach churn?

“Would a monster hold back like that?”

Would they? He couldn’t say.

“And besides,” you said, taking a tentative step towards him. When he didn’t move, you picked up the bucket and made your way for the kitchen table. You heaved the bucket onto it with a little grunt.

 “Even monsters should have someone to bring them flowers,” you smiled, nodding at the centre of the table. A vase, playing host to a small bunch of sunflowers.

“I see you haven’t brought any today,” he murmured, his eyebrows knitting together.

“I knew I wouldn’t need to,” you replied easily, leaning over to feel one of the petals. “You always look after them so well.”

He finally looked at you. You had the softest of smiles on your face. You didn’t look scared, or appalled, or upset. You were the perfect picture of contentment – just someone admiring the simple beauty of a flower.

A flower he had been responsible for nurturing.

Perhaps, there was still some humanity in him.

The thought was almost as soothing as your smile.

✧ ✧

You were terrified.

There were many whispers about Sakusa, and you’d heard them all. Even before you’d taken over the job of tending to his household, you were well-acquainted with the stories of this strange, pale man who lived alone in an excessively large mansion. A mansion that, except for a handful of peculiarities, was empty.

Previous housekeepers had nothing bad to say about him, but it was obvious they were unsettled by how strange he was. Apparently, he was a stickler for cleanliness. And yet, that wasn’t even the strangest thing about him.

You had almost decided not to take up the job, back when you’d first started. The thought of being in this big house alone with such a strange man had genuinely frightened you – but, as the story always goes, you needed the money.

After meeting Sakusa for the first time, you came to the conclusion that he probably wasn’t dangerous. Shy. Awkward. Intense. But not dangerous.

And maybe that really was foolish of you. That word had snuck back into your mind over and over, always in that harsh tone of his.

But you knew loneliness. It had carved a home inside you, a well so deep it could never overflow.

And in that strange, reticent man, you saw it. The face of a man who sheltered a deep, relentless loneliness; perhaps harsher and heavier than the one you knew. It was like he wanted to reach out, to find that sense of connection and understanding, and yet was too afraid to.  

Sakusa had never hurt you. He’d never made any move to seduce you, or trap you, or manipulate you. There were no stories of him having done that to anyone else either.

So, maybe you were being foolish. Maybe this was dangerous.

But you wanted to give him a chance. To extend a hand.

And that was why you had stayed later, with the intent of catching him.

You sat on the couch next to him in a tepid silence. You weren’t quite touching, but it was the closest he’d been to a human in a long, long time. He flinched, but he didn’t move away.

“May I?” You murmured, eyes flicking to the hands clenched in his lap.

Every instinct was screaming, a muddled cacophony of wants and fears.

Sakusa nodded, driven by something he didn’t quite understand. Something, perhaps, that he’d forgotten about long ago.

You gently took his hand in yours, easing the tension in his grip by running your thumb over the back of it.

“How long have you been like this?” You asked, looking right at him. You wanted him to know that you saw him, that you acknowledged him.

“Two hundred and forty-seven years.”

“Have you avoided people all that time?”

He looked away from you. In truth, he had avoided people long before he turned. 

You pressed your lips together, running your thumb over his knuckles. “Are there not… others like you?”

“There are,” he murmured. “And I want nothing to do with them.”

You bit back a smile, thoroughly amused by the dismissiveness in his tone. “Why?”

Sakusa frowned. The life of a vampire was invariably a life spent in solitude. As a rule, they weren’t the most social of creatures; and quite frankly, Sakusa was proud to be an outcast. But he wouldn’t bore you with the details.

“They’re all insufferable,” he mumbled.

You giggled. “How so?”

Sakusa pressed his lips together. There were many reasons to avoid covens; anxiety, petty politics, filth. Being around those who were just as disgusting as him – and who didn’t care about that. Who lived openly and freely as the monsters they were. Feeding on humans. Fighting amongst themselves.

Yes, covens sounded hellish.

But some part of him feared that maybe it was because he was afraid of connecting. Of reaching out. Of being seen – seen as the abhorrent creature that he was. To be around other vampires, to partake in their way of life, meant finally, truly facing the fact that he was a monster. That he was so, so far away from the human world.

From your world. You, who was sitting here with your hand wrapped around his.

“Why are you doing this?” He murmured, staring into the fire. The fireplace had been merely decorative until today. But he hoped that it was bringing you some warmth. He couldn’t tell how cold these early hours of the morning were. Everything was cold, to him.

“Doing what?” You asked, tilting your head at him.

He frowned. “Being so… so…”

He couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t shape them.

But you understood. He could tell, from the gentle look in your eyes.

“I want to get to know you,” you hummed, smiling at him.

He wanted to tell you that was foolish. That you were wasting your time. That he didn’t deserve you. But he had a feeling you would refute all of those points. That you’d smile and tell him that none of those things mattered. You were such a strange human.

“And,” you murmured, looking down at your entwined hands with a touch of red on your cheeks, “this might be selfish of me, but… I want to see you smile.”

And you got stranger. Every time you open your mouth, you would say something so odd. But it’s not unwelcomed.

He thought that you were something like the sun.

You gave off a certain warmth; the type that begot growth. It was a warmth that others could flourish in, that would give them the love and care that they needed. Perhaps this was the closest he would ever come to sunlight again.

Maybe he was ready to welcome the sun.

[border-spam]

Does troy really have a split jaw or is that fanon?

It's total fanon!

The design of the split lines across his cheekbones and chin coupled with the cheek clips and v shaped hinge outline next to his ears lead to a lot of people coming to that same outcome, that there is something up with his mouth from a prosthetic/mod standpoint.

So much of his design is never mentioned once or referenced in any way (hightech spinal rig with tattoos under it, neuro connector, mech arm that's much older and doesn't seem related to the spine and neuroport, implants on bicep, face mod etc) that like Tyreen's scars and possible lower body Siren markings, fandom took over when it came to coming up with logical explanations for 'em.

This actually touches ground with some Ao3 comments I wanted to share as they are all Leech Lord compliant, so I'll list them here alongside links to the fics they were related to (note warnings!)

You leave no avenue for characterization unexplored. Troy's facial prostheses finally receiving backstory is amazing

- Maw (Gore/Bodyhorror)

I LOVE the idea of it being not just decorative shit on his face, but my MO for any content I make is always based around asking why, over and over, and trying to make sense of what material I'm using in the first place. The modded mouth is a popular piece of fanon but you know... why? Why would he do that shit to himself. WHY would he want to be grotesque, why would he be chasing the reaction people would have to it when canonically he seems to really not be interested in fan attention the same way Tyreen is, what's the difference to him between being adored as his persona or being lusted after as a monster, etc. I just love deep-diving into the logic behind character and world building? It's what adds meat to the bone for me.

Big 'ol character and worldbuilding / lore responses list under the cut -

He could afford better robots but these ones UNDERSTAND Ty, don't you get it?

- Good night in (tooth rotting fluff)

Hey just because it's mangled and broken, and can't perform its intended function to a degree expected of it by everyone around it... and it's got rusty sharp bits it accidentally hurts you with sometimes... and it's cranky but it doesn't mean it... and sometimes it errors out in a way that's mildly disturbing in a way you can't place.. uh.. doesn't mean you should just GIVE UP ON IT you know? He can fix them :) They will be fine :) No one should just throw away something that's trying so hard just because it's damaged... haha... :')

It's so hard seeing how much they tear each other down when they're the only thing they have left. And what a poor self-image Tyreen has beyond all that glitter and bluster...

- Wolf in sheep's clothing

The twins function well enough as a unit till tensions rise, and I was trying to seed in The Leech's influence on them in earlier work like this too - towards anyone else Ty would become MORE aggressively confident, more assured in her complete and utter dominance of the situation, her flawlessness, but against Troy who see's her for what she is, it turns inwards and eats at her instead of lashing outwards. He switches from relatively submissive around her to almost surgical levels of dissection, he knows exactly how to go for the jugular with words, and doesn't hold back. She's The Leech's mouth but he's its eyes and it's only when they lose control emotionally enough for it to claw to the surface of their psyches that you get an idea of how much it really affects them individually. GB had an absolute goldmine on their hands here of cosmic/body horror and the concept of toxic family when all you have is each other, there's so much to work with, and I figure it's a factor in why some people still really enjoy messing around with Calypso content.

I like how you allow Troy to be a disabled character, how his congenital defects and prosthetics colour his outlook and appear in ways big and small in all these vignettes. It's easy, I think, to see him as largely untroubled by his health apart from when he needs a charge from Tyreen in the game, but you allow him to struggle with his weakness.

- Chronic (Drug use)

I'm really glad to hear that's coming through in the writing because it's something I noticed a lot too. Very often when Troy, or other characters canonically disabled / chronically unwell are written it's "told" and not "shown". Chronic pain, illness, it's not something that is just a little tickbox in a life or some descriptive terms added to a character synopsis, it's something you live and deal with. There are bad days. There are times it is a negative that has to be worked around or faced in ways that aren't pleasant. It doesn't make you lesser or weak to have times where illness does leave you unable to function to a level you want to, it's not a failure for you to be unable to perform tasks when a disability or flair up means it's not viable. I feel personally that by showing scenes like this where his health and body issues do have a very visceral and impossible to ignore the effect on his ability to function, and going through his mental processes of dealing with and managing them, it brings the character across as stronger than if he never seemed to be shown dealing with symptoms or weaknesses. People are more than their disabilities and conditions, those aren't just kinda taglines to add onto a character's description and then never address. I feel like doing that in a way undermines what people deal with who manage chronic illness, pain, and who have disabilities that affect their daily lives negatively. Appreciating the effort it takes to manage them is important.

What I really like about these is that you can really understand as a reader how their dynamic must have evolved. How even before Leda's death Tyreen would have felt demonized while Troy got the attention because of his condition, because he was less willful.

- Starlight, Moonbright

Ah man, absolutely - and that shit stayed with them. It wasn't his fault and he never wanted it, but of course their parents would have had their extremely ill child at the forefront of their thoughts, especially during weeks when he was.. bad. Tyreen by nature even without The Leech's influence is a little attention seeker, she'd be the life of any party and she BLOSSOMS if she's got the spotlight, but as a little kid who's got literally no one but her parents and her brother, and who all three of which can't give her nearly as much time as she deserved? That's rough. That's really unfair. That coupled with The Leech's warping effect on their egos as they grew up and the bitterness and resentment they harbored in different ways created a reverse dynamic. She'd never be out of the Galaxy's attention again, and he'd have no choice but to take his rightful place in her shadow.

I love how you illustrate both how much more, and yet how much less Troy is now. How the blameless child, full of potential, is inextricably linked to the brutal, larger-than-life avatar he fashions.

- DeLeon ( Graphic Violence / Gore / Hallucinations)

He's molded the monster he is now out of the bones of the man he should have been - there's no going back really. There's nothing left to go back to. He broke Troy DeLeon apart to build the persona that acts like an iron lung now, suffocating him breath by breath while forcing him to still take them. That life is over, he killed it before it had a chance, but the idea of it is still there in his subconscious. Somewhere in the absolute trainwreck of Troy's brain is the tiny, flickering belief that maaaaaybe one day this will all be over and he can shuck off the bracer and spines, peel off all the shit he's covered his skin with, and just go back to not being Calypso. DeLeon here isn't some aspect of his mental state or his sins haunting him - it's The Leech, spitting venom at a host it loathes in something that's not sound or comprehensible language. His subconscious has just translated it into something it can understand - his greatest regret.

On if Borderlands Humans originated on Earth -

There's a really tenuous link between BL verse and rEarth, but it's there and can't be ignored. The cultures, accents, terminologies, so many are Earth specific despite these people being spread across galaxies, so hell yes - Earth as an emergence point makes total sense. The next question then, is why is it never mentioned - and you can cover for that with a lot of things like say, tt was so long ago that it's not relevant to anything that would ever be discussed, or it could be a mass evacuation from a catastrophe there is little record of now. I like to go with something along those lines, that the first human Siren host emergence on earth just absolutely decimated the planet. Like, we were doing fine till this random woman somewhere in the ass-end of nowhere develops weird markings overnight, then goes apocalyptic. The first Leech maybe, not understanding her powers and having them rip across continents in a spread of crackling electric death that only left husked shells of plants and animals in its wake, or the first Firehawk who went nuclear and burned the sky, or the first Voidgrasp who lost control and began to collapse the planet's core - some extreme shit that had humans fleeing en masse with barely any preparation and HUGE swathes of history and knowledge left behind. That would cover so many social things surviving into the BL verse, cultures, accents, cooking, that shit comes with us regardless of what we were able to throw into escape ships. Like so much data would be stored on any tech and data arrays within the vessels people would use to leave a dying planet even in an insane rush, but that shit waters down over time - if you're farming barely edible plants on some planet that smells like farts, are you really gonna be that stressed about teaching your kids history from a lost planet when your current concerns are not being eaten by something with 19 legs and 4 buttholes? Don't think so.

On if the other Siren entities are as influential to their hosts as The Leech -

I touch on it a wee bit throughout LL, but the others are FAR more passive and meld more to their host's whims. The Firehawk Siren wouldn't.. like.. care? If the host was burning down a planet or fighting off an evil corporation? They are removed from any nonsense happening on this side, they might not even really be able to tell, it's like asking an amoeba or a collection of sentient atomic particles what its opinion is on Brexit. That's not really its priority. The Leech is so aggressive in its control of the twins and desperation to drive them towards an outcome it desires only cause it's split, broken, removed from the song, and completely lost. We're talking a caged, half-mad animal removed from its natural environment and left totally isolated from its own kind for millennia. It's in pain, it's confused, it wants to find its way back to the song and the others and where it belongs, but it's stopped by a barrier it can't comprehend ( the twins and being ripped between them), so in its impotent rage it feeds back that hatred onto them. It's not really sentient in the way we would describe functional intelligence, but it wants, and craves, and FEELS. And it feels very, very angry.

Big thanks to @undergoingcalibrations for talking through so much of this with me!

Asks are Open!

[janekfan]

Starve

The slim aperture of light that fell across one unblinking eye illuminated its retina a soft, peculiar green, pupil dilating in a raw attempt to Know, as if the narrow gap Basira created by opening the door to take her turn in checking on Jon could slip it something new. Some relief for the weakness, the hunger, the pain of not feeding his god. She couldn’t help the visceral shudder; he was creepy, inhuman, there was no way around it, and as soon as his pale lids closed so did the door, key turning in the lock with dull finality.

“How’s he?” She couldn’t help the way she jumped when Daisy’s voice seemed to echo in her ear.

“Alive.”

Deftly, she pocketed the key. “You can bring him something to eat later.”

“A statement?” Daisy’s eyes narrowed.

“That would negate all the work he’s doing.” Before walking away she turned the handle a second time to make sure it was well and truly locked. He wanted this. He wanted to stop. More than that, he wanted to live and may have even found a reason. He was trying.

It didn’t stop her guilty disgust of him.

Funny that.

“Reheat the soup from yesterday.”

“He won’t, can’t, eat that.” Still not recovered fully from her stint in the Buried, Daisy was exerting herself to keep up with Basira’s quick and purposeful stride and when she stopped in the breakroom, bleak and empty despite the pair of them, she gulped down a glass of water.

“That’s not our fault.”

“Basira--”

“Jon chose this. He chose to feed off the trauma and fear of other people and they had no choice.” She wasn’t being fair. Anyone could see the strain being an avatar put on their human host. “But he had a choice, Daisy.” And now he, because of the pair of them, he has incentive.

“Just give me the key.” Basira rolled her eyes and Daisy narrowed hers.

“Fine, lock me in there with him then.” She made tea, used a mug for the soup and didn’t bother with adding a spoon to the tray with the napkins. Slipping a chilled bottle of water into her back pocket she glanced at Basira expectantly.

“It’s early.”

“And yet.”

Burning.

Gnawing.

Aching.

Jon swore he could feel the pieces of him being eaten away. If you won’t feed me, I’ll feed on you. Take all you’ve got until there’s nothing but monster left and the more he tried to resist, curl up around that spark of himself that was left, the more it hurt when the Eye lashed out in his mind, howling with hunger and rage and wrath at being denied.

It was dark here. Lonely here. Tim would laugh were he alive to see his old boss crying for the comfort of another living thing in this place. Someone, something to anchor him, console him, make him feel like any of this was worth it. That he wasn’t the biggest disappointment London had ever known.

Even if he didn’t deserve it.

Coward.

Beast.

Tormentor.

He wanted the Admiral.

A pang like a knife wound, he would know, ran him through the middle and he curled tightly into the jumper he’d found while rummaging in the early days when he had the strength to be bored. It hurt such that he found himself checking for the warmth and wetness of blood he was sure would be there.

Nothing.

Empty.

Cold.

He wanted Martin.

Daisy squeezed through the doorway and shut it with one hip, listening to the lock slide home before moving forward to set the tray on the desk and toss a spare shirt over the lamp. She hadn’t mentioned how easy it was for her to see in the dark to anyone yet. He was wrapped up in an unfamiliar jumper, shrouded in a familiar scent so faint she wasn’t sure he could smell it, and so oversized on him to the point he was nearly swallowed.

“Jon?” He never answered right away, taking at least a few moments to become aware of someone in the room with him since last week, but she warned him just the same. “Light’s coming on, Jon.” Settling beside the cot despite the pressure on her knees, she examined him in the dim. Despite the dark brown of his skin, he was pale and drawn. Diminished more each and every day without a statement. Withdrawal? Seemed more akin to starvation and she could relate. Daisy would need to discuss it with Basira. There wouldn’t be anything left if she let this continue.

“You’ve dropped a stone at least.” And was trembling. Gently she laid a hand against his neck, counting out his rapid pulse, taking note of his elevated temperature. “Feverish, too.” She mumbled. “Up you get.” It took some shoving and cajoling but she managed to get him propped against the wall with a mug of tea in his hands. Most days it was all he could stand. The sleeves of his stolen cable knit hung from wrists she could have held together in one hand.

“Ma’tin?” That was new. He’d recognized them up until now.

“No, but think of how cross he would be if you didn’t finish up your tea, hm?” She tapped the handle for emphasis but he didn’t seem to notice, blinking hard in an attempt to clear his vision.

“B’sira’s cross.”

“She is.” Cor, but he looked ill. “She’s not well pleased with your eating habits.” It was the wrong thing to say and immediately he folded in on himself, somehow becoming even smaller in a way she didn’t think was possible. “Hey, Jon, I didn’t mean--” It was eerily quiet, almost poetic. The tears scattering over his scarred, his marked hands, into the tea he gripped like a lifeline. “Alright, s’alright, Jon.” This wasn’t good for him. Locked down here all alone like an animal being taught a lesson it was helpless to learn. Awkwardly, Daisy patted his shoulder, wincing at the heat coming off him.

“Sorry.” He didn’t speak much anymore, too afraid of compelling either of them.

Too afraid.

Weren’t they all. But at least Daisy had Basira. At least Melanie had Georgie. At least Martin was sure he was making the correct decision for the rest of them.

“I brought soup? Think you could eat something?” Somehow he paled further, the sip he took from the cooling tea small and tentative and thankfully he kept it down, even finished close to half before swaying so abruptly she had to catch it out of his enervated fingers.

“Jon?”

“Jus,’ could I.” He swallowed and Daisy recognized the effort to avoid a compulsion and it looked so borderline painful she almost told him to go ahead and ask but he gained control of his wayward tongue, words clumsy and slow. “Lay down.” Licked chapped lips. “Please.” She helped him lest he just collapse there, going so far as to settle his head in her lap.

“There we go.” He turned his face into her soft shirt while she scrolled through a playlist, turning the Archers on low and ignoring the moisture steadily soaking her skin. She hadn’t been able to coax any water into him, instead using it to wet the napkins so she could provide some type of relief. Gently, she followed the slope and curve of his too prominent collarbones, swept up the column of his throat to brush over hollow cheeks and a damp forehead. With her other hand she pet back his salt and pepper hair, overgrown and long and filled with tangles she teased out with dexterous fingers. She let him rest like that for a while before the pain in her body forced her to move. Taking a swig from the water bottle after stretching, she knelt to offer him some, concerned when he didn’t shift. Patting his cheek elicited no reaction, she could hear the pulse in his overheated blood, thready and so fast.

“Jon, Jon, I need you to open your eyes for me.” No change, not even when she shook him hard by his boney shoulders, yelled into his face. She stumbled upwards. “Basira!” Legs on fire with pins and needles, Daisy held herself up by the door, pounding on it and calling out for Basira only to be met with silence. “Basira!” Shit. There was no reception down here. She glanced behind her. Jon hadn’t moved, just as slack as before, closed eyes wrung with black shadows, mouth slightly parted and chest barely moving with the effort of breathing. So caught up, Daisy nearly toppled forward when the door was removed and replaced with Basira, gun in hand, fear scent wafting off her in roiling waves.

“No! No, Jon’s ill. I can’t wake him.” She pushed past, “I’m getting a statement.” Basira held her shoulder fast.

“Maybe this is a good thing?”

“What?” Daisy all but shouted, pawing at Basira for the keys.

“Wait, wait. He can’t hurt people like this, take statements, maybe can’t even hover around in victims’ dreams. The Beholding will keep him alive, right?” Daisy was shell shocked into stillness and couldn’t even find anything to be angry about, not really. Basira had a point. Maybe this would be easier on all of them, Jon included. But just as quickly the thought passed as she remembered him crawling into a coffin for her after having the Boneturner rip pieces out of him for nothing.

“Well I don’t want to test it!” Her partner was currently stronger than she was. If Basira didn’t want to give up the keys there was no way to make her. “Please.”

“Daisy.”

“I get it, I know. But he’s. Our friend is still in there, Basira.” Frustration made her eyes prickle with tears she refused to let fall. “He’s tried so hard to do as we asked. Are we really going to abandon him completely because it’s convenient?” She could see the shift in Basira’s face and knew she was victorious.

“He wanted this. He wanted to be stopped.”

“I know.”

“One.”

“Thank you.”

“A short one. Wait here.”

The Dark was so heavy. Pressing in all around him, smothering, suffocating, strangling him. And he hurt. He was so hungry he hurt deep, deep, deep inside. Beyond the place where his ribs once were. Could he die like this? Would his god allow it?

What else was left to take?

The change was so slight he almost didn’t notice at first, almost didn’t hear. But the Eye did, searching, thirsting thing, hungrier than he could ever be for Knowing. And even this hurt, was agony after so long being deprived and if Jon were stronger, he’d be afraid of what would happen after. StabburnriptearremovecutslashwoundscarhealHURTKNOW

“Back with me?”

Who.

His eyes were open, staring, wide.

“Jon?”

His head in someone’s lap. Martin’s jumper, warm, safe, soft. Martin. Martin.

“I’ll keep going then, shall I?” She didn’t wait for an answer, just let the words come slowly, evenly, like a morphine drip steadily taking the edge off the worst of it all with each and every glorious syllable.

Unbidden, he cried for even that slight bit of relief. Sharp, stabbing, harsh, now dulled as the Eye turned its attentions from him to the statement Daisy, Daisy was reading. The pounding agony of his head retreated enough to think. To notice her hand stroking his hair, wiping away the tears he couldn’t seem to stop until long after she stopped speaking. Still cradling him, still touching him carefully like he might break under the weight of her palm.

“Jon?” He felt drugged. The larger share of the throbbing discomfort distanced while the last of the latent fear was devoured. Somehow, he dredged up a smile, watery and wavering. Somewhere in the room a tape recorder switched itself off.

“Daisy.” She sighed, the tension slipping out of her bones, and set aside the statement to lay the backs of her fingers along his skin.

“Fever’s down. That’s a relief.” Despite himself, Jon was exhausted, could already feel the drowsiness chipping away at his fear of sleep. When his eyes opened he realized he hadn’t been aware they’d closed in the first place. His head was on the pillow, a warm weight lined his side and he tipped just far enough to see when an arm slung itself over his skinny waist. “Rest, Jon. M’not going anywhere quite yet.”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25724659 

[synchlora]

I heard apocalypse AU? 👀

YOPOOOOOOOOOOO YESYEZYEZTWSDAGAVZGX

Yes

PARTICULARLY for the bench trio and wilbur :]] this was literally all sparked bc I saw an au where ranboo dies and I got so viscerally upset over it that I went through. so much effort to make an au where he lives. christ

SO :D

(so so many warnings abt graphic medical shit, infection, necrosis, Pain, medical malpractice, just. bad things, please be Careful)

tommy and tubbo r childhood friends. they run into one another quite soon after separating from their families. tommy ran from his family after his parents killed his sister, tubbo ran when his family told him to save himself and he blames himself for not saving them.

RANBOO. shows up half fucking dead lmao. many bites, definitely infected to become a zombie, arm is. very necrotic. and what else do tommy and tubbo do when they see another kid their age slowly becoming zombified?? take him home ofc <3

they live in an old rv out in the woods and ooh its shit but its something. ranboo is like. doing a little better??? bc hes not Actively starving but he is also still Infected and struggling w his arm. so tommy and tubbo have got to figure something out w all this

they decide to raid a nearby abandoned hospital for supplies and after taking a lot of medical equipment and drugs they Do Not Understand, they run into wilbur wandering the halls. they r obviously v defensive but wilbur is very curious, especially abt why they are taking basically Useless medical equipment unless they know how to use it

after some talking and deliberation, they learn that wilbur is (or rather was) a med student who was working an internship at the hospital when the apocalypse happened. no clue what happened to his family, they don't live nearby and there's no way to contact them

after long discussion between the two of them, tommy and tubbo decide to risk bringing wilbur back to see if he can somehow help ranboo. yeah its risky as hell to bring a stranger back to their most vulnerable friend but they're desperate as shit and wil seems to at least have Training lmao

so wilbur helps getting the equipment set up and he takes one look at ranboo and is just like jesus christ ive got my work cut out for me. BUT they get shit set up and start shit <- very technical language /s

tommys good at the tech shit, wilbur has the medical knowledge, and tubbo has the nerves of steel. and oooh boy those will come in handy becauseeeee

they have to amputate ranboos arm

basic details (BIG BIG WARNING FOR GROSS MEDICAL SHIT, BE CAREFUL): wilbur instructed, tubbo performed, tommy monitored ranboo Very Closely (hes on so much fucking pain killers its unbelievable. no general anesthetic, they have access but itd be too risky. they do have localized anasthetics though). applied tourniquet to upper arm around bicep area. pinned ranboos arm so he can't move it too harshly and cause unwanted damage. tubbo cut carefully and didn't shake a bit, ensuring to leave a skin flap of healthy, live skin for sewing and wilbur cauterized the blood vessels and major nerves as they went. obviously, as there is no general anesthesia, ranboo is fucking Screaming and also unable to sit still. that's tommys job, to monitor vitals and also literally keep him from yanking so hard he messes tubbo up. tubbo cut through muscle quickly and had a bonesaw to cut through the bone. hardest part of the entire procedure was smoothing down the bone at the cut. ranboo ended up passing out from pain and despite himself, tubbo was relieved at the lack of screaming. tommy was worried as shit at ranboo passing out but he closely watched to ensure he was still breathing and Alive. tubbo finished up and, with more of wil's instruction, covered the wound with the sewed skin (he would have left it open to monitor, but it was too much of a risk with how high-stress it was for ranboo already) left some drainage tubes, put on heavy antibiotics, and dressed the wound with clean gauze. ranboo took several hours to wake up and awoke screaming once again

it is overall fucking Awful and incredibly traumatizing for all involved

ranboo is Very weak at this point, both from the amputation and the steadily worsening yknow. zombification and shit

so the trio looking after him are scrambling around to do something Anything to treat him and try and save the guy

surprisingly, the amputated arm is doing well??? it does not have its own separate infection and the skin is actively healing, albeit quite slowly, around the wound. they've got enough supplies from the hospital to last a while for clean dressings and medications. jesus fucking christ did I mention how many pain killers hes on????

doesn't mean it doesn't hurt but its like. not entirely hellishly unbearable. only agonizing most days

anyway, through all this time theyre monitoring infection signs closely and wilbur is helping adjust doses of a cocktail of antibiotics and antivirals and even antifungals, just fucking Everything man

and.. things start to change

the sickly green tinge to the skin around his lymph nodes starts turning a more natural pink, the darkened veins start to lighten to a more human shade, the glassy fog over his eyes slowly begins to clear

and holy fucking shit did they just cure an infected person?????

hes been sick since they met him and now he's finally starting to get.. better?

dont get me wrong, hes still struggling and in so much pain and my god the dependencies hes got on a Lot of painkillers oough man, BUT. he is alive

and its an ordeal but. he starts to recover. the infection subsides. his arm is fully able to heal now that his body can focus energy to do that. he starts to actually be able to be himself and by god it really made it all worth it

AND THEY ALL FOUR LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER NO FUCKINH DEATH FUCK THAT THEY GROW OLD TOGETHER ND HAVE A GOOD TIME :]]

[shijiujun]

under the light of the moon - part 2

Lu Yao is prepared to let Chusheng go if he asks, but Chusheng is having none of that.

☞ part 1

--

It’s nice to see that some things remained the same after three years — Yao Qin is still working at Xiang Man Lou and Sha Sha is here. All his brothers too, familiar faces to him and Chusheng rests a little easier knowing that in the past three years, he hasn’t lost any of them.

Sha Sha in particular stayed out on the streets with him when they first came to Shanghai. They were much, much younger, and seeing her every time reminds him of the hardship they went through together on the streets before he was taken in by Boss Bai, and her by another woman working at Bai Le Men almost a decade and a half ago, her mentor.

Only for a few minutes, he thought as he removed his ring earlier, entering the doors of Bai Le Men without thinking too hard about it. He doesn’t want to bring something sacred like his… relationship with Lu Yao into a place like this.

Of course the action makes him feel strangely like the biggest asshole on this side of Shanghai, but Chusheng decides that he’ll get the information he needs quickly and get out.

When Youning’s distinctive voice rings out halfway through his conversation with Sha Sha later, calling for Lu Yao, Chusheng stills, and a sense of foreboding washes over him. Turning to look at her, he says, “I’m sorry, I have to…”

“Go, Chusheng-ge, don’t worry about me,” Sha Sha nods.

He excuses himself quickly, hurrying out of Bai Le Men’s doors and right outside a few feet away, Youning is yelling for a Lu Yao who’s no longer in sight.

Lu Yao and Youning were probably here to find him and saw him talking to Sha Sha earlier. Chusheng brings his hand up, and damn it. He promised, just a few minutes, and it just had to be during this few minutes that Lu Yao and Youning saw him.

It’s a really inopportune time for Ah Dou’s voice to sound in his head right now.

Whatever you do, don’t take off the ring.

Ge, I think you’ll regret it if you do.

Hurriedly, he puts it on again, and the ring fits snugly where it belongs on his finger.

“Chusheng-ge! What were you even thinking?”

He hears Youning’s voice before his sister marches up to him, absolutely livid.

“Lu Yao came here with you?” Chusheng asks.

“Of course he came here with me, I- who’s that woman? You weren’t even wearing your ring, and San Tu saw you flirting with her. Even if you don’t love San Tu, even if you don’t like him, you shouldn’t do this to him. He’s been trying so hard, and you’ve been turning him away at every attempt. If you don’t want him, you need to tell him. If you don’t want him, I’ll take him away from you!”

Chusheng stares hard at Youning at her outburst.

“… I don’t want to make him sad,” comes Chusheng’s quiet reply then, exhaling deeply. “I can’t promise him that I’ll remember, Youning. And I’m afraid he’ll keep on hoping, only to be disappointed every time. Do you know how it feels whenever I look at him, and he's looking at me for something, someone that it isn't there?”

It’s the most Chusheng has said about Lu Yao to her since he was discharged from the hospital, and the novelty of it all stuns her into silence, but only for a short moment.

“Ge, if you keep pushing him away, you’re going to lose him,” she says, sniffling, “You’re really going to lose him. I don’t know how long more he can take this. Do you want him or not?”

Chusheng looks down at his ring again. He can’t deny that the ring sits just right, and while he’s not sure what to think about Lu Yao, the thought of not having Lu Yao in the same house, puttering about the kitchen, singing in the shower, reading lazily on the couch, getting all dramatic when he’s hungry, and the thought of having to live alone without Lu Yao by his side is terrifying, and he doesn’t know why.

He looks up. “Where did he go?”

“Probably home, he’s not thinking very clearly,” Youning says. “Ge. Please, don’t… don’t hurt him anymore. I know it’s not your fault but… could you at least talk to him?”

“Hnn,” Chusheng nods. “Thanks, Youning. You can get home by yourself?”

“Go!” Youning urges, waving him off.

Chusheng gets onto his bike that is parked right outside Bai Le Men, and takes off. Youning sniffs again, pressing at her eyes with the back of her hands as she watches her brother chase after Lu Yao.

===

Lu Yao had a head start, but Chusheng is on his bike and he catches up with Lu Yao soon enough, just two minutes behind him. He sees Lu Yao disappear into their apartment building and quickly parks his bike on the road without even taking out the keys.

When Chusheng enters the doors to their home, he hears it — Lu Yao’s sobs from the other side of the bathroom door. He cries so hard that he’s coughing halfway through, as if he’s painfully mourning for the death of a loved one. Guilt hits him like a freight train, and Chusheng’s feet brings him to the bathroom door.

Sliding down to the floor silently, Chushung leans back and sighs.

The Chusheng that was with Lu Yao would probably beat him to death for hurting Lu Yao like this, he thinks.

Of course he knows Lu Yao is trying. Chusheng isn’t the kind to run away from a tough situation, and yet that’s all he has been doing these two months. It’s not the right thing to do, but It’s hard to look at Lu Yao and know that he’s the source of all the man’s pain.

At first, it took him a week to wrap his mind around the fact that he is in an open relationship with a man, who is nothing like the kind of women he prefers. Lu Yao is handsome, no doubt, but knowing that this man is someone he loved, someone he shared a bed with, someone he obviously trusted with no exceptions is a little hard to swallow.

Chusheng might have known him for just a few short weeks, but he thinks he might know just why he fell for Lu Yao. Maybe he should have known when Lu Yao snapped at him in the hospital, because right at that moment, Chusheng was both stunned and offended. Who would dare to speak to him like this?

Only Lu Yao, it seems, and that possibly made all the difference for him before he lost his memories. Someone who isn’t afraid of him, who doesn’t hide his intentions from him. From the days he has spent with Lu Yao, Lu Yao is childish, but never malicious. Demanding, but only when he knows he can get away with it. He has a sharp tongue, but Lu Yao is never unkind.

And when Lu Yao is with him, it’s difficult to be blind to just how much Lu Yao thinks about him. Bringing him food when he’s working late at the station, working out the knots in his shoulders and neck before Chusheng even registers the ache, and the first time he was hurt since the accident, Chusheng was taken aback at how panicked Lu Yao was for him.

The Chusheng that he is now cannot remember the last time anyone cared this much for him.

He wants to be the Chusheng that loves Lu Yao, he really does, but Chusheng doesn’t know how. That is the only reason why he’s been keeping Lu Yao at arm’s length. Chusheng wants to remember more than anything else, but his memories are still blank after two months, and what if he never remembers?

The thought of that and what it would probably do to Lu Yao makes something twist in his chest. All he wanted was to have a bit more time to think of a solution, but his hesitance, his seeming nonchalance and the lack of the slightest bit of reciprocation for Lu Yao’s efforts have culminated in this moment today, the both of them separated by a bathroom door.

Do you want him around or not?

Chusheng is absolutely certain that he doesn’t want Lu Yao to leave, even if he’s unsure about everything else. It’s a visceral, deep-seated emotion, the want to have Lu Yao near him.

His brain might not be working right, but his heart remembers.

Stupid, Chusheng knocks at his own head once, regretting everything he’s done to Lu Yao, you knock your head once and you turn stupid.

“Lu Yao,” Chusheng gets to his feet suddenly, his mind clearer than before as he knocks on the door, “Lu Yao, come out. Please? Let me explain.”

It’s too quiet on the other side of the door, and after repeated knocks, Chusheng starts to worry, various scenarios of what could have happened to Lu Yao coming to his mind suddenly, and then the worry morphs into panic.

It takes Chusheng one good slam of his shoulder into the door for the latch to come loose, and the door hits something as he tries to open it.

It’s Lu Yao, passed out cold on the floor of the bathroom.

His face is still wet with snot and tears, and it’s a testament to how the past few weeks and today have wrung Lu Yao dry, because the germaphobe in him actually laid down on the floor, uncaring of how unhygienic it might be.

Chusheng picks Lu Yao up easily, and brings him to bed.

Their bed.

It takes a few minutes to get Lu Yao changed out of his clothes and into his pyjamas and bedrobe, then Chusheng is bringing a damp cloth over, sitting down right next to Lu Yao before he starts to clean Lu Yao’s face with gentle hands. Over his eyes, his nose, his lips, his cheeks.

Looking at him up close, Chusheng sees the eye bags, and notices that Lu Yao is a little skinnier than before. The man is already skinny enough.

Did you lose sleep over me, he wonders, did you lose your appetite because of me?

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking over Lu Yao’s cheekbone. “For me, these few weeks must have been hell for you.”

Lu Yao shifts then, turning his head into the pillows with his brows drawn together in the beginnings of a frown. Chusheng cannot help but smooth both his thumbs over the tensed spot, until Lu Yao eases back into sleep proper again.

He’s going to have to find a way to fix this, Chusheng decides.

===

As luck would have it, when Lu Yao wakes up the next morning, he’s running a fever and aching all over his body. He barely has any strength to wonder why Chusheng is sitting in bed next to him, and for a moment, Lu Yao smiles, “Lao Qiao…”

When the indulgent, doting smile he’s expecting does not come, that’s when Lu Yao remembers.

With wide eyes, Lu Yao scrambles to sit up, because this is their room, and what the hell is Chusheng doing here?

“Don’t move,” Chusheng says, pressing a firm hand to his shoulder.

“No,” Lu Yao shakes his head, “I don’t want to be here-“

Chusheng glares at him, and the expression is so familiar that Lu Yao actually stops moving. “You’re running a mild fever, and we ran out of medication in the house, so Youning will be coming over later. Drink. Don’t you dare move.”

A glass of water is pressed into his hand. Lu Yao brings the glass to his lips and drinks, and he doesn’t know if it’s because of what happened yesterday, or because his throat hurts so much, or because Chusheng just glared at him after the hellish two months he’s had, but tears come to his eyes again.

“You-“ Chusheng blinks, and seeing Lu Yao’s eyes well up, he panics, “You- are you in a lot of pain? Don’t cry, Youning will be here soon, and- never mind, I’ll call the doctor-“

“Who asked you to glare at me,” Lu Yao sniffs, pushing the glass of water back to Chusheng and turning around, not wanting to look at him. “Who asked you to go flirt with pretty girls at the club? And you’re still so fierce to me, I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m going to leave this place tomorrow. You can have the house and all the pretty girls you want.”

“I didn’t take off the ring because I wanted to flirt with the women there-“

A pillow goes flying at his face at the mention of the ring, and Chusheng catches it deftly, taking the warning as it is. With a sigh, he inches closer to Lu Yao on the bed, and says, “Lu Yao, I shouldn’t have taken it off. I’m sorry, don’t be mad at me, okay? I- I’m not interested in any of the girls there, I promise.”

“I don’t care,” comes the muffled reply from the lump under the covers. “You can go and have any other person you like.”

“… Yao Yao,” Chusheng tries, as gently as he can. “I’m at fault, it was my mistake. Don’t be angry at me anymore. I won’t go there without you again, how about that?”

It takes a long while for Lu Yao to respond, and the silence stretches on for so long that Chusheng is about to give up, when the covers are pulled down a little so he can at least see Lu Yao’s eyes.

“You don’t have to force yourself. I can take a hint,” Lu Yao replies, and he sounds so serious, so unlike the Lu Yao he knows. “You’re not my Lao Qiao, and… it’s not right to force you to be him. I’ll move out tomorrow.”

Lu Yao keeps threatening to move out, and the last of Chusheng’s patience runs out.

“Request denied!” he scowls, “No one is moving anywhere.”

“Who are you to deny me? And who said it was a request?! I don’t want you anymore, so I’m going to leave-“

Lu Yao gets to his knees on the bed with the blanket wrapped him as he glares right back at Chusheng, ready to keep on arguing with the man when Chusheng’s hand grabs for him quickly, pulling him against him.

Trying to wriggle his way out of Chusheng’s hold, Lu Yao’s choice to wrap himself with the blanket is backfiring on him, because he can’t get free. The cage that is Chusheng's arms tighten around him, blanket and all, until he stops squirming.

“Let me go!” Lu Yao bites, trying one last kick, but Chusheng ignores him.

“Lu Yao, I’m really sorry. I’m sorry I ignored you when you were trying so hard. I was trying to figure things out, because I know when you look at me, you’re looking for the Qiao Chusheng that you know, but I’m..”

“But I’m not him.”

At the mention of that, all the fight in Lu Yao goes out of him, leaving him as deadweight in Chusheng’s arms.

He knows. Of course he does. Lu Yao’s been thinking so much these days, about what he would do if Chusheng never remembers him, if Chusheng falls in love with someone else?

Qiao Chusheng is it for Lu Yao. He’s not going to love another person for as long as he still breathes, even if this Chusheng isn’t his. Lu Yao doesn’t need him to say it out loud. Even if it kills him, he-

-he will let Chusheng go.

As if knowing what Lu Yao’s next thought might be, Chusheng’s squeezes the man in his arms.

“I don’t know if I can ever be him again. But I want to be, do you understand? So I’m asking you to give me a bit more time,” he asks, begs.

“I don’t want you to go.”

Lu Yao falls silent for a long moment. Seeing that Lu Yao is unlikely to run off if he lets him go, Chusheng’s hold loosen a little and Lu Yao sits down properly, his thigh pressed to Chusheng’s.

“If this is you feeling bad, you don’t have to-“

Chusheng lifts up his hand, interjecting, “He loves you enough to give you everything, and that person is me even if I don’t remember any of it. You can��t… Lu Yao, you can’t give up on him, on me.”

Lu Yao looks at the ring on Chusheng’s finger, then the matching one on his own. It wasn’t that long ago that Chusheng bought them. He didn’t get down on one knee either, now that Lu Yao thinks about it. No fancy, candlelight dinner, no violinist serenading them, no grand gestures — Lu Yao recalls waking up late in bed, warm and cozy under the sheets and seeing Chusheng seated next to him without making a single noise. Before he could even ask his boyfriend what he was doing, Chusheng set down a few sheets of paper on the bed between them, and a ring box.

It was not that difficult to guess what the papers were, and then the ring box sank in.

“Qiao Chusheng, you-“

“Lu Yao,” Chusheng said then, oddly somber and tender as he smiled, “I don’t have much, you know that. I don’t have much to give you either, but all I have, you can have them. The houses that Boss Bai gave me, the cars, the bike, the bank account. Just… I know we can’t get married, but… let’s get married.”

Putting his hand in Chusheng’s now, Lu Yao stares at the two gleaming rings in the light.

He said yes then, so many months ago.

And who is he kidding? If Chusheng asks, if Chusheng doesn’t push him away, nothing will make Lu Yao leave.

Their fingers intertwine, and Lu Yao finally, finally feels settled for the first time since Chusheng woke in the hospital.

“Hnn,” he nods. “But I’m telling you first, I’m giving you a year. If you don’t- if you don’t remember by then, if you want to go, you have to-“

“I won’t,” Chusheng returns simply, no hesitation whatsoever. He chuckles, “You have to promise not to run off every time I make you angry. There’re a lot of things I don’t know, and I’m counting on you to tell me.”

Lu Yao nods again, looking like a pitiful child who’s just been bullied and the image tugs at his heartstrings. Remembering that Lu Yao is still ill, Chusheng manoeuvres his boyfriend until he’s lying down flat and comfortable again.

“I’m hungry,” Lu Yao sulks, his eyes darting between Chusheng and the blanket just as the man is about to stand up and go get him another glass of water, as if testing out whether this is okay, if Chusheng will humour him.

Chusheng laughs, feeling lighter than he has since waking up without his memories faced with this Lu Yao, whining and pouting.

He guesses that he must have fell for Lu Yao like this, having no immunity against the man’s requests and probably loving how much Lu Yao relies on and trusts him, and only him.

“Okay, I’ll make some porridge,” he says.

===

Lu Yao continues to stay in their bed until he’s all recovered, and he doesn’t leave for his mattress in the study again.

They don’t touch, sleeping with each other in the same bed, but just knowing that the other is there is good enough.

It’s the best sleep he’s had in months.

===

So Chusheng starts to ask. Asks Lu Yao what he likes to eat, where he likes to go, which types of cars he likes, what they usually do on their days off and asks about Lu Yao’s family.

Lu Yao seems surprised by the questions at first, but he figures that this is how Chusheng is trying, and it constantly reminds Lu Yao to stop looking at Chusheng and expecting someone else.

As the days pass, even when Lu Yao hasn’t told Chusheng something about them yet, like how Chusheng would fetch him from wherever Lu Yao ends for the day if he’s free, Lu Yao finds Chusheng waiting for him patiently in his car no matter how late it gets, so reminiscent of their days before. While speaking to a suspect, they pass by an ice-cream store, and Chusheng goes over to get two bars of milk ice cream, passing one to Lu Yao as he bites a huge chunk off of his.

The next time they go to a couple’s restaurant, Chusheng orders the violinist again and they both chuckle under their breath as everyone turns to look at them. None of them particularly like having the violinist around, but Lu Yao appreciates the gesture.

It’s the small little things — when Chusheng hands him his wallet without a thought when they’re buying baguettes before Lu Yao has to ask for it, or when Chusheng knows just where to find him when Lu Yao runs off to hide when they're faced with a threat, or the way Chusheng shields Lu Yao with his own body when Youning approaches with a cushion, intent on beating Lu Yao for something insensitive he said.

Winter falls upon Shanghai and it’s ridiculously cold this year. The good thing is that even criminals find the weather cumbersome for crimes, which means Lu Yao more or less snuggles in under the covers at home for the season without any work, but Chusheng still has to head into the station to clear paperwork and train his men. Afraid that he would catch a cold, Lu Yao brings Chusheng’s thickest coat with him when he leaves the house and visits his boyfriend at work.

In the end, Lu Yao is frozen right to his toes with the walk to the station. Standing at the doors to Chusheng’s office shivering and sniffling, Lu Yao ends up curled on the couch with the coat he brought for Chusheng wrapped snugly around him as the inspector turns on the electrical furnace up on high, shifting the new imported appliance closer to Lu Yao.

“Why did you come over?” Chusheng asks, sitting down on the couch, both fond and exasperated. “Your skin is cold to the touch. You should have stayed home.”

“Well I thought you’d be cold, and you’re running around on some cases too, so I brought you your fur coat,” Lu Yao says. “I didn’t know it was so cold today.”

The gesture and this outcome is so Lu Yao that Chusheng can’t help but snort. The warmth that curls in his chest has nothing to do with the furnace, and without another word, Chusheng leans forward and kisses Lu Yao, brushing his lips gently across his.

Lu Yao’s entire body stiffens up at the kiss.

It’s been three months since Chusheng lost his memories, and even though they live like lovers do, sleeping in the same bed, going on dates and holding hands, they haven’t done anything other than that. No kisses even.

This is the first time Chusheng is kissing him.

A pang of longing and yearning hits Lu Yao like a bucket of cold water and he deepens the kiss, breathless. It’s been so long, so long since he could have this. He has been waiting so patiently, being so good, and tasting his reward right now makes the heartache and anguish of the first few weeks go away.

“If you continue,” Chusheng remarks as he pulls away slightly, his voice low, “You’re going to get into trouble. Didn’t anyone tell you not to play with fire?”

Lu Yao kisses him again and pushes against Chusheng, almost as if wanting to devour him in full, which is answer enough. The both of them fall back onto the couch, Chusheng’s bulk and weight over him a familiar sensation, a warmth Lu Yao has missed so much. Hands that have only held onto his own in the past few months are now trailing over his face, his jaw, his neck, the skin under shirt, and Lu Yao gasps into Chusheng’s mouth as the hands he loves slides past the waistband of his pants and inside.

He hopes that no one walks in through the unlocked doors.

That cold afternoon, no one dares to stay near Inspector Qiao’s office doors lest they disturb the two lovebirds inside.

Ah Dou and Salim, guarding the stairs leading up to the office instead, exchange thumbs ups at each other. The past three months haven’t been easy on them either, but all is good if their Si-ge and sao-zi have made up.

===

Lu Yao is content to go on like this, grateful enough that he gets to keep Chusheng, even if the man has a three-year gap in his memories. Aside from the first two months, every other day has been a gift, because who else can get to know their boyfriend all over again like this?

Things aren’t quite the same, but it is something Lu Yao and Chusheng will get through together.

Seven months after Chusheng loses his memories, a little after Lu Yao finally accepts that it’s okay for Chusheng to never remember, Lu Yao groggily wakes up in bed to shaking hands cradling his face, someone leaning over him.

“San Tu,” the voice calls, urgently, “San Tu.”

Something is wrong in Chusheng’s voice and Lu Yao snaps out of sleep immediately, sitting up. The room is dark and he can’t quite see Chusheng clearly, so he leans over and switches the lamp on.

Chusheng’s eyes are bright with tears.

Alarm fills Lu Yao as his own hands come up to hold Chusheng’s, “Why? Lao Qiao, why are you- what’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong, why are you crying-”

Chusheng presses his forehead against Lu Yao’s.

“San Tu,” he murmurs, almost reverently. “San Tu. San Tu.”

It doesn’t quite dawn on him for a bit, too panicked over Chusheng possibly being hurt or them being in danger for his mind to catch up, but when it finally does, all the breath leaves Lu Yao. His eyes flick upwards to Chusheng, his heart beating hard against the inside of his ribcage, because could it be-

“You haven’t called me San Tu since…” he murmurs dumbly, eyes wide.

Nowadays, it’s mostly Lu Yao and Yao Yao sometimes, when they’re in bed or when Chusheng wants to tease him. Never San Tu.

“I’m sorry,” Chusheng says so quietly that Lu Yao almost misses it. “San Tu, I’m so sorry-“

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Lu Yao’s lips smashes against his as they kiss desperately for the time they lost, for everything they went through together, for all that they thought was lost but have now regained.

Lu Yao laughs into the kiss a little, almost hysterical, and he knows why Chusheng is crying, because it’s all so much-

“I’m so sorry, San Tu,” Chusheng apologizes again when Lu Yao moves for a hug, squeezing the man tight against him with his head burrowed in his neck, “San Tu, you must have hurt so much, it’s all my fault-“

Shaking his head and resolutely not looking up, half afraid that this is a dream, Lu Yao breathes, “We made it. Lao Qiao, it’s okay. I love you. You know how much I love you, right?”

“Me too,” Chusheng whispers, both old and new memories melding together in his head, a little messed up, but he and Lu Yao can figure that out tomorrow. “San Tu, thank you for waiting for me.”

Lu Yao, you can’t give up on him, on me.

Chusheng’s words from a while back ring in the back of Lu Yao’s mind, at a time when Lu Yao was ready to give them up. Slowly, he interlaces his hand with Chusheng’s, the weight of their rings familiar.

Thank you for coming back to me, Qiao Chusheng.

Lu Yao shakes his head again, before pulling back and smiling at Chusheng through his tears.

“You’ll have to make it up to me, for as long as we’re alive,” he asks.

Chusheng laughs, and Lu Yao thinks, ah, here you are.

“Anything you want,” Chusheng promises.

--

[breanime]

Helpless (Part Five)

Guess who ain’t dead? THIS SERIES! Thank you sooooo much for your patience you guys, I hope this was worth the wait. Also, before I begin, I’d like to give a public thank you to @something-tofightfor​​ for talking me through my anxiety with this fic. Thanks for being a sounding board for me. 

Quick recap (since it’s been a few months): You’re a talented getaway driver for a heist team led by your adopted father, crime lord Joseph Yakavetta. During your last heist, things go wrong, Yakavetta kills one of your crew, then shoots and kills your brother, Ronnie, when he tries to walk away. Heartbroken and now totally alone, you decide to work with Homeland Security to bring Yakavetta down as their witness. But it’s a dangerous gig, so the lead agent of your case, Dinah Madani, hires an outside consultant to work as your security detail: Billy Russo. The thing is, though, that you’ve met him before. A year ago, you and Billy met in a bar and started a steamy affair until one day... he just stopped calling. Now he’s your personal bodyguard, and after spending a few days cooped up in safe houses with him, you can’t resist your attraction to him, and the two of you sleep together. It made for a good distraction for the emotional turmoil you were going through, but now you were stuck with Billy for who knows how long--just the two of you...and a lot of unresolved feelings. 

*banner by @starkrobb​​*

You slept like a rock, no bad dreams—no dreams at all, just a solid night of sleep for the first time in a long time. You blinked, lying on your side, staring at the wall. You were naked, and you knew you didn’t put yourself to bed last night, which meant…

Billy.

Billy must have carried you and tucked you in last night. The thought made your face burn, and you wrapped your arms around yourself. You groaned; just that small bit of movement made you realize just how sore you were. You licked your lips, thinking about the feel of Billy on top of you, inside of you, the way his hips slammed into you… Fuck. The two of you fucked. You sat up, wincing at the delicious ache in your muscles and hips. Billy always left you with sore limbs and fond memories, and when you used to fantasize about those times, you would get a little thrill thinking about it, but now… As you woke up naked and alone, all you could think about was the day he stopped answering your calls.

You rolled onto your stomach, burying your chin in your pillow. It didn’t matter. Billy did you a favor, helping you release some of that tension that came with being a wanted woman. He was doing you a favor by protecting you. He said something before, about taking this assignment (you) for “personal reasons”, but whatever curiosity he had about you, you were sure he was cured of it now. Hell, he did you a favor by falling off the face of the earth a year ago. You were getting too used to him, looking forward to spending time with him, thinking about him when he wasn’t with you—that wasn’t you. You were speed. You were the roar of an engine. You were burning rubber. You didn’t pine. Billy saved you from that. You should be—you were—grateful.

And hell, besides that—who had time to wonder about why Billy stopped calling you a year ago? Your brother was dead. The thought hit you like a bullet—like the bullet that had taken Ronnie down, and you closed your eyes. A new pain, a visceral, scorching pain, went through you like a bolt of lightning. Ronnie. It was like you were hit with his death every time you woke up; you’d have a few seconds of blissful ignorance when you first woke up before you remembered: you were all alone in the world, and you would stay like that.

Billy didn’t know what to do with himself. He’d slept well that night, better than he had in a slew of nights, but when he woke up, he couldn’t turn his mind off. All he could do was think of last night; the feel of you wrapped around him, the sweet sounds you made, the way you said his name… It had been different, this last time, than it’d been before when the two of you were just fooling around. Things seemed… more charged. Billy was pacing, cutting a trail in the floorboards from the kitchen, to the living room, and back. He shouldn’t have done that, but damn, he didn’t regret it, not when he could still taste you on his tongue.

Fuck, he’d missed fucking you.

All this time, all the meaningless hook-ups and one-night stands, they meant nothing to Billy, never have. But you. Man, you stuck in his mind like a fucking bullet in the flesh, unavoidable and final. He thought that this… job… was going to bring him some kind of closure, but instead, he was more involved than ever. He turned, starting his trail again, and thought about the feel of your warm cheek under his lips when he kissed you goodnight, the feel of you in his arms as he carried you up to your bed. He didn’t know why it felt so right, but it did.

And that terrified him.

Billy never needed anybody, the closest things he had to loved ones were Frank and Curtis, and he’d fucked that up. But now… with you? He felt like a fucking junkie, everything on his plate, all the shit he had to do, and all he could think about was how bad he wanted his next fix. He heard movement upstairs and froze. He wondered what you were thinking. You’d asked him to have sex with you because you were bored and getting cabin fever… but he couldn’t help but wonder—hope, even—that maybe you felt that same kind of uncontrollable connection that he did. He ran his hand through his hair, trying to get his heart rate under control before you came down the steps. He felt like shit, like he was in the same league as Homeland, taking advantage of you. But he also knew that wasn’t the case. He didn’t know what it was, but Billy knew he felt…something for you. Genuine feelings of tenderness that he hadn’t even know he was capable of. But now that he knew, he had no idea what the hell to do with those feelings.

He stopped, turning towards the stairs as he heard you coming down. “Hey,” he greeted you, nodding.

“Hey…” You said back.

You were wearing a sweater that Billy wanted to help you out of, and he glanced away, making an effort to control the desire that he was sure was showing in his eyes. “You okay?” He asked, half because he needed something to say, and half because he was genuinely curious.

“Mm hmm,” you said, walking past him and into the kitchen, “You hungry?”

Billy put his hands in his pockets, watching as you started gathering pots and pans and placing them on the stove. “Uh, yeah, sure.”

“Eggs? Pancakes?” You asked, going to the fridge.

“Kinda late for breakfast.”

You stopped and glanced up at the clock. It was well after 1 pm. “Oh.” You stopped. “Lunch then?”

“Sure,” he agreed, taking a seat at the table. He watched you, frowning as you moved about the kitchen. You were avoiding making eye contact with him, and he didn’t like it. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” you answered, drizzling oil onto a pan, “I’m good.”

“You’re acting kind of jumpy,” Billy went on.

“I said I was fine.”

“Is this because we had sex?” He asked, casually blunt.

You stopped, hand on the handle of the pan. A moment passed; you didn’t move, and neither did Billy. Finally, you turned to face him. “Why’d you stop calling?” You asked.

Now Billy froze. “What?”

You put your hand on your hip. “Before. Last year. Why’d you stop calling me? And why’d you stop answering my calls? You just fell off the face of the earth.”

Billy licked his lips. “I was… I had to leave town,” he answered, “to take care of some business.”

“Mm…” You nodded. “But why didn’t you just call me and tell me that?”

He bristled. This wasn’t how he imagined the morning after to go. “What does it matter?” He asked back. “It’s in the past.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Billy watched your walls go up, and he wondered if this was what people felt when he blocked himself off to them—the surprise and uncertainty and… hurt? Shit.

“You’re right,” you said, turning around again, “it doesn’t matter. Forget I asked.”

Shit. Billy stood up, unsure of what to say or do. “Y/N—”

“—It’s fine,” you said, your back still turned to him.

“Hey,” Billy put a hand on your shoulder, making you turn, “I don’t… That wasn’t…” He rolled his neck, trying to find what he wanted to say. “…Hold on.” The look in your eyes; closed off and guarded, man… You should never look like that, especially when you were with him. You opened your mouth, and Billy knew he couldn’t stand to hear another “it’s fine”, so he stopped you from speaking—

—by kissing you.

You melted into his touch easily, and Billy picked you up and set you down on the table, his mouth never leaving yours. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and your legs around his waist, groaning into the kiss when his hands gripped your ass, bringing you even closer. He pulled back suddenly, his dark eyes wide and unblinking, and your breath caught in your throat as you stared back at him.

“I—” you began.

“Be quiet,” he growled out, head turning to look behind him, “someone’s outside.”

“What?” You whispered, hopping off of the table, heart pounding—or at least, pounding for a different reason now.

Billy reached into the waistband of his pants and pulled out a gun that you had no idea he’d been wearing. “You remember the code?” He asked you, eyes still glaring off into the distance, seeing and hearing things that were lost to you.

You nodded. “Uh, yeah… 3-7-2…5-6?”

“3-7-2-6-5,” he said, taking your wrist and pulling you to the corner of the kitchen—away, you realized, from all of the windows and doors, “Stay here.” He took a step forward, but stopped when his phone rang. He groaned, and you watched the tension bleed out of his shoulders. “Madani,” he said around a weary sigh, “that you out there?”

You sighed, too. Great. Madani was here, which probably meant… Well, you didn’t know what it meant—it could mean Homeland cut the funding for your personal security and you were fucked, or it could mean they arrested Joe and you’d have to testified—and were fucked—or maybe it meant you could actually go into real Witness Protection and would have to say goodbye to Billy and…were fucked.

“Why?” He asked, heading towards the door. “Of course she’s here, where else would she be?” He opened the door and hung up the phone, frowning down at Madani. “This is not procedure,” he said as a greeting.

“This location’s been compromised,” Madani said, marching into the room, “You can’t stay here.”

“What?” You and Billy asked at the same time. Your heart was racing yet again, and suddenly the room seemed much too small.

“That’s impossible,” Billy said.

“There’s been…” Madani’s eyes darted from you, to Billy, and back again. “…Yakavetta’s influence has reached Homeland. Someone has been bugging my office, and they hacked my accounts, and…” She took a breath. “Stein and I found the bug,” she finished, “but it’s not safe for you to be here anymore, I… I’m sorry.”

“Fucking Homeland…” Billy muttered, stalking upstairs. “Don’t let her out of your sight!” He called down.

You pointed your thumb over at Madani. “He talkin’ to you or me?” You asked.

“I really am sorry, Y/N,” Madani said around a sigh, “I thought… I should have been more careful… I knew there were cops and agents on the take, but I never thought…” She shook her head. “This goes deeper than I thought it did; Yakavetta has reach in places I never anticipated. We have to rethink our strategy here.” She took a step towards you. “Russo will keep you safe, Y/N, and I’ll make sure this never happens again. I never meant to—”

“—What?” Billy asked, coming back down with two bags slung over his shoulder. “You never meant to dangle her out in front of Yakavetta like a carrot? Or you did, but you just didn’t mean for his guys to be that quick on the draw and track us down?”

“I miss calculated,” Madani’s jaw was clenched, “It could have happened to anyone, Russo.”

“Right,” he rolled his eyes, “I need five minutes to clear this place out,” he turned to you, “I already got your stuff,” he informed you, “I need you to eat something real quick, then we’re heading out.”

“Where are we going?” You asked as he stalked off.

His answer came from the next room: “Away.”

“Hey,” Madani took hold of your arm and pulled you close, “listen, I know my office probably doesn’t look very good to you right now—”

“—I mean, I’d be lying if I said I was impressed,” you drawled.

“—But Russo…” She leaned in. “He’s the best, I’ll admit, but he’s… He isn’t…” She sighed. “Just don’t… Don’t fall for the charm,” she warned, voice low, “He’s good looking and competent, and I know that can be…”

Irresistible.

“…Attractive,” she went on, “but he’s not your knight in shining armor, so just… Just don’t fall for it, alright?”

You stepped back. What the hell? “So who, exactly, is my knight in shining armor? Homeland Security, whose home isn’t even secure?” You asked, crossing your arms. “No offense, but I’ll take my chances with Billy.” With that, you turned and went to the stove, following Billy’s instructions to eat before it was time to go. You sighed; you could still feel his lips on yours…

...You could still feel Ronnie’s cold body in your arms.

About five minutes later, Billy was packing you into the car and muttering some orders and specifics to Madani.

“Is this going to mess up your business?” You asked as Billy drove, trying to distract yourself from the ache that came with being in a car but not being behind the wheel. “The whole safehouse being compromised thing?”

“Nah,” he answered, “This shit is on Homeland, not Anvil. And even with it being compromised, we could have stayed there if we had enough firepower, but…” He shrugged one-shoulder, and the action paired with the sight of Billy Russo behind the wheel (driving with one hand), made you ache for a completely different reason. “This operation works best on stealth…” He glanced over at you. “We should talk about what happened in the kitchen.”

“With Madani?”

Billy raised an eyebrow. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

You sighed, sinking down into your seat. “So you’re a talker all of a sudden, Russo?”

He chuckled. “I guess so…” He glanced over at you. “Look, I know we kind of crossed a line last night…”

“Kind of?” You questioned, tilting your head to the side.

“…and this morning,” he went on, “But I’m gonna be honest with you… I just…” He took a breath. “You took me by surprise.”

You smirked. “I tend to do that.”

“No,” he shook his head, “I mean in general. When you came into my life, I was… I wasn’t looking for anything special, wasn’t looking to get attached but…” He looked like he was swallowing nails. “I think I did.”

“You think?”

He glanced over at you, his dark eyes serious. “I did,” he amended, “I know I did. And I know it isn’t the same for you—”

“—How do you know that?” You asked. “How would you ever have known what it was like for me when you just abandoned me?” You sat up, twisting in your seat so that you could face him. You felt your chest tightened, and it was only in that moment that you realized just how hurt you’d been from Billy disappearing on you like that. “It’s not like—not like I wanted anything from you,” you went on, “We were just hooking up, and I know you had no obligation to me, and that’s how we both wanted it, but…” You sat back again, deflating. “I dunno, man… It was just shitty.”

Billy sighed. “Yeah, I know. It… It wasn’t my intention, to just ghost you like that, but that’s what ended up happening, and… You didn’t deserve that.” His hand flexed on the wheel, and you wondered if he was going to reach out and touch you, but he didn’t. “And you don’t deserve this—what Homeland’s doing to you.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “They’re the least of my problems.”

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” Billy assured you, “I’ll protect you.”

You bit your lip, silently reminding yourself why Billy was even here in the first place—this was a job to him. You were a job to him. You turned, staring out the window. Everything was moving so fast, the fields and road and clouds, and that was the way you liked it. Speed had always been your primary setting, and you felt safe and secure behind the wheel. Your grip around yourself tightened. It’d been a long time since you’d felt that way. Though, truth be told, you’d gotten a small fix last night with Billy—fleeting as it was. In order to distract yourself, you tried to focus in on the sound of the engine and the low whipping of wind hitting the outside of the car. But there was another sound—a very familiar sound—that was building as you listened on. You perked up, and you could feel Billy’s eyes on you. “You hear that?” You asked.

“Hear what?”

“That,” you answered, sitting up now, “the sound of a souped-up engine!”

“Shit,” Billy’s eyes were on the rearview mirror now, and he put both hands on the wheel, “We’re being tailed.”

You turned, and sure enough, there were three black cars coming in fast. Your mouth watered at the sight and sound of them. “Homeland?”

“Not a chance,” Billy said, “Here,” he reached in his pocket and handed you his phone in a surprisingly intimate gesture, “text Madani and tell her we’re being followed.”

You did as you were told, turning to see the cars getting closer with each passing second. “We gotta lose them.”

“I know,” Billy said between clenched teeth, “sit back…”

“I can do it,” you offered, “I can drive—”

“—No.”

You frowned. “Why not? I know what I’m doing, I can—”

Your train of thought was interrupted by the shattering of glass, and Billy reached over and pushed you down, covering you with his upper body and arms. You heard a pop and realized they were shooting at you. You covered your head with your arms.

“Stay down!” Billy called out, taking out a gun and pointing it out the window, letting off a round of shots. The car swerved as he aimed, and he grabbed the wheel with his free hand, trying to keep control of the car. “Shit!”

There were more shots, and you flinched, brushing the broken glass out of your hair before looking back up at Billy. He had shards of glass sticking out of his arm—the one covering you and grasping the wheel—and he was trying to shot back, but he was having a hard time doing that while driving.

“Let me help,” you said, reaching over and grabbing the wheel.

“I don’t—”

“—We don’t have time to argue,” you interrupted, “You shot; I’ll drive!”

“Shit,” he said again, “Fine.” Billy pulled you into his lap, and you grabbed the wheel. “Keep heading straight,” he said as he turned, another gun suddenly in his hand, “then turn down the sideroad.”

“Yeah,” you grinned, foot over Billy’s on the accelerator, “Got it.” Fuck—it felt amazing being behind the wheel again. You turned, grin widening as the third car crashed into the bushes when it tried to follow you. Billy was shooting freely now, and you could tell he’d hit his mark a few times, because the other two cars were lagging behind now, trying to avoid getting shot. You eased up on the gas a bit, so that Billy could take his next shot, and he did—hitting the driver of the second car. You watched as the car veered off into the side of the road, leaving one left.

“Can you lead this guy under that bridge?” Billy asked. He had ducked back into the car to reload, and he pointed ahead with his chin. There was a low bridge a few miles ahead.

You nodded. “I’m on it.”

You moved the car expertly—slightly impressed with the strength of it—and slowed down just enough for the other car to think he had you before speeding up again. Billy was shooting at will, but you could tell that he was purposefully missing the driver; only a true marksman could hit the kind of deliberate targets that he was hitting.

“I need to get a look at the driver,” Billy said, twisting underneath you as he shot towards the other car, “Can you…?”

“I gotcha,” you said. You hit turned the wheel, grinning as the smell of rubber wafted through the air, and circled the car that had been following you. Expertly, you maneuvered your car so that it was now on the side of your assailant. “Good enough?” You asked, ducking in case the guy shot.

You needn’t had worried. “Perfect,” Billy grinned, taking his gun and shooting the man right between the eyes, his aim impeccable. You moved the car so it wouldn’t be hit as the last car—now driverless—spun out of control. Billy gripped your waist with his free hand and putting the other over yours on the wheel. “Pull over.”

As soon as you were out of the car, Billy was in front of you, his hands on your face and arms, checking you for injuries. “You okay?” He asked, eyes searching you for any sign of hurt or discomfort.

“I’m great!” You laughed, covering your pounding heart with your hand. “Fuck, I—I needed that!” You turned, watching the clouds of smoke fill the air from the wrecks a few miles away. “Holy shit, did you see that? They were trying to kill us—to kill me!” You ran a hand through your hair. “Fuck, your car drives nice!”

“Hey,” Billy put both hands on either side of your face, stilling you, “Are you okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah,” you breathed out.

“You sure? You’re not hurt?” He asked.

You gave another nod. “I’m fine, I—” You looked down at his arms. “—You’re bleeding.”

“Flesh wounds,” he said, dropping his hands and stepping back, “We need to get out of here.”

“Can I drive?” You asked eagerly.

Billy snorted, going to the trunk of the car and grabbing your bags. “We’re leaving the car.”

“What?”

“We’re setting it on fire, actually,” he said, dropping the bags at your feet. He had a can of gasoline in his other hand.

“What?!”

“Homeland’s been compromised,” he said, crouching down and digging through his bag. He stood up with some kind of bulky radio and a box of matches in his free hand. “That guy back there,” he gestured towards the nearest cloud of smoke, “He works in Madani’s office, I’ve seen him around before. This is more than just a bug; she’s got someone on the take in her own team…”

You watched, speechless, as Billy doused the car in gasoline. He struck a match and tossed it onto the hood, and the two of you stood there and watched it burn.

“So…” You looked at Billy, the shadow of the flames dancing on his handsome face. “…what next?”

“You still got my phone?” He asked.

“Yeah.” You held it out to him, but he didn’t take it.

“I need you to dial the security code, the one from the safehouse, and give the guy who answers this location.” He handed you the radio, which you realized was some kind of military grade GPS. “And here,” he reached down and pulled out a gun from his bag, “just in case,” he said, handing it to you. He turned to walk off.

“Wha—where are you going?” You asked.

Billy must have heard the fear in your voice, because he turned back and put a hand on the side of your face. His eyes were dark and deep, and as you looked into them, you could happily drown. “I’m gonna go back and make sure those guys are all dead,” he said honestly, “It’ll only take a minute. I need you to make this call, and I’ll be right back.”

You nodded. His surety had calmed you. “Yeah, okay…” You looked down at the phone. “The code’s 3-7-2—”

“Frank,” he answered, turning and walking off again, “the code spells Frank.”

*******************************************************************************************

Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think; I actually tried prewriting for this series, and I have the next part written already! Love you guys, and thank you so much for reading! Happy Valentine’s day, my loves!

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[yandere-daydreams]

This was supposed to come out yesterday, but... better late than never, right? And I gotta say, I do love this bastard. Even if I accidentally made Angelo into a sexual-harassment lawsuit waiting to happen.

TW: Mentions of Violence, Mentions of Gun Violence, and Non-Consensual Touching.

“Did you see the gift I left you?”

You were used to Angelo’s attention, his favoritism, how… affectionate, he could be, when he managed to catch you alone. But, your heart still beat a little faster as he cornered you, face far too close for comfort and hands resting on the wooden surface at your sides, pinning your form between his chest and your worktable. If the distance (or, lack thereof, rather) bothered him, Angelo didn’t show it, his tone nothing short of sickeningly light-hearted.

Instantly, you thought back to the package you’d found on your doorstep that morning, a dozen white roses next to it and something red, sticky and visceral dripping from the bottom of the box. You threw both away (making sure it ended up in someone else’s dumpster), washing off the small puddle it had left before heading off to open your shop, an hour late due to the inconvenience. Hesitantly, you opened your mouth, attempting not to cringe while you spoke. “I didn’t find anything. Must’ve had the wrong address.”

“Smart puppy,” He praised, bringing up a hand to play with your hair, twirling a loose strand around his finger. You didn’t try to hide the way you cringed, but your reactions were never important, not with Angelo. With a sharp tug, he continued. “But, you know I don’t like it when you lie to me. Next time, just let me know when you don’t like your presents.” He paused, taking a moment to run his palm over the now-sore spot, forcing you to bite your tongue to keep from whimpering. “You don’t want to let all that effort go to waste, do you?”

You had questions. So, so many questions. The desire to ask what was in the box, the urge to tell him to get out of your store until he stops being so fucking weird, was damn-near unbearable. You knew what he did for work, what his patronage meant, and more pressingly, why he kept coming back to your no-name shop in some forgotten corner of town. You weren’t dumb, even if you felt stupid whenever you let him bring his ‘cousins’ into your store, and you knew you should contact the police, or move, or start writing your will, but then he shifted, the light glinting off the side-arm stapped to his side, and…

And you shook your head, hastily, Angelo laughing and kissing your forehead as your features paled. Questions were swallowed back as quickly as your nerves, and you let yourself relax, assuming he would pull away in favor of staring longingly at one of the full-body mirrors. When he didn’t move, making no effort to give you space and still petting long fingers through your hair, you glanced up, not surprised but certainly not comforted to find that his grin had only grown wider.

You didn’t try to break the stillness, attempting to make it clear you weren’t interested in indulging him. 

He leaned forward. You moved back.

“That’s why you’re my favorite,” He sighed, his hand dropping down, cupping your cheek. Desperate for something, anything else to look at, your gaze drifting to the clock hanging on the opposite wall, stiffening when you saw there were only a few minutes until your next appointment. Angelo never bothered to call ahead of time, leaving your schedule… cramped, to say the least. You opened your mouth, ready to tell him to say what he needed to say and leave, but Angelo had never had a problem with talking over another person. “Always so submissive, so obedient.”

You couldn’t hide your confusion, a slight frown pulling at your lips. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, look at you.” Another kiss, this one to the bridge of your nose, his hold on your cheek not painful, but growing too firm to be anything but controlling. He was closer than he had been a second ago, forcing you to part your legs to accommodate him. The position was intimate, too intimate, but Angelo didn’t seem as concerned about that as you did. “Do you know many cowards there are, in my line of business? How many fucking bastards let the power go to their head?”

“Sir, I-”

“But, you, love, you’re shaking and I haven’t even done anything yet!” Now, it was his turn to shake his head, slotting his chest against yours and resting his free hand on your thigh. You squirmed as he rubbed small, slow circles into the covered skin, but that only seemed to make Angelo more determined. It didn’t help that you could hear the door to your pseudo-lobby open, your next customer undoubtedly encountering your current company’s ‘friends’. They were already talking, loudly enough for Angelo to notice, glancing towards the closed door with a questioning look.

“Love, you never mentioned you were seeing other people,” He laughed, dark eyes falling back to you with more intensity than his honey-soaked tone let on.

“He’s…” You trailed off, someone in the other room saying something a little more aggressively than they probably should’ve. “He’s my next client. You should probably go, before I have to cancel.”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem. I don’t think he’s going to stay for very long. In fact…” Angelo stopped, tilting your chin up. The motion was swift, his eyes closing one moment and his lips pressed against yours the next. It was a prolonged, gentle gesture, softer than you’d expected and much less bruising, but any sweetness was bittered by the muffled, deafening gun-shot, the yelling silenced by the time Angelo pulled away. Your pulse was racing, nails embedded in wood and body so tense, you could hardly manage to support yourself when he took a step back, brushing himself off while you braced yourself. “A friend of mine just showed him out.”

You blinked, just struggling to remember how to think coherently. “I should… alright, if you say so.”

“Perfect.” The word was more of a purr than anything else, the room around you blurring, seeming so much more… unfocused than it had. You hardly felt it when he brushed away the hair that had fallen out of place, leaning down to kiss your neck before finally taking a step back, giving you space to breathe. But, that didn’t stop you from flinching when you heard Angelo’s voice. “Tell anyone else that might interrupt us that your schedule was overbooked.” He slid off his jacket, unceremoniously tossing the smooth fabric into your lap. The large gash in its side became obvious, a clean cut, like someone had taken a knife to it.

Like someone had been aiming for its wearer.

When you met his eyes again, he wasn’t smiling, a raised brow daring you to challenge him. “I slipped.”

You wanted to say you didn’t believe him. You wanted to tell him you weren’t an idiot, you weren’t gullible, you weren’t obedient, or anything else he might’ve thought you were. There were so many things you wanted to say, so many things you wanted to do, but…

But, you weren’t being paid to ask questions.

With a small, polite smile, you nodded, standing up and laying the article where you’d been sitting a second ago.

“Of course, sir,” You mumbled, barely loud enough for him to hear. “It’s what I’m here for.”

[razzle-zazzle]

Yes, I am calling this AU "Sad Jay Noises"

1918 Words

In the aftermath of the Oni, when Ninjago struggled to rebuild itself, in those first, fledgeling weeks, all the ninja could do was grieve.

Maybe one of them would go out to make an appearance, help with the reconstruction efforts. Maybe two. And maybe it’d just be one of those days where they all stayed in the monastery, desperately avoiding the empty room where dust clung to the bedsheets, their grief choking the air. Even Wu tended to give the doorway a wide berth when he passed it in the hall—a hall he rarely walked now, avoiding it entirely when he could help it.

Several times Jay had found himself stopping by that door, tracing his hands over the wood while contemplating going in. And every time, his mind would bring up the memories unbidden, so real and visceral and painful—

He didn’t scream. He just fell, silently, into the cloud. He hadn’t screamed—Jay had.

He didn’t scream, but Jay could never recall him looking more terrified.

And then Jay would find himself in the bathroom, splashing cold water in his face. Telling himself that everything was okay, when it clearly wasn’t. Telling himself that he’d go in next time.

It was after those first few weeks that they all—Jay wasn’t sure how they even managed to reach this decision, acting as one even as more than a few of them threatened to leave—wordlessly agreed enough was enough. They would go in that room, collect the meaningful things, and give him a proper memorial. They would mourn, and then they’d move on. Maybe they’d split apart again, like when Zane had sacrificed himself to defeat the Overlord. Maybe Jay and Nya would finally start putting together plans for their wedding.

Of course, fate was rarely so kind. Just as they had finally worked up the courage to confront what they had been avoiding, an alert came up. A break-in at the museum.

A welcome excuse to leave the room untouched.

And so the team assembled, meeting the new villain on his way out of the museum, stolen papers in his bag. “Stay out of my way.” He’d huffed, voice distorted through his mask. A mask painted in a way clearly emulating the oni, sending another pang of grief through the group. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, so stay out of my way.”

They didn’t.

He mopped the floor with them, though Kai grumbled that it was only because they were out of practice. That they’d underestimated the guy. That they’d win the next time he showed up.

They didn’t.

“We’ll win next time. One person can’t beat all of us that many times.” Lloyd promised. Yeah. They’d do better next time.

They didn’t.

“Vengeance” was what the public had taken to calling him, based on how his mask and style seemed to be emulating the oni scourge that had so recently been defeated. Media stations speculated on his intentions, social media threads discussed theories about his techniques. There was something achingly familiar to Vengeance, something about the way he moved and fought that reminded Jay of something he couldn’t identify. The others agreed, there was something familiar they couldn’t identify.

“We’ll unmask him in the next battle, everyone. We’ll get the drop on him.”

They didn’t.

And, throughout all of this, the empty room had gone untouched, the priority pushed down in all the chaos Vengeance had been causing. They’d brought it up, once, after a particularly embarrassing battle, but couldn’t bring themselves to do it. Decided they’d get to it after cleaning themselves up.

They didn’t.

But Vengeance did, breaking into the monastery while they were away, rummaging through the things in that room with no care for them. No care for how he was desecrating the memory. It made Jay's blood boil. How dare. The audacity to just dig through their brother's stuff like that.

Kai swore that they'd take Vengeance down next time, to make up for letting this happen.

They didn't.

+=+=+=+=+

It had been a more successful battle than the other times, Zane managing to immobilize Vengeance with ice just long enough for Lloyd to get a good swing in.

Of course, that didn’t last. Vengeance, as always, found a way to regain the upper hand, trapping Lloyd and Kai in a pile of rubble. Nya managed to knock Vengeance off balance with a blast of water from the nearby river, but the extra water on their impromptu battlefield plus a misfire from Zane only served to make everything spiral out of control faster.

But then Jay saw an opportunity. No longer taking the time to think, he rushed Vengeance, tackling him to the ground. “Why are you so frustrating?” He’d asked, while rolling around in the dirt. Vengeance said nothing, just moved to push Jay off of himself.

But Jay wasn’t having it. This weirdo had been causing trouble in the city—so soon after the oni invasion, while emulating those monsters to boot—for so long now, and Jay was done. How was he supposed to grieve his best friend if he was constantly being reminded of the circumstances that killed him? Jay wasn’t thinking, couldn’t hear anything past the sound of blood rushing in his head.

So he punched Vengeance, putting as much voltage as he could into it. He couldn’t help but be satisfied at the whumph sound Vengeance made, the way he twitched and spazzed under Jay as the electricity coursed through his body.

But all too soon, Jay was flying through the air from the force of Vengeance's throw, slamming against Nya before he could even process what happened. When he did, when he heard Vengeance's cry of "JAY YOU FUCK THAT ACTUALLY HURT" as the man charged towards him, Jay had to double take.

He'd put in far too much voltage for Vengeance to have recovered so fast. And yet, there he was, grabbing Jay by the neck and lifting off the ground, ready to throw him in the river.

But Jay wasn't going down that easily—at least, not alone. With a well-placed kick, Jay turned what would have been another take down into a struggle, getting both himself and Vengeance into the overpowering current.

His friends called out his name as he continued to struggle against Vengeance, trying to gain an upper hand. But all too soon, he and his foe were washed away.

+=+=+=+=+

Jay groaned as he coughed up water. He must have hit something in the river, if he'd fallen unconscious. Blinking the bleariness out of his eyes, Jay had to double take once again.

Vengeance was leaning over him, hands on his chest. It took Jay a moment to realize. He had been doing compressions.

He might have even saved Jay's life.

Noticing that Jay was awake, Vengeance backed away. "You okay?"

Jay's jaw was on the floor. Was… was this a trick? It had to be.

"Alright, what's your ploy here?" Electricity sparked in Jay's hands as he backed away, hackles raised.

Vengeance, though his expression couldn't be seen past the mask, gave Jay a blank stare. "Is it so wrong for me to be concerned, Jay?"

And there it was again. He'd referred to the ninja by name before, but something about the way he said Jay's, the sort of familiarity in his tone, gave Jay pause.

Well, two could play at that game—even if Jay wasn't sure what that game was. He relaxed somewhat, though he remained ready for action at any moment. "And why would you be so concerned?"

Vengeance recoiled, as if hurt by that remark. He looked away. "Because I still care about you, Jay."

What the actual fuck. "And why should I believe that?" Jay demanded, hands sparking again.

Vengeance looked back to him, before wordlessly raising his hands to his mask. He took it off.

Jay froze.

It was the last thing Jay expected to see under Vengeance's mask, and yet, there he was.

Cole.

"C-... C o L e?" Holy shit. Holy forking shit on a waffle. Cole was alive. He was there, breathing, breathtaking, alive. Jay stumbled forwards, choking a sob out. His tears were hot on his face. But that didn't matter, because Cole was alive and he was right there and Jay could hit him for being such an idiot and making everyone think he was dead.

So Jay did.

"You jerkass! This whole time, we thought you were dead!" Jay's fists pounded uselessly against Cole's chest, tears running hot down his face. "Do you have any idea how much we've been hurting? How much we wanted you back?" He let out a cry, sagging forwards into Cole's arms. Cole's strong, comforting arms, that always kept Jay safe late at night. Jay wailed again, shoving his face into Cole's chest as his shoulders shook.

Cole said nothing, letting Jay cry it out. When Jay finished, Cole backed away, reaching for his mask to put it back on.

"What are you doing? Cole, stop."

Cole looked back towards Jay, his expression neutral. "I've still got something to finish, Jay."

"Then let us help you." Jay came forwards, taking Cole's hands into his own. "Come back to the monastery, everyone will be so happy to know you're alive. Please." At Cole's unconvinced look, Jay continued. "Whatever's going on, whatever this 'Vengeance' phase is—" And Jay had no doubt in his mind that vengeance was the last thing on Cole's To-Do List; Cole wasn't that type, "—We'll help. We'll support you. We're your family, Cole. Let us help you."

Cole gently removed his hands from Jay's, one of his arms moving to rub nervously at the back of his neck. "Wow, Jay. That's—I don't—" His expression turned cold as his grip tightened on the horns of his mask. He looked away.

"For a moment there, I almost believed you."

Jay's blood ran cold.

Cole replaced the mask, adjusting it once it was on. "Not that it matters." He said grimly. "Even if I wanted to go back, I really can't."

"What… what are you talking about, Cole? Of course you can come back. You can always come back."

Cole shook his head. "I don't think you get it, Jay. Even if I could, I don't want to. There's nothing left for me there." He moved to leave, but Jay latched onto his arm, the tears already back.

"Cole, please." And boy, if that didn't sound pathetic. But Jay was fine with sounding pathetic. His image wasn't important right now.

But Cole just shoved Jay off, knocking him to the floor.

"Cole, wait—"

Cole whipped around, kneeling so that he was directly in Jay's face. The snarling face of the mask met Jay's heartbroken one. "I don't want to hurt you, Jay. I don't want to hurt anybody, so stay out of my way." Cole then stood up and began walking away, leaving Jay with words that went straight through Jay's heart.

"If it makes you feel better, it's not because of something you did do."

"It's what you didn't."

And when the others found Jay, lying there in the dirt pathetically, sobbing inconsolably, when Kai angrily demanded to know what "Vengeance" did to get Jay so worked up like that, when Nya helped him up, when Zane asked what happened, when Lloyd tried to console him, something in Jay broke. Something he didn't think he could fix.

I'll tell the others once we're back at the monastery, Jay told himself. They'll know what to do.

But he didn't.

[imma-talk-back]

Yesterday, I was called a Nigger.  Within mere minutes of being in my favorite store, it happened.  Without warning, a gentleman bisected my path and seemingly reflexively blurted it out.  It was if the word had a life of its own and was pushing forth from his mouth at a full sprint. I say this not to emphasize the innocence of the man, but to shed light on the immense power of that word. 

Yeah... I thought that’d get your attention. 

Frankly, I’ve always been one to prefer Target to Walmart.  I appreciate the structure and organization of the store, and though I am a person who thrives in areas of “organized chaos”, I’m afraid, I find Walmart to be a little too chaotic for my liking.  As someone who suffers from The Big Bad Beast that is Anxiety, I experience a visceral uneasiness in certain environments, but generally speaking Target is one of few places I nearly always feel safe in.  There are of course the antsy customers who brush past me on occasion or ride my tail too closely in the checkout, but for the most part, to me, Target represents the epitome of comfortable shopping experiences.  It’s almost as if the structure demands it’s patrons to be on their best behavior.  Unfortunately, not everyone heed these demands... 

Please allow me to begin by laying the ground work; let me explain just how much effort I put into a simple trip to the market.  You see, one of the many awful things about this lovely condition that is Anxiety is that it has the potential to make even the most mundane tasks feel insurmountable.  A quick errand run the average person puts little thought into, can for someone like me, be a delicate tightrope walk; from the moment I leave the safety of my car and began my trek though the aimless herds of self-focused patrons, to the exact position of my body in accordance to yours, while in line.  I see you in a straight line, but I take several steps to the right or left, creating a meticulously crafted triangle between you and the person in front of me; all with the intention to grant me just a bit more security.  You see, I’ve been socially distancing since before COVID made it cool.  

Well, it’s about time I get to the point, isn’t it?  So, here goes...

So here I am.. and on top of dealing with my typical feelings of sporadic and unannounced paralyzing panic that may rise at any moment during my routine errand, whilst in the midst of none other than The Zombie Apocalypse that is 2020, I am the victim of an unprovoked physical attack in on of my few “safe” public spaces.  Notice, I consider this a physical attack, because of slew of negative bio-mechanical implications it presented me with, after all the word Nigger cannot be compared to that of Bitch, or Asshole. No, when spat with the right amount of hatred, the word surge through your veins like a poison. 

Thus, I instinctively stopped dead in my tracks and felt the heat of pain and rage radiate through my body.  I shook my head, dropped my gaze, and took several steps forward before stopping.  Rather than metaphorically quietly quivering in the corner, I decided to act. 

I turned around, sought out an employee, mustered up all the poise I could find, and collectedly said something along the lines of: “Hi, I just walked into the store, and within moments upon entering, a gentleman wearing a white blazer called me a Nigger.  I would very much like for him to be escorted out of the store”.  It was important that I used the full word to convey the level of discomfort I felt in having it thrown at me.  Perhaps that did the trick because the woman responded with a look of genuine shock, without hesitation confirmed the direction the man was walking towards, and urgently called for security. I said my peace and entrusted my safety in the store to the woman’s follow-through.  

It wasn’t the first time and I knew it wouldn’t be the last. I tried my best to continue on my journey as if he “hadn’t gotten to me”, but he had, I rush through the store, in search of whatever had prompted me to enter.  I can’t for the life of me remember, I imagine because I moved through the store in what can only be likened to a fear-induced haze.  I walked through the isles wondering if the gentleman would return and found myself looking at every Black passer-by, wondering if they had, or would soon experience the same. 

I power walked through the store with a combination of sorrow, profound fear, inexplicable anger, and incredible gratitude.  It instantly pained my heart to hear that a complete stranger could have so much hate in their’s for me, it still does.   Although I don’t imagine the N-word is typically equated with fear for non-Black people, for someone like me, it can be terrifying.  Despite the ever-so-obvious gravitas of that word, I know it hardly represents the tip of the iceberg of the hatred that lies below the surface.  As such, I feared retaliation from the moment I reported the gentleman, throughout the store, to my stop at the gym where I went through my daily workout routine, to the moment I drove home, parked my car, and double-checked the locks to all the doors at my house.  

Though this wasn’t the first time I’ve experienced this sort of overt display of hatred in a public setting, it was without a doubt, the first time I have ever felt seen enough to report it.  The death of George Floyd exposed just how serious the issue of racial injustice in this country is, and made it unmistakably clear just how prevalent, not to mention perilous it is.  After 34 years of just taking it, and doing everything in my power to “not let it get to me” or knowing “it’s just the way it is”, I finally feel seen enough to say; look this just happened, and you have the power to make it so this isn’t just how it is. 

You see prior to May 25, 2020, we could all live with a degree of ignorance in the matter; you could deny my life was actually different because of my skin tone and I could feign my perception of equality, but that shield has been lifted.  We have awakened from our socio-normative unconsciousness... That was deep, I know, but rather or not we choose to stay woke is up to us. The US needs a reckoning, regardless of if recent demands for equality stemming from the death of Mr. Floyd, Ms. Taylor, and Mr. Arbery can transition this moment into a movement, I am here to remind you of its importance.  You see, I was Black before you ever heard of those names and will continue to be such even when they began to fade from your memory.  I am here to remind you just how vital that demand for equality is.  

The fact of the matter is that the woman who essentially “came to my rescue” by respecting the seriousness of the matter was in shock not only the verbal brutality spewed, but also in part I imagine from simply awakening the reality that such an incident actually happened.  This brings me to my anger... you see I am beyond grateful for the fact that I can finally stand up for myself and declare something like this has happened and be taken seriously, but I am equally as enraged that in order to be taken as such, the entire world had to witness a man be crushed to death.  It goes without saying that, the level of enlightenment that the entire non POC (people of color) world is having right now is just as appreciated as it is enraging. 

On a final note, I want to draw your attention to the fact that I referred to the man who accosted me, as a gentleman.  There is certainly two contributing factors to consider in this; one I was simply raised right- with manners and respect for everyone, and I knew this man couldn’t have been in his right mind, and two, I knew the importance of remaining composed in even the most daring of times, to counter the very real likelihood of simply being written off as an Angry Black Woman.  Think about that... even in an assault, I must maintain my composure, because society says an emotional Black woman is an Angry Black woman, society doesn’t question her countless motives for said anger; no, it merely writes her off.  

Well... let this first blog entry be a testament to my Eloquent Black Rage--sitting posed, with perfect posture, well read, well spoken, highly educated in fact... with well manicured fingernails and an accented middle finger nodding to a less than subtle, “fuck you”. 

In close, I hope in writing this I have helped to explain the depth of feelings that stem from such a verbal attack, the long term impact it has, and that I have drawn your attention to just how often injustice occurs even when they are not spoken of or otherwise exposed. 

This is my very first Blog-entry, it originally started out as a wordy Facebook post, but decided I needed a more appropriate venue for my voice.  I sincerely thank you for reading and hope you continue to peek into my mind from time to time.  Congratulations, you’ve earned 10 Friend Points and good karma! 

[rcris123]

This mess keeps on spinning them, keeps on going and going and going. And he’s growin’ afraid. So terribly afraid of what’s there yet to come; for Isaac, for them all. And this whole thing where Dutch keeps pushing when they just barely escaped the end of a rope feels foolish and impatient.

They’re dying...

And what better metaphor for that than picking up a dying Sebastian off the side of the road after they stole the Mayor’s letters and were planning to rob a bank and some high stakes poker game.

They got the man upstairs, back at Shady Belle. And what a debacle that was. He had to let Isaac handle it, while the rest of them got to bringing Jack back. Yeah, Charles was with him, and there was only 4 squatters left, but Christ... They moved ‘cause the Pinkertons came through again, knowin’ their location. Him and John was robbing cemeteries for Stefano Valentini and Dutch talked off Agent Milton who was ready to bring no less than 50 men to mow the lot of ‘em down.

Then in 2 days Tilly got stolen away and Isaac insisted he ride along. Tilly ain’t much older than him... They played dominoes together; Isaac tried and made her a dolly once... And to see the boy unhinged like that.

He apologized.

Arthur put his hands on the boy’s shoulders: “I just want you to be better than I was, Isaac.”

Boy looked down, away. A lil’ shake.

“You get me, boy? Not this. You ain’t this.”

But there ain’t nothing left beside this, not for them. They’re pushed back into a corner and Dutch’s going feral...

 And now he’s here...

Sebastian was barely half conscious when they brought him into the building; he fought the alcohol, and if Arthur ain’t been there to pin him to the bed he’d of fought the stitches Grimshaw made on him as well. She asked if he wanted her to sit by him. He said yes. Boy slept in Susan’s arms that night, Arthur on the table.

Dutch came talk to him in the morning, about how he’s been smelling home, somewhere. They almost got all the money they needed. Arthur ain’t quite sure ‘bout that part, but what he’s sure of is the concern the man had for him then. Sat with him, brought him something to eat; Arthur’s been forgetting all too often. His wrists were growin’ thin.

“Want one?” Dutch stretched the packet of cigarettes his way, having one already between his lips.

“I ain’t in the mood for it right now, thanks.” One more glance at Sebastian; he’s still sleeping.

Dutch lit his cigarette as a means to say ‘suit ye’rself’, then kept talking, after a deep inhale and a puff out: “You really do like him.”

Arthur just hummed as response.

“I’m... sorry, Arthur.” Dutch continued. “If I ever came off as stuck up to you or him. Was just worried.” A sigh. “Worried all these people’ll be pulling us, the family of us, apart. Can’t you see how they’re trying to?”

Arthur remained silent; and it ain’t ‘cause he ain’t believin’ him. He just got a lot of thoughts and half of them were fighting the other half; a lil’ Civil War inside his head.

“We’re so close to the end now, Arthur.” A pat on the back. “We’re gonna see it through-”

“It’s been 20 years, Dutch...”

Man took offense at that and the tone ain’t been as comforting as before: “Have a bit of faith, son. We’re gonna see it through.” Another pat on the back, firmer this time. “I’m gonna go see about that trolley station Signor Valentini told us about.”

“It’s- What if it’s a set-up?”

“That’s what I’m gonna find out.”

And Arthur’s left alone with his thoughts yet again. A sigh as head’s flung into his palms, face rubbed thoroughly. What a goddamn mess; and he’s sitting ‘round, doing nothing. He should find the kid and get on those bounty hunts he promised.

But part o’ him just ain’t got the strength.

“Ughhh-ACH!” Sebastian grits his teeth trying to stand up.

“Seba-” up he goes, to his side.

“Arthur.”

“What the hell you do-”

“I killed Valentini.” He spits the name out like it was poison.

It takes a moment to register: “What?...”

“I fucking killed him.” Sebastian coughs from the effort. Arthur sits on the edge of the bed, still looking at him. “Bastard had it coming...”

So all those wounds were from that Stefano.

“Well you back at camp now.”

“This ain’t Clemens Point...”

“Had to move. Pinkertons...”

“Ah...”

It’s Arthur that takes the man’s hand, gingerly caressing the back of it, thumb rubbing over protruding veins. Sebastian hums at the touch.

“You a’right?” he asks. “And Isaac? Jack?”

“Jack’s fine. Isaac... Kid’s had it hard... But he’s gonna make a fine bounty hunter...”

Sebastian squeezed his hand:

“And you?...”

Silence for a moment, then a sigh: “Worried.” Arthur lets his head fall forward.

It’s on his heart, it’s on his tongue, but for some reason he ain’t got the courage to tell the man he missed him. He’s always been good on the kid, good on him... and he might just have saved them from whatever the hell Valentini had in store for them. Or maybe he made it worse. No matter... What’s done is done...

And he knew he did all that for them. Sebastian could have just... not gotten involved. But he did, and look where it’s brought ‘im.

Arthur ain’t no goddamn savior, but he’s gonna try. A hand waves up, a scratch of the beard, a touch of the necklace. A sigh.

“You’re still wearing it.” Sebastian’s voice is almost sweet.

“ ‘Course I am.” He replies without thinking. Another touch upon the engravings. Saint Sebastian. Pray for us. “I care ‘bout you.”

It’s a wheezed sigh from Sebastian as he tries to stand more upright; hands try to stead him:

“I thought of you-” And in that moment he sounded like Mary, as if the words came from what he hoped or dreamed was love.

And Arthur has to remind himself that he’s been through all these thoughts before, through all these motions, of holding him and getting held. And it ain’t out of shame that he ain’t all that affectionate... It’s ‘cause he’s doubting himself, and it ain’t about the queer part – he fucked him already; Arthur just ain’t all that worthy of love. And all these... That Sebastian went through all that just cause this fool happened to be himself seemed like such a cruel fate and one he ain’t quite knowin’ what to do about...

“I thought of you...” Arthur said at last; holds him closer. “I goddamn thought of you, thought you’d come back here.” It pours out, then he stops, lips pursing together as if he said too much already. “But you never did... And then I saw you back there and I-”

“I know.” Sebastian cuts him but voice is grim and hands squeeze together again. “I know.”

“Bastard; I missed you.” There he said that.

Sebastian draws nearer and Arthur leans in, forehead to forehead.

“Arthur.”

“Don’t you say it like that-”

“Why?” breath rolls from Sebastian’s thin lips out onto his cheek.

Christ-

“ ‘cause I end up wanting to-”

“Besame~” Sebastian bumps his nose into his own.

He ain’t knowin’ what that means but he ain’t even given the time to ask an answer. Lips onto lips the next moment. It’s somewhat sweet and somewhat rough, ‘cause he ain’t knowin’ what to do with his own goddamn mouth, and it’s salty as dried blood becomes wet again. And whatever force drew him in before, draws him in now: to push up against Sebastian, tongue unwillingly slipping between lips and to that the man moans. A guttural noise rumbles out from deep within his chest as response; hands go up to cup Sebastian’s face.

Then he pulls away, just a moment.

Thumbs run through thick, long beard, up his sideburns towards the cheeks. Eyes are closed, all he knows is touch.

Another stolen kiss, leaning ever further in, Sebastian underneath him. But that was a sound of pain.

Again, they part.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

He stays there, to stare at him. There’s fire in those dark brown eyes, ‘cause he’s stubborn, like a buck in a wolf’s teeth. Skin’s shaped by age and grimaces of pain and rage: eyebrows drawn together even when soft, the creases on his nose from all the snarling he’s been doing. Tanned skin’s black and blue now. Man fought... And he’s still in pain-

“Does it hurt?...”

Sebastian doesn’t reply, shifts away. And so does Arthur; lets him lay onto the bed. But man pins his hands in place when he wanna take them away:

“Don’t you let go-” He doesn’t, lets Sebastian’s face rest into the cup of his palm and head turns, nose bumping against his thumb. “Arthur... You happen to be all I got left.”

Lips get pushed together: “I ain’t worth that much-”

Sebastian grabs his collar: “To me.”

Such a visceral feelin’ grips him just like all of what Sebastian was; makes him clutch that face between his palms, caress it, inhale deeply. He ain’t worth much, let alone be the sole reason someone’s still alive. They found each other barely breathing, and what a goddamn mess that seems to of made of both o’them. They ain’t meant to be here, and still they were and here’s Sebastian, fists cuffed in is shirt pulling him in and under. And Arthur’s ready to sink in, dip down and kiss him again. He ain’t meant to desire but he can’t make heads or tails of all this and all this physicality between them makes him feel good... So he does lean in, to run a finger down the browned scab on the man’s chest. What pains he must of endured all those days he ain’t seen him; it feels like it’s his fault. Guilt pang inside his guts – along with something else, ‘cause Sebastian shivers under touch.

It’s softer this time when he asks: “Does it hurt?...”

A pause then: “Not when you touch it like that...”

“Can I-” His hands want to roam that body, touch it tenderly so it ain’t hurting. Fingers slip underneath, opening up the buttons; but Arthur’s watching the man’s face as he does so. Sebastian’s eyes flutter shut and lips part, the faintest gasp. Thumbs press over firm skin, run down the man’s chest, then to the sides. And Arthur’s entire being spurts with a cold, electric shiver, that then blooms warm from deep within his chest; repeat. Goosebumps on his skin. It feels good touching him like this...

He leans further in, until breath fawns over Sebastian’s neck, and despite smelling like blood, that musky scent that’s made him hard before’s still there. And hands keep running lower, feeling the scabs, the hardened bruises, the muscles-

Mouth dries up, lips almost threaten to go down, but he don’t, not yet.

“I’m gonna get you out.” A whisper and it sounded like a promise. “You and the kid, I’m gonna get you out-”

Door swings open, then immediately a shriek:

“Jesus Christ! Ain’t thought it was for real.” John. He pulls back. “Jesus! Arthur!”

Arthur stands straight up, squares his shoulder, voice harsh: “Keep it down, Marston!”

John becomes meek, pushes the plate he had in his hands forward: “Pearson sent me with food, said you weren’t eating enough and urhm, for Sebastian.”

A deep sigh; he takes the plates, offers one to a dishelmed Sebastian and keeps one for himself. A first bite; the rich stew flavor fills all corners of his mouth. If it weren’t for the scare he might have not forgotten ‘bout the discussion. And how this all tied up to John as well...

“John.” He puts the plate down. “Listen here.”

“What-”

“Listen. You get your kid, your woman, and you go. When the chance comes up you gotta go.”

“Arthur... What-... What ‘bout loyalty?... I- What’s gotten into you?” A gaze spared for Sebastian. “Him?”

An exaggerated sigh: “Your kid’s got taken and you’re thinkin’ o’ loyalty? We been loyal, look where it’s gotten us. You got a family, John. And it’s about time it comes first.”  

John steps backwards, rubs the back of his neck:

“Shit, Arthur- I mean I ain’t thought about it like that...” He sits down; Sebastian’s quietly eating in the corner, on the bed. “I know I said that Jack ain’t chose this life. And Dutch. He keeps talking about something beyond this, but I don’t know. Feels like there’s no end to this.”

Arthur purses his lips, gets a seat for himself as well, next to Sebastian.

“You really think there’s an end?” John’s gotten serious.

“Dunno.” Arthur’s gotta be honest; he’s been doubting it himself: “But I’m gonna try.”

“You think Dutch’s been lying to us all these years.”

Arthur gets back up again; it don’t sit right with him: “Don’t know what to think no more; Dutch, all o’ us.” A scratch of the beard. “But I ain’t letting Isaac become an outlaw.”

And Sebastian.

So there’s gotta be some way outta this.

There’s a glimmer of new-found resolution in John’s eyes: “Yeah.” He gets up, slapping his knees, and then finds himself speechless looking at Arthur and Sebastian. And as if the discussion from before never happened: “Jesus! I still can’t quite get it what you find in a man, Arthur-”

It’s a chuckle but tone’s as serious as himself: “If you ever say that again I’m gonna kill you.”

“A’right!” John shrieks in defeat, wants to get out, then stop: “Still... uhm, rest well you two. I guess...”

He gets out. Arthur turns to Sebastian:

“Can you believe I grew up with that moron-”

“I heard that!”

“Calm down, Marston!” Arthur beacons in return, then sighs, a wheezed chuckle. “He’s like a brother to me.”

“Good thing I never had siblings.” Sebastian smirks.

Laughter bursts out of him: “Ah... Sebastian I wanna take you huntin’ again.”

“Let’s go-”

“Not like that.”

“Where have I heard that before?” No don’t bring that back up; Arthur scoffs.

Conversation’s cut short by commotion outside. Long steps taken to the balcony and Sebastian tries to follow, staggering onto his feet. He’d stop him if worry wouldn’t keep him moving forward.

Hosea and Abigail were back, and he ain’t ever seen such a frown on that old man’s face.

“Where’s Dutch?” Hosea says.

“He went scouting for that trolley station.” Micah replies promptly.

“Bring him back, now.”

“On it, boss.”

“Oi, what’s the matter?” Sean came as if woken from the dead.

“Valentini’s been found murdered.”

“But that ain’t been us?”

“No. But we’re their best bet and the Pinkertons already know we’re in the area and now I fear they’ll sniff us out again.”

“Gotta get downstairs-” Arthur tells Sebastian, passing by him and the man tries to stagger behind. Oh, he can’t see him like that- “C’mon.” An arm around the waist and the other hoisted over the shoulder Arthur walks, or more like drags, the other with him out, before letting go.

Isaac runs to him and a firm hand’s placed on the boy’s shoulder.

“Arthur.” Hosea strides to him. “What you think of all this-”

“Shouldn’t we let Dutch decide on it?” Arthur ain’t made for this kind of responsibility.

“Yes, but what are you thinking about who or for what wanted Valentini-”

“I did it.” Sebastian speaks up. Hosea frowns again, but the man doesn’t back down: “He tortured me to get himself off for days. He knew about you. And Isaac-”

And Hosea harshens, even if only for a brief moment, but his fury scares him, and Sean and everyone around.

“I can’t criticize your action as I would have ‘cause you’re not part of this gang. At least not quite. Not yet. But you might have just put all of us in danger with that. And I want you to think on it, Sebastian.” It’s a threat, but not nearly as overt as half the gang might have put it. “Guess we’ll either have to keep quiet, real quiet, for a while, or find someplace else. And fast.”

“I could go looking-” Arthur tried.

“No, I wouldn’t send you out again; we might need the fire power... But let’s see what Dutch says.”

 “I say we do nothing.” Dutch wasn’t pleased with any of it, and it seemed like what hurt most was the fact that he just got wind of money ready to be stolen and now he ain’t allowed to get near ‘em. “We lie low. We send people scouting ahead for a new place, to look for any sign of the Pinkertons and we lie low.” Dutch leans over the table, looking intently at the map; Hosea was quiet. “Micah, Bill, Sean. You go up Roanoke Ridge, looking for a place. Arthur, you, Isaac and Charles look through the Bayou see if you can find anything.” The look Dutch gave him then, as if he knew he’d protest; Arthur didn’t. Not yet. “I’ll keep a lookout on here. See what I can do...”

Sebastian will come with them, ‘cause he ain’t leaving the man behind, not again. And he trusts Charles.

They left just some hours later, and rode until sunset; and it was almost uncharacteristically quiet, of all of ‘em. For Sebastian he knew man was in pain and he ain’t really the chatty type; Isaac’s in a tough spot, poor kid. He ain’t been able to get much outta him these past days, but he wished he could. And Charles; man was usually quiet ‘round everyone else, but not really ‘round him and that tipped him off to something.

They rode up until they found a small abandoned village by the looks of it. Lakay was written on a sign nearby.

No one said a word.

“Guess we should stop here for tonight.” Arthur sighed. “Charles? Help me set up the camp.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll get out the fishing rods.” Isaac dismounted.

And Sebastian tried as well; the groan was audible and the shake in his arms and body was goddamn visible and it made a pit inside his guts. He can’t rid of the guilt: he’s got the man here ‘cause he was a big goddamn fool and got himself shot, almost killed and left the kid almost fatherless. Lips purse:

“Take care there...” Arthur says, to Sebastian, who made steps to join Isaac on the edge of the water.

That lil’ smile... “Yeah.”

When head whips back to arranging the wood for the fire he catches Charles looking at him with... an expression. Then man lowers his gaze. Mouth’s dry again and he’s reminded of John and how he took that, ‘cause he ain’t been together with Sebastian in camp.

They held hands that one time...

And the pen. It’s still in his pocket.

“Hold it firm, Isaac.” Sebastian talked loud over the sound of his boy struggling to reel in a fish.

“What’s he caught!?” Arthur beacons.

“Heard there was big sturgeons here!” Sebastian answers.

“We’re gonna be feastin’ like kings tonight.” A chuckle.

Sebastian’s attention is back to Isaac: “Pull!”

And Arthur returns to his job, Charles’ look almost incessant by now:

“What’s it with you?” It ain’t harsh or scolding.

“Nothing...” Charles averts his gaze. “What you think of this place? Think this could serve as a camp?”

“Well place looks deserted, it’s pretty darn deep in the swamps; ain’t thinking they’ll come lookin’ for us here.”

“We’re running out of places to hide.”

“You tellin’ me...”

“I heard what you told John today.”

Shit-

“You should leave too, Arthur.” Charles continues, yet soundin’ so hopeless.

“You better do so too.”

“That’s of no importance-”

“You’re a good man, Charles.” Arthur cuts him. “You can get ye’rsefl a future that’s more than robbin’ and killin’.”

“Hm...” Charles takes out the flint to light the fire. “You changed, Arthur.”

“Dunno ‘bout that.” His head bends down as he gets up.

“Some time ago I wouldn’t have thought you cared this much for other people. I see things differently now.” First sparks fly. “And I think you do too.”

Brows are strung together: “Watchu meanin’?”

Charles doesn’t say something just points his chin towards Sebastian and Isaac, struggling to string up the fish outta the water.

“That ain’t no concern o’ yours.” And he almost sounded harsh- maybe the first time he ever talked so to Charles. A deep inhale. “Don’t take it the wrong way.”

“No, I understand.” Cheers of victory from behind them. Charles bends his head and points a hand at him chest. “I’m the same- And I thought like that of you.”

Heart shrinks in his chest.

“I’m sorry...”

“Don’t apologize. Be happy, Arthur.”

He don’t know what words to say so lips drawn together and he turns to assist Sebastian and Isaac with that monster of a fish. Kid’s beaming for the first time in days.

“Caught him all by himself.” Sebastian sounds like a proud father. Now that’s a thought...

“What’re we waitin’ for then; let’s cut the beast open!” Knife’s out, ready to fillet the fish.

Scales off, then edge of then knife then gracefully guts the animal, before slicing it in 2 fingers worth sections and placing it on the grill with salt, pepper and a sprinkle of dried mint.

And they all ate like there was nothing else better:

“Thank you, Isaac.”

Boy perked up with a big smile on his face, then leaned into Sebastian: “He helped-”

“No, I didn’t-” Sebastian deflected, but Isaac wasn’t having it:

“Hush, you earned ye’r keep.”

“Careful, Arthur, Isaac’ll turn into quite the camp leader.” Charles seems to chuckle.

“I’m not Dutch.” Kid was offended.

“That you ain’t.” Arthur laughs, taking one more hefty bite outta the fatty fish, then a chunk of bread.

Sebastian straightened his back and stopped eating.

“What?”

“Sh. Be quiet.”

All of them perked up, listened for anything that might be moving. Silence, except the crackling of the fire.

Bushes rustle. An arrow.

“Look out!” Arthur’s first instinct is getting the kid down.

Charles’ on his feet, Sebastian struggled. Another arrow. A shot and someone stumbled out of the vegetation into the mud. There’s at least three more. He eyes one, but Sebastian’s quicker to shoot him in the neck. The one behind is Arthur’s.

A gunshot from below and behind. Another body tumbles to the ground.

Isaac shot the last one; there was no more fear in that boy’s eyes.

“We gotta burn the bodies.” Sebastian says promptly. “They ain’t gonna stay dead.” A green substance oozes from the corpses alongside the blood.

“Who were they?” Charles isn’t about to keep quiet. “Or what.”

“Fucking undead...” Sebastian spits.

[the-everlasting-dream]

Xin Teng - Liam x MC [x Drake], TRR AU

Part 2 of Unfathomable

Summary: The day they were supposed to have the funeral

A/N: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE HEED THE TRIGGER WARNINGS!! We will be going into explicit confronting material about sensitive topics that can be triggering. 

Word Count: 4426

Warnings: Blood, mentions of death, miscarriage, description of injury, angst, grief. 

Permanent tags: @choicessa, @meeraaverywalker , @drakewalkerwhipped , @thewolvesss ,  @mfackenthal , @srawesleyghuewrites , @topsyturvy-dream , @enmchoices , @gardeningourmet @debramcg1106 , @alesana45 , @meladoridarcy, @blackcatkita , @tmarie82 , @annekebbphotography , @lizk77 , @jayjay879 , @tornbetween2loves , @akrenich , @theroyalweisme , @likethetailofacomet , @sleepwalkingelite , @littleblossom-18 , @ooo-barff-ooo TRR only: @speedyoperarascalparty , @carabeth , 

Unfathomable AU tags: @akrenich , @hopefulmoonobject , @wannabemc2 , @romanticheart-posts , @bobasheebaby , @sstee1 , @mrsdrakewalkerblog @furiousherringoperatortoad , @indicater , @h3llostrang3r , @innerpostmentality , @queencatherynerhys , @innerpostmentality , @drakewalkerisreal , 

 Xinteng 

noun 心疼 Chinese 

The Literal translation of heartache. The particular kind of sadness and pain that comes from witnessing and sharing the pain of people you love.

Liam stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his collar. Today wasn’t going to be easy. 

 Today he had to farewell his best friend of more years than he could count. There was nothing that could have prepared him for it. In his mind, Drake would have always been a part of his future, his best friend, trusted advisor and maybe even a member of the royal council, if he managed to talk him into it. Drake had been such a permanent fixture in his life, it was a core fact that he just knew. They would have been brothers for life, supporting each other until well after they were old and grey, there was no question about it and he had no reason to think otherwise until… now.. 

The reality of it finally seemed to hit him hard as he donned his outfit for the funeral —  a suit, all black — doing up each button seemed to take a colossal effort. His own blue eyes, hollow and stared back at him as he relived the thoughts and feelings of the last few days. The day they switched off the life support would haunt him forever, he knew that. It had been almost a week and he still felt everything so viscerally, almost like he was living it all again. Everything… Holding Elizabeth’s sobbing body as she tried to claw at the doctors... feeling frustration so intense he wanted to scream and never stop... begging and pleading with Drake to come back... feeling his pulse ebb away when he didn’t….

The emptiness was the worst…  emptiness that ate at him, slowly crawling its way under his skin to hollow out everything that could make him feel okay again… He marvelled at the immense impact that one person had, it was almost like Drake’s presence had left a huge hole in his soul that he had no idea how to begin to fill.  Sadness, pain and anger reared their ugly heads again inside him, tussling for which one would gain control over what was left of him. 

God Drake why did you have to-

The door opened abruptly and Liam brushed at the hot tears that has escaped him as his father's reflection appeared in the mirror. He clenched his jaw, willing himself to regain his composure, taking a deep breath before turning to face the other man.   

‘Father.’ His tone was cool. 

 ‘Son,’ Constantine replied in kind, eyes travelling over Liam’s figure ‘I see you’re ready for today… I can only imagine how tough this must be for you.' 

He was dancing around the subject — a subtle shift in his figure was enough to betray his ruse. Liam had to bite his cheek to prevent his face from morphing into disgust at his father’s gall to hide his ulterior motive for their conversation under the false pretence of affection. 

 ‘You’ve obviously come here to say something, Father,’ he replied, his tone measured as the tension between them thickened. ‘Just when I thought you’d come to comfort me on the day of my best friend’s funeral… I suppose I shouldn’t have been so generous with my assumptions.’ 

‘I suppose there’s not point beating around the bush..’ the old man replied, easing himself into the armchair. ‘Have you spoken to Duchess Elizabeth?’ 

 Liam scoffed, adjusting his cufflinks. ‘What do you think?' 

‘Don’t take that smart tone with me, boy,’ Constantine replied, voice restrained with fury. ‘The future of our country is at stake. We do not have the luxury of time. And I will not stand to see it be ruined by your indecision.' 

A deep rage flared up in Liam. 'For Pete’s sake, he was my best friend!’ He roared, not caring if he was heard throughout the palace. 'She’s his lover and today is his funeral. How can you possibly want me to bring up the subject of marriage?' 

'Liam I know its not ideal but we have to think of the future of our country,’ Constantine told him firmly, unperturbed by the outburst. 'Waiting is not a luxury one has as a monarch. The people look to the crown for stability. Duchess Elizabeth is the best insurance of that.’ 

He shut his eyes, swallowing hard, trying to keep his conflicting emotions at bay, like he’d done for all his life. ‘Why does it have to be her Father? Why are you so adamant that I marry her? Olivia, Madeleine, Hana Lee, hell even Kiara Castelsareillan or Penelope Portavira would be perfectly suitable for the role. Why do you insist on Elizabeth?’ 

 His father was already shaking his head. ‘You really want me to list it out for you? Fine. I’m sure I don’t need to reiterate how brash Olivia Nevrakis is, the people will never accept a Nevrakis on the throne, particularly after her parents’ betrayal. As for Lady Hana, there’s no denying she’s talented but the poor girl has no control over her feelings, anyone with eyes could see that she’s incapable of being with a man.’ 

Liam noted the bitterness on his father’s face after voicing that as Constantine continued. ‘If you hadn't made such a public spectacle of ending your engagement with Madeleine, perhaps we could have salvaged something of this mess, but nooo you had to announce it publicly.. Let's face it the other two are addled idiots anyway. Do I need to go on?’ 

He ignored the withering look his father gave him, turning away stubbornly. ‘Why can’t we just call for another season? Surely I-‘

‘Think Liam,’ his father hissed venomously. ‘Our royal court was just attacked in the palace, supposedly the most secure place in the country. The people are shaken, its only a matter of time before they come stampeding to the gates with torches and pitchforks, calling for our heads. We need a solution to this and now. Cordonia needs stability not the king spending their precious funds to pander to his indecision when the perfect candidate seems to exist already. As much as I hate to admit it, your precious duchess holds the people's favour something we desperately need right now after her performance during the social season. To them she represents stability and hope, two things even you have to recognise we are running short on.' 

Though he could understand his underlying reasoning, Liam couldn’t believe the words coming from the man he called his father. Did he seriously expect him to ask the love of his life to marry him on today of all days? How was he to even think of proposing to Elizabeth when Drake was barely in his coffin? 

 'Am I not allowed one day to grieve? To cry? To be a man first then a king?' 

‘Liam, like it or not you are the crown now. Everything you do is reflection of the crown’s intentions.’ Constantine was on his feet now, glaring back at him. 'You took a vow to protect this country and I will not stand by and watch you run it to ruin. If I have to take it into my own hands, so be it.’ 

 Liam narrowed his eyes. ‘Is that a threat?' 

‘I am not afraid to defend my country. By any means necessary.'

Tension crackled in the air around them. Both men stood toe to toe, locked in a standoff pulled to full height, Liam over his father by a few inches who glared back defiantly. His mouth was already opening to reprimand him when — 

 ‘Your Majest-'

‘What?!’ He bellowed at the young footman that opened the door, not taking his eyes off Constantine. ‘Can’t you see I’m occupied!?’ 

‘A-a-apologised Y-your M-majesty, it-its-its-,' The poor boy sputtered in terror unable to speak clearly. 

 ‘Well?’ Liam demanded impatiently, turning his head to zero in on him. 

 ‘I-Its the Duchess!’ The boy finally burst out. ‘She’s locked herself in her room and she won’t come out!’ 

‘This is preposterous! The stupid girl is having a temper tantrum,’ Constantine scoffed Liam spun on his heel, grabbing his father by the collar, rage in every word. ‘Speak one more word about Elizabeth and I’ll have you hanged for treason.’ 

 Ignoring his father’s protest, Liam ran.

-

His feet traced the steps to Elizabeth’s room of their own accord, shoving past staff members, barely acknowledging their grunts of annoyance and cries of surprise at their king dashing through the hallways like the devil himself was on his heels. No, he only had one objective in mind. 

 Elizabeth. Elizabeth. Why the hell was her room so far away?

Rounding the corner, he found himself standing at the locked door to her suite, Mara and the other servants pounding on the barrier. ‘Your Majesty we tried everything. We sent for a lock smith but she’s got something over the door on the inside,’ Mara reported, her hands red raw. ‘We’ve got security ready to scale the outside of the building, to come through the window.’ 

’Tell them to stand down,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll handle this.’   

The bodyguard did not look pleased but nodded once, raising a hand to her earpiece. 

 ‘Elizabeth?’ Liam called out, placing a hand on the door. ‘Its me… Its.. Liam. Are you okay?’ 

There was no response. Liam frowned in confusion. This was highly uncharacteristic of the Elizabeth Richmond he knew. Or maybe he didn’t know her as well as he thought... 

‘Elizabeth, open up,’ his voice was more urgent now, unable to keep his mind from conjuring up the worst images. 

He raked over memories of the past days, trying to find something, anything that would clue him into why she was acting like this. He immediately cursed himself. How could she not be herself given all that had happened? But still he needed to know, he needed to see her with his own two eyes to make sure she was okay. And with every second that ticked by, the conclusions he was jumping to seemed to be worse and worse. 

‘Please. Elizabeth. Its Liam.’ Still nothing.

‘Leave me alone with her,’ Liam ordered before turning back to the door. 'Liz… please… Open up. I just… need to know that you’re okay…’ 

 He rested his head against the door and a faint sob could be heard through the wood. Alarm came flooding back into his face, galvanising him. 

 ‘Elizabeth open up or I’ll break the door down if I have to.’ 

 Liam’s senses tingled, strained to detect some sign, any thing to dissuade him. Receiving none, he sighed in resignation, before aimed a powerful kick at the door to the suite. His blow held so much force it struck the the offending — a chair — that had been holding the door shut and stepping over it, his eyes moved frantically over the unmade bed and seemly empty room. 

 The sound of another sob turned his head towards the closed door of the bathroom and springing it open, found Elizabeth lying in foetal position on the bathroom floor. He immediately moved to drop to his knees beside her before he slipped suddenly. He reflexively flung a hand out to support himself against the toilet bowl. After sufficiently steadying himself, he drew his hand back only to find it covered in… crimson. 

The dart of relief that was forming in his chest immediately vanished as Liam’s blue eyes took in the entire scene where the floor was covered in blood all originating from… Elizabeth's voice was softer than a whisper and coarse than sandpaper as she turned her fractured gaze to his, tears welling in her eyes. 

‘I… I-I… He.. Drake...’ She choked on his name, fresh sobs erupting from her body. Her hand clutched the toilet, leaving a smear of blood in its place before her arm gave out and she collapsed onto the floor, lacking the strength to even hold herself upright. ‘There’s so much blood…’ She croaked brokenly, eyes unfocused as she scanned the scene around her. 'W-why is there so much blood?'

Her words broke Liam out of his frozen stupor. ‘Elizabeth,’ His voice was hoarse as his mind slowly pieced together what had happened. Unable to tears his eyes away from the pool of red seeping out from under her legs, he swallowed hard, staring at his bloodstained hand. ‘You… you were…’   

Pregnant...

She shut her eyes, hissing slightly as the word hung in their air between them. ‘He didn’t know Liam. He… I-He died without knowing I…’ She wouldn’t finish without breaking into tears again and lost for words, Liam gathered her up into his arms as she wept, unable to stop big tears rolling down his face, knowing he only knew a sliver of what she was going through right now. 

On the day of the funeral too… 

His heart went out to her and the unfathomable suffering she was experiencing. He felt so infinitely useless, unable to provide any other comfort so he clutched her closer, as if the tighter he held on the more likely her pain would go away. He was painfully aware that there was nothing he could say or do that would ever be able to rectify what had just happened. So he held her on that bathroom, he held her close as she cried into his new black suit, blood staining both their outfits. Liam’s own emotions had worked up a storm inside him but he pushed them down for her sake. He couldn’t lose it too. Suddenly Elizabeth cried out as if in pain as more fluid began to leak onto the floor and when her skin touched his, the contact burned his skin. She felt scorching hot to the touch despite the shivers that wracked her body.

Liam cursed himself for not realising this sooner and shouted for a maid. 

‘Prepare the motorcade and have them ready to transport the duchess and I to the hospital. And bring Lady Hana here immediately,’ he commanded the girl who’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates at the sight. ‘Breathe a word of this to anyone and I will personally ensure that you live to regret it.’   

She bobbed once in compliance and rushed off. 

 ‘C’mon Elizabeth,’ he encouraged softly after god knows how much time had passed. ‘It’s going to be okay.. Its going to be okay.’

He had no way of knowing if it was going to be okay, he had no idea what would happen next but he couldn’t let her know the panic he was feeling. He shifted her hot body in his arms, worry seeping deeper into him. How long had she been like this? Surely it couldn’t have been good to lie on the bathroom floor - as clean as it may be - in this state. Liam had little medical knowledge but what if she’d caught some bacterial infection or something? She could be at risk for something serious and he had no idea. 

 ‘Someone get the doctor immediately,’ he bellowed, shifting Elizabeth again, her temperature soaring as she attempted to curl closer into herself. 

Through the panic he was feeling, Liam remembered vaguely that his mother had put him under a cold shower when he’d had a fever as a child to lower his temperature. He had no way of knowing if that was medically but he had to try. 

‘C’mon Elizabeth,’ he repeated. ‘I’m going to put you into the shower. We- we… I don’t know what I’m doing..’ Liam ran a bloodstained hand through his hair, not caring for his personal wellbeing, attention solely focused on getting her up and into the shower. 'Let’s get you cleaned up.’ 

Elizabeth made a noise of reluctance but eventually allowed him to lift her to her feet. He had just managed to coax her into the shower when Hana’s voice called out for him. 

 ‘In here,’ he yelled back from under the cold shower where he was holding Elizabeth, still fully clothed as he tried to keep his eyes off the blood that was draining off both of them. Hana appeared in the doorway instantaneously, a gasp escaping her at the sight before her eyes, scanning the mess in the bathroom. For a moment her lower lip wavered and Liam was doubting his decision to have her here before she straightened her posture and stepped into the bathroom, avoiding the puddles of blood and fluid on the ground. 

 ‘Here let me,’ she reached for Elizabeth and Liam was only too glad to ease her into her arms. ‘The doctor is on the way.' 

As Liam was exiting the bathroom to let Hana rinse her, his eyes caught sight of the toilet, where something bobbed in the bloodstained water.. 

This time Liam was unable to control his initial reaction, his stomach turning itself inside out, heaving its contents into the nearest rubbish bin. Swiping the back of his hand over his mouth, he stumbled out of the bathroom, surely leaving red footprints in his wake but in his stupor, he was barely able to think straight. 

 ‘Your Majesty-‘ Bastein and Mara were at the suite door, wide eyed at the blood on his clothes but he waved them off. ‘Where’s that fucking doctor?’ 

‘Right here Your Majesty, apologies for the delay,’ a woman stepped up and Liam couldn’t speak, merely pointing to Elizabeth's room.

‘Your Majesty you don’t look-' 

‘Madeleine!’ Liam bellowed, ignoring all attempts at his own wellbeing. 

The blonde woman materialised at the threshold with her ever enigmatic expression. ‘You called Your Majesty?’ 

‘Postpone the funeral. And clear my schedule for today and tomorrow.’ 

‘What am I your personal assistant?’ She scoffed, clearly unified by his stormy expression. 

‘I am your king,’ Liam growled, authority clear in his tone. ‘You will do as I say.’ The blonde woman nodded once and disappeared and he glanced at the crowd of servants gathered there watching the scene. 

'Breathe a word of this to anyone and I’ll make sure you all pay for it,’ he snarled, registering the fear in their eyes before they scattered. 

 He sank down into a nearby chaise, his head dropping into his hands and Liam wept...

He cried for Elizabeth, for the inexplicable pain she was feeling at losing not one but two people in such a short space of time. He wept for the child who would have been, who would have grown up to be a tiny copy of their father, a strength to their mother and comfort that the man she loved was still with her in some way. He wept for Drake who would never get to have the family he wanted and surely deserved, a life cut short by the sharp and unforgiving knife of fate. Feeling a synonymous sense of shame, Liam wept for himself too, for what he was expected to do for his country at the price of one woman’s happiness and stability.

He did not know how long he sat there, eyes staring blankly at the tiles, brushing off any and all attempt to comfort him until the servants bustled by barely taking notice of their king sitting so still he could have been a statue. His father’s word echoed back to him, about the need for stability and harmony through his marriage to Elizabeth but Liam knew now that he would never be able to ask that of her. The opinions of the people be damned, he thought angrily. They could change and they would. He’d marry someone else Olivia or even Kiara maybe, both who would be fine queens and — 

The door creaked open to reveal the doctor stepping out and Liam immediately stood up, giving her an expectant look. Her expression turned apologetic. 

 ‘As you are aware, Your Majesty Duchess Elizabeth has had a miscarriage. It is difficult to say how far along she was but my best guess would be less than three months.’ 

The words shook him to his core.. Three months ago would have been around the time of the homecoming ball, after he had broken off his engagement to Madeleine, he reasoned. Liam felt his stomach drop, he had no idea Elizabeth and Drake were so involved together at that point, in fact he had no idea of it until he’d seen her at his bedside before what he had suspected finally clicked into place. His stomach twisted into a tighter knot at the next words. 

‘You found her when she was mid way through passing the pregnancy tissue. Fever, chills, severe abdominal and uterine pain are common with a miscarriage like this one. It is hard to say whether she has contracted some kind of infection from sitting unprotected on the floor but I have briefed Lady Hana on the symptoms and she knows to contact a doctor should Her Grace be experiencing this.’ 

 ‘How is she now?’ Liam’s tongue felt thick in his mouth as he fought to swallow the doctor’s words. 

 ‘The rest of the pregnancy tissue should pass out in the next few days and there’s nothing I can do to make that process any faster. It is a matter of time. But for now she needs to rest Your Majesty. I would recommend bedrest for the next day or two and no strenuous activity while her body recovers. I have given her painkillers to help with the pain. She will require an ultrasound to ensure all the pregnancy tissue has been expelled and another checkup in about 4-6 weeks time.' 

He hadn’t realised how tense he was until the doctor placed a hand on his arm in comfort. 

‘It’s a tough thing to recover from but Her Grace has a good support system. She just needs people to be with her to remind her that she doesn’t have to do this alone. None of you do.’ 

 Liam nodded, hearing the doctor’s message. ‘I understand. Can I-can I see her?’ ‘Her Grace is resting but a few minutes wouldn’t hurt,’ the doctor — Dr Jaya Da Silva as her name badge read — smiled sadly, pausing for a moment before speaking again. ‘Go be with her. In times like these, you need hope. You need to give her that hope Your Majesty because in the end that’s all we have. Everyone knows Duchess Elizabeth has a way of pulling through in the end, you just need to remind her of it.’

He nodded once and turned to the room door where two maids with cleaning supplies were exiting. Unbidden his eyes flew to a small black plastic bag one of them was holding and his stomach turned violently, threatening to hurl at the sight of it. 

That was… 

Liam squeezed his eyes shut, wiping his sweaty palms on the front of his blazer — a gesture his stepmother would have surely chastised him for — and took a deep breath, willing the calmness people associated his kingly persona to return. Elizabeth lay on the bed, curled into ball, dark hair tangled across the pillows as Hana tucked her in. She barely acknowledged his presence, her eyes glassy and vacant, fixated loosely on the wall. He winced at the sight, taking in her bloodshot gaze and how her hands hadn’t quite stopped shaking.

‘Elizabeth…’ Her name slipped from his lips, as if it was never really meant for him. His mouth opened and shut a few times, at a loss for words. "How are you feeling?” wouldn’t really cut it in this situation; he could not even begin to understand the pain she must be in. 

 ‘You postponed the funeral,’ she said finally, almost in an accusatory tone. ‘Why?’ 

Liam sighed, running a hand through his hair. ‘Elizabeth... you can’t. You’re in no condition to..’ 

‘I can,’ she retorted, struggling to push herself up on one hand. ‘I can and I will.’ 

‘The doctor ordered bedrest, she said it would take a while for-‘ 

‘I don’t care! Stop. Stop it okay!’ She was in a sitting position now, glaring at him with a venom that he’d never seen before. ‘It needs to go on, I have to… I have to…  I want to see him laid to rest.. I wanna see him one more time before-‘ Her voice gave way to sobs. 

 ‘Elizabeth…You’ve already gone through so much today. You need to rest.’ 

‘I need to see him Liam,’ she was crying again, loud, messy sobs as huge globs of snot flowed out of her nose but she swiped it away with her hand before holding up a menacing finger towards him. ‘Fuck you and your entitled ass for not letting me.’ 

He opened his mouth to reply but she cut him off. ‘Tell them the funeral is back on Liam. Tell them or I’ll never speak to you again.’ 

'If it comes to that, so be it.’ 

She yelled at him, screamed, cursed him with every profanity under the sun, swearing on all she knew to be sacred that she would never forgive him but Liam stood his ground. He dragged his blue eyes to her dark ones, knowing she was in extreme pain and it was just the grief talking. She was already unstable, if he did as she said… who knew if she would ever recover. 

‘Hate me all you want,’ Liam continued in a voice he did not recognise as his own. ‘I’m only doing this for you own good.’ 

‘You fucking bastard!’ she yelled back as she struggled to get to her feet, before giving way to a sharp cry of pain, her hand flying to her abdomen. Hana immediately rushed to her side but Elizabeth swatted her away. ‘Get off me, let me go Hana!' 

The other woman turned her pleading eyes on Liam, begging him to relent so that Elizabeth would be calmed but he stood his ground.

‘So help me Elizabeth if I need to lock you in this room I will.’ 

What was happening to him? He sounded just like his father, placing this innocent woman in even more pain. But Liam had no choice, he had to do what he felt was right. 

 ‘I’m doing this for your own good,’ he replied forlornly as she collapsed back on the bed in exhaustion. Shutting the door behind him, Liam leaned against the wood, closing his eyes as tears rolled down his cheeks, hating himself for what he just did. The sound of her protests filtered to him as the echo of his father’s words sprang to his mind, both battling on his conscience. Elizabeth was already in so much pain. 

How could he burden her with the crown too?

[mystery-deer]

The Party

Mycroft stood still at his mother fussed with his clothes and hair, making several checks and re-checks in a frenzied way that gave them both anxiety.

“This fit last month...did you put on weight?” She asked, then kissed the sting of her insult away. “My little bear cub.” Mycroft resisted the urge to wipe his cheek and instead stared passively forward. She smiled.

“Come now, and try not to stand in the corner like a wallflower.” Being with his mother was uncomfortable. She lumped them in together so close one moment that her rejections the next moment always felt viscerally painful. “You’re a handsome young man, I’m sure you’ll find that if you open a bit your peers will see that.” He was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Yes, Mother.” And then, so not to be accused of being dismissive, “I’ll try.” The party was a benefit, something his father was throwing to show off his house and family. While the mansion was normally so devoid of life that Mycroft had once gone a full week without seeing either his parents or brother (the latter of which was more concerning), it had been (through the effort of many maids) reformed into a warm and cheerful home. The chandeliers which normally gave off a pale white light now shone a rich yellow and the mirrors which were often covered in dust now sparkled. In fact, everything seemed to sparkle. It hurt his eyes and he was glad that Sherlock was asleep or at least content to pretend to be asleep in his room. Often at parties his anxiety stemmed not only from the pressure to interact well with others but also the constant worry that his brother would act out of turn. Today he had only one anxiety to plague him, wonderful. “Speak of the devil!” His father raised his arms jovially and his mother took her place nestled beside him. “I do hope he hasn’t been calling me a devil all evening?” His mother asked, widening her eyes and clutching her pearls. “If anything he’s the one most worthy of the title, devilishly handsome~” She pressed a kiss to his cheek and Mycroft watched her in awe, she always knew how to perform, to entertain. No wonder she was so disappointed in her children who drew attention clumsily or not at all. “And who’s this?” “My eldest, Mycroft.” At his father’s mention Mycroft straightened up and his mother placed a hand on his shoulder, now they were all connected, a perfect chain. “He’s smart as his mother, they both are. Mycroft, tell the Barton’s about your award.” Mycroft launched into a short speech about his award, which he’d gotten for being top of his class for four years running.  It had also doubled as a target on his back and he’d barely managed to get it home while avoiding being beaten to a pulp. He didn’t mention this however, he assumed it would be in poor taste. When he finished he dismissed himself with a soft “If you’ll excuse me?” and left when granted permission, his purpose fulfilled. There was truly nothing much to do at these events if he wasn’t being called over to brag. His father’s colleagues either didn’t have children or didn’t bring them to these events, which he was sure his parents wished they had the luxury to do. He wished he could be banished to his room like Sherlock, maybe he should act wild...be an absolute monster. He took a profiterole and popped it in his mouth whole, feeling sick from the sugar. It quelled his anger and he took another one, checking to see if he was being watched. Both of his parents were enthralled by whatever conversation was taking place and secure in his assertion that he wouldn’t be called again for some time, he left to solitude of the back garden. When outside the noise of the party had quieted to a muffled, quiet affair. The wind was cool and he could hear birds and frogs calling out to each other. He was attempting to identify them by species (which even he acknowledged was a bit of a low for him socially) when he was interrupted. “Hey, are you uh..Mycroft?” He turned. The rude interruption was a boy around his age with hair that was rebelling hard against being gelled down. Mycroft observed his second-hand button up, his too-large blazer and his shoes that clunked on the wood of the deck. He wondered how he’d gotten in. “Yes.” He said, making it clear that he was looking upon him in disapproval. “You are?” “Greg.” He said, making it clear that he was wholly willing to soldier on further into this interaction. “My parents told me to say hi to you.” “And you actually did it? I admire your dedication.” Greg smiled and Mycroft took care not to. “Sorry, am I bothering you?” He asked and Mycroft sighed. “No, I apologize for my rudeness. It’s not you who I’m angry with.” “Oh.” Greg hoisted himself up onto the railing and kicked his feet, the motion familiar. Mycroft noticed several bruises and bandaids. “Do you play football?” He asked, apparently hitting the nail on the head as the other’s face lit up. “Yeah! I’m great at tackling. My dad said if I keep playing I could get a scholarship to any school I want.” “Who’s your father?” “Um, he’s not here right now. He’s inside. He was talking to your dad and he wanted to make a good impression since he’s new so he told me to scram.” Mentally Mycroft placed him as Lestrade, a new hire in his father’s company that he’d only heard about once or twice. His father mentioned him twice as ‘new blood’ which was worrying. “You know, I can totally tell you’re a Holmes.” Mycroft leaned against the banister, continuing to stare out into the night. “Yes, it’s generally easy to tell who the host of a party is as they’re often most comfortable in the house but also the most anxious.” He said, knowing that this was not the response he was being led to. Greg took this in stride by plowing on with what he wanted to say. “You all look at me and cringe. Your mom and dad did it too.” “And my cat would do it as well if she were here. Your clothing...stands out.” “It’s my father’s jacket and these are shoes to grow into. Sorry I’m not used to being a snob~” “I..I would take care that father doesn’t hear you.” “Father?” Greg asked in disbelief. “What year is this?” Mycroft smiled slightly but didn’t look at the boy until he spoke again a few minutes later. “What were you mad about?” Mycroft hummed quizzically. “You said someone made you mad earlier?” “Oh, my girlfriend.” Mycroft lied smoothly. Greg barked in laughter. “You have a girlfriend?” He cried, laughing so hard that Mycroft turned to him just in case he fell and required an audience to his subsequent embarrassment. “Well, she’s not my girlfriend. She’s a friend and I like her but I don’t know if she likes me.” He adjusted, mimicking a plot to a movie trailer he’d seen some time ago. “Well, let me help! I have four sisters, I can definitely tell you if she likes you or not.” “Ah.” He should just leave, just turn around and leave well enough alone but there was something in him that wanted nothing more than to stay planted here and try at being normal. “Well, she and I have known each other for a long time and I cannot for the life of me tell if she’s being friendly with me or if she’s flirting.” He began, pulling details out of thin air and lining them up. It was calming, he was sure that indicated something unflattering about him. “Sometimes when we’re walking she’ll hold my arm or when we’re sitting together she’ll position her legs over mine.” “Sounds like she likes you!” “That’s what I thought, but just this afternoon we got into argument. We were hanging out with our friends-” He was amazed Greg didn’t laugh at that line, he certainly would have if he weren’t consciously trying not to. “- and one of them, Yardsley, began asking if we were a couple and she became incensed. After they began arguing I suggested we talk about something else and she accused me of not sticking up for her. She left after that.” Mycroft sighed under the grief of the situation. “I just...I feel angry with myself for not standing up for her as much as I could have but I was also hurt that she was so angered at the thought of being with me.” He began to feel legitimately sad as his self-image problems crept to the surface, wonderful. “I just feel like I’ve failed on all fronts today.” “You didn’t fail! You just wanted to be friendly and fair to everyone. Yeardsley sounds like he was being a dick and your girlfriend or whoever sounds like she overreacted, but it also sounds like it could have been an honest question or maybe Yoursley and her have a history, you know? You did the best you could.” “Yes, just like how you did the best you could with Yardsley’s name.” “It’s a stupid name.” Mycroft burst into laughter, loud and short in the silence of the back garden. “Yes!” He agrees, doubled over. “It is a very stupid name.” Greg joins in this laughter and Mycroft feels something inside him adjust itself minutely. It feels like something has loosened, been made freer. “Perhaps we-” The sliding door was opened by his mother at that moment and it was as if the air had been sucked out of everything. She looked the two of them over coldly before smiling. “Gregory, your father has been looking for you!” She chided gently, ushering the two of them in.  “And Mycroft come here, I want to talk to you.” The two of them followed his mother to the living room, where Mycroft’s father was standing and regaling guests with a tale of some exploit or another. One of the men gestured Greg over and he obeyed, waving to Mycroft as he went. Mycroft waved back as he was dragged by his mother to another room. “I’m glad to see you making friends.” She said, in a tone that made clear the opposite. “Next time do you think you could- oh!” She tore her hand away from Mycroft, her fussing cut short. Horrified, she stared at her white glove which was covered in the melted remains of a profiterole he’d placed in there with the intent to eat it before he’d been interrupted. His heart beat so fast it pained him. “Mother-” “What is this.” He stayed quiet, debating whether or not to speak up. Was this a rhetorical question? Would she- “What IS this?” She repeated, hissing so as not to shout. “It’s...I’m sorry.” “I didn’t ask if you were sorry. I asked-” “Mycroft!” They both turned to see Greg, looking jovial as ever, standing in the doorway. “Hey, I have to leave so I wanted to say goodbye!” Glad for the intrusion, Mycroft walked over to the boy and held out his hand to shake. Greg used the hand to pull him into a hug. “I hope we get to talk again, tell me how it works out!” “I’ll walk you to the door.” Mycroft offered, taking care not to look back into the eyes that were boring into the back of his head. “What a gentleman~” Greg teased. When they reached the door Mycroft smiled and gave a polite ‘goodbye’ to the Lestrades, turning to go when Greg called out. “If she doesn’t like you then I can introduce you to some real girls!” Mycroft raised an eyebrow, apparently caught. He called back, undeterred. “Is it one of your sisters? I won’t put up with sly attempts to marry into my family Gregory!” “Yeah right, I’d rather marry you than have you date one of my sisters!” And with that he was gone, rushing down the driveway to meet up with his parents.     Recognizing his opportunity, Mycroft quickly made his way upstairs and into his bedroom, closing the door softly. Immediately Sherlock knocked on his wall in Morse code. ‘Is it over?’ to which Mycroft exhaustedly responded. ‘No. Sleep.’ Hearing nothing back he finally changed into pajamas and collapsed onto his bed. He would tell his father that he had eaten something off if he was asked where he’d gone. He would… He closed his eyes and thought of the boy he’d met. Greg Lestrade, what a peculiar character...He hadn’t known that people could radiate, hadn’t known that laughter could spark something inside of someone. He hadn’t known that the thought of marriage, of a future, could fill him with anything but anxiety and dread.                He hadn’t known that a person could be made of light.    

[kbstories]

Promised @sharkflan some H/C as a thank you for their beautiful art so here it is!

Pulling At The Seams

Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Blood and Injury, Recovery, Hunting (but no animal death)

Serious warning for (past) physical child abuse and discussions there-of.

>>Read on AO3!

Later, Arthur would be hard pressed to say when exactly things started to go wrong.

The sprawling meadows of the Big Valley were alive with the chatter of birds and the wind rustling through the tall grass. From where he's perched, a quick glance through his binoculars offered plenty of viable options to pursue: a herd of grazing deer here, there a bear meandering through the woods but it's the impressive arch of antlers that caught Arthur's attention.

“See that? Big stag, little ways upstream.”

“Mh, yeah.”

Charles met Arthur's gaze briefly before shortening his reins, bringing Taima's head up and alert. They set off without another word; time and experience made them move as one, Charles up front and Arthur covering his back, and it took but a few minutes to get into range. There's a lasso in Charles's hand, the one with the pale scar racing across its back.

Arthur thought nothing of it. They'd done this dozens of times before.

From one moment to the next, the horses shot forward, split up, Charles straight ahead and Arthur to the side as he mirrored the stag's sharp twists and turns, manipulated them in their favor. The rope flew, snagged against one of its horns. It pulled taught.

Arthur laughed, “That's what I'm talkin' about!”, patting his horse's damp neck in celebration. He trotted over to where Charles was bringing in their catch, grunting with effort as the stag shook its head harshly.

“I can already see the headlines: Charles Smith, famous cattleman, makin' the ladies and the gents swoon with his cowboyin'–”

With an arm wrapped around its thick neck and a knife in his hand, Charles looked up and grinned, “You're so full of–”

And the stag lurched, one violent shove fueled by sheer desperation, and Arthur felt his heart stutter as the clawed ends of its antlers got dangerously close to–

Maybe they picked the wrong animal on the wrong day; maybe Arthur shouldn't have run his mouth before the job's done; maybe they should've just shot the fucking thing the old-fashioned way, holes in the pelt be damned, and maybe it would've all happened regardless.

One of the horns catches and Charles shouts, staggers back, hands on his face – and there's no room for maybe in Arthur's head in that moment, just the thought of no, not him that makes him jump out the saddle and rush towards him.

The stag almost runs into him, blind in its panic. Arthur lets it pass. “Charles”, he breathes, stomach turning at the blood that starts seeping between Charles's trembling fingers. He reaches for him.

“Charles, hey–”

Charles flinches, honest-to-God stumbles away from his touch with a noise so afraid it sears itself into Arthur's memory forever; Arthur just stares at the way his arms raise jerkily, his broad shoulders hunching and pulling inwards–

Understanding crashes into him like a runaway train, brutal and without mercy. Charles is protecting his face and making himself small and Arthur's heart clenches in his chest because he recognizes this.

It's too-loud voices and the sound of breaking glass; it's squeezing into nooks and crannies too narrow for even a child to fit in; it's nursing bruises and aches in the small hours of the morning, biting his lip until the tears stop coming and he tries to piece himself together to face the next day.

“Charles, I–”, Arthur forces himself to swallow, his voice dry and cracking right down the middle. “I ain't gonna hurt you. Just– Let me help, please.”

Charles's breathing comes in harsh gasps, too quick to be anything but panicked. He doesn't react, and Arthur knows better than to press him when he's like this – he stays just where is instead, locked in place with his hands hanging slack and useless by his sides and his eyes fixed on the fabric of Charles's sleeves that goes from blue to dark red.

An entire lifetime passes in what must've been a few moments. Arthur's voice is calm and even, “You're safe”, he tells him, “Breathe for me?”, and something in his chest gives when Charles tries.

Another lifetime until Charles as much as glances at him. Arthur smiles a wobbly smile for him.

“'s just me, big guy. Just wanna help. You okay with me comin' a bit closer? You're bleedin' something fierce, there.”

Charles nods slowly, rasps, “Arthur”, his voice a hoarse mess and so vulnerable. “I...”

“It's okay. Let's fix you up first, alright?”

Arthur keeps his hands where Charles can see them, palms up, fingers relaxed. His steps are muffled by dead leaves and moss, only the occasional snap of a twig making Charles tense. “Just me”, he repeats, softer now that they're close. “Lemme see?”

The hesitation behind every move Charles makes breaks Arthur's heart, pure and simple, but he lowers his arms and Arthur pushes the anger roiling in his guts into the furthest corner of his mind. “There he is”, he whispers, an echo of better days; Charles exhales in one shaky breath and closes his eyes, leans into the brush of Arthur's fingers against his jaw.

His cheek is torn up pretty badly, a long gash that runs along the curve of his cheek bone to his ear. Arthur isn't a praying man yet he sends a wordless thank you to any god who will listen with how close it got to taking out his eye.

“Could be worse but it'll need some stitches”, Arthur concludes quietly and Charles nods again, horribly subdued. “Strawberry ain't too far, if we go now we might–”

There's pain in Charles's expression, sudden and visceral. He mumbles Arthur's name like a plea, desperate and so small, and Arthur feels the sting of tears in his eyes, knows that cut on his face has the least bit to do with it.

“Talk to me, baby, please. Tell me what you need an' I'll make it happen.”

Charles swallows, heavily. He takes Arthur's hand, squeezing too tightly with blood-slick fingers. “No one else. Just you.”

“Okay.” Arthur nods, lifts his hand to kiss his knuckles, feather-soft. “Okay.”

*

It takes longer than Arthur'd like to admit to clean the wound and sew it shut. Part of it is his inexperience with this, his fingers stiff and clumsy around the needle; more importantly, he's trying to keep his movements slow and predictable even after Charles's eyes clench shut half-way through and remain that way until he finishes.

Arthur places a careful hand on his knee, then. “All done.” Even with the gash tended to, Charles's cheek looks swollen and tender. Arthur wets a towel with what remains in his waterskin and holds it out to him. “Here.”

“Thanks”, Charles mumbles, wincing as he presses it under his eye.

A few minutes pass where none of them say anything. Arthur is keenly aware that Charles hasn't looked at him once since he sat him down and told him to hold still, and well... There's nothing he can do about that either.

Thus Arthur gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and makes to set up camp. The horses returned an hour or so after the stag sent them scattering into the trees; Arthur talks to them in hushed tones as he puts on their halters for the night and gives them their dinner. With a few cans worth of food from their packs, he sets about making their own, aiming for a simple stew. Something warm to give comfort in ways he can't, not right now.

He's humming under his breath, more to steady his own hands than anything else, and thus doesn't hear Charles approach until he steps into the firelight with wringing hands and uncertainty written all across his face. “Hey.”

Almost faint with relief, Arthur gives it a valiant try to stay where he is, to listen to the mantra of give him space in his head. “Want some?”, he asks instead and there's a fragile touch to his voice that has no business sounding so hopeful.

Charles just looks at him like he's seeing Arthur clearly for the first time – a myriad of emotions flicker in his eyes like flames in the night, and with a stumbling beat in his chest Arthur realizes Charles is letting him see him in turn, bared heart and bared scars.

The filled bowl is taken out of his hands. Charles sits beside him, legs crossed and knees close enough to brush Arthur's. The crackling of burning wood keeps the silence at bay. They eat.

Eventually, Charles says, “It was a long time ago”, quietly; Arthur looks up, watches the muscles in his jaw twitch as he fights the words on his tongue.

“Who? Who did...?”

It shouldn't matter, it really shouldn't – but with how rough Charles's voice sounds, how even now his fingers haven't quite stopped trembling, he needs to know. There might be thousands of miles between Arthur and whoever dared to put that expression on Charles's face but he would cross every single one on foot to make sure it'll never happen again.

“My father.” He tilts his head down and to the side; the fire's warm glow spills across his profile, illuminating the wounds there both old and new. “Got angry over a broken plate”, he taps the lightning scar over his jaw, “gave me this.”

Arthur feels vaguely sick. He inhales slowly. “Is he–”

“Dead?” Charles huffs, a joyless sound. “Should be, at the rate he was drinking. Didn't stick around long enough to find out.”

“Charles...”

Arthur stops himself, swallows the promises of vengeance he wants to make. Catching Charles's gaze, he finally asks, “Are you okay?”

Charles snorts softly, stupid question, Morgan, his eyes say and Arthur smiles a little, shrugging.

“No, but... I will be. Someday it'll be just another scar, y'know?”

This time, when Arthur reaches for him, Charles meets him half-way, intertwining their fingers; there's infinite gentleness in that gesture, something that Arthur now recognizes as a choice Charles is willing to make in spite of the sharp edges of his past.

This time, when he presses a kiss to where they're joined, he vows to keep that choice safe, for as long as he can draw breath.

>>Read on AO3!

[equalstrashflavoredtrash]

A Foreign Tongue - 2

a/n: So you can thank @grungyblonde for this. I never really intended on writing a follow up, sure i had ideas bouncing around if i ever did continue, but then she kept telling me how much she loved it and i was re-inspired to write about the prince and the cook, so i hope you enjoy.

warnings: Explicit, very eager and consensual, no major warnings, like nothing too kinky. Also the cook is very chubby and that’s a thing that comes up a bunch.

Part 1

FF.net // Ao3 // Masterlist

Hvitserk X OFC // Vikings

word count: 3,040

“Tonight.”

That’s what he said to her in the kitchen, his hands holding her round, flour covered cheeks as he leaned forward to steal another kiss. He didn't care she couldn’t say his name, he still wanted her. Breaking the mood, one of his brothers called for him from down the hall. The prince looked over his shoulder at the door, then back to her.

“Tonight, during the feast,” he reiterated before he tore himself away, retreating to who ever had beckoned him.

She stood frozen on the spot, dreamily watching where he had been when she realized everything she’d have to do between now and Tonight. Grabbing a fresh log from the bucket, she went to stoke the fire, building the heat to cook the bread.

The afternoon passed in a haze as she prepared for the feast, trying not to let her mind wander off to fantasies of what Hvitserk may have planned.

“You seem happy,” Britt teased, leaning on the counter to watch as the cook sliced vegetables. “Is it something to do with a boy? Maybe a prince?”

“I do not know what you mean,” she responded, though notably avoiding the younger girl’s gaze.

“I think it i~is,” Britt dragged out the last word in a sing-song tone, bouncing around to tug on the cook’s sleeve. “Come on, tell me! Tell me what he said, I saw you kissing! Now tell me!”

“He said nothing for you to know.” Her statement was curt and finalizing, halting anymore of Britt’s childish bemoaning. “You are too young to understand.”

Britt rolled her eyes as she slumped onto the nearby stool. “That’s what everyone says,” she complained, looking down to pick at her nails as she continued in a high pitched, mocking voice, “You’re too young. You’ll understand when you’re older. That’s not for someone your age.”

The cook couldn’t help but laugh to herself, remember hearing the same comments. “You will be old soon, do not rush time.”

The young servant scoffed at the cook’s wisdom and decided to go find someone more entertaining to bother. With out the distraction she was able to work efficiently, having almost the entire meal prepped and ready to cook when it came time for the festivities to start.

Listening to the ruckus in the main hall, she watched the stove, making sure the leg of lamb seared evenly. Once done, she handed it off to the servants and began with the next dish. She knew there was no moment for rest, that once the following rack of ribs was finished roasting, the party-goers will have already devoured the former and be sitting, eager and waiting for more. Meaning she would have to immediately start plating the suckling pig that had been baking over an open flame all day as soon as possible. As the guests reveled, she fluttered around the kitchen, stirring the stew before hurrying to crank the rotisserie. While holding a hot loaf of bread with her apron, she whirled around to find the tall prince standing in the doorway.

“Too soon!” she yelped, dropping the bread onto the butcher block. Turning to search for a knife, she missed the way he cut across the floor in a few easy strides, coming to stand beside her.

“I know. I couldn’t wait,” Hvitserk explained with a shrug, trying to snake his long arms around her thick waist while his lips met her shoulder.

“No!” she shouted, tearing herself from his grasp. “I-I can not. Not now!” Shifting, she gestured wildly with the knife in her hand to the kitchen around her. “Later. Later, when there is no food. Ok? Then, then we may kiss.” The cook prayed he’d understand and though she felt bad watching his expression drop, she knew he got the message. Every part of her wanted to hold him and apologize but she could already smell the pork starting to burn and knew it needed another rotation. Hvitserk retreated, pausing in his exit to look back, watching the way she bent over the hearth to stir the bubbling stew.

Hours later, the cook sighed as she sat down, mopping at her brow. The fire in the stove was dwindling, baking the last loaf for tomorrow’s breakfast, but still its dim flickers lit the room. The shadows danced with the flames as she gazed absently at how it popped and sparked, letting her tired mind drift when a crash jolted her back to reality.

She hurried to her feet, searching the shaded corners of the kitchen for the disturbance when she spotted a dark mass. Bracing herself, she watched as the figure rose, not resting until the fire light revealed Hvitserk’s face.

“There’s no food,” he observed, scanning the counter with a smirk.

“There is no food,” the cook agreed with a giggle, reaching for him once he was close. Curling her fingers into his tunic, she drew him into her as their lips crashed together. She could taste the ale on his breath but that meant nothing, she knew even when sober he wanted her.

Breaking for air, the cook gasped, “No, not here,” as Hvitserk dove for her neck, leaving purple welts in the wake of his lips. “Not the kitchen,” she breathed as his fingers clenched one cheek of her bottom.

“My room,” he huffed, breaking contact with his lips and her skin long enough for him to bend over. With a quick and practiced maneuver, Hvitserk hoisted the cook on to his shoulder and made his way down the hall. She was beyond flustered, having not been carried since she was a small child. The cook yelped and hollered at him, ordering for the prince to set her down at once. He merely slapped her upturned ass and continued on his way.

Though it was her first time in his chambers, she had no chance to take in her surroundings. Once her feet touched the floor he was on her, his arms curled around her sides as his face nuzzled at her cheek, peppering kisses across her jaw. He moved quickly, fumbling with the ties of her apron as the cook tried to process in her mind everything that was happening.

She attempted to slow his motions, bringing his face to hers for a deep kiss but that seemed to only stoke the fire within, his touch becoming more frantic with every moment she remained fully dressed. Discarding his effort to undo the fastenings properly, Hvitserk gave a forceful yank to the collar, tearing the garment down the center. Letting the tattered wool fall freely off her shoulders, he pulled away to watch as more of her skin was slowly revealed.

Immediately her arms flew to cover her exposed chest, wavering under his hungry gaze. She could hear Hvitserk make a disapproving tsk before he pecked her blushing cheek.

Using a more gentle and patient touch, he slid his warm palms along her forearms, bringing his fingers to rest on her wrists while his thumbs rubbed her knuckles. “Let me see you,” the prince hummed into her ear, giving a soft but eager nip with his teeth. “Please, I want to see you.”

She hesitated for a moment until she saw his smile. Lowering her arms, the cook took in the way his expression deepen, a pleased grin unconsciously pulling at his cheeks. She watched how he licked his bottom lip as he cautiously cupped her right breast in his hand. At first contact she let out a sharp gasp, then whimpered when the calluses of his palm scraped at her hard nipple, as he covered the other with his opposite hand. His grasp was firm but not painful, the supple flesh spilling over between his fingers as he slowly squeezed and massaged her.

With every inch of contact she felt sparks under her skin, burning as they coursed through her, which only served to emphasize the throb in her vulva. She had never felt an excitement quite like this, even during the moments late at night when she allowed her hand to travel between her thighs as she imagined it was his. This was different, almost a hundred percent more visceral, more intense, and more addictive.

Raising his chin, he connected with her gaze, trying to read without words that she was enjoying his touch. He found confidence in her dazed expression, relishing at the glassly look of her eyes and the way her kiss-swollen lips hung, every so slightly agape. Arching towards her, he brought his face close enough their noses brushed and asked, “I want to take off your dress, may I?”

The cook paused, anxious at his request. She moved to raise her hands again—just as she had earlier—when he caught her wrists. Hvitserk held her arms in place and spoke cautiously, “I want to see you, all of you. I want to know all of you. Don’t be nervous.” Capturing her bottom lip, he slid his arms around her wide middle and pulled her flush against him. He gave an internal moan at the way every inch of her soft belly and breasts cushioned against his torso as her small hands clung to his biceps.  

He groped what he could of her ass, drawing her close as possible before pivoting to deposit her body onto his bed. She landed on her back with an ‘oof’ as he fisted at her skirt, dragging the wool over her broad hips. She lifted her bottom, allowing him to completely remove the garment, but kept her knees pressed together so her thighs were clamped tight, concealing everything but her triangle of curly hair. The cook awkwardly waved her hands, unsure where to keep them as he continued stripping off her stockings and boots. Eventually her palms came to rest across her breast again as she watched him make fast work of removing his clothes, hastily tugging at the fabric as if wearing it caused him pain.

Once he was nude she found herself too distracted by his growing erection to recognize the sour frown that crossed his features as he saw that her hands were once again raised, shielding her from him. Climbing to lay next to the cook, the prince let his fingers wander, gently ghosting over her curves and rolls as he acquainted himself. She giggled and shifted when his touch tickled her sides, exciting him with her slight noises. Carefully he brought his hands up to hers, gently urging her fingers to lace with his, directing her arms to lay flat on the bed at either side of her head.

He began kissing her lips, feeling the way her composure relaxed against him, while traveling across her collar bone. He nipped at the soft skin, leaving a cool trail as he searched for her nipple. Freeing one hand, he gathered her breast, lifting it so that he could envelope her peak with his mouth. His tongue toyed with the small nub, batting back and forth as she squirmed. Releasing with a pop he sat up, letting out a low groan as he continued to pay sole attention to her chest, “Your tits are glorious.”

“Glow-ree-os?” she asked, furrowing her brow as she tried to repeat the word. “This means?”

Hvitserk smirked, feeling himself twitch at both her accent and naiveté. “Glorious, like wonderful,” he began, openly mouthing at her skin as he lifted her tits to meet his lips, “or amazing, fantastic.” Giving a quick squeeze, he brought his left hand down to mimic his right. He brought her tits together, holding them tight as he buried his face into her cleavage. She could hear him continue to speak, his voice muffled while listing off synonyms, though she was confident she now understood.

Pulling back, the prince drew deep breaths, pivoting to rest beside her. Repeating his practiced gentle touch, he stroked her thighs, running his palms from knee to hip. With each pass he increased the pressure as he brought his fingers closer to her middle, easing her legs apart. There was a slice of his consciousness that wanted to wrench her knees onto the bed so he could finally feel her, but he knew that wouldn’t help, so he fought his urges—being patient for her.

The cook’s resistance melted with his careful ministrations, allowing her knees to fall open for him. He shifted, scooting closer as he braced himself on one arm. Lowering to join their lips again, he pressed his fingers against her mound. Growing nervous, she began to shift—still unsure of what to do—when Hvitserk broke away.

“I want you to be a good girl for me,” he hummed, his nose tickling at her cheek. “I want you to keep your arms on the bed, keep them where they were, next to your head. Can you do that for me? Will you be my good girl?” Ducking her chin, she gave a slight but affirmative nod and lifted her wrists to lay flat on the pillow beside her ears.

Once the question of what to do with her hands was taken away from her, all the cook had to focus on was the prince. The prince and the way his skin felt against hers, the nudge of something stiff she felt on her inner thigh, the way it felt when his fingers delved into her lips, rolling at the sensitive little nub the cook previously believed only she knew of. She couldn’t hold back her moans, arching as he pressed the pad of his finger flat. Fisting at the furs underneath her, the cook fought to keep her hands in place as he had requested.

Hvitserk could barely contain himself as he watched the way she squirmed under his touch. He brushed at her center, testing how wet she was before spitting into his hand. With a confident stroke he spread the saliva over his length, lining himself up. The cook was taken by surprised as he hooked his elbow under her left knee, lifting her entire leg to better the vantage point and sink his cock into her waiting warmth. Keeping one hand planted next to her head—the other holding her thigh—Hvitserk began to thrust, his mouth agape as he watched the way her breasts bounced on impact. He was settling into the motions when she began pushing back at his shoulders.

“Stop, stop!” she panted, as Hvitserk receded. “No air.” As she gestured to how he held her, and the prince seemed to understand, tugging at her waist.

“On your knees,” he suggested, guiding her to roll over. She braced herself on all fours as Hvitserk smoothed his hand down her spine, urging her to lay her head on the mattress. He reveled for a moment, enjoying the view of her ass stuck up in the air just for him, tempted to slap her just so he could see the jiggle.

Holding his straining cock, he rubbed the head along her slit, gliding it between her pillowy lips before finding his goal. With an easy plunge he began to work himself inside, egged on by her soft moans. Using a careful back and forth he was able to fit his head past her tight entrance. He paused, taking in the way she squeezed him and then slowly sinking as far as he could until his hips met her ass.

Hvitserk could hear her mewling below him, reacting to the intrusion but not opposing it. His slid his palm across her back as he lower his head. “You’re doing so good,” he groaned into her ear as she gasped at the feeling of him grinding into her. “I’m trying to be gentle, but it’s hard,” he rasped, using all his might to hold back.

“Uh-huh,” she mumbled, pushing her hips back into his. “Do this, please,” she breathed giving him the prompting he needed.

At her word he let himself go, digging his fingers into her waist to hold her in place as he drove into her, chasing his drunken id. He could hear her words—they started out in his language but as he carried on, she drifted further from what he could understand. Giving a shake of his head, Hvitserk stopped caring for the meaning of her words, and paid attention only to the tone.

Jutting his hips forward, his skin clapping hard against her ass, he hoped he could bring her to climax before himself, but with every passing thrust that seemed less likely. He was entranced with the way her body reacted, reveling in the way her flesh rippled on impact. Every thrust he made felt so much more important as he watched how her body flowed with his movements. With each strike of his hips against hers he studied how she responded beyond the slight sounds that left her mouth.

The cook felt the coil in her belly begin to tighten with each stroke until the building tension finally snapped. Hvitserk continued without a care, driving his hips into hers as she cried out. “Ha-vet-sick!” she called, unconsciously rearing away from him and the stimuli he brought as the orgasm washed over her. He pounded forward, letting his hips snap autonomously, only caring for the moans that left the cooks mouth. Though he realized he was holding her down so that her face was pressed into the bed, she still cooed from below him, submitting to his will.

With a deep growl, Hvitserk chased his release, spurting ropes of cum deep into her cunt as he pinned her against mattress. He stuttered and groaned, coming within her before finally relaxing and falling to the side fully expended.

She rolled over, laying in a more comfortable position, giving the prince a shy smile. Hvitserk was still catching his breath as he watched the way she bit her lip, her eyes relaxed and content. He couldn’t help himself as he leaned in to cup her cheek, drawing her closer for a slow kiss.

The prince pulled back slightly, freeing his mouth to speak while staying close enough his lips brushed hers as he did so. “Can’t imagine I’m saying this, but I’ve never been so happy there was no food in the kitchen.”

I hope you liked it! please tell me what thought!!!

@beautifulramblingbrains @ariwolf14 @titty-teetee @whenimaunicorn@sweetvengeancee @ivarinleatherpants @tiyetiye @romanchronicles @oddsnendsfanfic @murmelinchen @buckybarnesisalittleshit@laketaj24 @ivarslittlebadgirl @readsalot73 @imgoldielikehawn@ivarsshieldmadien @ceridwenofwales @grungyblonde @honestsycrets @lisinfleur [[if you want to be tagged for vikings stuff in the future, leave a reply]

[hellzyeahthewebwieldingavenger]

Around Christmas 2003 my family and family friends took our second annual vacation to Florida to visit the Disney and Universal theme parks.

I was presented with yet another chance to visit one of my favourite places in the world, the Amzing Adventures of Spider-Man ride at Universal’s Islands of Adventure theme park.

On two older vacations I’d purchased trades from the gift shop after the ride and I’d decided to make it a tradition.

And it was on this occasion that I picked up a late 1990s/early 2000s trade of Spider-Man: Torment, drawn and written by Todd McFarlane.

In the early 1990s McFarlane was THE hottest artist/creator in comics and when he wanted to leave Marvel then Spider editor Jim Salicrup in an effort to keep him offered him the chance to have his own Spider-Man book where he could do whatever he wanted. And so we got (No Adjective) Spider-Man #1...the single highest selling Spider-Man comic book of all time. It was also effectively McFarlane’s first ever writing job and even by his own admission his skills weren’t that developed.

Spider-Man: Torment is a bad Spider-Man story in almost every respect.*

The story was a mystical and horror themed story which is not really ball parks Spider-Man works the best in. It’s also in some parts out right incoherent both in terms of the story and the art and incredibly repetitive.

It repeats phrases like “Rise Above it All!” and somewhat infamously the sound effect ‘DOOM!’  over and over and over and over again...for five issues!

Five issues most of which is dedicated to Spider-Man experiencing disorientating physical and mental pain and anguish.

The only point of pure praise one could give the story is in it’s artwork, but that’s very much contingent upon if you like McFarlane’s style or not.

So where do I who love and adore Spider-Man stand on this objectively speaking poor Spider-Man story?

I.Fucking. Love. It!

It is one of the first examples I use when I try to explain to people that it’s possible for you to distinguish an assessment of a story’s quality vs. your personal enjoyment (that and the Phantom Menace which I also unironically love).

When I’d been reading Spider-Man for less than a year one of the stories I read in my first ever trade was a McFarlane Venom story. I’d never read anything with art like that although in the back of my mind I feel like I had seen McFarlane style artwork here and there.

But it left a big impression and one enhanced further by the purchase of this toy.

This McFarlane inspired Spider-Man action figure was among my favourite toys as a child. I had other Spider-Man figures, but none of them as detailed or as flexible, allowing me to truly replicate the movements of my hero.

Whether I knew it or not I was drawn to McFarlane’s work because it looked just like that toy. Plus via osmosis I’m sure I’d just seen that iconic cover to No Adj Spider-Man #1.

So I was keen to buy the book and as I had done the year before when I purchased Kraven’s Last Hunt from the very same gift shop I read the book whilst walking around the theme parks and when waiting.

How happy I was then when the ghost of Kraven himself showed up revealing this story to in fact be a sequel of sorts to KLH!

But there was another reason I only now realize might’ve contributed to my love for this story and why I cannot bring myself to hate it.

See during this vacation I had the unfortunate (Parker?) luck to develop a stomach bug. When I wasn’t in pain on the toilet or running towards one I was making sure I was near enough one and angst ridden about something bad happening.

Compounding this was three unfortunate facts.

·         Little 12 year old me had never been unwell on holiday before and in a foreign country I genuinely didn’t know whether I could see a doctor or not or how any of that stuff worked

·         I had (and to a lesser extent still do) have hygiene OCDs and viscerally despise using public bathrooms. I honestly avoided it if I could help it. And there I was spending half the vacation in them.

·         Being Greek, my family loves food and meat especially. Part of what made our trips to America fun was indulging in American cuisine, especially the BBQ which is a cut above what we have over here. But due to my illness I was reduced to eating very little and what I did eat was dry, flavourless stuff, I didn’t even have milk in my cereal.

In other words you could say that throughout this vacation I was in a form of personal...torment?

In hindsight I think that perhaps having that story with me on the vacation helped me get through things and enabled me to without realizing it relate to Spider-Man’s struggle.

If nothing else on some level I must’ve thought ‘Well...it could be worse because look what Spidey is going through.’

*Briefly as it does, the actually depicts the Spider Marriage okay and MJ rather refreshingly. She isn’t essential to the story at all, but she responds to Peter’s absence by going out dancing to have some fun, which is a refreshing change of pace from her waiting angst ridden by a window as had been happening too frequently back then. Possibly this owes something to McFarlane himself being married and putting some of his own marital relationship into Peter and MJ as he would later do in his famous creator owned work Spawn.