#it may be a hot summer but my blood runs cold

[beingtornasunder]

"Perhaps, in some twisted way, they intended good, but I do not believe it. I believe they had long before bound themselves over to whatever faceless powers exist beyond the rim of the Universe; powers which may exist beyond the very fabric of Time..."

Jerusalem's Lot

[visceravalentines]

fever dream

Bo Sinclair x AFAB!Reader

7.6k words. dubcon ofc. reader is absolutely mentally bankrupt. stockholm is where we live, it's where we are, it's where we'll die. sporadic smut, pnv, fingering, and oral (fem!rec). blood and sweat everywhere. Bo calls reader a bitch a couple times but like, it's out of love or some shit. somno. alcohol use. nightmares. ghosts. swamp things. the ever-looming threat of death and depersonalization.

welcome back to my youtube channel. I have been. working on this fic. since May of last year. and it's finally done(?) it is long and weird and maybe bad and meant for you to get lost in. a journey with no destination. a haunted house only you are the haunted and the haunt and the house. tbqh I'm rewatching HoW today for the first time in months and months and I had to get this out of my drafts so I can check back into the sanitarium with minimal baggage, y'know?? I hope it makes you feel some type of way.

The summer heat is in your blood and the swamp is in your lungs and he is under your skin. 

You’ve never known an August like this, like a blister. You go to bed sticky and wake up drenched in sweat. The ceiling fan is a hurricane agent that offers no respite, just blows the humidity in vicious cycles. There’s no air conditioning in the house; it’s too old. Instead you wrap ice cubes in dish towels and press them to the back of your neck. 

A storm’s been hanging on the horizon for days. Thunder rolls out of a wall of iron gray, an idle threat. The air is soupy and super-charged. No rain comes. 

The nights are delirium. You go to bed on opposite sides of the mattress, oil and water. He sleeps naked, sprawled out like a water skeeter. The quilt sits scrunched at the foot of the bed for the season and he kicks the sheets off around midnight like something forcing its way out of a soft-shelled egg. 

You lie awake, listening to the cicadas and waiting. Just when you’ve started to cool down and drift off he reaches over and fumbles at your leg, grabs your arm. He pulls you on top of him, hands on your body beneath his old t-shirt. You ride him with your eyes closed and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever, the sweating, the shaking. 

You wake every morning suffocating under his arm in the center of the mattress with honey between your thighs. 

.

He drinks his coffee hot even though the steam can barely rise above the rim of the mug in the humidity. You pour yours over ice and savor the feeling as it seeps down your throat and into your stomach. You curl your toes on the linoleum and almost smile at him across the table. He’s golden from all his time in the sun. You can trace the lines of his wifebeater over his shoulders, across his chest. You stare at him across the table and think about the taste of his skin. You want to run your tongue along that tan line. 

He catches you staring. “What?” he says flatly. 

You redirect your gaze to your hands. Shake your head. Wait for him to move on so you can resume your perusal of his body.

When he looks away, out the window, the sun catches those eyes and turns them to sea glass. He needs a haircut; walnut curls crest over his ears like kudzu. When you get up to clear the table your skin peels from the vinyl seat cushion with a sting that makes you wrinkle your nose. 

“Be good,” he tells you before he leaves. You wonder what he means, what he thinks you might get up to in this house full of dust and guns and ghosts. You know better than to ask, and you nod and kiss him goodbye and feel his lips on your lips for hours afterwards. 

The day languishes. They all do. You kill a thousand flies. You mop the floor and track your own footprints across it before it dries. You hang his shirts on the clothesline in the side yard and feel like an insect trapped in the sap of time. You shave your legs in a cold bath and examine your skin:  sunburn, bug bites, bite marks. 

When he pulls into the driveway you’re on the front step eating a popsicle and counting the minutes. He saunters across the gravel like John Wayne, shoulders exposed, hair plastered to his neck. You meet his eyes and wrap your lips around the cherry-flavored mess dripping onto your fingers. He spits into the weeds and eyes you through his lashes. 

“What’s for supper?” 

You suck on your sticky thumb. There’s a full spread on the dining room table, ready and waiting. “Whatever you want.” 

He licks his lips. 

Supper gets cold. 

.

He brings home a bag of saltwater taffy, all raspberry. 

“Thought of you,” he says when he hands it to you. To your recollection, you have never mentioned taffy or raspberries or anything of the sort. You wonder who he thinks you are, whether he has you confused with someone else. 

You sit on the porch steps and amass a pile of wax paper wrappers beside you. It’s soft and melty, peels out of the wrapper with a sticky crackling sound. It’s salty and sour and tastes like cheap sugar. Like a memory of summer that may be real, or maybe not. Could be yours, or could be someone else’s.

You eat more than you want, until your teeth hurt and you can feel the hot spot on your tongue where a canker sore will form. You rake that spot back and forth across your incisors. You can’t help it. Sometimes it feels like things have to have a hurt to them. 

“You ever been to the fair?” you ask him over your shoulder.

He grunts from the porch swing. “Used to go when Vince ‘n me were little. Took Les a couple times when he was old enough.”

“You ever take a girl?”

“Nah.” His boot thumps on the porch, an offhand punctuation mark. “Couldn’t find one to go with me.”

You doubt that; you’ve seen his yearbook photos. But then again, maybe he was off-putting as a teenager. Spooky. Hadn’t quite learned how to camouflage yet. Came on too strong, wore too much cologne, used too many teeth.

You survey the vast swath of woods that surrounds Ambrose and try to imagine a ferris wheel, red and blue and blinking, rising from the green like the hump of a whale.  “I’d go with you.”

He snorts. “Yeah?”

You look down at the piece of taffy in your fingers. You don’t really want it. You unwrap it anyway. “Yeah.” You gnaw on the candy like a dog savoring a scrap. “Be like a date,” you say thickly.

“What, you wanna skip down the midway holdin’ hands? Makin’ out in the Tunnel of Love?”

You can picture it, sunset and a sundress. He’s laughing. You’re laughing. The crowd is made of wax. “You could win me a stuffed animal.”

He scoffs again, but then he asks you, “What kinda stuffed animal you want?”

You think for a second, unstick the taffy from your molars and push it around your mouth with your tongue. “A Louisiana crocodile.” A souvenir from your time in the South. Maybe it’ll be wearing a little trucker hat and a smile that doesn’t reach its eyes.

“Ain’t got crocodiles here, sugar. ‘S all alligators.”

“Fine, an alligator then.”

You run your hands over your shins, sticky with the humidity. The chains of the porch swing creak rhythmically behind you. The sea of trees is dark and still and endless.

“Fair don’t come ‘round here anymore,” he says finally.

You force the taffy down your throat, swallow hard, and reach for another one.

“Figures.”

.

You’re buzzed and reckless, sucked down a pair of beers too fast just because they were frosty. The shears snick like some needy, nipping thing. You found them upstairs under the bathroom sink once upon a time and you always put them back when you’re done. They’ve been there longer than you’ve been alive. You comb your fingers across his scalp and loose locks drift onto your clean floor. 

“Don’t take it too short,” he admonishes into the mouth of his beer bottle. “You butcher me, I butcher you.” 

You roll your eyes behind his back. “Have I ever?” 

He grunts in acquiescence. That’s as close to a win as you’ll get. 

The windows are open; the thunder presses against the frayed screens. A gigantic moth flings its feathery body repeatedly at the ceiling light. You run your hand through his hair slow just to feel it between your fingers, thick and soft. Your thumb glances off the scar on the left side of his skull and comes back for another pass. 

He jerks his head, puts a stop to that. “You done?” 

“Almost.” 

You’re particularly fond of the curls at the nape of his neck, always save them for last. You coil one around your finger. You want to ask him if you can keep it, but you’re afraid he’ll say no or worse, that he’ll say yes. He’ll ask for something in return. You’ll give it to him, no matter what it is. You give him anything he wants, everything he wants. It’s the least you can do, the most you can do. 

You snip them one by one, bittersweet. 

“Done.” 

He leans over in the chair to examine his reflection in the window. “Good enough.” 

He stands up and drains the dregs of his beer. His hand finds your waist and he pulls you in and you bend like a reed, peering up at him, inspecting your work. He smells like sweat and sun. You grip his shirt in your fists and move with him as he sways lazily side-to-side. 

He gives you the gift of a smile, half-cocked and handsome. “You wanna dance, mama?”

Your fingers spider-creep up the shield of his chest and lock behind his neck. His skin is hot and sticky against your wrists, clipped hairs poking and itching. Your hips bump against his like a car on a back road, lost, no cell service. You wish there was music playing. 

He tilts his head towards you and you get caught in the trap of his mouth. The thunder moans. You can feel the sweat beading on your upper lip, in the pit of your elbows. His hands are heavy on your bones. 

His jaw scrapes along your temple like a razor blade and a fever chill rolls over your skin, hot-cold. “G’on upstairs, get those clothes off.” 

Have you always been such a good listener? 

.

He comes home drunk and fucks you on the table, in the midst of supper left cold and waiting for him. You knew he’d be hungry. You are right about some things and wrong about others.

You wince every time a dish topples off the table and shatters on the faded linoleum. He doesn't look at you, not once.

Afterwards, he disappears for a while and leaves you to clean up the kitchen. You are dazed, legs unsteady, leaning on the counter like an old friend. It’s been a bad day. Dinner has soaked through the back of your shirt and so you take it off, hang it over the back of a chair for later, and set to work on the mess.

You cannot puzzle out how he managed to get blood on every dish you are trying to wash until finally you realize it is yours, seeping quietly from a slice on your palm. When he comes up behind you your spine stiffens, arching like a snake making a final stand. He puts his hands on your bare waist and his lips against the back of your head like a sweetheart, like a husband, like a different person.

“Leave it, darlin’. Come sit on the porch with me.”

You bite your lip, lift your palm so he can see it, watch the world blur with saline. “I cut myself,” you say, and only then does the sting set in, so sharp you can feel it in your teeth.

He makes a sympathetic noise and cups your hand in his. “Now why’d y’go and do that?”

You open your mouth to answer but only a moan comes out as he lifts your arm and seals his lips over the cut. He sucks, gently at first and then harder, hard enough you feel the seam of skin separate and your fingers jerk like puppets to the pain. He lets you go and you cradle your hand to your chest as he laps your blood off his lip.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, takes your arm, tugs you from the sink. “C’mon. I need a smoke.”

You follow him onto the porch, curl up in his lap with a dishrag pressed to your palm and watch smoke and moths float around the light.

Your blood dries on the dishes with the gravy.

.

The clouds boom a reminder that they are still hanging above the house, but you are already awake in the split second beforehand. You are cocooned in the sheets and panic for a moment, arms pinned to your chest, bedroom black as a coffin. When you claw free, gasping, the air is like moss draped spongey and damp across your face. 

You worm out of the bed, out of the room, stagger into the hallway and down the stairs in the dark. You are mere steps ahead of some emaciated beast, its breath muggy on your cheeks and the back of your neck. You twist your shirt off and throw it on the floor of the den before it can strangle you, wrench the front door open and slam through the screen with both hands. 

The night is wet in your nose. One hundred million insects scream to God. In the back of your mind you think about joining them. Your toes scuff to a stop on the precipice of the porch and you peer into the darkness with round eyes, bare chest heaving for more air than you can hold. You are drowning here, surrounded by trees, surrounded by more green than you ever knew existed in the world. 

Somewhere out there, someone is mourning you. You can feel it tonight, crackling in the ozone like the storm that won’t break. 

You wrap your arms around yourself and sink to the ground, sit perched on the top stair in your panties and sweat-drenched skin. The nail of your index finger rips apart the cuticle of your thumb. Mosquitos float open-armed to your legs like swamp angels. It’s too hot to cry. 

The yellow porchlight struggles to life. The screen door bangs flatly behind you. He can’t ever pick up his feet, scuffing through the dust you haven’t swept. 

His fingers brush the bone of your shoulder. You don’t flinch nowadays, usually. “Y’alright?”

You don’t have to answer that. Let him wrap his hand around your throat and fishhook his fingers into your mouth to pull your jaw open, you don’t have to answer that. You grit your teeth and dig crescent moons into your thighs with all ten fingernails.

Your silence doesn’t bother him. He leans on the railing to your left, curling his toes on the concrete, looking out into the night. Sleep has mussed his hair to one side and left imprints of the sheet fanning across his chest. There’s a hickey in the shape of your mouth in the curve of his neck. Lightning flutters shy among the clouds and the thunder reprimands it. There’s something stuck in your throat, something you can’t swallow down no matter how hard you try. Moths flock to the porchlight. If anyone was alive in the town to look up the hill, they’d see you haloed, and him too. 

“‘S late. Come back to bed.”

You can’t remember your home address. You can picture the house, the sidewalk in front of it, cracks in the driveway. The rest is like a dream. The house behind you doesn’t have an address. No number, no mailbox. You can feel it sucking at the base of your spine like a leech, coaxing you in, tipping you backwards all wrong like a gravity hill. You feel eyes on you, all the time, no matter what room you’re in. 

“You listenin’ to me? Let’s go.”

You can’t go back inside. You can’t go back inside. Something in you doesn’t line up right. Someone is holding a pillow over your face.

“No,” you think you say out loud. The word flutters off into the night. You watch a mosquito drift beyond the reach of the porchlight and disappear. The stars bow gracefully into the arms of the clouds. 

After a beat, he shuffles out of your periphery. The screen door slams. Maybe this time. When you least expect it. Maybe he's sick of you at last. You pick at a scab on your knee until it comes loose and flakes off, and then you pinch the skin around the wound and squeeze until a bead of blood, scarlet-black, mounds and breaks and gets all over your fingers. You raise them to your mouth and suck them clean and it tastes familiar. Safe. 

He doesn’t come back with a knife, or a gun. He comes back with the quilt and sheet from the bed, a pillow stuffed under his arm. He unfurls the quilt on the porch. The pillow flops to the ground like something hunted to extinction. He follows suit. 

“C’mere.” He wrestles with the sheet, props himself up on an elbow and punches the pillow into place. “C’mon.” 

You breathe, just for a minute, watching him. You want to hate him so bad it hurts. You want him to hit you so you’d have a reason to hit back. You want to fight for your life because you can feel it slipping away, waning, evaporating in the heat. Already you’ve found shreds of yourself under the couch, covered in dust. You are drowning. You are thirsty. He is water, cold and brackish. 

You rise from the stairs and come to him because you need him, because he is all you have. 

“Get the light,” he says. 

You go and come back and his hand finds your calf in the dark, slides up the back of your knee, guides you to the ground. The quilt is a mockery of softness, the porch unyielding beneath. You curl up with him at your back and he folds his arm around you, thumb worrying aimlessly at your nipple. His breath is hot on the nape of your neck. 

The air roils in your lungs. The night surges in. You are alone, so alone, aching with loneliness, now and always. You close your fingers around his wrist and guide his hand between your legs. He rubs the cotton of your panties with something like pity and you let a moan seep from your throat. 

Your face lolls into the pillow and it smells like fever dreams and cold-sweat nightmares. The fabric of your underwear catches on your clit and you gasp, arching against his chest.

“Easy,” he murmurs as his fingers drag back and forth. He hooks his foot around your ankle, forces your legs open. You asked for this. You’ll take it and thank him. 

Lightning silhouettes the world beyond the porch in black and purple. When you close your eyes, you see the rooftops of the town in the colors of heaven. You rock against his hand and pretend you’re someone else somewhere else. You feel the thunder in your teeth and wish with all your heart the rain would fall. 

He puts an abrupt end to the friction and cups you in his palm, wide and warm. You make a plaintive sound and wiggle your hips, push your ass against him. You need to feel something. You need him to help you. Otherwise, you might disappear beneath the horrible blanket of the night. 

“Please,” you moan. 

He presses his lips to the back of your neck, whispers into the shell of your ear like a lover. “You love me?” 

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Yes.” 

His teeth graze your skin as he slips his fingers past the waistband of your panties. 

“Good.” 

You wonder if he knows he keeps saving your life. 

.

The house is a midden of family misery. There’s barely space for you between heaps of clothing and glassware and mass market paperbacks. You live sideways amid the boxes and bottles and beer cans. He refuses to let you throw anything away. No matter how much you sweep and dust and tidy, the clutter seems to crawl right back across the carpet like morning glory. 

Late morning finds you in the master bedroom. It’s sweltering up here. The air sticks to your face like tattered gauze. The junk in here is of a particular breed, more meaningful—photo albums, baby clothes. Much of it has been stacked high just inside the door like a battlement. A fortification between this room and the rest of the house. You’re not allowed in here. 

Neither is he. 

Beyond the wall, everything sits untouched. A layer of dust rests primly on the bedside tables, the vanity, the yellow quilt still neatly made up on the bed. The art on the wall is sun-bleached in evenly spaced lines from the half-open blinds. The silence crowds your ears. It feels like standing in a tomb, the family crypt. 

With courage paper-thin, you've decided you'd like to confront the heart of the horror. Like shoving your fingers down the throat of the beast trying to bite you. Like making a home in its mouth, a bed in its bed. You want to eat me so bad, you’ll have to savor every scrap. 

It’s eerie in here. This room is brighter than the rest of the house by far. You can feel that parasitic presence all around you, cajoling you with hands that are soft and dry. There is a faint, floating smell of faded flowers. You breathe slowly to keep yourself from sprinting back downstairs.

You gaze at yourself in the vanity mirror. The dust almost erases you from sight, almost. You reach a finger out and draw a single streak across the silvery surface. You’re in there, somewhere. Sometimes you forget. 

The front of the vanity holds a trio of slim drawers with tiny gold handles. You catch one with the tips of your fingers and tug, just slightly. It creeps open without resistance. The inside is lined with green velvet. You pull it open all the way and search through the contents with your eyes. Blush, lipstick. Eyeshadow in seven shades of blue. You slide the drawer closed and move on to the next one, the widest one in the middle. 

This one holds a treasure trove of golden baubles:  a jumble of earrings, half a dozen hairpins, a long, thin cigarette holder. A string of pearls that look too chipped and dull to be real. And a locket, oval-shaped and decorated with a halo of tiny vines. You pick it up and the chain slips over your fingers like a thin, shining snake. 

You dig your nail into the seam and pop it open. To your muted disappointment, it is empty. No husband. No children. 

It’s yours, you decide suddenly. You want it. You've earned it. A prize, a consolation for the hell you’ve been through. For the fact that you have survived him, and she has not. You wonder if he’ll recognize it. Part of you hopes that he does. You imagine the look on his face and his hands on you afterwards. Your mouth is wet. 

This might be her house, will always be her house. But you do not belong to her. You have been spoken for again and again, and perhaps you should thank him for that. 

In the daylight you remember that you aren’t scared of ghosts, and that you have nothing left to give. Plenty of dead women have laid claim to you already. This one cannot have you, and for that matter, she can’t have him either. 

You hear the rumble of his truck out front and the thrill of fear that shoots down your spine is so cold it’s almost welcome in the stuffy room. You shove the locket into the pocket of your shorts and fling the drawer shut. It closes with a soft, complicit thunk. 

You pick your way back through the boxes and slip through the door like a reptile into water; smooth, silent. You make sure it latches behind you before you hurry to the top of the stairs. 

Out of the corner of your eye, just before you dip out of sight below the banister, you see something bend the light that reaches through the crack beneath the door. You freeze, turn your head only slightly. You see nothing. Only sunlight. Certainly no feet, dainty and bare, padding across the carpet with red-lacquered toenails. 

Panic, delayed, breaks loose. You gallop down the stairs so quickly you forget to skip the ones that creak. 

By the time he comes inside, slamming the door fit to shake the frame of the house, you are hunched over the dishes in the sink like you’ve been there all morning. If you are unduly quiet, he doesn’t seem to notice, and if he notices, he doesn’t seem to care. 

.

“I think I love you.”

You say it half-casual, half-pronouncement, the way you might tell your mom you’re dropping out of college. Tell your boyfriend you’re over him. Tell your boss you’re moving to Louisiana. “I mean it this time.”

Bo snorts, lifts his beer to his lips. “That so?”

You shoo a bee from the rim of your glass and suck down the last of your drink. You just might be drunk. “Yup.”

“Think that’s the bourbon talkin’.”

You roll your eyes, shimmy a little in an effort to make the busted lawn chair more comfortable. You thought he’d be more excited. “Why don’t you ever believe me?”

He smacks his lips like he’s considering his answer. The sunlight shifts through the trees and you close your eyes, blissful. “Lemme ask you this. You ever set a snare, baby?”

You can feel it in your blood:  the sun, the breeze, the brook bubbling over your toes. It’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Hey.” He leans over in his chair and snaps his fingers, splintering your peace. “I asked you a question.”

“Nah. Never set a snare. Some of us were normal kids.”

He ignores this and you feel like you’ve gotten away with something. “Well, sometimes you catch a critter, but it don’t strangle to death like it’s s’posed to.” 

You frown. 

“So you gotta do somethin’ about it, right? But you gotta be real careful. Can’t get caught up by the sufferin’. Gotta keep your head about you, y’know?” He’s not looking at you, but you can picture his lips, twisted in something like a smile. “‘Cause it don’t matter what it is…raccoon, possum, bunny rabbit…that sucker’ll take your hand off if y’let it.”

Your throat is sensitive all of the sudden, feels closed off. Maybe you swallowed a bee. “What are you even talking about?”

His head lolls lazy to the left and he stares at you for a second in a way that makes your hair stand on end. Then he chuckles, winks at you, turns away and leans back in his chair. 

“Nothin’, sugar. You’re awful cute.”

.

The heat wreaks havoc on the lifeless inhabitants of the town. You trail behind him like a listless kite as he makes the rounds, checking for damage, hauling the worst afflicted home to Vincent. It baffles you how much he seems to care about them. How much investment he has in keeping the rot contained beneath a pristine cosmetic veneer. For what? For who?

You don’t tell him it’s all rot, all of it, the people, the buildings. The trees. The air. Him. You. 

Some days, most days, you can’t quite look them in their faces. It’s guilt, you suppose. Guilt and acknowledgement of a fear so pervasive you no longer notice the way it clings like a second skin. You’ve convinced yourself if you meet their eyes you’ll find them glaring at you, envious and accusatory. Or worse–you’ll see the future, suspended in the flat, glass pupils of a dead game animal.

Occasionally you punish yourself by looking too closely. You note the receding hairlines, where the skin beneath the wax has dried and pulled taut and shifted the scalp along with it. You observe the way the light shines through plump round fingertips that are only hollow shells of wax, all that soft flesh desiccated and shriveled to a skeletal wedge underneath. You wonder, sometimes, whether Vincent smoothed over any flaws–scars, moles, asymmetrical lips. You touch your face subconsciously and think about the things he might fix for you.

It makes you feel like you are tiptoeing on the precipice of sanity, arms wide, just waiting to topple.

You take a particular interest in their clothing, wonder whether it belonged to them or to someone from the town. You never ask Bo, although you know he could tell you. You ignore the obvious parallels like a badly stitched seam. None of the clothes you wear belong to you either.

There are more residents than you ever imagined, half the houses not as empty as you assumed. Ten years, three brothers, three hundred and forty-nine holes to fill. You were decent at math in a past life, but nowadays, you try your hardest not to solve problems, no matter how they howl and scratch at the door. You’ve become adept at avoidance of the obvious in favor of learning how to assimilate into the cobwebs and shadows. No one can kill you if you’re already dead. You believe that so hard sometimes you can’t see your own reflection.

You believe it so hard that when you find it, on a girl in a house on a street you’ve only been down once or twice, you can’t make sense of it for several long seconds, staring dumbstruck and stupid while the static subsumes your brain.

“Let’s go,” he barks from the sitting room. The couches are pink and floral and faded.

You cannot move. You are made of wax.

“You deaf? Come on.”

She’s wearing cutoff jeans and the t-shirt you bought on a trip two years ago, or maybe three. There’s blood, brown and faded from half-hearted washing, streaking the collar and left sleeve.

Her hair is lighter than yours, and shorter. Her feet are smaller. Her nose is bigger. But the shirt is yours, and so is the blood, and for a second, you know you are a ghost.

“Hey.” He grabs your arm and turns you around. You think maybe she’ll move, now that you’re not looking. “You got a problem?”

You cannot answer him, because you do not have a voice. Because your lips have been glued together and painted the perfect pink. His gaze flicks from you to the girl and back and you wonder if he kissed her the way he kisses you. You hope he can see it, the way you are withering under the wax. You hope he will pick you up, cradle you in his arms, take you home and take care of you, make you whole, make you human.

Isn’t that all you’ve ever asked for?

He snaps his fingers in front of your face and you flinch, because you are real after all.

“Let’s go.”

You let him push you towards the door, hear him close it behind you, feel the floorboards shiver as he follows you down the hall. He puts his hand on the small of your back and ushers you out of the house, down the sidewalk cracked and stuffed with weeds keeling over in the heat. You can feel your feet melting to the concrete, skin crawling, sagging. You try not to stumble. You don’t want him to leave you behind.

“She ain’t you,” he mutters at the end of the street, so low you barely hear him over the buzz of the cicadas.

You aren’t sure if he’s lying, now or ever. You don’t ask him where her clothes are and he doesn’t offer. She might not be you, but you might be her. And you both might be someone else.

Either way, the shape of her is burned into your vision in blue and green, and she shakes her head at you when you close your eyes.

.

You wake to the sound of rain on the roof and it pulls you immediately from bed, stumbling sightless over your feet to get to the window. You yank on the mangled cord to raise the blinds and sure enough, the dust of summer is melting down the window in waves.

“Bo,” you say hoarsely. “Bo, look.”

It is then that the silence of the room seeps into your brain, the conspicuous lack of snoring. Your heart sinks into your wringing stomach. 

In a perfect world, he’d be taking a leak. He’d stumble back to bed and wrap you in his arms, press a kiss to your temple, and you’d drift back to sleep in the bliss of air conditioning. 

Your world is a few dirt road miles south of perfect.

You have to go find him. Find him and haul him out of whatever dark place he’s waded into, before he comes back worse than he went in.

The hall is a throat you have to fight against to get to the stairs, black and humid with walls that breathe. You feel cobwebs on your face and slap them away only to realize it’s your own hair caught on your lashes. The glow of the TV laps at the bottom step like floodwater, makes the carpet undulate like something just sank below the surface. You hesitate, for just a second, before you step down and feel solid ground beneath your feet.

He sits slouched on the couch in front of a screen full of static, deadeyed, jaw clenched. He doesn’t seem to notice you, quiet, creeping thing that you are. The static sounds like rushing water. Mangroves rise from the shadows in the corner of your eye. Lilypads part around your feet. If you turn your head just right, his eyes flash red in the light.

You stop halfway between the stairs and the couch, unsure what kind of animal you’re approaching. Your hands float up like a shield, like a bridge. “Bo,” you say softly, and it echoes in the night. “Are you okay?” 

He blinks, like a person. You notice a bite mark, a purple half moon in the meat of his forearm. Your skin is well acquainted with the shape of his teeth. 

“Bo,” you whisper. You don’t want to get closer. “Come back to bed.”

You hear a splash in the kitchen. The carpet squishes between your toes. Something brushes your ankle and wriggles away. You need to get out of here. You can’t leave without him. 

“Baby…please.” You step towards him and freeze as he lurches forward, sits up straight. His hands dangle between his knees, his gaze still locked on the fuzz of the television. 

“I killed my mama, y’know.” 

His voice is pitched, low and dull. A sheen of sweat glistens on his upper lip and cheekbones. The color is gone from his face and here, in this place, he looks almost green.

You fight to form breath into words. “I…I know.”

He’s speaking again as though he didn’t hear you. You can see in his eyes he is far, far away. “I watched her die. Took a real long time. But I stayed…waited. Had to make sure.”

The water is rising, cold and slick, over your ankles and up your calves. Panic rises with it, packs into your throat like silt. “You were real brave, baby. You did it. You made sure.” Your voice is thin as a reed. 

A terrible, empty grin cracks his face and then vanishes without a ripple, and now he looks at you for the first time and his eyes are hollow and blue as marbles and he whispers, “Then why ain’t she dead?”

The water surges to your knees like it’s been displaced by something large, something prowling. You teeter forward, heart hammering, splashing as you regain your balance. Too loud, too loud. Do alligators eat each other?

“She’s dead, Bo. She is.”

“Don’t lie to me, bitch!” He rises to his feet so fast you lose your balance again, flinching back from him. “She ain’t and you know it. You’ve seen her, she’s here! In this fuckin’ house!”

You shake your head quickly and in your periphery something ducks beneath the surface of the water. “No. She’s not.” Convince him, convince yourself, make it true.

His chest is heaving, his gaze darting around the room, searching. You can picture a shadow in shadow, curled up and waiting in the corner of the ceiling like a fat black spider, fingers splayed wide and tipped sharp and red. 

Bo grips the back of his head and moans and it echoes off the trees, too loud, too loud. “Fuckin’...everywhere.”

Faded flowers. Blush, lipstick. A trick of the light. A locket wrapped in vines. Something hunting, just below the surface. If you let it rip him apart, would it come for you next?

“She’s everywhere…in my goddamn head….” He sways on his feet like he might fall and if he does, if the swamp swallows him, you’ll die here in this place.

“Hey.” You close the distance, push through the muck, brush his elbow. “Hey!”

He smacks you away, snaps his jaws closed. “Don’t touch me!”

You cringe and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. Something groans in the dark. Something moves near the ceiling. 

His eyes on you are predatory, cold and empty, and his brow furrows. “Who are you?” he demands.

Wide-eyed, you open your mouth to answer him, but there is nothing on your tongue but moss. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

He leans toward you. “Who the fuck are you?”

You hold your hands up in front of you, backing away, mud between your toes. Your fingers are skeletal. Your nails are painted red. “I don’t know!”

A terribly low, vibrating sound is rising from the water, sending ripples in all directions, freezing your heart in your chest. He moves towards you and the swamp parts around him, allows him to pass like he is a part of it.

“You ain’t leavin’, baby.”

His teeth are sharp.

He lunges.

You scream.

The sound gets caught in your throat like a wad of feathers and bones and you choke, twisting, coming to in your bed. In his bed. Disoriented, you gasp for breath and release the death grip you have on the sheet. Your brow is so sweat-soaked your eyes are beginning to sting. The air is dry on your skin; the blanket is gone. The lower half of your body is tingling.

His head lifts from between your thighs and he looks at you with eyebrows raised. “Easy, sugar. Ain’t done with you yet.”

“Wh…what?” You rub at your eyes, trying to shake the sensation of water closing over your face. Somewhere, some version of you is bleeding in the silt.

His tongue makes another pass and you whimper, arms shaking with the effort of holding yourself up, of treading water, of fighting the maw of a monster. “Relax, baby. Go back to sleep.”

It’s all so insurmountable, the weight of it on your chest, and you sink back into the mattress without a ripple. His mouth is wet and warm. His dark hair is disheveled and you wonder absently if he misses it, that lock you stole. The room is silent save for the sound of your drowning.

“Is it raining?” you whisper, and hate yourself for the hope behind it.

He pauses, meets your gaze over the watery surface of your body. All you can see are his eyes and you could swear, for a second, they reflect neon red. “No.”

You let your head drop back onto the pillow, let him devour you, feel a tear slip over the brim of your lashes and disappear into your hair.

.

The storm breaks on a Wednesday. 

At first, you don’t register the rain on the roof. You don’t even take note of the thunder anymore, after weeks of torment. It’s become a fixture like the dust, like the pervasive smell of decay.

It starts slow, cautious, rolling into town like a tourist with a busted GPS. You mistake the patter for the familiar buzz of TV static even though that makes no sense, even though you’re the only one in the house, even though the TV is off in the next room. All you can hear is the rough swish of the scrub brush on the hardwood floor, coaxing flecks of blood from the gaps between the boards. It’s already beginning to reek in the heat.

You wanted to clean it up last night when it was fresh but he wouldn’t let you, strongarmed you up the stairs and pinned you to the mattress. You’d never admit it to him, to God, or to yourself—and really, is there a difference in Ambrose—but he fucks so good when he’s riled up like that, when it feels like he can’t get enough of the killing so he’s going to take it out on you, take everything you have to offer him plus a little bit more.

The cut on your palm is half-healed and hurts when you put your weight on it. There’s something about that—familiar, comfortable, not grounding, not really, but like static. Stable. Buoyant. Like the bruises on your knees. A constant that cradles you and takes you up and out of here, not too high, just above the trees.

A stair creaks behind you and you freeze like a hare in the shadow of a hawk. It could be Vincent, but he’s busy with last night’s batch. It’s not Bo.

You ease yourself up onto your knees, rock back, stand up, and creep to the foot of the stairs. They are empty. You are alone with the sense that someone has just disappeared out of sight, retreating up into the aching cranium of the house, skirt swishing.

You are never alone, not really.

It’s only then that the sound of the rain seeps into your brain, soothes the hair standing up on the back of your neck. A weight you have been holding on your shoulders since the end of July dissolves like sugar and your spine lengthens by inches. You drop the brush, forget the ghost, walk barefoot through the bloodstain on your way to fling open the front door.

It rains.

It rains even though the clouds are thin, the sun forcing its way through in places like it just can’t bear to admit defeat. It rains and pools in the potholes of the driveway that have been waiting open-mouthed to be filled. It rains and the grass and weeds release a sigh of bliss, stop begging for mercy.

You step down from the porch in a trance, palms up and open, trailing pink-tinged footprints that melt across the concrete like raspberry taffy. You walk across the lawn, scuff your feet in the grass, wonder if maybe you’re dreaming and decide you don’t care.

You sink to the ground, sprawl on your back, feel the damp soak into your clothes and your skin and it makes you whole, makes you new, makes its apologies for taking so long. You are floating, only eyes above the water, surrounded by salvinia and duckweed.

You hear his footsteps just before he calls to you. “The fuck you doin’, girl?” he shouts, but when you open your eyes, he’s losing a fight with a grin, picking his way up the slippery hill.

You sit up halfway. “It’s raining.”

“Y’don’t say.” He drops to his knees beside you, slumped with relief.

His wifebeater is splattered with blood and water but you grab it with both fists and pull him to you, catch his mouth and coax him to the ground.

“Crazy bitch,” he mutters, but he guides your hands to his belt and grips your ass with both hands as you fuss with the buckle, even rolls onto his back to ease your way and lifts his hips so you can tug down his jeans. “Right here, huh?”

“Yes.”

“In the front goddamn yard.”

“Yes!”

“It’s fuckin’ rainin’!”

“I know!”

He laughs and the heavens giftwrap it with a roll of thunder. You're giddy, beaming at him, and he traces your smile with the pad of his finger and something akin to admiration.

You're brand-new, him too, and both of you together. Like it's the first time, a better first, another universe. His hands are on your thighs and his shirt rides up above his stomach. Water drips off your nose and onto his lips and he licks it off like it might save him and maybe it just might. Maybe it’ll save you both.

Exhausted, exalted, you wash the sweat and grime off each other with filthy hands and thirsty mouths. You wrap your fingers around his bare shoulders and ride him with your eyes open and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever breaking, the panting, the shaking.

The locket taps against your chest, the lock of his hair tucked inside it. He cups your face, slips his thumb in your mouth, and there’s blood beneath his fingernail. You suck it clean with greed and obedience, savor it, turn your face to the sky and let the crocodile tears run down your cheeks.

“That’s my girl,” he growls, and you bask in the rare and wondrous glow of his approval.

You come apart in splashes like raindrops, small, staccato swells in your core while he kisses the rain off your skin. His hands find the bruises they’ve left on your hips and squeeze and it’s all you could ever ask for, to be held. To be hurt. To be his.

Maybe it’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Y'know, girl, maybe you're right,” he says. "Just this once."

You’re confused until you realize you’ve spoken out loud. You look down at him, cold skin, wet curls, a smudge on his jaw that could be mud or blood, his or yours or someone else’s. He looks back like he sees you.

“You love me?” you ask him before you can think better of it. Before the rain stops.

The corner of his mouth twitches. His gaze slides past you, goes somewhere else, above the sea of trees. The sky is in his eyes. “Sometimes.”

You don’t smile, don’t sigh, just push the hair off his brow and sink slow and gentle beneath the surface and into the green, not a ripple made in your wake.

“Good.”

[fluff-n-cookies]

You may call me crow anon

Idk how any of this worls as i recently joined tumblr

But can i pls ask for platonic dabi who comes looking for sister reader after she moved out years ago from the todorkoi house and only keeps contat with fyumi, natsuo and occasionally rei?

Idl man

HI I don't know Either but WELCOME TO TUMBLR, I hope you enjoy your stay. I will add you to my anon list on my rules for requests page and. I hope to hear from you again, and fun fact you are my first EVER anon so thank you, It's my pleasure.

ANNNNDD for the sake of the story the reader has pink hair.

warnings Dabi tries to commit suicide. and some swearing.

RUN. do nothing but RUN.

RUN to find her. RUN to safety. RUN AWAY from the police.

Dabi's Inner monologue rang loud, louder than any other, louder than the sound of the police and the hero's trying to catch him. so, damn, loud.

Panting, the young 15 year old Dabi, who somehow managed to dye his hair and steal food for 2 years of his life, turned a swift corner into the alley way before jumping up to climb the fire shoot, it was now when it occurred to him.

(y/n) would not be happy to see the man you have become.

he froze for a second, scared, he did his best, he tried so hard to be a hero, a hero for his older sister, for she who believed in him when none else would, but it wasn't until the scorching pain of blood polling at his eye bags that he started to move again.

oh how he admired her, and her dreams of becoming rich, dreams of being someone other than their father daughter.

too bad they were broken down and beaten everyday.

too bad that Touya had to sit there and watch his darling sister, his one and only light, be dimmed and overshadowed.

it was worse he couldn't do anything.

it was worse he just could watch.

it was painful. even more so when at 16 she told him she'll be back soon, hugged their mom good bye, handed him a sheet of paper with the Words "We'll meet again" written in shabby hand writing, took the car and never cam back again, it wasn't for 4 hours at Touya realized something was wrong, it took Rei 1 day to notice something was wrong, it took 6 days for endeavor to notice, and 3 months before he actually started to care... that his car was gone. Fuyumi asked where "big sister" went, Enji never told her, and every time she would ask Rei, Rei would just burst into tears, eventually, Fuyumi stopped asking, Natsuo thought she was still at school, and Shoto simply forgot she existed. that year was the same year he faked his death, that was the year Touya Todoroki died, the day Dabi was born.

eventually he grew tired, the police had lost him, so had the heroes so why run when you're not being chased?

Dabi came to a stop, looking around before lighting a cigarette he stole from a convenience store sighing out the smoke, the hot smoke a huge contrast to the cool summer breeze, like you her kindness was a huge contrast to the rest of the family.

no one really acted right in the Todoroki household, their they were cold and brash, or had mental issues, most had daddy issues, and all should really go to therapy, she on the other hand was softer, kinder, a soul who needed helping but put the needs of other before herself. soft words, soft pink hair (a mix of white and red, odd since no-one else had pink hair.) and the most welcoming smile you ever saw.

she was always like that,

always such an angel.

Dabi leaned on the railing of the short building, smoking, reminiscing on memories of the past.

leaning too hard, and falling.

at this point it was intentional, how one to endure such horrors, who is the deity was cruel enough to taunt him by giving him the soul he adored the most and then ripping it right out of his hands?

it was a short fall, just as it was a short building, but he didn't land on concrete instead he landed on the dumpster.

greeted by the smell of dog shit, and the feel of soggy cardboard and black plastic garbage bags.

"the hell?" he whispered a sort of surprise that came to him as he realized this was not hell, but a smaller, stinkier, hell.

he was even more surprised when he realized he was not alone.

"oh dear! sir are you alright?!" a gentle voice yelled out, she was wearing a soft (favorite color) dress, and had the kindest eyes, that was the only way to describe her.

she helped him out of the dumpster, not even looking at his face.

just like (y/n) would

"hey, stay with me, we'll go to my apartment, just hold on tight."

she didn't even mind the smell of smoke on his T-shirt.

all he remembers after that is fighting, fight to stay awake, fight to thank the angel that is his savior.

then he remembers sinking into the soft cushions of a warm red or orange couch.

like fall, her favorite season. (sorry if you don't like fall)

then the angel came back, now is when she noticed the purple scorches, the piercing blue eyes, and the little white segments near the roots.

he was sure she was going to scream, he was sure she was going to run and flee, and call the police, but instead she carried on, gave him an ice pack, checked his temperature, check for any major wounds gave him some water.

nervously, she asked "I'm sorry to be asking this but are you by any chance a endeavor hater."

Dabi chuckled fighting back the blood from reaching his eyes this was her alright.

"(y/n), big sis," blood threatened to trickle down what was left of his cheeks.

poor girl, choked out a sob, scared to even embrace him scared he'll drift away like she drifted away from him, salty tears prickled the edges of her eyes.

"To-Touya," she gulped "I-"

she pulled him right toward her, holding him tight, just like she would when they were younger and Dabi had a nightmare and was scared, except now, Dabi was truly scared, sacred of both himself and the future, scared you would poof into vapor his arms if he hugged you too tight.

"I"M SORRY" she yelled out, letting her own tears fall.

that night was spent in a shabby apartment, that night was spent together, that bight Dabi promised himself.

I'm never letting you go, ever.

I TRIED MY BEST BUT IT WAS SHITTY ANYWAYS BYYEEEE

[riaki]

— last train at 25 o' clock | suguru geto x reader fluff(???)/light angst @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat please take this bc coffee shop geto is gonna take a bit

it's 1am in the morning, the train platform's a ghost town, and the hum of the vending machine is all the noise in the world as you and suguru wait for the last ride home after a mission.

wc : 2.6k cw : brief mentions of blood ; references to hidden inventory arc , shoko typical smoking , probably some other stuff i'm forgettin not proofread!!!! also he may be ooc srry

i cooked this up last minute cus i remembered my promise of posting every weekend last week so my bad if u can tell its rushed lol post hidden inventory pre defection

suguru remembers it like it was yesterday.

the song of summer insects reaches your ear as you clamber up to the train station platform; a pandemonium of cicadas and crickets that sing odes to the full moon in the sky partially curtained by dark clouds and the dew on the grass that's begun to form.

"damn, it's hot." you muttered, wiping your forehead as your arm shot out to grab the dirty railing, white paint cracked and peeled as a splinter pricks your fingers and you flinch. suguru follows after you; a small hum is your acknowledgment.

"careful. shoko doesn't like dealing with splinters," he says from behind you, stepping up the stairs two at a time to straighten up on the train platform, hands in his pockets. “i don’t have reversed curse technique healing either.” there's the smell of a storm in the air, and the lights overhead buzz and flicker with the intermittent beat of a moth's wings. you just give a dip of your head in acknowledgement as you pry your hand away from the railing, the scent of old wood lingering on your hand as you wipe off the dust clinging to your palm on your pants.

(geez, you two have no sense for these types of things.)

suguru holds a hand out, and you take it eagerly to let him pull you up the last step, before politely letting go and slipping it back into his pocket once more. you let out an exhausted sigh and stand up, rubbing your tired eyes as you look around.

the platform is deserted save for the stray cat beneath the station bench, sniffing at a clump of weeds growing from the metal leg. there's a vending machine up against the wall to the elevator, an obnoxious painted 'out of order' sign on the lift's muddy glass doors, stained with dust, dirt, and fingerprints. there's some... creative graffiti on the wall, and a starch yellow section of caution tape flutters in the humid evening wind.

the cat scratches at the concrete floor, and its matted white fur and crystal blue eyes remind you of someone. you glance up at suguru, poking his arm to get his attention.

"look. it's satoru." you huffed, still a little loose for breath as you reach out and grab his shoulder, leaning against him for support. the dark-haired boy just laughs a little, taking his phone out to snap a picture and no doubt send it to the white-haired brat. "i see it." he leans a little closer to you; it's subtle, and you don't notice it, but the way his shoulders sag just so you have an easier time holding on speaks volumes. "don't send it to him! he's probably asleep right now. think it's past his evening sugar high?" you asked, glancing up at him with a tilt of your head.

"most likely. i think he got sent on another solo mission today." there's a tiny bitter bite to suguru's voice that underlines its usual velvetiness; like an ocean current beneath the waves that you only find once you've been dragged underwater. you don't say anything about it, though. the sleeves of his uniform crumple beneath your fingers when they curl into the fabric, a shiver running down your spine as goosebumps spring up on your skin like shroom caps after the summer rain.

suguru is observant.

"you cold? you can have my jacket." it's immediate, and his voice is as smooth as cream silk and marble as he shrugs your hand off (much to your dismay-- shown with a bite to your cheek) to unbutton his uniform jacket, slipping it off his shoulders and offering it to you. when you stand there, feeling a little daze and a lot tired, he just smiles, shoving it in your face with a low chuckle that sounds like honey pouring from a jar.

"you sure? you can hug a cursed spirit if you get cold, 'cus you're not getting it back." you sighed after a moment, reluctantly taking his jacket and tugging it over your shoulders. it's warm, and it smells like his cologne- like some natural incense that soothes your nerves and loosens your body to the marrow in your weary bones. you bury your nose in it and forget to think about the warm hue on your cheeks that you'll later chalk up to the humid air.

"i'm sure." the cat by the bench perks up, staring directly in your direction. it yawns, before bounding away, disappearing behind the vending machine with a flick of its cloud white tail. the machine is missing a few rows of drinks, but the green of a melon soda can that's far too saturated to have a name to the original fruit and the cream and red of a yakult bottle are enough to catch your eyes beneath the harsh light of the display.

"still don't understand how you get cold on a night like this, though." he makes a gesture towards 'this' with one hand, fingers flexing in a way that makes your heart flutter unreasonably.

a moment of silence passes; you can see the distant lights of some prefecture over the hill, and your mind briefly wanders to rainy afternoons, puddles reflecting the red neon of passing cars and distorted faces under plastic umbrellas sandwiched between painted concrete and a dark sky.

"you want a drink? on me, as thanks." you say, breaking the sound of silence and nodding towards the vending machine as you look up at suguru. it takes him a moment to respond, so you use the opportunity to admire his profile; the slope of his nose, the deep hazel of his eyes that shine a copper rust beneath the pale yellow light overhead. his hair is a little messy; it's falling out of its slicked back bun, a product of your earlier fight. there's a scrape on your ankle from tripping through the bush in an attempt to put distance between the curse when you had been engaged earlier; it still stings. there's a tightness to his jaw, you notice- and some part of you wishes you could take it for yourself.

the section of dark hair in front of his face sways as he turns to look down at you, gaze charting the corners of your face (your cheeks look soft, he notes) before he opens his mouth to speak.

one kick to the machine, a disappointed frown when nothing comes out, and two yen bills later, the pop of can tabs fills your ears as condensation seeps into your skin, a pleasant relief from the heaviness of the summer air. it's too much when the cold side of a drink is pressed to your cheek, though-- and you let out a yelp of protest, shooting a quick glare up at suguru, who just laughs it off and takes a sip of his drink.

you down a sip of your own; it's a sweet fruit tea that's your go to whenever it's hot out. sweet, citrusy, like starfruit. it tastes like a summer of youth and a warm blue spring. it's pleasant.

a distant rumble echoes from the dark horizon, and both of your gazes simultaneously snap towards it-- at last, you think. the last train is here. you adjust suguru's jacket around your shoulders, catching a whiff of something that smells like rosemary and new leather as his voice fills your ears.

it's an easy night when you pass the threshold and step into the train car, speckled white floors and blue hard seats greeting you. somewhere, there's a ticket stuffed into one of your pockets; a memento of late evenings that blend into early mornings when there's a bruise on your face and a knick on suguru's wrist that soothe themselves with the harmony of small talk and sensation of fizzling bubbles in cold metal cans as the train jostles you along. you're sitting, and he's standing, one arm on the hangers overhead as you talk about everything and nothing. he catches himself every now and then, watching with minimal interest as the sliding doors part themselves like gateways to the afterlife for ghost passengers. it's not your stop yet; far from it.

"say, suguru-- do you miss going on missions with satoru?" you asked after a moment, fingers drumming against your knees as the automated voice overhead announces the next stop, empty farm plots and tangles of wire passing by as the lights inside cozy houses dim and go off.

he doesn't answer that, so you just look out the window.

(suguru, you gettin' enough sleep? heatstroke?)

"how's the cut on your leg?" he finally murmurs after a moment, his eyelids heavy before he tears his gaze away from a tacky advertising on the wall and back to your scrunched nose.

"annoying." you just sighed, and you watched as he gave a small smile; his eyes fluttering shut, long lashes resting against his cheeks. you wondered if the wings of a butterfly would be heavy enough to weigh them down.

he moves after a second, sitting down one seat away from you in a swift motion and beckoning for you to lift your leg. you comply, not entirely sure where it's going- until he gently rolls the hem of your pant leg up, pressing the cold edge of his half-empty soda to the angry red scratch, and you wince a little before letting out one, long sigh. you melt into the chair, feeling like a senior citizen with a hunched back and one too many shrine visits under a bleached kyoto sun.

"thanks." you mumbled, leaning your head against the window as the train jostles ever so slightly to its own tracked rhythm.

he just hums in response, pulling a worn bandaid out of his pocket; the plastic top has pen smudges on it and the white wax gets caught between his pearly teeth as he tugs it off, taking time to make sure he positions the healing strip properly before flattening it down on your leg.

"shoko makes no sense when she talks about her reversed curse technique, so this'll do." he says quietly, and you let yourself fall into the pool of molasses that comes from his throat as you close your eyes, feeling the dull sensation of pain drain from your muscles and melt away like the first waves of spring and the ripple of lake water as a lone sakura petal disturbs the mirrored blue surface.

"i could learn it." you said after a moment, pressing your lips together in an attempt to snuff out the feeling of his fingers lingering on your skin, toying with the loose edge of the bandaid. he just snorts, and you crack one eye open to glare at him.

the rest of the train ride is spent in silence; you slip in and out of a hazy sleep, and you're faintly aware of the timeline-- somehow, your drink ends up on his lips. your head ends up on his shoulder, and your ears pick up his quickened heartbeat. his warmth is nothing like the humidity that clings to your skin like a layer of smoke and vapor, accompanied by sticky dango and raucous laughter weaving between the sounds of fireworks and the crunch of dirt beneath pairs of geta. he smells like home and his soft hair tickles your face as your little breaths squeeze past your parted lips, a warmth like bumping shoulders and linking fingers seeping into your body like the steady stream of fine sand in an hourglass. a warmth like empty classrooms lit by golden hour; windows cracked open to let in a fresh breeze as the faint smell of cigarette smoke drifts up to the room from the brunette and her lighter beneath the patch of shade from a tree in the courtyard below.

(need a light?)

this is how it's been for the past month. tired mumbles and hushed murmurs exchanged between two people who are more than friends but less than lovers after each harrowing mission; shared drinks and linked pinkies, the warmth that stains cheeks rosy when fingers that look small against calloused ones brush with another hand reaching for the metal pole on the train. heavy silence as you fall asleep on his shoulder; faint tingles when his fingers graze your knuckles as he stares at the dark reflection in the windows across. even the windows know how to make him relax.

one day, it'll be just him. a white bird stained black by apollo's hand in a sea of dirty geese, silent as the others hawk and squawk for a place on the lake. one hand hooked around the hard plastic of a hanger, supporting heavy shoulders with weight that could rival atlas' burden. a boy so tired of being beaten by the waves that he succumbs to the undercurrent with the same practice as before, only the paint on the railings has chipped past repair and not even the greenery of the countryside can touch the stains on the windows to his soul; eyes that used to shine with mirth and crinkle with gentle smiles become sunken and heavy with experience more suited to those a decade older.

he'd already chosen his path when he offered his jacket to you; when he laughed at the way you'd sneezed after investigating the patch of weed that had captured the stray cat's attention from before. and he knew that you'd noticed, and he knew that you'd try, and he knew that he wouldn't let you.

he knew when he woke you up with a gentle nudge to the forehead, suppressing the fluttering feeling in the heart he didn't know he still had when you made a grumpy tired face and stood up with much effort and a stumble or two.

(damn monkeys.)

it was easy nights like these that he'd eventually miss the most. walking you back to your dorm, past the candy wrappers and empty cola cans in the halls stained with imaginary blood and passing glances. departing with a kiss goodbye when he knew you were too drowsy and delirious to be able to remember it come morning.

the swing of a jazz rhythm would get stuck in his throat when you stumbled, only catching yourself from the jolt of the train's stop by latching a hand onto his wrist like some evil little lamprey and muttering a small 'sorry'. he'd laugh it off, collect the empty bottles of drinks of debt, and tug on the sleeve of his jacket on your arms, gently helping you off the platform as your pant leg slid back down to cover the bandaid on your leg, rough fabric scratching away the ghost of his touch on your skin. he wished it would just stay for a little longer.

and when the morning came and you woke up in your bed with his scent on the fabric of your shirt, you'd do it all over again. the only part of the terrible cycle he ever took pleasure in. even when the vile taste of a cursed spirit sunk into his stomach, it would be washed away with the right pop and fizzle of sugary drink followed by an even sweeter kiss to the knot between his tired eyes.

there was nothing about your time together he wouldn't ever miss.

you'd be his past, his present, and his afterlife. even when it was his turn to get off the ghost train and step past those sliding doors that held new meaning, you were the last thought on his mind.

one day, he hopes to see you again, when the last train comes in the night so late it could be considered early morning and the platform can relive old memories of peeling paint on a past summer spring once more.

hope u guys enjoyed the catoru cameo my (riaki) stuff. don't repost and/or plagiarize !

[mangoisms]

circle k (back to you)

summary: in which you're just the graveyard shift employee at circle k bombarded by vigilantes.

━ chapter eight: where did i go wrong? | read chapter seven

━ pairing: tim drake x f!reader

━ word count: 3.7k

━ warnings: canon typical violence, blood, etc

━ masterlist

━ a/n: sorry for disappearing! essentially, i started grad school and it is So Much Work. but if you'd like some unnecessary rambles on tim and wally's relationship here and in light of their og meeting in robin (1993), you can also find my thoughts on that here <3

 The next day, you don’t hear much from Steph. 

She does text you a few times, mostly reassurances and that she’s working to pull something together. You don’t quite understand but she was so convincing the day before, you let it go. 

You mostly spend the day—after sleeping in—learning your new phone, excited at having something new and so high-tech to play with. Flash texts you several times during the day. Blurry selfies and equally blurry pictures of Keystone and Central. Even a couple of the New York skyline, as he informs you he decided to drop in and visit a few friends. 

You can’t send him much. The clouds that hang in the sky, waiting to pour down on unsuspecting Gothamites at a moment’s notice. The feral cat that hangs out in the alley by your apartments, who you get close enough to to catch mid-hiss. The person on the subway carrying what you suspect to be a possum in their bag but Flash insists is actually an opossum. Whatever the difference is. 

There is a difference!

idk sounds made up

You’re from the city. Of course you think that.

ok WOW

you’re blaming my dead parents for where they settled????

Yes.

wow

You go into work in relatively high spirits, considering everything. 

Black Bat stops by for some gummy worms and a can of Red Bull and you tease her a bit for it.

“Signal’s influence?”

“Better than coffee.”

“Fair enough.”

Red hasn’t been by, you think, watching her go. Not yesterday and not today, though it’s early. He usually stops by nearly every night, if not for a couple minutes. But nothing specifically decrees that he comes by… You’re just used to it, you suppose, and last night’s absence was noticeable.

There’s still time, though. Maybe you’ll see him later tonight. 

Overhead, the AC turns on. They fixed it, along with that electrical issue Red Robin caused last week. It works a little too well, though. These last few days have had you uncomfortably cold, so today, you come armed with a hoodie—Tim’s hoodie, the only piece of clothing you’ve ever managed to steal from him. A bit baggy on him and even more so on you, it’s a pleasant shade of azure blue. One of your more precious possessions since it’s, like you said, the only thing you really have from him. Also a bit of an indulgence right now but… you’re past the point of caring. 

Maritza pops by a little while later, waving at you. 

“Hey, Mari. Here for a Slurpee?”

“That, and I was wondering if you guys have any pain cream… Abuela’s back is hurting her and we ran out yesterday,” she says, lips pursed, glancing at the aisles. 

“Pain cream,” you repeat thoughtfully, stepping around the counter. “We should. Let’s see.”

She follows you to one of the center aisles.

“How’s summer break been so far?” you ask, running your eyes over displays of toothpaste, disposable toothbrushes, and other basic items. 

“Boring,” she sighs. “It’s too hot to do anything.”

You chuckle, tucking your hands in the pocket of Tim’s hoodie; your fingers are cold. They always seem to be. “Books are excellent ways to preoccupy the time.”

“Think I’ve read every book at the library,” she grumbles, which probably isn’t that much of an exaggeration. Gotham’s public library system is drastically lacking; it was only in May did Wayne Enterprises announce that they were investing more money into it. By now, they probably haven’t reached the library here in the Upper West Side. 

“You should check out GU’s then. Kids get free library cards and our selection is fairly expansive. I’m sure you could get away with checking out some things for your abuela, too. At least until they fix everything in the one here.”

“Huh. Maybe.” She moves ahead of you, scanning the rest of the aisle. “Oh, hey, you guys do have some.”

She reaches for a box. 

The door opens. You turn. 

The wink of the kitchen knife is the first thing you see, then the trembling hand, and then the owner to whom it belongs, too. A scrawny man wearing a grey hoodie, the same hood pulled over his head. 

It’s not great at hiding his face, you think dimly, every muscle inside you locking into place. Mari freezes behind you, breath audibly catching in a gasp as he turns the knife sharply on you.

For a second, the three of you just look at each other. 

You break the silence first. 

“All the money is in the register. Take it.”

A lengthy pause, one that amplifies the dread petrifying your insides. Your new phone, with Flash’s contact info, sits in the pocket of your hoodie, weighing it down; your fingers are laced together, cold, hovering right above it and you recall the rundown you’d been given by Flash last night, the… other not-quite-normal aspects of your new phone. 

“Okay, so, on top of the League encryption stuff, there is something else.”

“Are you tracking me?”

“Not… exactly.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Your location is logged with the League,” he admits. “But it’s secure. You’re registered with me, so only I can look at it. My wife’s phone is like yours. Her information is there, too. A lot of us do it with our families. Not just to keep sensitive information secure, but there’s… a risk that comes with being with us.”

You frown at him. “Does she know?”

He looks horrified. “Of course she does. I don’t go around just tracking her without her knowledge. That’s weird. And messed up. I don’t even actively do it. Not unless she’s been kidnapped or she wants me to. That’s what I’m trying to say. Your location is being tracked but I’m not peeking in on it. No one is, unless a need comes up. An emergency kind of need. And that brings me to my next thing.”

He pauses, looking at you, calculating, but you just nod for him to continue. 

“You have my number,” he says. “So, you can call me. For emergencies or if you just want to talk about your day. But in the case that you can’t call me, if you’re in some kind of danger…” He plucks the phone out of your grasp, turning it over in his hands, pointing to the power button on the side. “Press this three times and it’ll send an SOS signal to me, along with your location. I’ll come. Okay?”

“Are you… sure?”

He seems affronted. “I don’t just do this for anyone. I thought you’d have seen that by now. You’re…” he stops, frowning deeply. “You mean a lot to me, kid. If I can save you, if I have the opportunity to keep you safe, I’ll take it. I wouldn’t ever ask you to leave Gotham because it’s your home and I know the Bats hang around but… this just makes me feel better. You have a direct line to me. Use it.”

“Batman probably won’t like that.”

“Batman can suck it,” he says petulantly. “Especially after what he did to you last week. I take care of my own. No matter where they are. Got it?”

You got it. 

The thought still astounds you even now, that Flash cares that much about you and how ironic it is that you don’t even know who he is under the cowl but maybe you don’t need to. This is still him, isn’t it?

And you would heed his words. Of course you would. You have no interest in dying. You have no hangups about being saved. Flash didn’t think you incompetent, it was just a precaution, a necessity for living in the world you do.

That is true now more than ever.

Especially with how aware you are of Mari behind you, too. 

“Take your hands outta your pockets,” he says.

Your pulse pounds in your ears.

“Just take the money, man.”

You have to be careful but quick. If you could just unlace your fingers and reach for your phone…

Of course, you have no idea how quickly the signal will reach Flash or how fast he’ll even be able to get here…

You guess you’ll just have to trust him. Trust him and his capabilities.

A step forward. A bead of sweat rolls down your back. You can hear Mari behind you, her breath quick and uneven. You’re most worried about her, to be honest. If you go down, what’s going to happen to her? You dread to think about it.

“Take your hands out of your fuckin’ pocket,” he hisses; despite the severity of his voice, his hand is trembling. You don’t get why he won’t just grab the money and go. 

He must think you can call the police or something but even then, it’s not as if the GCPD are reliable. As if they can do anything. 

As for you, there is nothing else you can do. You need to call him. 

“Mari, run!” 

Your hand grapples for your phone at the same time. 

You hear the snick of sneakers on the tiled floors, your fingers slip over the sides of the new case currently hugging your phone, and he surges forward and then—

Just a mere spark, one that jolts you as you realize what happened. It’s small at first, then bigger, then massive, a forest fire eating you alive from the inside out, burning white-hot. 

You can’t do anything. 

You stare at the man in front of you, closer now, close enough to dig his knife right into the soft flesh of your belly. His eyes are wide, too. Like he can’t believe he just did that. Neither can you.

But the worst of it comes when he pulls the knife out. 

The sound that escapes you is foreign to your ears. Your knees give out. One hand presses to the source of your pain, the other lands hard on the tiled floor; your wrist smarts, your arm trembling as you hold yourself up. 

You’re barely aware of anything other than the pain. Throbbing heat, warmth rapidly spreading through the front of your shirt and hoodie. Your vision blurs, from tears and from the pain, your heart pounds so hard, you feel it in your teeth, hear it in your ears above the rush of your blood. 

You manage a glance behind you, relieved to see Mari is gone and hopefully back in the safety of the apartment building next door. Ahead of you, the man is scrambling to get the cash register open, cursing like a sailor and eventually yanking it off the counter and smashing it on the ground, ducking out of your view.

God, you need to call Flash. Not 911, they won’t get here in time, no way, you need him. Before the man decides to cut his losses and kill you. You hope he’ll just take the money and run, but you’ve seen his face, surely he knows that puts him in that much more danger of being arrested—

The door opens. You hear your name from a familiar voice and then someone steps into view. 

Tim’s eyes are wide as he looks at you, horrified, but behind him, your attacker shoots up from the ground and you choke out a warning, an urging to run, to get out of here, you don’t know what you’d do if anything happened to him, no, no, you can’t lose him like that. 

He whips around just as the man swings himself over the counter, letting out something of a war cry, cash held in one hand and the knife in the other. It gleams red under the light. He lunges.

“Tim!”

But his fatal injury does not happen. Instead, you watch him duck out of the way, moving faster, more gracefully than you’ve ever seen, like he’s done this before and the man doesn’t expect it, stumbling with his own momentum. Not stopping, either, Tim grabs the man’s wrist, heaving him over his shoulder until he slams into the ground hard. It’s brutal. It’s violent. It’s nothing you’ve ever seen from Tim, your Tim who… who hates needles and always bemoans going to get the yearly flu shot with you and Steph, your Tim who can get impatient, snippy, but not violent. 

You don’t understand. With the haze of pain, that fact feels oddly upsetting. 

The door opens again. He whips around, geared up for another fight, but it’s just Spoiler, it’s—

Golden hair, familiar blue eyes. A face you know by heart. Even with the bottom of her face hidden. 

They’re both at your side in an instant. In good timing, too, because your arm gives out but before you can crash to the ground, Tim catches you, turning you over in his arms and gently laying you back onto the tile.

“You’re okay,” he says quickly, eyes scanning you frantically. “You’re okay.”

All the movement tugs at your belly, flames flaring for a brief moment, making you dizzy with pain, choking out your voice, leaving you to blink the tears out of your eyes and look up at your friends.

You don’t like the look on their faces. Horrified. Full of dread. It hurts you. 

“Fuck,” Stephanie Brown, also known as Spoiler, says, digging through pouches in her utility belt. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Oracle, where is the nearest hospital?”

“I know where it is,” Tim says, snapping into action, his hands reaching for the hoodie. “Off Murphy Ave.”

Rrrrrrip.

He tears through the front part of your hoodie—his hoodie—like it’s nothing. Both their faces drop as they see your shirt underneath it but you’re more focused on the first part of what just happened. 

“Did you—have to tear it?” you whine. “This is the only hoodie I have from you…”

“You can have all of my hoodies,” he promises, reaching for the hem of your shirt. 

Another ripping sound. 

Steph reaches underneath you. “Didn’t go through.”

Tim nods. “The sooner we get her to the hospital, the better. I don’t like how much blood she’s losing.”

“I can hear you, you know,” you mutter, more petulant than you want but considering you are bleeding from a stab wound, you think you get to be. 

They both let out strained chuckles. Tim reaches for one of the pouches of Steph’s belt. You wonder how he knows which one to open. You wonder a lot of things. Where he learned to kick ass. Whether he has always known Steph is Spoiler. How he is so calm right now. It tickles at you, like you have all the pieces to the puzzle but the full picture still isn’t coming out. 

And oh, yeah, the burning throb of the stab wound is really sapping your concentration, too. Cold creeps in at the edges, your fingers feeling icy as you clench them. You shiver violently, though it hurts to move like that. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” Steph says soothingly, squeezing your hand. “We just really need to get you to a hospital to guarantee that.”

“You should—fuck!” The gauze Tim presses to the wound sends shockwaves of pain through you. Black spots appearing in your vision, breath squeezing in your throat.

He says your name loudly. “Breathe.”

“Fuck you,” you wheeze out, trying and failing to curl away from the pressure he is currently applying to your wound. “That—hurts—”

“I know,” he says, pained. “But I have to. We have to. I’m sorry.”

“He’s right,” Steph says, brushing some of your hair away from your face. “Come on, talk to me. Ignore what he’s doing. What were you going to say before?”

“My phone,” you mumble, shivering. “Flash gave it to me. S-Said if I press the power button three times, it sends a distress signal to him.”

“That’s kind of him,” Tim mutters, sounding, dare you say it, jealous, which, in your haze of pain, just pisses you off. 

“You absolute asshole, you don’t get to—”

“Stop it!” Steph snaps, lunging for your phone. “Tim, focus on saving her life and not on being an ass right now, okay? I’m calling him. We need that kind of speed. She’s losing too much blood and the hospital is too far.”

He sobers significantly. A bloodied hand reaches for yours. You’re only aware of it because you see it, the sight of his pale skin covered in your blood, his fingers wrapping around yours. He squeezes.

“Can you feel that?”

“K-Kind of.”

“Do it, Spoiler.”

“I’m doing it, Timothy.”

She is. She holds your phone in gloved hands, pressing the button three times, then scoots away from your head, lifting your feet over her lap. 

Tim continues his work, the pressure he continues to apply to the wound making your head spin. Exhaustion creeps in at the edges, making your eyelids drag with each blink. 

No, no, falling asleep is bad. You’ve seen enough movies and TV shows of injured characters to know that. You have to stay awake. 

Steph watches you, concerned. “How long—”

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence as a sharp gust of wind hits all of you. It knocks things off the shelves and then, all of you are blinking up at the Flash, blue lightning fading away.

He breathes your name and in the next blink, he’s next to you, on his knees. 

“Hey, Flash,” you croak. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he says softly, a gloved hand resting tenderly on your forehead. He looks at Tim and Steph. “Hospital?”

“It’s—”

Tim cuts Steph off, staring hard at Flash. “She’ll most likely need a blood transfusion. Her blood type is AB positive—”

“And she’s allergic to penicillin,” Steph tacks on quickly. 

“Got it.” He sweeps you into his arms and you whimper at the movement. “And the hospital?”

“Intersection of Murphy Avenue and Elliot Circle,” Steph tells him.

“Be careful,” Tim stresses. 

Flash gives him a frosty look. “I got it. You’ve done enough.”

Stop fighting, you want to say, but Flash is delightfully warm and you’re so tired. If you rest your eyes for just a little bit, that’s fine, right? 

“Flash—!”

A sharp tug in your belly, gravity pulling on you, and darkness falls over you like a blanket. You surrender without fight.

Voices puncture the veil of darkness. Soft murmurs, soothing tones. 

“She’ll be okay, Red,” a woman murmurs. “You got her here on time.”

“I know, Lin,” someone else says and wait, you know that voice. It’s Flash. He sounds so… harrowed. “But I just… I don’t know.”

“You know what the doctors said. The danger is gone. And with you here… maybe…” she trails off, tone implying something you aren’t privy to.

A deep breath. “Do you think so? I could’ve, earlier, but I didn’t know if it would hurt her and I didn’t want to take the chance…”

“Well… I think you’re a big softy and she means a lot more to you than you ever realized. So… maybe.”

“Maybe,” he echoes back and you want to know, want to ask what exactly it is he and this mystery woman are talking about but you slip back under again.

The next time you resurface, it’s to cutting words and a tension so thick, you feel it, too, even with all your senses muddled, knee-deep in a haze.

“I don’t mind her,” Flash says coldly. “But you, too?”

“She’s my friend. I have a right to see her, too,” someone else says—Tim, you realize. It’s Tim, his tone cutting, temper on the rise. 

“The way you’ve treated her these past two months doesn’t say much about friendship to me.”

“I was going to tell her—”

“Oh, you were going to tell her? Only after you finally fucked it all up being caught hanging out with your friends when you explicitly said you were too busy to hang out with her? Yeah, that’s real great.”

“You haven’t told her,” Tim points out petulantly. 

“Really mature,” Flash scoffs. “I have a good reason to keep it from her. What’s yours? It’s not like you were deprived of her attention. You’re friends. Why the hell would you favor Red Robin over Tim Drake?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand—”

“No, I bet you don’t, because it’s easier to excuse yourself that way, isn’t it?” he seethes. “You’re just like him, you know. Just like him.”

You don’t know who they’re talking about. Or maybe you do and it’s just not coming to you. But the comparison isn’t a kind one. The way Tim snaps back in the next second affirms that. 

“She wasn’t talking to me! I was—worried!”

“So, you should’ve talked to her! Instead of going behind her back and befriending her as Red Robin! What the hell did you achieve by doing that?”

“We were going to tell her, too, you know,” the woman from before says, her tone disapproving. “Very soon, in fact. But his situation is different from yours and you know that.”

Silence stretches on.

“Well, I still want to see her,” Tim says quietly, the fight leaving his voice.

“How—” Steph. Her voice cuts out, thick in a way that is unfamiliar to you. She clears her throat. “How is she?”

“Stable,” the mystery woman informs her. 

“Why hasn’t she woken up?” Tim asks. You can just hear the frown in his voice and the vision of him forms easily in your mind, that familiar wrinkle between his brows, pretty pink lips pursed. 

“Anesthesia still needs to wear off,” the woman says. “She’ll wake up soon.”

“But until then,” Flash cuts in, tone still severe. “Feel free to make yourself scarce. Stephanie can hang around. But you? No way in hell.”

“You think she wants that?” Tim shoots back, anger returning. “You don’t know anything. You have no idea. You’re assuming—”

“Yeah, I am. She’s not awake. She can’t tell us. Until then, I—we—can make those decisions.”

“Oh, that’s great. I’m sure she’ll love that—”

“I know what you’re thinking and we’re doing this with good intentions. You can’t say the same, can you?”

That doesn’t help. Fans the flames, if anything, as they keep arguing. 

Ugh. You don’t want to hear this. 

Like mercy, you slip under again. 

reblogs are appreciated!

taglist: @peachesona @knoxx-seresinbradshaw @kikis-writing-service @sweetistic @soundsfunbutno @ginevraxrogers @fridaenpina @skcj24 @bath1lda @omfg-its-tay @laughydaphne @fhrjrirj @iamthesimpmother @alittlelateforstars @thaliadoesthings @scarlett13 @zelabee @coffee-love-alltheabove @benstormy @sad-girl09 @lockofspades @thereallchristine @thatonecroc @1lellykins @jelsafan0 @hearttjason @kno-way-home @moniverse05 @bat-h-tic @ghostindeath @escapism-r-us

[ask to be tagged! either here or my inbox <3]

[alice-after-dark]

Rosie Bennett's Finishing School for Young Ladies - Why, When We Do Our Darkest Deeds, Do We Tell?

Inspired by @hiemaldesirae's fem!RadioStatic content and his Hazbin Institution for Homicide Practitioners AU (at least the idea of these two in a school setting).

This is the inspiration for the school uniform.

Takes place during the late 1920s.

Soon enough exams are over and the much anticipated winter break has begun. Alison gazes out the window of the library, enjoying the fresh snowfall and the quiet. Most students wouldn't fathom staying at the school over break, but Alison loves it. Plenty of solitude and quality time with Rosie.

It is late afternoon. She should start heading towards the dining hall, she decides.

The snow crunches under her boots as she crosses the campus. Snow blows about her. There is a storm coming. She can empathize. The storm inside her is getting stronger by the day, the itch under her skin is almost unbearable. She has to do something about it soon or she fears she will lose her mind and do something reckless and stupid.

Once at the dining hall, she wastes no time in grabbing an apron and setting to work. Contrary to popular belief, Alison excels in most of her classes, home economics especially. She prides herself on her cooking, passed down to her by her mother. Of course, her Creole dishes are often looked down on as improper and low class, but she doesn't care. It isn't her fault if most of these students (and even the teachers) have never had anything with actual flavor in their entire lives. She pities them really.

It's about an hour later that the doors open and Vivian sweeps into the dining hall in all her magnificent glory. Alison admits she is fascinated by the woman. For all her excellent acting skills, Alison knows danger when she sees it, has learned to sense it from her years running about the Louisiana bayou. Vivian is a true wolf hiding in the delicate skin of a doe, beautiful and dangerous like a poisonous flower. The woman knows the power she holds and wields it with practiced expertise. She may play the sweet and charming school darling to the masses of the student body, but Alison knows there is something darker there. She recalls the young woman on that night, covered in blood with hardly suppressed rage lurking in her eyes.

Alison wants to devour her whole.

"You're cooking?" Vivian questions as she lays her coat and scarf over one of the chairs. There are snowflakes melting in her hair, making her sparkle in the lamp light. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold. Alison focuses on the task at hand.

"Rosie allowed it. I thought it was hardly fair for Mrs. Abernathy to be stuck here all break too so I offered to cook dinners so she can leave early. She'll still be here for breakfast and lunch."

"You seem very close with Mrs. Bennett."

"I like to think so. She is a very dear friend."

Rosie is in fact the reason she is here right now and not stuck in some other stuffy school. Rosie is the reason for many things. Alison recalls those hot months spent in the upper class woman's summer home, her subtle instruction on how to be a proper lady, how to charm those around you, how to avoid suspicion. She taught Alison how to hide in plain sight, how to observe those around her, and what signs to look for. Rosie is the reason she hasn't gone mad...or been caught.

"What are you making?" Vivian interrupts her thoughts.

"Jambalaya," she answers. "My mother's recipe. It's almost finished if you want to sit. I'll be out in just a minute."

Vivian nods and soon Alison joins her at the table, placing a bowl in front of her before starting in on her own meal. Mrs. Abernathy's cooking is certainly good, but it's nothing like the taste of home.

Vivian takes a bite and puts a hand to her mouth, blushing prettily. "This is so good!"

Alison's smile reaches her eyes. "Thank you. My mother was a very good cook." She watches Vivian press another bite of meat past her painted lips and Alison swallows in time with her. Watching her like this, she could almost believe Vivian is as innocent as she appears.

The talk is light as they eat. Vivian helps with the dishes and they walk back to their dorm together. The itch is still present, but it has been sated for now and Alison's mind is currently distracted by the pretty thing beside her.

That was yet another thing Rosie had helped her with. When all the other girls were fussing over boys, Alison just...hadn't seen the appeal. She'd questioned Rosie about it and the woman had listen to her with grace and understanding and Alison had come away with the knowledge that, not only did she in fact prefer women to men, but she also experienced desire differently than most. She didn't completely lack desire, it was just more complicated for her.

And apparently her complicated nature had decided that Vivian, the stunningly beautiful and popular school darling, heiress to the Haynes' fortune, and regal bitch with the skill and talent to back it up, was exactly what she wanted.

Lovely.

[bodhranwriting]

Finn and the Arsonist by Bodh M.

In three years of running the only cat sanctuary in Middle Besser, I’ve heard a lot of their odd tales about how they ended up here.

Getting into fights is a common one. Getting trapped in wells happens more often that you’d think. Inattentive families, owners needing the space… the list goes on. I try not to judge people’s situations too harshly. After all, my main witness is going to be a little biased and cat-senses don’t always translate well to human, as you’d expect. But there are definitely pickups I’ve done that have made my blood boil, if you don’t mind me saying.

But I’ve never had one before that made me scared and certainly never had one involving one of my closest friends.

It was a stinking hot day in the middle of summer when a small child barged open the door to the Respite with a terrified cat yowling at a pitch to match the temple bells.

I had been dozing at the counter, sweat sticking my sandy curls to my forehead and a new bandage wrapped around my arm – one kitten had not wanted to take her medicine – so I damn well fell out of my chair as a screaming feline was dumped a fingerbreadth from my face.

“I found them in Gert’s Alley,” the girl said helpfully, in lieu of greeting. She was probably nine or ten; a scruffy little thing in a faded blue dress with adorable tight black coils and a missing tooth so her next words came out as a lisp, “He theemed thercared. Look at all the blood!”

Dragging myself up from floor and trying to wipe the sleep from my eyes, I blearily focused on my newest patient. She (and definitely she, I noted as she wriggled out of the blanket) was a gorgeous black Kysi with golden eyes and the huge ears typical to her breed. As she backed up, hissing, I reached out a hand and concentrated, drawing up warm reserves of the little magic I had from my chest and into my throat.

Translation spells, in my experience anyway, always had a taste. I’d never been particularly good at them: it was almost easier to just do the hard work and learn the language. But translating my tongue to that of cats was like clicking your fingers might be to someone else. Easy. Not requiring much thought at all.

Cat tastes like buttermilk. I don’t know why, but there seems to be a connection to what I taste and what I’m trying to speak. Bee tastes, almost boringly, of honey. Spider has a dusty texture. Rat, for some odd reason, is hazelnut. I haven’t worked out that one and neither had the teachers out in the Hartland’s. I think one of my classmates who fell into the academic trap – track, sorry – is compiling research on it.

(I answered her very impersonal letter a few months ago and never heard back. Hope I helped. She did bully me into passing my star-reading exam, after all.)

I took a breath, the flavour rising into my nose, and attempted first contact. “Easy there… I’m not gonna hurt you… what’s your name…?”

The cat hissed again, but only for show because she answered quickly, “Smells-like-this. But upright call me Smoke.”

“I’m Finn,” I said, almost more for the benefit of the still-watching urchin. I projected an imitation of my scent into her mind: a kind of mix of cat fur, woodsmoke, and lye soap, and asked, “May I touch you? I need to find where you’re bleeding.”

Smoke hesitated and then lay down. “Yes.”

Carefully, I reached forwards, letting her sniff my hand. “Could you get me a bucket from the pump?” I asked the girl.

She nodded with great dignity and vanished outside. I turned my attention back to Smoke. It was funny: she was far better fed than a stray ought to be –

“Know your smell, upright.”

I jumped. Swallowing hard, I managed to keep the connection strong enough to ask, “You… do?”

Smoke curled up under my hand. “It was on take-off furs. And blood not mine.”

Ice settled in my stomach, cold fingers squeezing my guts paper-thin. “Whose is it…?”

Her tail thrashed, ears flattening against her head. “My upright.” The flash of fangs made me jerk my hand away. I was panting and I didn’t know why.

“What happened?”

Smoke sat up again, fixing shining golden eyes on me. She raised her head like a queen, crossing one paw in front of the other.

“Uprights invade territory. Smash door. I fight. Upright feeder does too. I run when they lay red flower.”

“Red flow…” Suddenly, the buttermilk soured to smoke and ash as my mind made the necessary translation. Terror thumped through my chest. “They burnt the house?”

I grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck as she bolted from my shout. She tried to claw at me, but I didn’t even feel it. “What does your upright look like, Smoke?”

“Put down!”

“Please, tell me. What do they look like?”

“Upright! Smell like this! Not white-yellow fur like you. White-orange fur! Cloud eye! Make pretty noise a lot!” She meowed as I dropped her, landing perfectly on the table as I fell into my chair.

“Gert’s Alley… that’s where you were found?”

Smoke leapt to the ground and gave me the feline equivalent of a shrug.

I was up and running down the street before I even realised I’d processed the information.

[husbandograveyard]

This drabble is part of my summer celebration collection! Prompt: thunderstorms Characters featured: Kyojuro Rengoku (Kimetsu no Yaiba), 2nd person GN Reader Requested by: @silenceofthecookies [a/n]: reader is scared of thunderstorms in this one, may not be applicable for everyone, but it works so well for protective and sweet Kyo!

You absolutely love the summer, it’s your favorite season. You would almost say it is a perfect season, except for the one thing that makes the hot days sometimes end in the worst way possible: the thunderstorms that make the heat unbearably humid in the few hours before they break through. The sunny skies turn grey and then almost black in a matter of minutes, and it never stops startling you. 

It’s better now that you have Kyoujuro by your side. You were first too embarrassed to admit the sounds of the thunder rumbling in the distance were enough to make your blood run cold, but the man had a sixth sense for whenever something was wrong with you. Even the slightest changes in demeanor didn’t go unnoticed. You were ashamed to admit it was because of the weather when there were definitely worse things to happen. 

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t judge. Instead, he made sure you were not alone. Holding you tight, distracting you with a movie, food, cuddles, kisses… he was determined to make you forget whatever mother nature was doing outside. Initially, you thought it silly but endearing, how he would try what you considered to be mission impossible. But over time it got easier, until you barely even registered the flashes of lightning, too focused on the strong arms wrapped around you, the way his lips pressed soft kisses to your temple. You were feeling safe, you were feeling loved, comfortable, and for the first time you could remember, not even afraid.

[prof-peach]

Heya professor!

I have a question regarding my Torterra, Ygdras. I'm starting college next semester and wil be staying in a Pokémon-allowed dorm, but the scamp evolved a bit unplanned...

Considering his size now (I'm 6ft and his head is at my chest-height), and my 3rd story room its safe to say he can't sleep with me like we were used too. My room overlooks a patch of forest on the grounds however, where he could potentially spend his nights. But winters can get a bit chilly here (north of Kalos).

How cold can Torterra handle? Are there any special steps I can take to keep my buddy healthy during the colder winter nights? Or would he be better of at home where he can sleep in his greenhouse?

Also, is it true Torterra keep growing?

Thank you!!

Think of it this way: Torterra and its evolutions exist without human intervention just fine, and know how to survive winters without us fussing so much. Plants are built to survive, and have many ways to wait out the rough weather and bounce back in spring.

Issues arise if the Torterra in question is a variant that does not belong in the region you reside in. This is not alwasy the case but for instance a palm torterra will need wildly different care to a pine torterra in winter. I will assume yours is a bog-standard pure breed deciduous turt, seeing as youve not mentioned otherwise.

So winter time the leaves should drop, their energy levels will reduce, and if its quite cold, they do tend to bury their bodies in the dirt, and wait out the worst of the cold. This is essentially hibernation. A torterra will find an adequate patch of nutrient dense dirt and start to dig. You could help them with this if they show signs of wanting to do so, but otherwise they are more than capable with those stone toes of theirs. If they struggle to find good dirt, mulch a patch for them that THEY like, and turn it into the dirt. Leave it for two weeks, and then let them dig into that. Should be fine by then. They do not need watering nor feeding during hibernation.

If it's hanging out in a forest with other tree cover, it shouldnt have any issue, even if it snows. even frost is fine with this species, theyre very tolerant. If leaves start to shed, and they seem sluggish, id encourage rooting and burrying the body. They will do this until the ground frost stops.

You could send them home, theyd stay active in a greenhouse but still slow. If theyre in dormancy with you, they wont exactly be up and moving, not wandeiring around or intercting with you much. They sleep, pretty much permanently until the spring comes when its that cold.

Have a chat with them, they may want to do this, it does usually encourage more healthy growth come the new year, and rejuvinates their energy more than if they wander around all through the colder months. You'd see healthy regrowth and a much more vibrant mon, hell, maybe even flowers next summer. Without this rest, pokemon can become a little more run down, but adequate food and rest seems to counter this just fine.

Its a personal choice, some are hot blooded and want to keep moving and battling, others are happy to huddle for the winter and store energy for the coming months. Chat with them, see if you can make your mind up.

[f1rewalk3r]

Is This Anything (Remains)

hello. would you like to read a f1rewalk3r original Creative Nonfiction piece. check it out below the break

The blades of the ceiling fan cut lazily through the stale summer air, giving the room an almost imperceptible hum. Condensation drips down a glass bottle. I stare in the mirror, daring my reflection to speak. Elsewhere in the room, a hard drive clicks and spools up. Data is being read. 

My reflection does not speak, instead, checks her makeup, eyelids stretching to ensure even pigment placement. She leans in, notes a zit, corrects with concealer. She meets my eyes. There’s nothing. The space is intentionally left blank. Then, they focus, and she is less.

***

Three weeks earlier and I am in someone else’s bed. She is everything, a twisting mass of curly black hair and muscles stained with black ink. She is the world. I throw myself at her feet, and she takes me.

***

My eyes unfocus and they are red with strain, and my reflection scowls at me. She has seen my weakness. I reach for the sweaty bottle, pound the last third of it. I am running late. I throw on a flannel and fill a tote bag, then rush out the door.

***

That night, I dream of a late night in a too-small dark room. Of a bottle of whiskey, three times shared. There is a flash of steel, then a rush of blood, and a man presses his mouth to my thigh, drinking from the open wound. No sensation of cold with the steel, but warmth, wet, and a slow building of dull pain. 

***

A long time ago, I sit in a circle with a group of other boys my age, and our pastor lectures us. I feel out of place here, and I am unable to focus. I am not like these boys, and they are not like me. We may only recognize it subconsciously, but it affects our actions nonetheless, and still leaves me wondering.

***

In dreams, I kneel before a tall, slender woman who lounges on a throne. A heavy crown weighs upon her dark curly locks, and her tattooed arms hold a scepter across her lap. My tongue betrays me, and I promise myself to her. My body, my soul. I am yours, I say. For ever. I lift my sword in my hands, presenting myself to her, and lower my head. My trust is in her. She does not offer a word of reply, instead, picks up my sword, hefts it, laughs cruelly, and runs it through my chest. It pierces my heart, killing me instantly.

***

I spent the evening with friends, laughing and joking, my first time at a bar, ever. Our group includes the hottest man I have ever met or will meet. Guitarist, singer, cross dangling from one ear. Tall. His hair is soft, buzzed on the sides, the bangs dyed a dark red.

***

I leave the woman’s bed, and she drives me home. We share a cigarette in silence, and she kisses me as I exit the car. This was really fun, I say. I’d love to do it again. Me too, she says. Only one of us is lying.

***

In the bar, I flirt with the man for hours. He reciprocates, and his attention is intoxicating, his spotlight burning me like a fire, and I am a fool, a jester, dancing for just a hint of a smile. After a while, his wife encourages him to kiss me, and he does, and the fire burns hot and bright, burning me away, turning me into dust completely.

***

Amongst the circle of boys, the pastor tells us about the sins of the body, and how they are the evilest of all. For when you lay with another, he says, your bodies not only conjoin, but your souls, as well. And should it come time to leave, in the morning, you leave a piece of your soul with them.

***

The man in the bar will not sleep with me tonight, or any other night. Neither will the woman. I know, in my heart of hearts, the reason why.

***

In the coming winter months, when snow begins to fall, I will return to church. Not the church I came from, but smaller, different. More regal. I do not attend because I lost God, and have now found him again; or rather because I was a sheep lost to the flock, and His Shepard guided me home, but instead because I know now that the pastor, years ago, was right.

***

When I wake up, the scar on my thigh is still there.

[monochromekoi]

Hii may I ask for some Yoimiya and Albedo headcanons with a gn partner who is a "zombie-like creature that can put their limbs back together when ripped"??

It's okay if you're too busy or feeling burnt out to do this, stay healthy and happy as always

(Also im pretty new to ur page hehe)

- dead anon :3

Your wish is my command, dead anon~

Although, I'm not currently writing for female characters, I will if asked :'3

So I give you....

Zombie!reader with Albedo and Yoimiya (seperately)

Albedo

• Dear chalk prince is already thinking up possible hypotheses and theories to be surprised

• He isn’t really worried about the sudden appearance of an arm or leg detaching by accident since you spend a lot of time in Dragonspine

~~

Although Sucrose was very anxious around you, Albedo seemed rather calm, he’s made of chalk after all and not a real human so he wasn’t really afraid of death

Now, since you were undead, you couldn’t really feel many things. You couldn’t feel pain, hunger, cold, hot or things like that

But you still had emotions and your physical appearance wasn’t effected at all. Though your body has changed after your death, you had more of a slender body and your limbs could be detached with no blood at all

~~

You were walking up with Albedo, back to his camp up in Dragonspine. Trudging up the path, jumping over collapsed bridges and whatnot

The two of you were nearing his camp when you tripped over an exposed root. You face-planted in the snow with a ‘plop’. You pushed yourself up and turned around to retrieve your leg that had detached when you saw Albedo holding it

He, then looked at you and the other half of your leg. He had a puzzled look on his face and asked: “Has this happened before and can you reattach it?”

You thought to yourself about it, thinking really hard since your brain degraded over time���

Finally you responded with: “Probably but I have no problem putting it back on my body”

He hands you your leg and you stick it back in place, like two magnets, moving your leg around to show that it’s like nothing ever happened to it

“Interesting..” You stood up and followed Albedo back to his camp as he thought up a hypothesis

“I assume you can do the same with other limbs, right?”, he said moving away many ore specimens

“Probably”

“Then may I run some tests?”

“What do I get in return?”

“Whatever you want”

With that being said, you walk up behind and nuzzle into the crook of his neck, “Then spend time with me after~”

Yoimiya

• She was very surprised the first time you did it

• Like it was soooo unexpected, but the delivery was hilarious

“Hey Y/n, could you give me a hand with this new batch of rockets?”

You actually give her one of your arms. She yelped in surprise, but laughed afterwards realizing

“What? You said to give you a hand and I did”

“Haha, I did but not that kind. I meant help me with this case"

~~

Yoimiya was a great person to be around, the kids love her, some of the parents love that the kids love him, and you love her as well

She never judged and protected you all the way, and all you did was just help her around the shop (and her dad..). Yoimiya was glad that you seemed to have more patience than her with her dad

~~

Here you were, sitting on the beach on a summer night, a few moments before the fireworks would set off and showcase a beautiful display of colors

"Ah~ this is one of my favorite times of the year; the summer festival. Kids having fun making masks and playing with sparklers. And many people love the fireworks I prepare for them"

Yoimiya recalls with a smile as she leaned up against you. You mirror her actions, exhaling ever so slightly with a smile

"I don't know if my past life was ever this exciting, but if it was, I think I would still choose this one"

Taking Yoimiya's hand into your own, you both watch in awe as the night sky lights up with beautiful colors

~~

This was my first request so uhhh, I hope you like it :D

[rpf-bat]

Everything I Posted On AO3 In 2022

Wishes On Cake - Niko/Joonas. Posted: January 17th. Written for Niko’s 27th birthday.

Niko celebrates his birthday by meeting up with his bandmates at a bar. Joonas gets self conscious, when he realizes he's the only one who got Niko an actual gift. By the time he actually presents the gift to Niko, he's drunk. He knows he shouldn't say how he feels. Not when he's barely coherent like this. But, he just can't hold his feelings back anymore.

Be My Bloody Valentine Tonight - Joel/Joonas. Posted: February 14th. Written for Valentine’s Day.

Joonas comes knocking on Joel's door, the morning of February 14th, to show him the Valentine card he just found. Joel is nursing a hangover, and doesn't particularly want to hear about it...until Joonas explains that he thinks the card may have come from a stalker fan.

Heaven Or Hell - Joel/Niko. Posted: March 27th. Part 1 of the Angels & Demons AU.

Joel is an angel of the Lord, and there's a human boy that he is supposed to protect. Unfortunately, the demon Niko intends to seduce this same boy into sin. How far will Joel go to protect him? Or - is he only telling himself that's why he's doing this?

I Keep On Falling - Joel/Joonas. Posted: April 2nd. Part 2 of the Angels & Demons AU.

After his dalliance with Niko, Joel has become a fallen angel. He hates himself for losing his wings - but, he realizes that there's one positive thing about this whole situation. There's no longer any reason for him to avoid his ex, Joonas.

Joonas had no idea that an angel lost his wings last night - until Satan orders him to bring the new Fallen One to Hell.

I’m No Saint - Joel/Aleksi/Niko. Posted: April 3rd. Part 3 of the Angels & Demons AU.

It's been three years, since Joel and Joonas decided to run from the Devil. It was foolish, to think that they could stay this way forever. Satan catches up to them, and orders Joel to seduce his first mortal soul. Just to twist the knife, the mortal that he's been ordered to corrupt is Alex - the very person that Joel lost his wings in the first place to save.

An old 'friend' appears at Helsinki Ice Hall, all too willing to help Joel carry out his sinful mission.

Run For The Hills - Tommi/Olli. Posted: June 23rd. Written for Tommi’s 26th birthday.

Olli just wants to take his boyfriend on a cute picnic date for his birthday. But, the local wildlife interrupts.

Three Summers In Hanko - Joel/Joonas. Posted: August 2nd. Written for BC Summerfest.

Joonas met Joel in the summer of 2009, three months before he turned fifteen. Joel's family bought a summer home in the Hanko Peninsula, right next to the vacation property Joonas' family was renting. After a chance meeting, they became fast friends. It's hard to part ways when summer vacation ends.

Fast forward to 2010. Joel is so excited to see his friend again, when he returns to Hanko, the following summer. But, an unexpected revelation, threatens to destroy their friendship forever. Can they get back, what they once had? Or will their bond melt away like ice cream on a hot summer's day?

Flufftober With Blind Channel 2 - Multiship. Posted: October 1st - 24th. Drabble collection.

…I only finished the first 23 days of this challenge. Oops. ^^;

My Boys - Niko/Reader. Posted: December 14th. Just 209 words of Boyfriend!Niko + cat lol

You're cuddling with Niko on a cold winter's night. Rommi wants to join.

Castle In The Woods - Niko/Joonas. Posted: December 25th. Vampire AU. Written for BC Blood Mass.

Joonas flees his remote mountain village, hoping to escape an unwanted arranged marriage and start a new life. But, when a snowstorm hits, he finds himself hopelessly lost. He and his loyal servant take shelter in an abandoned castle.

But, alas, the castle wasn't as "abandoned" as Joonas thought. And now the master of the castle won't let him leave....

[bandedbulbussnarfblat]

Shiver

my latest Daniel/Armand fic. read it below or here

Brooklyn, Summer 1978

Daniel thinks he may die, it's so fucking hot. The AC has to break in the middle of July, when the temperature is at it's peak. It's too hot to even sleep, which is what he'd normally be doing this hour of the day. Since he and Armand became a thing he's become a night owl. He's damn near nocturnal.

Daniel has found a box fan and had stuck a bucket of ice in front of it, hoping the trick would work. So far it's made it marginally cooler. He's still lying on the floor in nothing but his boxers. He's been listening to the Foreigner single Hot Blooded that came out last month on repeat. It may or may not be payback for Armand's annoying honky tonk music he woke him up with every night last week.

“This is what death feels like,” he moans.

“I assure you, it's not.” Armand is sitting in the chair by the window, leafing through the television guide to find something to watch. Daniel hopes it's something interesting. He's tired of watching Dallas every week.

Daniel glances over at him. He's fully dressed in a white suit, complete with a waistcoat and tie. Daniel's pretty sure he saw the same thing on the cover of GQ a few months back. Just looking at him makes him hot and bothered, and not in the usual sexy way. “Aren't you hot?”

Armand tosses the television guide to the small table beside him. “The temperature doesn't affect us much.”

“Wish I was a vampire,” Daniel says, then winces. “Not that I'm asking! I just meant, you know, with the heat.”

“Yes, Daniel, I understood.”

Daniel slides his foot along the floor and nudges Armand's. “I'm bored. Entertain me.”

They've been out every night the last month. Daniel had declared on Friday that they were spending the weekend at home so he could catch up on his sleep. Except the AC broke last night. Armand had suggested they go stay at a hotel until the landlord fixed the AC—something that isn't happening until Monday, because get this, the repair guy's wife went into labor right before he came over to fix it. That's Daniel's bad luck. But Daniel hadn't wanted to leave their home.

Their home. His home with Armand. It still feels unreal to say.

Armand tilts his head and looks at him for a moment. Then he starts to undo his tie. “Give me your hands.”

Oh. Heat settles low in Daniel's belly. He hopes this is going where he thinks it's going. Armand moves and turns off the record player. Daniel watches him move around their living room, carefully taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves to his forearms. It's insanely hot.

Daniel holds out his hands, wrists pressed together already. Armand kneels in front of him and wraps the tie around them, securing it in a knot. He checks to see if it's tight enough with a methodical precision. He likes it tight, but not too tight. Not enough to cut off circulation or cause any discomfort. Just enough to restrain Daniel a little. Daniel could slip free if he really wanted to, but he never does. He likes it when Armand ties him up. Strangely, it makes him feel safe.

“Would you like to cool off?” Armand asks.

“Um, yes?” Daniel says, confused.

“Lie back and close your eyes.” Armand orders. Daniel does as he says, then hears some movement. He wonders what Armand is doing, but he doesn't want to be bad and peek.

The next moment, he feels Armand's finger tracing over his bottom lip. It's ice cold and wet. The ice bucket, Daniel realizes. He immediately opens his mouth and sucks Armand's finger in, hollowing his cheeks and laving over it with his tongue. Armand fucks it into his mouth for a moment before pulling back.

Then there's the edge of an ice cube running over his mouth. It's colder than Armand's finger was, a shock in the hot air. Daniel gasps and Armand kisses him. It's wet and dirty and his lips tingle from the cold. He gropes blindly and grips unto Armand's waistcoat as best he can with his tied hands, trying to hold him there longer. Armand obliges him and keeps kissing him for a long, dizzying moment. When he pulls back, he sucks on Daniel's bottom lip then bites it. It hurts just a little, enough to enhance the pleasure from the kiss.

Armand pulls away and Daniel opens his eyes. He figures it's alright since Armand doesn't say anything about it. Daniel's arms are guided to above his head. Armand takes the ice cube and trails it down his neck to his chest. It's a shock of cold that makes him shiver, but it feels nice in the oppressive heat. Armand's mouth follows behind, licking and kissing the same trail.

He takes the ice cube and circles it around Daniel's nipple. Daniel jerks and flails. Armand pauses. “Would you like me to stop?”

Daniel shakes his head. “No, no, you just surprised me.”

The ice cube has mostly melted now, so Armand fetches a new one. He circles around Daniel's nipple again and again. Daniel's nipple goes erect and he can't stop shivering. Armand slips the ice cube over the hard nub and Daniel sucks in a breath. Just when he thinks it's too much, Armand dips down and licks over his nipple with his tongue. His tongue traces his nipple and he sucks it into his mouth, suckling it until it's red and hard and Daniel's back is arched off the ground.

“Fuck, baby, your mouth.”

Armand pulls off and smirks at him, before giving his other nipple the same treatment. Armand teases it until it's nearly sore, then bites gently. Daniel wails, legs falling wide apart. His dick goes from half mast to fully hard. And fuck, he needs Armand to touch it.

Armand doesn't.

He grabs another ice cube and trails down Daniel's stomach, mouth following behind. The dual sensations are making Daniel crazy, cold then warm. Armand rubs around his belly button then dips his tongue inside. Daniel moans. Armand slips his hands around Daniel's waistband and tugs his boxers off. Daniel whines in anticipation; he needs Armand to touch his cock, he needs it.

“Is this what you want?” Armand says, and wraps his fingers around Daniel. His hand is cool from holding the ice and it makes Daniel want to jerk away and lean in at the same time. He keens and pushes up into Armand's grip. Armand pumps him a few lazy times, then pulls his hand away. Daniel whimpers at the loss.

Armand grabs another ice cube and runs a line up Daniel's cock. Daniel cries out, but before the cold feeling even leaves his body, Armand's tongue is right behind it, chasing it away. Then the ice cube is back, this time swirling around the head, followed by Armand's mouth. Armand does it again and again, until Daniel is shaking. Daniel's bound hands scramble along the floor for purchase but he can't find any. Jesus fuck, but this feels good. Weird, but good.

Armand spreads his thighs wider and pauses to kiss his inner thigh. Daniel hopes he bites him. Armand must catch the thought because he mouths “Later,” against his skin. The ice is back, sliding down over and around his balls, then back towards his hole. Daniel swallows thickly. Is Armand really going to...

He is. Armand circles around Daniel's rim with the ice cube and rubs it over his hole. He does it until Daniel is quivering. Then he licks a broad stripe along his crack. Daniel jerks and nearly comes. Everything feels so heightened, so much more intense.

Another ice cube comes and traces his hole, over and over, pushing gently at the rim. Daniel presses down into it and Armand slips it inside his hole.

The first thing Daniel realizes is that it's fucking cold. Like, really cold. It also feels nice. Not as nice as Armand's tongue licking over him and entering right after. Armand eats him out with vigor and it's almost too much. He's hot and cold and shaking.

“Please, please, I need, I need-” He can't get the words out. He doesn't realize he's crying until he hears the tears in his voice. He doesn't know what he needs, he just knows he needs something.

Armand knows. His hand, still icy cool, wraps around Daniel's cock and pumps him while he continues to eat his ass. He licks and sucks and bites at his rim, fucks him with his tongue. And his hand keeps jerking him, hard and fast.

Daniel comes embarrassingly fast. He shoots his load so hard that when he arches his back, it pops. He collapses back down, panting and shivering. Armand unties him and gently rubs his wrists. Daniel realizes Armand is still fully dressed, aside from his missing suit jacket. That's hot. He smiles a dopey smile at Armand. “That was...”

“Don't say it.” Armand says, reading the thought.

“cool.” Daniel finishes. It's a terrible joke, but he has to make it. “No, but really that was...wow.”

“Do you feel better?”

He feels fucking amazing. “Yeah, I feel good.”

“Good,” Armand says, and helps him to his feet. He scoops him up into his arms. Daniel automatically wraps his arms around his neck and his legs around his waist. “because I'm not finished with you yet.”

[moonstonelibrary]

Sweet Dreams were made of Flames

⚠⚠TRIGGER WARNING⚠⚠

This story may contain some horror elements that are not made for a younger audience, and/or the faint hearted, and/or the weak stomached, if your very sensitive to these things, please don't read this story.

I want all my followers on here to be well, and safe, and okay.

Viewer discretion is advised.

☪Side Note☪

Please note that the following story that your about to read here, is NOT real, this is a story i write for one of my AUs, and a scary story that i wrote for fun, thank you, and have a good day.

˚✩ ⋆｡˚ ✩✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:˚✩ ⋆｡˚ ✩˚✩ ⋆｡˚ ✩✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:─ ⊹ ⊱

It was dark outside, a hot summer, some cold wind at night, February Town was dark with silence, only some cricket noises can be heard, The lights at the annual Lantern Tropic Night Market was closed with nothing but lightless atmosphere, but tomorrow, Red Son would be on his date with Bluebelle, and it would all be sweet love, Red Son was scrolling through his phone, usual posts, same stupid memes that made him chuckle slightly.

"Pfft.. Noodle Boy, you damn peasant.." He muttered slightly.

As it hit eleven, he was getting a bit tired, he laid his phone to rest with its charger, and called it a night.

Red opened his eyes, looking around his room, the door was slightly opened, just a crack, he got out of his bed, and went up to the door, and gently opened it, just a small crack, the lights in this house seem to be turned on..

"During midnight...? Seriously father..?" Red Son whispered to himself.

Red Son walked over to the light switch, and was about to turn off the lights, but before he could turn off the lights..

The lights were flickering, they suddenly turned off, leaving Red Son in complete darkness, but thankfully, he didn't have a flashlight, but a lantern, with just a single candle, he turned on the lantern using his fire ability, and picked up the lantern.

"Yes.. this will come in handy." Red Son slightly chucked.

He walked around the house to find what was causing such a ruckus tonight, hoping that it wasn't Syntax who hacked into the powerplant, or some random bird out of his house, causing the power lines to explode abruptly and cause a power outage, through the hallways, and down stairs, he saw something... something far from his home, he shined his lantern on whatever that thing is, and when he did, he felt his warm blood run cold.

"W-What...!? What is that...??" he said quietly, covering his mouth at the silhouetted monstrosity.

It was a tall looking figure, it was wearing a tattered musical conductor's uniform, its hair was greasy, and looked like it was about to fall off, it had a lanky skinny body, and it had the creepiest smile that would even give an adult nightmares, when it opened its eyes, it had slit pupils, it grinned at Red Son, not with just joy, but... hunger..

It said something in a quiet, raspy voice.

"Don't... sing..."  

"W-what..?!" The thing whispered again, saliva leaving its mouth, already drooling with bloodlust.

"I'll.. wear... your... chords... like.. a.. choker..."

That one line it said to Red Son, made his heart sink to the bottom of his chest, his breaths were hollow, he was almost quivering with fear.

"No.. no... no.. please.. no..!" He said repeatedly, almost at a terrified state.

He quickly slammed the window shut, and ran into his room again, shutting the door, and locking it, his heartrate was risen to a quick speed, trying to catch his breath, shaking with fear.

"W-What does it want my chords for...!? Does it... hate my singing...?"

Red Son realized how well he sang, ever since he was a child, and before he transitioned into a boy, despite his demonic appearance, he sang like an angel, and would bring a guy, or a girl here, to hear him sing a sweet tune with his tender hearted voice, Red Son held his neck, protecting his vocals from that.... monster.

"I... I don't want to die... please don't look for me.. please...!"

He felt the tears welling his eyes, panicking that this monster might get to him, he sobbed softly, hoping that it was a dream, and that this dream would be over, before he could go back to sleep, he heard a banging on the door, and that raspy voice was more louder than when he whispered.

"GIVE ME YOUR CHORDS!!! GIVE ME YOUR CHOOOOORDS!!"

The banging was loud, almost making Red Son feel shaken, he was breathing heavily, that thing knew he went inside to hide.

"PLEASE!! LEAVE ME ALONE!!" he shouted, his hair bursting into flames.

The monster didn't care about the bull demons demands, it punched its way through the door, screeching loudly, grabbing at Red Son, holding him up in the air, its clawed hands proceeding to sink into his neck as he said..

"You... will never... sing... AGAIN!"

And then, it sunk its clawed hand in

Before the monster could rip out his chords, Red Son bolted up from his bed, sitting upwards, he held his neck gently, and then he sighed in relief.

"Thank the bull king... it was just a dream.." He said softly to himself.

After that whole fiasco with that... thing in his nightmare, he was sitting alone at the beach, still wondering why it hated when he sang beautifully, but he still was relieved it was all a dream, then, he heard Bai He.

"Red Boy, what are you doing, why are you just sitting here alone??"

Red sighed.

"Don't mind it, Ghost Lady..."

Bai He only chuckled, and sat next to Red Son.

"Still thinking about you and Blue goin' straight to smoochy face town?"

"W-what..? No!" Red Son blushed a bit, embarrassed at what Bai He said to him.

"I'm messing with you, buddy!"

Red Son had a minute to recompose himself, he exhaled, and looked at Bai He.

"I just had this dream about this... weird thing, it was tall.. lanky.. and it.." Red Son gulped a bit, and got the rest of his nightmarish story out of his chest.

"It wanted to rip out my vocals.. i don't know if it hates when i sing.. or if it wants me to be.. mute.." Red Son finished.

Bai He felt bad, but was determined that the thing from Red Son's nightmare wasn't real.

"You know, if that thing was real? I would have Spider Queen destroy that ugly thing immediately, but hey, you just had a nightmare, so, it wasn't real, so.. you don't have to worry." Bai He smiled.

Red Son chuckled a bit, sighing a bit as well.

"I.. just was relieved, that's all.."

When his beach day was over, he went home and wrote in his journal, his journal of dreams, and nightmares, and he drew a representation of the creature from his nightmare last night, with this writing.

"This nightmare was different, i woke up at three and the lights went out, then i went out of my room, and saw a weird, yet terrifying creature, it had messy hair, a grossly tattered conductor's uniform, you know, the uniform people wear when conducting music? anyway, it had the voice that sound like a character straight out of either a horror movie, or a horror game, or hell, even a horror story, it chased me, and followed me to my room, and it said it wanted my chords, and it was about to rip them out, but before it ripped them out of my neck, i woke up, and thankfully, it was a dream.. some people probably had the same dream as me, and they suffered this... thing's fate, but it wasn't given a name, some people named it either, Theodore, or Mike, or even Simon.. but i thought of this things actual title, since it wants to rip out chords, and do god knows what to them, i'll refer to it as... The Chord Ripper, i know it's terrifying, but it can't be real... right?"  

Red Son closed his journal, and called it another night, hoping that putrid creature wouldn't return...

Somehow...

[glitterslag]

Ink

Synopsis: Chrissy gets a tattoo. Set in the summer of '86, before Chrissy goes off to college and before she and Eddie have figured out what they are to each other.

Warnings: implied abuse (may be triggering for some!!!!!), sexual references

Author's Note: Something for my heatwave girlies!!!!!! Hope everyone's been staying nice and cool! This is the last pre-college blurb I'll be doing for a while! After this I wanna write a lot of established relationship!eddissy, so look out for that! I also wanna give any smut I write for them the time and attention it needs, so apologies for being a c*ck tease in this but don't worry... it's coming later!!!

You can read the rest of the stuff I've written for this universe here.

“Did they hurt?” Chrissy wonders, tracing the outlines of the tattoos on his bare arms.

It’s the middle of summer. They're laying on a stained old mattress on the grass outside of his trailer, Eddie shirtless and smoking, Chrissy sucking on an ice pole. Eddie’s dog-eared copy of The Silmarillion lays abandoned on the ground beside them. It’s too hot for him to concentrate on anything but the steady drip drip drip of blue raspberry syrup, melting off of the ice pop to form a rivulet down the middle of Chrissy’s golden chest. She’s wearing a halter top.

Eddie shivers beneath her touch. Her fingers are icy cold.

“Not really,” he contemplates, twisting his arms around to get a look at each tattoo. “The ones on my chest hurt a little, but the arms were no big deal.” 

“What do they all mean?” She asks, eyes glazed over and a little dreamy, preoccupied with freckles and hairs and muscles and sinew, and the tan line on his wrist where his watch would usually sit. 

This is only the second or third time she’s seen him shirtless. She’s still getting used to how he looks - arms surprisingly toned once the baggy band t-shirts come off. He doesn’t have a six pack or anything, but his chest and stomach are a pleasant amount of hairy.

Eddie shrugs.

“They don't mean anything.”

“Come on.” Chrissy prompts him, eager for something - anything - to give her a glimpse inside Eddie’s mind.

“They don't.” He insists.

“I like bats. I like spiders and barbed wire.” He gestures to the black widow on his chest, the barbed wire bracelet inked around the top of his bicep. 

“This one's a Metallica reference,” he concedes, pointing at the one on his forearm.

"Master of puppets," Chrissy recalls, remembering him playing it to her once, forever ago.

Eddie grins, pleased she remembers the name of his favourite song.

"Yeah."

She notices two little scars on his right arm, each one faintly visible beneath a black bat. They're circular and textured, almost like chickenpox marks. She’s never noticed them before.

"What's that from?"  Chrissy wonders, running her finger over the dents.

He looks down at his arm for a second.

"Um, those are cigarette burns.” 

He says it very matter-of-factly, and she’s confused.

"Did you drop one on yourself?"

It takes Eddie a little while to answer.

"Uh, no.” He says, finally. “Not me."

His dad.

He doesn’t have to say it for Chrissy to know that’s what he means.

She knows Eddie didn't see his parents anymore, and she’s noticed that Wayne refuses to speak about Eddie’s dad. She knows there’s bad blood there, though Eddie has never really talked about the extent of it. He's said a few things about the guy in passing, though, that have allowed her to form a mental picture.

"I'm sorry." She offers, placing two cold, sticky kisses on his freckled arm. One for each scar. 

She knows there’s nothing more to say. If Eddie wants to open up about this stuff, he will. Otherwise, she doesn’t push her luck. You have to let him come to you.

"S'okay." Eddie murmurs, proving her point as he wraps an arm round her, pulling her into his side. He taps her on the shoulder a couple times in reassurance. "Happened a long time ago."

He licks the ice pop residue off his arm and hums appreciatively, and she shoots him a small smile.

"Why do they need to have a meaning, anyway?" Eddie says suddenly, quick to change the subject. “Fuck that.”

“‘Cause they're on your body forever?”

“So?” He challenges.

She makes a face at him, but lets it drop.

“Where'd ya get 'em?” She pipes up again a few minutes later.

“There's a girl here at the trailer park who does it for me.” Eddie explains.

“A girl?!”

“Yeah, a girl.” He laughs.

Every now and again, Eddie’s noticed, cheerleader Chrissy slips out. She’s much more tolerant now, more open minded, but her mom's and Jason’s views are still in there somewhere, in the back of her mind. Like a D&D monster Eddie needs to defeat.

“Can I meet her?”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. He’s not entirely sure what’s gotten Chrissy so fixated on this all of a sudden, but curiosity gets the better of him, so he agrees.

“Sure.” 

----------

“Amy, this is Chrissy,” he says as he steps over the threshold, propelling Chrissy along with him with the hand that’s on her back. 

"She's my…" he trails off, and it’s awkward for a second. He blinks at Chrissy, who just stares back, unsure.

"She's a friend." Eddie says finally, quickly switching his expression out for a kind smile. He pats her on the shoulder as he gently pushes her inside.

"Hey," Chrissy says weakly, shooting a smile at the taller girl, who’s standing behind the door.

She looks very different to any of Chrissy's friends.

Her hair is dyed a deep red and teased out at all sides. Her thin eyebrows are drawn on to match, and her eyeliner is heavy and black. Studded bracelets and chains are stacked all the way up to her elbows. Her shirt is ripped, her skirt short, and on her long legs are fishnet stockings. Chrissy swallows.

"Hey." Amy says, eyeing Chrissy up and down with the ghost of a smirk.

"Didn't think you were into the cheerleader types, Munson." She quips, a grin curling its way across her painted lips.

“Hey watch it, Amy,” Eddie warns. “Chrissy's cool."

Eddie’s tone isn’t mean. The cheerleader comment stings, but as Chrissy observes the two of them interacting, she realises that Amy’s wasn’t, either. She’s surprised at the sight of Chrissy, maybe, and yeah she’s a little blunt, but there isn’t any malice there. It stings all the same. Chrissy is a cheerleader type, but she doesn't like it when people point out how different her and Eddie are from each other.

“So, what brings you two by?” Amy inquires.

"Eddie told me you do tattoos." 

Chrissy squeaks it more than says it, and Amy laughs, loud and bright.

"Why, you want one?"

"Oh, no," she says quickly, shaking her head. "I don't want one or anything. But can I see your drawings?" 

Amy smiles at her, and she has to admit it feels kind. 

“Sure.”

----------

"Let's see," Amy clicks her tongue, flipping through her big, leather-bound book until she lands on the page she's looking for. "I got roses... hearts... dolphins?" 

She slides the book across the table. 

Chrissy’s bare thighs are sticking to the chair beneath her. Eddie’s disappeared somewhere through the back, taking a look at the busted AC unit per Amy’s request. If it’s hot outside, it’s sweltering in Amy’s trailer.

“Probably just needs a new filter…” he’d been muttering to himself as he wandered off, messing around with a screwdriver. Leaving the two of them alone.

Chrissy isn't dumb. She knows Amy’s showing her the "girly" designs, probably because she's made an assumption that that's what Chrissy would like. And it’s true, for the most part. She does like flowers and hearts and dolphins. But she wants to know what else is out there, too. She finds herself wanting to know what a girl like Amy would get.

“Which ones do you have?” She asks shyly.

Amy bends over on her chair, pulling down her tight, black denim skirt to reveal her lower back. Chrissy’s eyes widen. There's a scorpion drawn there, poised to strike, sitting on one side of her tail bone. She also shows Chrissy a butterfly on the back of her neck, an anchor on her upper arm and a skull on the inside of her ankle. 

“Wow,” Chrissy whispers.

They’re definitely not her style, but she doesn’t hate how they look on Amy.

"So," Amy starts as she rearranges her skirt, tucking her tattoos away again. “What’s the deal with you and Eddie?” 

She’s trying to sound casual, but Chrissy can tell there's something else there, underneath. 

"Have you and him ever... Y’know?"

Chrissy's cheeks burn.

"No." She answers honestly.

 Chrissy doesn’t even know whether they’re officially dating. 

It feels like more than just hanging out. Friends don’t make out with each other or sleep in each other’s beds, after all, and they probably don’t stay up on the phone for hours every night, either. And friends definitely don’t switch to walkie-talkies stolen from Henderson after Wayne or Laura kick them off the phone at midnight, and fall asleep to the sounds of each others’ voices. 

But of course, Chrissy and Eddie have never had that conversation. The thought of them actually having sex is enough to send Chrissy into a tailspin.

A look comes over Amy’s face then - and Chrissy knows in that moment that Amy and Eddie, on the other hand, have slept together. She’s overcome with a hot pang of jealousy and it's like nothing she's ever felt before, or thought she could feel - not with Eddie. It's new. It's bad. 

Chrissy knows she shouldn’t hate that Eddie has a world that she isn’t part of. That he has things in his life besides school. She knows she shouldn’t hate that for all these months, his head hasn’t been solely occupied with basketball and cheer, with homecoming and prom and spirit week and her. 

Sometimes, though, she kind of does. Even though school is over, and Chrissy’s long since lost her grip on the top rung of the Hawkins High social ladder, she can’t say it doesn’t bother her to realise that there was a time when she wasn’t the only girl on Eddie’s mind. 

Amy’s a lot more like Eddie than she is. She's got dyed hair and eyeliner and tattoos. She's tall and she wears clothes that show off her chest and stomach. She's metal.

Most of all, Chrissy thinks, they've known each other for a long time. Amy’s an old friend, Eddie had said earlier, when he’d been leading her down the road to Amy’s trailer. They’ve got a past together. One that Chrissy wasn’t there for. She finds herself wondering whether Amy knows about the scars.

Amy must notice Chrissy's face falling, because she reaches out across the table and touches her hand. She clears her throat.

"I was sixteen when I got my first tattoo," she begins, putting her big combat boots up on the kitchen table. There’s a wistful look in her eye as she strokes at the skin on her ankle, fingers ghosting over the small black skull.

"I remember how good it felt. After." She adds. "Hurt like a bitch while I was getting it done."

Chrissy laughs politely. 

"I just remember having this feeling of like... Shit. This is MY body. Y'know? Like. I'm the one in control. I decide what I do with my body. Not mom. Not dad. Not school."

 She waves her hands around half heartedly, eyes rolling toward the nicotine stained ceiling.

"Me." She says finally, looking up at Chrissy, who’s leaning forward intently.

"Feels pretty good." 

Chrissy’s a little stunned. She’s never thought about tattoos - or any act of so-called ‘rebellion’, really - in that way before. As a way to take back autonomy. A way to take control. It’s a pretty compelling thought.

"You should think about it." Amy says, a tiny smile creeping its way across her face as she realises she’s planted a seed.

And Chrissy does. 

She goes home that night and she thinks over and over about what Amy said. About it being her body. Not Laura’s. Not Phillip’s. Not… Jason’s, she thinks with a shudder. She’d never been his, she reminds herself. Not even when they were together.

Chrissy thinks Eddie might be the first person who’s ever treated her like her own body belongs to her. And it’s not just because he hasn’t been pestering her to take things further than just touching over the clothes - it’s everything. Eddie’s never once told her what she should and shouldn’t eat. Never tried to tell her what she can’t wear. Can’t drink. Can’t smoke. Never told her who she can and can’t be friends with. And she knows he never would.

A few weeks later she makes an appointment with the parlor in town. Rather ridiculously, she calls from a payphone a few blocks from her house, terrified that Laura could somehow be tracing her calls.

She does think about going back to Amy, but in the end, she decides that it’s better if she doesn’t tell anyone what she’s doing. Chrissy wants this to be something that’s all her own.

She's shaking when she goes inside. The waiting room is mostly filled with older biker guys, and their jaws drop when she walks in dressed in pink shorts and clean white sneakers.

"You got ID?" The guy behind the counter grunts.

She pulls out her learner's permit for him to inspect. He whistles through his teeth. 

"Eighteen."

She chooses a little star design from the wall full of drawings. Nothing big or flashy, but she thinks it’s beautiful. It'll go on her hip, small enough for it to always be covered up, even if she’s wearing a swimsuit. Chrissy might be independent, but she’s not quite in college yet. If her mom sees it this summer she’s dead.

"You getting this for your boyfriend or something?" The tattoo artist’s asking twenty minutes later, loud over the buzz of the machine. She’s laying on the plastic-covered couch, hands balled into fists and her eyes squeezed tight shut. Amy hadn’t been wrong. Hurts like hell. 

"No." She manages through gritted teeth. "I'm getting it for me."

----------

She doesn’t tell Eddie anything about the tattoo. Not outright, anyway. He finds it himself a week or so later when they're kissing on his bed, his hands sliding up her back and her t-shirt bunching up to reveal a sliver of skin. It’s peeking out from the waistband of her jeans.

He feels a little like he’s discovered the Holy Grail.

"Is that-" he starts, a flush creeping up the back of his neck as he tugs at her jeans slightly, rubbing at the design on her hip. "Chris, is that real?"

"Yeah," she whispers, lips grazing his shoulder. 

It’s felt like a game, waiting for Eddie to find it. She’s been a little nervous to see how he’ll react, but it’s not long before she realises that there was no need to be. 

"Fuuuck.." Eddie breathes, big hands rubbing up and down her exposed sides as he gazes at the tattoo in what she thinks is awe.

"When did you get that?!"

She shrugs, acting nonchalant, but there’s a smile growing at the corner of her mouth. She stays hidden in his shoulder, body buzzing underneath him.

"About a week ago."

"What?!"

Chrissy just nods, a smug grin now easing its way onto her face. 

“That’s so fucking hot, Chris.”

She feels hot. Physically. 

She knows how Eddie looks at her, how he’s been looking at her for a long time, but he’s never been this frank about his desire before. She doesn’t mind it. It heats her up inside and thrums through her like an electric current.

“What made you wanna do that?” 

Eddie’s thinking back to their conversation the other week. Wondering if maybe he was the one who lit the match.

As if reading his mind, Chrissy smiles and says, “actually, it was Amy.”

Eddie can’t stop looking at it, touching it, grinning to himself as he props himself up over her, a curtain of long hair tickling her face. He’s hard, too, she realises, pressing against her stomach through his sweatpants. 

“You can’t tell anyone, by the way,” Chrissy murmurs, and he gives an exasperated laugh. She feels it across her face, warm and breathy.

As if they weren’t way past that now, Eddie thinks. He’s kept every secret she’s ever told him, but she still feels the need to stipulate it every damn time.

“I dunno Chris,” he starts, fingers creeping up her exposed stomach. “I mean, what if i accidentally let it slip during one of my weekly gossiping sessions with your mom-” 

She rolls her eyes. 

“You know what I mean.”

She catches Eddie’s hand and he grins wickedly at her, leaning down until his lips are inches from hers. Chrissy shifts under him so that her legs rest on either side of his hips, pushing his hair back out of his face as she often does when he’s on top of her. He takes the hand he’s now holding and pins it above her head, lacing his fingers through hers. 

Being this close to Eddie used to make her so nervous, but not anymore. He dips his head into her neck, placing a soft, barely-there kiss just below her ear. She thinks she could probably lay here and do this forever.

“Don’t worry, baby.” Eddie whispers in her ear, sending a string of goosebumps threading down her spine. She can hear the mischief in his voice. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

[snowsandstones]

He could tell she did not believe him. If I could show her Winterfell . . . give her a flower from the glass gardens, feast her in the Great Hall, and show her the stone kings on their thrones. We could bathe in the hot pools, and love beneath the heart tree while the old gods watched over us. The dream was sweet . . . but Winterfell would never be his to show.-ASOS, Jon V

“Anyhow, men shouldn't smell sweet like flowers." "What's wrong with flowers?" “Nothing, for a bee. For bed I want one o' these." Ygritte made to grab the front of his breeches. "What if the man who stole you drank too much?" he insisted.” -ASOS, Jon V

forswear my vows, marry Val, and become the Lord of Winterfell? […] I would need to steal her if I wanted her love, but she might give me children. I might someday hold a son of my own blood in my arms. A son was something Jon Snow had never dared dream of, since he decided to live his life on the Wall. I could name him Robb. Val would want to keep her sister's son, but we could foster him at Winterfell, and Gilly's boy as well. Sam would never need to tell his lie. We'd find a place for Gilly too, and Sam could come visit her once a year or so. Mance's son and Craster's would grow up brothers, as I once did with Robb. He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it. […] Winterfell belongs to the old gods. - ASOS, Jon XII

“In my dreams it was ever a dark place, and cold." “No. It was always warm, even when it snowed. Water from the hot springs is piped through the walls to warm them, and inside the glass gardens it was always like the hottest day of summer." She stood, towering over the great white castle. "I can't think how to do the glass roof over the gardens." -ASOS, Sansa VI

“You gave me a rose. A red rose. You threw white roses to the other girls that day." It made her flush to speak of it. -ASOS, Sansa I

"My son is drunk, you can see that." “I am," the Imp confessed, "but not so drunk that I cannot attend to my own bedding." He hopped down from the dais and grabbed Sansa roughly. "Come, wife, time to smash your portcullis. I want to play come-into-the-castle." Red-faced, Sansa went with him from the Small Hall. […] "Is that wise, my lord?" “Nothing was ever wiser. I am not truly drunk, you see. But I mean to be." -ASOS, Sansa III

He would be Lord of Highgarden and she would be his lady. She pictured the two of them sitting together in a garden with puppies in their laps, or listening to a singer strum upon a lute while they floated down the Mander on a pleasure barge. If I give him sons, he may come to love me. She would name them Eddard and Brandon and Rickon, and raise them all to be as valiant as Ser Loras. And to hate Lannisters, too. In Sansa's dreams, her children looked just like the brothers she had lost. Sometimes there was even a girl who looked like Arya.” -ASOS, Sansa II

That was such a sweet dream, Sansa thought drowsily. She had been back in Winterfell, running through the godswood with her Lady. -ASOS, Sansa IV

….i know it’s been said many times but we’re supposed to believe that GRRM, self-proclaimed lover of subtext and foreshadowing, put all of this (and this isn’t even everything) in the same book by coincidence? like what copy of ASOS did people read if they did at all?