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welllpthisishappening · 3 years

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But Once a Year (1/5)

This is a trick.

It has to be. Something Pan planned, or some nonsense only possible in Neverland, because one second Emma’s sitting outside the Echo Caves and wondering how exactly things could possibly get worse, and then the world decides to take her up on the challenge. She’s not where she was. Or when she was, either.

And the future isn’t entirely what Emma expects it to be, but that might not be entirely horrible and Christmas with a husband and a family that quite clearly loves her is only kind of messing with her head. God bless us, every one.

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Rating: T Word Count: 8.3K and just a lot more than originally planned AN: It’s me. Incapable of writing a multi-chapter until starting a new job, and having other prompts to fill, and I really will fill those other prompts, so prepare yourselves for an onslaught of Christmas fic. Of which this is only kind of that. It takes place at Christmas. But also involves time travel, and way more canon divergence than I’ve ever written, and kissing. Because of who I am as a person. Blame @klynn-stormz if you must. Or don’t, because she sent a very good prompt and is very nice and I hope she enjoys this mess of words.

Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam

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She’s so goddamn hot. It’s absurd. And disgusting. But mostly absurd.

Sweat pools at the base of Emma’s spine, drips down the sides of her cheeks and falls from the edge of her jaw. Makes her skin crawl, the kind of heat that’s far too oppressive and she’s already having enough trouble breathing, so all of this seems like overkill. Which is Neverland’s schtick, she imagines.

Licking her lips doesn’t help. Moving is a lost cause before she’s even considered clamoring to her feet, and she’s genuinely not sure if she’d be able to unbend her knees anyway, crouched as she is in whatever foliage surrounds the mouth of the Echo Caves.

It smells.

The foliage — and Emma, she supposes. Most of her thoughts drift away from body odor rather quickly though, right back into that cave and she can’t figure out who made the cell Neal was in, but she also told Neal she wished he was actually dead while he was in that cell and she figures that makes her something of an asshole.

Feeling clenches in her chest, quite possibly the physical manifestation of her anxiety and growing fear and every single second that passes is another second they haven’t used to find Henry and—

“Ah, shit,” Emma hisses, not able to get her sword out of its makeshift scabbard in time. Maybe she shouldn’t keep it on her back.

Hook lifts his eyebrows.

“Are you alright, love?” “Shut up. What are you doing out here? It’s not your turn to watch.” Scoffing, he lets his tongue trace across the front of his teeth, which is only vaguely obscene, and Emma’s far too warm to deal with this. In both the literal and metaphorical sense of the word. It’s ridiculous that he’s still wearing his jacket. “Aren’t you hot?” she asks, words tumbling out of her before she’s really considered them and she wishes that trend would stop.

Quickly. Immediately, even.

Not crying after her mother’s Echo Cave admission might be one of Emma’s great accomplishments to date.

“Should all of your statements sound so much like insults?” Hook quips, his tongue continuing to torment Emma. Staring at his tongue is becoming something of a very real issue for her.

Presumably because she’s now all too aware of what that tongue is capable of, and they’d been very good at kissing. Each other, specifically. Better than she thought, honestly. And she refuses to acknowledge how often she thought about it.

She still hasn’t been able to get her sword out of its scabbard entirely. “I’m going to take your rather pointed silence as confirmation of the insults,” Hook continues. Rocking forward, the edges of his jacket threaten to brush Emma’s bent legs and she honestly has no idea what she’ll do if that happens, so leaning back seems like a reasonable response and not one that’s going to make his eyes do that thing. Where they dim ever so slightly, teasing disappearing and evolving into understanding she both hates and wants on some sort of fundamental level and—

“I’m sorry.”

On the nonexistent list of things Emma doesn’t expect, that might be numbers one through seven. Maybe even up to eight.

“You don’t—” she shakes her head, hair sticking to her skin in the process, “Well, no that’s not actually true, because you probably shouldn’t have said anything about the making out—” “—I don’t believe I used that particular phrase.”

He actually has the gall to smirk when Emma glares at him, eyebrows twisted in the kind of unspoken challenge that regularly makes her stomach flip. Emma doesn’t have time for stomach flipping. She’s got to find her kid. Possibly get, like, twenty-four minutes of uninterrupted sleep. “Even so,” Hook adds, “it was…” There’s enough fabric on that monstrosity of a jacket that Emma can only imagine he’s got plenty of pocket options to stuff his hands into, but his thumb just finds his belt loop and the exhale he lets out is rife with emotion. The same kind she’s trying to avoid, in tandem with the stomach flipping. “Your father keeps glaring at me.”

Laughing is a patently absurd reaction to that.

Her father is dying, apparently. Or tethered to this island, and that’s not much better, but it absolutely does not surprise Emma that he’s falling directly back into overprotective and if she’s going to be the asshole she absolutely is, then she should also probably admit how nice it was

to be hugged with that kind of determination before.

That might not be the right word.

Whatever, it’s the thought that counts. She thinks she might be able to fall asleep if her dad were here.

“It’s not a big deal,” Emma lies, barely opening her mouth. Like even that can’t believe what she’s trying to claim. “Although I am sorry about my dad, I can—I mean I can say something if you want.” “No, no, that wasn’t what I was suggesting, at all. I’m sure the prince has better things to worry about than—” “You and me?”

Hook hums. Keeps his thumb where it is, and his eyebrows halfway up his forehead.

Her stomach noticeably sinks.

“Of course, not—no, I just…” Stammering Captain Hook catches Emma off guard, eyeing the toe of his boot as it digs a fairly impressive divot into the ground that is no doubt staining her jeans. And she’s about to do something, really she is. Say something almost positive, or reassuring, or maybe simply jump back to her feet, bent knees be damned, so she can grab the lapels of that nearly-offensive jacket and kiss the ever-loving daylights out of him. Again. But something snaps behind her, and every single inch of Kill—no, no, Hook, still Captain Hook.

That’s more unimportant syntax.

Because all of him tenses as immediately as Emma had been hoping for before, a soft noise on the wind that’s strong enough to ruffle those sweat-drenched strands of her hair. Her mouth goes dry, the laughter making her pulse sputter traitorously and Hook’s sword all but flies out of its scabbard.

“Emma, you need to move,” he says, calm as anything. It’s an act. She knows — can tell even when it appears the jungle is getting darker, and the stars above them are going out, but then again, she’s always been able to tell with him, and it’s very disappointing that her rather dramatic swallow doesn’t do anything to help the state of her mouth.

He used her name.

Eventually that will feel very important.

“What? Why, it’s—”

“Please, love,” Hook presses, “I need you to come with me. Right now. How long have you been out here?” Shrugging is harder than Emma expects it to be. As if the heat is actually a weight, pressing directly into her shoulders and rooting her exactly where she is. “We need to move, Swan. You shouldn’t be here.” “Well, that’s kind of rude.”

Widening his eyes makes it even more obvious how blue they are, and they are so ridiculously blue sometimes Emma wonders if she could simply drown in them. Sometimes that doesn’t seem like all that unappealing a prospect.

God, he was good at kissing.

“You told me to shut up earlier. Turnabout is fair play, darling.” “Running the gamut of nicknames, aren’t we? Is that a power move?” “Endearments, really. And no, it’s not. Disappointing that wasn’t clearer what with my intention to apologize and make sure you were alright.”

“Sounds suspiciously like playing knight in pirate armor.” “Can’t imagine armor would be very comfortable. Not much freedom of movement, you see.”

She laughs. Without thinking too much about the sound, mostly because the sound seems to bubble out of Emma and that’s not right. She doesn’t bubble. She stews, and sits and—

Something springs from the ground. Spring is generous, honestly. Cracks form under Emma’s splayed out fingers, tiny green vines that file up with a smell that make her vision swim and her senses fog, and she’s dimly aware of a hand on her shoulder. Tugging her forward, but Emma’s legs simply are not interested in functioning, and she’s so comfortable here. Standing seems even more unreasonable than before, especially when all of her inhales come with that scent. Reminding her of something she can’t quite understand, and it’s suspiciously similar to the tide coming in, and he’s still yelling.

And swinging his sword. Light gleams off the blade, probably because whatever is pushing out of the ground is also glowing, and Emma’s mind can’t really cope with glowing plants right now.

She squeezes her eyes closed. Burrows her face into the very solid chest she’s somehow level with, and Emma’s not entirely sure when that happened, but she also can’t bring herself to complain about it. Especially when it feels like his lips graze her temple. More than once.

“Swan, c’mon love we’ve got to go.”

Groaning, Emma’s head doesn’t ache. Nothing does, actually. She’s oddly comfortably and her internal-body temperature appears to be biologically accurate, but she’s admittedly not totally confident about her knowledge of that second thing, and whatever is underneath her left cheek is also quite obviously not the very solid, slightly uncovered chest of a pirate captain she’d like to make out with again.

Her stomach flies into her throat that time. So, there’s something to be said for a change of pace.

Emma blinks. Swallows. More than once. Licks her lips, to absolutely no avail — but she can’t be bothered with that when it’s clear her heart is doing its damndest to beat its way out of her chest, and she’s not in Neverland anymore.

For one thing, there’s a distinct lack of smells. Bad ones, at least. Wherever she is smells suspiciously liked baked goods and the forest, which makes sense as soon as Emma blinks open her eyes. There’s a rather large tree across from her.

Covered in garland and lights that blink back at her, ornaments hang from nearly every branch, and there are enough presents underneath that she briefly wonders which bank they had to rob to buy all of that. Snow flurries dance outside windows that are frosted over, and there are a lot of windows in this room.

Some of them look out towards an expansive backyard, while others make it clear just how close they are to the water, and Emma thinks she can almost smell the water, but that might be wishful thinking and—

“Holy shit,” she breathes, gaze finally landing on the voice in front of her and she knew the voice, even when she didn’t want to admit it. That’s something of a theme for her now. “What—what are you wearing?” Tilting his head in confusion, strands of hair threaten to fall into Hook’s eyes. The same blue as always, if not a little sharper because it’s obvious he doesn’t understand what’s going on, and Emma’s going to cling to that. So it feels like they’re on slightly more even footing.

“Clothes,” he drawls, and that's the same too. Emma can’t move. Is having quite a lot of trouble breathing, and clothes is a vast understatement.

Pants that are somehow tighter than any of the leather he’d previously sported make his legs look ridiculous, especially when there’s a noticeable lack of sword and Emma was kind of getting used to the sword. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, nothing covering the brace at the end of his arm, but she’s also admittedly preoccupied with the number of buttons he’s undone and the vest that’s hanging loosely from his shoulders, and this might actually be the first time she’s seen him without a jacket on.

Her stomach will probably just stay in her throat, then.

“You’ll do dangerous things to my ego, if you keep staring like that,” Hook warns, but any passably snarky response gets caught behind Emma’s increasingly problematic tongue and her brain still hasn’t caught up yet.

To the glint of light reflecting from his hand.

And one very specific finger.

Mouth dropping and breath practically flying out of her, Emma nearly steps on both of his feet when she jumps to hers, trying without much success to stay upright. Her hands fly towards him of their own accord, or so she will argue forever, and that can’t possibly be her first mistake.

Putting her goddamn scabbard on her back was, probably.

As it is, whatever number she’s at is suddenly the only number that matters, because her flat palms make it undeniably clear that she’s got her own bit of jewelry on her own specific finger, and Killian’s hand keeps moving. Up and down her spine, like that’s something it’s allowed to do. There is not enough oxygen in the world to sigh as loudly as she’d like to.

“Steady on, love,” Hook murmurs, and that about does it. Neck giving up and knees threatening to buckle underneath her, Emma’s fingers curl into this absolutely ridiculous shirt at the same time her forehead collides with his collarbone, and he doesn’t really flinch.

Tenses, slightly — although she figures that’s because of the worry she can practically fele radiating off him, and his hand stills. So as to ensure that his arm can also tighten around her middle, while his lips brush across her temple and the top of her hair.

Anywhere he can reach, it seems.

“Nightmare?” he asks, pulling her closer. They fit very well together, Emma realizes. Like pieces of a puzzle, and that’s admittedly sentimental, but she’s also ninety-six percent certain she’s still dreaming. That’s the only reasonable explanation.

She can’t be dead. Not from a plant attack in Neverland. And Kill—Hook, goddamnit, Hook, wouldn’t have let that happen. She’s sure of that, at least.

“Um, yeah, yeah,” she stammers. “I—sorry, I don’t think I meant to fall asleep.” “Nothing to apologize for. You’ve been baking for a small army the last couple of days, only serves that’d be exhausting.”

“Have I?” Leaning back, he narrows his eyes, and that’s fair. None of this makes sense. Rings, and trees, and baking. She’s never baked in her life. If she had, it wouldn’t smell nearly this good.

“Who, um—” Emma continues, eyes widening when the realization hits her. “Henry! Where’s Henry?” Running is not easy with the arm still around seemingly getting tighter by the second, but her fear has already evolved into the kind of maternal-based adrenaline they do scientific studies on. “Let go of me,” she sneers, and he does. Immediately. The sound of his hands hitting his jeans is far too loud. “Where’s my kid? Why isn’t he here?” The tongue thing.

Swiping across the front of Hook’s teeth, the tip of his tongue finds the corner of his mouth and the inside of his cheek, jutting out with questions and the almost audible cranking of metaphorical gears in his head. “It’s not Christmas yet,” Hook explains, voice oddly similar to a few minutes before, but Emma’s starting to realize that was not a few minutes before and she’s starting to feel a little nauseous.

“Yuh huh.” “Are you alright, love?” He says it soft enough that something flutters in the back of Emma’s brain, some long-forgotten hint of emotion that she refuses to acknowledge. She doesn’t have time for it. There’s baking to do, supposedly. “Yeah, yeah, I’m, uh—I’m fine,” Emma promises, only one side of Hook’s mouth tilting up. “Just...tired, I guess.” “Because of the nightmare.” “Say that again when it doesn’t sound quite so much like an accusation.” “No accusation,” he objects, but it rings as sincere as her promise and the light’s got to be messing with her now. Bouncing off his ring the way it is. “Haven’t had a nightmare in some time, but that’s neither here nor there.” “Wow, you suck at that.”

There goes the other side of his mouth. Emma might be staring at his mouth. “Occasionally,” Hook agrees. “What’d you dream about, then?” Lying is very appealing. Coming up with a story Emma knows he’ll only half believe, but she assumes she’s got plausible deniability too, and she can’t think of a single thing to say. That’s disappointing.

“I was in Neverland.”

If nothing else, staring at his mouth — and the rest of his admittedly attractive face — makes it easy to tell the moment Hook’s jaw clenches. Nerves color his gaze, almost as if he’s trying to remember something he’s already forgotten, but Emma appears to be the only one having some sort of existential crisis and the hint of grey at his temples suggests its been some time since Neverland. Figuring out how much time exactly, will probably be a bit of a challenge. “And?” “And what?” “And there’s plenty of terrors to warrant nightmares in Neverland,” Hook says, stepping out of Emma’s space. Also disappointing. “What exactly was it?” Shaking her head slowly, Emma’s hair doesn’t move. She’s not nearly as sweaty as she was either, the blanket at her feet proof positive of that, although her skin feels almost clammy and the magic in her veins has started to buzz. If Killian doesn’t stop moving his tongue in his mouth, she’s going to scream.

Ah, goddamn.

“I don’t know,” she says, not the lie she still wants it to be, “just some weird plant thing and you wanted me to come with you, but that was probably now, right?” There’s no way he’s comfortable with his neck at that angle. “Maybe. Do you still want to go?” “To, uh—” “—Doc called this morning, said the paint was ready to pick up.” “Paint,” Emma echoes, another confusing string of words that threatens to knock her back on the couch. It was a comfortable couch though, so maybe that’s not the worst thing that could happen to her. Neither is waking up in a reality where Hook wears jeans like that and stares at her like she’s his—she drops back. Onto the comfortable couch.

“Mmhm, the color we picked out last week? He claimed he had to order it, but your father claims he’s just nervous because he doesn’t want to offend me and—” “—Why would you get offended by a dwarf?” Dots of pink appear on his cheeks. The bits not covered with stubble, and there’s some grey in that as well. It works, honestly. “He mercilessly overcharges for her services,” Hook says, clearly not the first time this particular rant has been voiced, “and it’s because he’s the only hardware store in town. Which is why you wanted to go. Help small businesses and the economy of the realm, even when Regina claimed we could order it just as easily off Amazon. But that only led to your denouncement of Jeff Bezos, and I do love it when you openly flout capitalism, so—” He shrugs. Emma might be going into shock. “Here we are, with slightly delayed, if not well-mixed paint, enough baked goods to mask the smell, and your parents guarantee that there’s more than enough room for all of us on Christmas Eve.”

“We’re painting on Christmas Eve?” Concern continues to ripple around him, made all the more clear by the pinch between his eyebrows and how often he rocks forward before shaking his head. It’s four times. “No, we’re painting—well, whenever we have time really, but you did mention Friday evening, and that way Hope could stay at the farm. Naturally she’s thrilled at the prospect.” “Right, right, right, that’s....yeah, that’s right.” She’s so bad at lying. To Hook, specifically. Open book practically broadcasts itself from every twitch of his mouth, and Emma is still doing a God awful job of not staring at his mouth, but her head is spinning and she can’t understand any of this and she’s kind of curious about what paint color they picked.

And who Hope is.

She refuses to acknowledge the flicker of familiarity in the back corner of her brain.

She’s got to get out of here. Away from the couch, and whatever color the paint might be, back to Neverland, which is not something she ever thought she’d want, but they haven’t found Henry yet and who knows what Pan is planning next and— “Where’s Henry?” Emma whispers, far too aware of the desperation in those two words. Hook’s lips thin. When he presses them together. “I know he’s not going to be here until Christmas, but is—he’s ok, right?” “Swan, are you—” “—Just tell me where my kid is, Hook!” Those words fly out of her, voice rising on every letter until it feels as if they’re cutting their way out of Emma’s soul, leaving lacerations behind and the blood that’s appeared on the tip of her tongue makes her recoil. She fully expects him to take another step back, not sure when she stood up again, only that her knees are knocking together now, so naturally that’s not what happens at all.

Hook moves back into her space, made all the easier by the lack of weapons between them, hand finding her cheek as easily as it traced her spine, and Emma doesn’t want to lean into the touch, but he’s so ridiculously warm and she’s teetering on the edge of undeniable insanity, so she’s going to give herself this. For at least six seconds.

“Visiting Ella’s stepsister, so while he’s probably not having the best time, Lu’s always been a rather large fan of that particular realm, and Drizella is a bit of a pushover. I’d imagine the little lass is going gangbusters on the present front.”

Emma’s breathing out of her mouth.

That seems fair as well. Trying to piece together any of that information with the life she’s currently living is all but impossible, and it’s only a matter of time until her knees give up again. Honestly, not crying continues to be her greatest talent.

“Maybe I should just go to the store,” Hook says, “and let you try and get some more rest.”

Even the thought of being left here alone makes Emma’s magic boil in the pit of her stomach — wherever it might be sitting now, and she’s already shaking her head. “No, no, I want to make sure it’s the right color.” “Yuh huh.” “Sounding less than agreeable, Captain.” It’s a mean trick. One she knows will work, and it does. Hook’s eyes flash, and his brows jump, the hand that returned to her hip at some point tightening ever so slightly. “Tell me that you’re alright, and I’ll consider it.” “I’m fine.” “You’re a woefully bad liar is what you are, Your Highness.” Scrunching her nose, Emma tries very hard to temper the fluttering between her ribs. Magic mixes with nerves and flirting that’s not necessarily easier than it’s been, but certainly more fine-tuned. As if it’s a dance both of them are used to. “You can’t pull your sword on Doc, you know that, right?” “That hasn’t happened in years.” “Hook either, that might honestly be worse.” “He’s got a stranglehold on the hardware economy in this town. It’s not right. Gives him leave to charge an arm and a leg.” “If I tell you I’m fine again, will that distract you from your questionable obsession with hardware-based economies?” “Probably not,” Hook grins, more teasing and fluttering and his eyebrows jump again. As soon as Emma licks her lips.

“No challenging the dwarfs to a duel.” Saluting is only passably overwhelming, but that appears to be the way this is going, and Emma cannot come up with an appropriate adjective to describe whatever sound she makes. As soon as he kisses her cheek. Giggling is out of the realm of possibility. “Noted,” Hook says, “c’mon, the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can pick up the little sea monster.”

At this point, Emma would almost welcome a battle with a sea monster. Get her blood flowing, provide an outlet for all her adrenaline and, she hopes at least, if she dies in this dream, she’ll wake up back in Neverland.

This has to be a dream.

So, it seems they live in a mansion.

Stepping outside, Emma’s breath catches loudly as she stares at the wraparound porch and there are somehow more windows than she’d originally noticed, and a turret-type thing involved that’s only vaguely absurd. Almost as much as the way people greet them on Main Street, familiar faces mixing in with strangers, all of whom nod and smile and some who even reach a hand out to Hook like he’s not a pirate or only recently returned to Storybrooke with the one thing they needed to get to Neverland, but Emma also supposes that was years ago, even if the math is still admittedly kind of messing with her.

That was never her strongest subject in school.

And there’s no sword strapped to his hip when the bell over the hardware store door rings, but Hook’s called “Doc” still sounds appropriately threatening, the scuffle of shoes and slightly panted breaths making Emma almost smile in spite of herself and her mathematical failings. “Captain,” Doc exhales, shuffling behind the counter that spans the far wall of the store. Tools and cans of paint line the shelves above his head, a name tag pinned to his shirt that seems unnecessary, but Emma’s nearly charmed by that as well and wholly unprepared for Doc to glance her way, adding—“Your Highness, it’s so nice to see you. I’ve got your order all ready, if you’d like to…”

Whatever else he says disappears in a haze of buzzing magic and malfunctioning joints, Emma’s fingers fluttering at her side while it sounds like Killian does his best to argue the price. For the paint. That they’re going to use. In their mansion.

She didn’t ask which room they were going to paint.

That felt like a flashing-neon sign, announcing how little she belongs in this place and Emma’s fairly certain Hook can tell, but that’s also another sign she’s not entirely ready to deal with at the moment and Doc flinches when the literal hook drops onto the counter.

Emma presses her lips together.

So as not to laugh. Like a person nearing their psychotic breaking point.

“But Captain,” Doc argues, “we did agree on that mark, and—” “—Aye, but that was before it took an extra three days to receive the color, and I think there should be some sort of fee reduction for that.” “There aren’t any fees, just—” “—The overall cost, then.”

Pain flutters at the back of her consciousness when her teeth continue to dig into her lips, but the feeling twits with amusement and that looming sense of insanity, and Hook hardly even moves when Emma does. So she can rest her hand on his shoulder.

“Maybe it’s not that big of a deal,” she ventures.

Hook gapes at her. “Traitor.” “Pirate,’ she counters. “But I think we can afford it. Y’know, just to help the—” “—Locals,” he finishes, “aye, it’s something I’ve heard several thousand times before, love. But it is the principle of the thing.” “The thing being what, exactly?” “Efficiency,” Hook replies, as cool as any vegetable Emma could come up with, and Doc’s eyes go comically wide behind his glasses. The whole thing is actually pretty impressive. Attractive, maybe. She doesn’t have time for that. She has to—

Get back home is not the right string of words at all. Home is some abstract concept that certainly does not exist in the reality Emma came from, and even less so in a place like Neverland, but she doesn’t belong here, with the jewelry and the house, and she can’t quite get over the way his face twisted. When she called him Hook.

“Naturally,” Emma mutters. “Can we just get the paint, Doc? Then we’ll be out of your hair.” Doc hums, but he doesn’t move and Emma can’t believe he doesn’t move. She’s given him an out. A reason to scamper back to wherever he’s keeping their paint, away from Hook’s appraising stare and the hand that’s already inching back towards hers, and he’s somehow even more tactile than usual.

It makes her mouth go dry again.

“Of course, Your Highness. If your husband could just agree to the terms of price, then—” Hook rolls his whole head, hair shifting in the process, and that’s minimally distracting when Emma’s heart constricts in her chest. Because she knew. Has eyes, after all. And the notable ability to stare. But there’s something about hearing the word that makes it all the more real, and Hook’s argument doesn’t have anything to do with relationship monikers.

She’s starting to have several assumptions as to who Hope is. One assumption, really.

Pulling her hand away from Hook’s is easier when he’s so preoccupied, twisting the ring around her finger and staring at the stone and it’s—well, it’s gorgeous, honestly. Exactly what Emma would imagine if she’d ever let herself imagine such a thing, and that’s got to be another sign or something at least in the realm of positive, and it turns out they’re painting the dining room. Blue, and that’s something of a cliche, but anything Emma has to say about that gets stuck halfway out of her undeniably chapped lips when Killian ushers her out of the store, a smile tugging at the ends of his mouth because— “Color reminds me a bit of that gown of yours.”

She’s atrocious at this. Schooling her features, or acting like every word out of his mouth isn’t a punch to her literal gut. It’s a miracle she hasn’t just keeled over. In the middle of goddamn Main Street, where the guy who is very clearly her husband has stopped them.

So as to stare at her incredulously.

“You’ve got no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” “Presumptuous.” “Not an answer, m’dear.” Maybe Emma will start keeping track of endearments. Just to give her mind something to latch onto. There appear to be more than she’s used to. “You wore a very blue gown to Elsa’s wedding, made some rather wonderful comments about how it matched my eyes that also made you blush rather severely, all of which I will admit to still thinking about with almost startling regularity.” She’s got no idea who the fuck Elsa is, or why they’d go to her wedding. Wearing a gown. And making sweepingly sentimental statements.

Her smile is weak at best. “Sorry, just—that paint smell got to me, I think.” “Sure it did,” Hook says, clearly not convinced, “maybe we should go see Regina.” “Why would we do that?” Leveling her with a slightly different expression, Hook’s tongue shifts behind his closed mouth. Emma juts her chin out. In misplaced defiance, and inherent stubbornness. She’ll find Regina later. When she’s not at least partially thinking about kissing this version of Kill—

Hook, Hook, Hook, Ho—she wonders how he proposed. If he proposed. Maybe she did, what does Emma know? Nothing, apparently. “Do you remember what those plants looked like?” “What?” Emma asks. “Maybe you’re the one who got messed up by paint fumes.” “Absolutely scathing, Swan. Answer the question, please.” There’s an undercurrent of command in his voice — like she’s a member of his crew, and she doesn’t know if he has a crew anymore, but Emma bristles at the thought of being part of it all the same and the muscles in her neck do not appreciate being angled like this. “I told you, it was just a dream.” “Aye, you did. And as you would so lovingly put it, that particular lie sucked quite a bit. So once more, what were you dreaming about and where were you in the dream?” Opening her mouth, Emma’s sarcastic and inevitably snark-filled response evaporates as soon as she hears the clack of heels on the sidewalk next to them and the woman walking towards them has shockingly red hair. And a kid clinging to her side. Who immediately tries to launch herself at Hook.

“Codfish heads,” the woman mumbles, Killian not able to hold back his chuckle or keep his arms at his side. The same ones that catch the kid and pull her close to his chest, peppering either one of her cheeks with kisses.

Emma seriously considers dying right there.

Dying will absolutely wake her up, she’s convinced.

“Articulate as always,” Hook grins. The woman sticks her tongue out. “What are you doing here? I thought—ah,” he grunts, a knee slamming into his side, “control the limbs Mel, or I’m going to drop you and then your mom will be even more angry than she is.” The dexterity of this woman’s face is astounding. As is the width of Hook’s smile. “I’m not angry,” she objects, “and I’m here because you didn’t answer your phone. There’s some kind of disaster happening at the realm line.” “What kind of disaster?” “Something to do with magic, and it looks like some of Lancelot’s knights are exploring the forest here, looking for some kind of something because you know they have to have a quest.” “David can’t do anything about that?” “Was more than willing to if you actually decided to acknowledge him today. Hence the frustration over your phone issues.” “An insult roll,” Killian laughs, the sound almost more surprising than anything else Emma’s encountered today. She’s heard him laugh before. Of course she has. But it’s usually cynical, or occasionally even a little evil, and this guy can’t be evil. Not standing there, acting as a human jungle gym to a kid, and a woman Emma’s mind has also started to make assumptions about. The hair was a pretty good clue. No, this isn’t the first time she’s heard him laugh, but it’s certainly her favorite and if she plays the sound on loop in her head for at least several hours, then she hopes no one will ever be the wiser.

Emma hardly notices that she’s referred to him as Killian.

That’s probably for the best.

“And,” he adds, “we finally finished with Doc, so we can go relieve the prince of his duties, even though he offered. Multiple times.” Ariel, Emma assumes this is the goddam Little Mermaid, throws her head back. “Oh Gods, did you terrify him? Is that why you’re being like this? Y’know the paint was back ordered, that’s why it took so long.” “There was no terrifying involved, and if that was the case, he should have made it known. All I heard was that he didn’t have it in stock, and it was going to take a few more days and—”

He cuts himself off when Ariel waves an impatient hand in his face, turning towards Emma expectantly. “Did he terrify Doc?” Emma nods out of instinct, some dark and distant part of her wanting to be involved in this banter and this place, and this place isn’t real, so that’s a dangerous line of thinking, but she can’t seem to stop herself. In the same way Killian can’t seem to do anything except tug her against his side. And kiss the top of her hair.

He really likes to do that.

Especially impressive with the kid still hanging from him.

“She’s a bloody traitor,” he announces, “but one of the other dwarfs is bringing the paint home, and, like I said, we were on our way to pick up the sea monster, so David can deal with the knights. They only listen to one of their own, anyway.” “No honor amongst thieves, huh?” Ariel asks knowingly.

Killian scowls. It’s frustratingly adorable.

“Fine, fine,” she shakes her head, “I retract any annoyance about your refusal to turn the sound on your phone on, if only because you gave my arms a break, and your dining room will look very good in that color.” “It’s a good color.” The arm around her shoulders is the only thing that keeps Emma from melting into the pavement beneath her boots. She had at least six pairs of boots in their hallway closet. Also absurd. And she hears the lilt in Killian’s voice, even if Ariel doesn’t — the soft intensity that sounds eerily similar to the way he promised he understood what it felt to lose hope, how quickly he agreed to her plan, demands, after the kiss and she imagines they kiss quite a lot in this reality.

If her other assumptions are right.

Ariel stares at them for a beat longer, one that Emma worries will end in a longer conversation and inevitable discussion of the awkward way she’s standing, but then the mermaid with legs is pulling her kid back and quieting the riot that causes, and Killian’s arm stays exactly where it is. “Send some pictures when you paint the first wall, ok?”

Killian nods. Stiffer than it should be, but Emma’s only barely managing to stay conscious at this point, and she doesn’t object when he directs her past Granny’s and down a road she’s never noticed before.

His arm doesn’t move.

In the days that will follow, Emma will never be entirely sure how she manages it. Tears sting her eyes almost as soon as the screen door slams behind her, more than one voice drifting down the hall, and there are pictures everywhere. Her own face smiles back at her from multiple times, eyes jumping from frame to frame and back again, a life that isn’t hers playing out despite her own misgivings, and if she’d thought the overall width of Killian’s smile was something ten minutes earlier, it’s got nothing on the several here.

Wearing a tuxedo that does something unfamiliar to her heart, and gazing back from an ornate frame that also holds a grown-up face that’s still able to remind her of the boy she left in Neverland, and another with his arm around Emma’s shoulders again, exhaustion clear even from here, but there’s something cradled in her arms and a tiny hat that makes her whole soul ache and—

“Swan,” Hook breathes, and at least they’re back to that. In her head, where she's clearly going insane. “Emma love, I really need you to tell me what’s going on.”

That’s impossible. Not for any other reason than Emma’s vocal chords appear to have stopped working, and she never actually cries.

It’s a Christmas miracle.

Of the shittiest variety, because Hook’s hovering far too close to her and Emma wonders if he notices the magic coursing through her, or if this is just how he normally stands and none of it matters when two sets of feet sprint down the hallway.

Frames rattle in their wake, both of them shouting and jumping before Emma’s even remotely prepared. She can’t imagine she ever would be. Maybe in a different lifetime. This one, possibly.

Not hers.

Not as is.

And as it is, Hook ducks down before the blur rushing towards Emma’s shin can knock her over, hauling the giggling and smiling bundle over his shoulder. More kisses are dispensed, laughter ringing out around them and only slightly muted by the mess of dark curls that threatens to cover Hook’s face.

He tries to blow it away, several times.

“Emma,” another voice says, tugging at the end of her jacket and it’s a little overwhelming to see her father’s eyes staring up at her. From a kid. Who isn’t very old, but feels like a memory she can’t place, and if her mind doesn’t stop piecing things together Emma is going to scream.

She doesn’t want to know.

Absolutely cannot cope, honestly.

“Emma,” he repeats, “if you and Killian are going to stay here for Christmas, can we make snowmen again? Because Henry said we could and Aunt Gina said she’d magic them so they wouldn’t melt and you’re way better at rolling than Mom is.” Someone huffs, Mary Margaret’s arms crossing over her chest and there’s an apron tied around her waist. Just to drive the domestic point home. “I resent that, and Dad is totally going to be better at rolling snowballs this year. He’s promised we’re going to win.” Emma’s mouth drops. In confusion, and several other adjectives. All of which Hook quite clearly recognizes, and that’s messing with her too.

Reading her as well as he does should leave her feeling off-kilter. Reeling, even. It doesn’t. It’s like some sort of metaphorical anchor, and Emma finds herself constantly glancing over her shoulder, hoping for that one specific tilt of his lips and— “Let’s wait to go over rules until Henry gets here, alright mate? Don’t want to get into specifics when he’s going to have his own demands.”

Opening his mouth, the kid’s argument disappears once Mary Margaret makes another noise, adding a soft “Neal,” and only one of Emma’s knees bends. That’s lame. Very un-Savior like.

And she doesn’t know how Killian manages it, either. She also does not care. Leaning into the hand that’s suddenly cemented to her back, Emma nods like someone has asked her a question, and there are more footsteps and smiles and she bites her tongue. David doesn’t disappear. He’s here. In this place he shouldn’t be, some sort of farm that had an almost kitschy mat outside that screen door and chickens lingering along the side of the front yard, and Killian’s voice is in her ear. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.” “I’ll kick you,” Emma warns.

“I’d drop the sea monster that way.” She’s just about to ask the wholly unnecessary question of who the fuck is the sea monster when the beast in question tries very hard to stand on Hook's shoulders. All limbs and hair in desperate need of a cut, both Mary Margaret and David look overjoyed by her mere presence, warmth blooming of its own volition in Emma’s chest. “Mama,” she yells, resting her chin on top of Killian’s head, “are you going to magic the snowmen too?”

More than one pair of eyes flash towards Emma, suddenly frozen with a maelstrom of fear and words echoing between her ears and she’s got to talk. She can’t talk. Her tongue is growing in her mouth, no doubt a byproduct of that now occurring insanity, and her own eyes keep moving. Tracing over the lines of her daughter’s face, and the questionably cute clothes she’s wearing and her eyes are almost alarmingly blue.

Tears fall on Emma’s cheeks.

“Emma,” David mutters, but she barely hears him. Reaching out a hand that’s shaking much more than she’d like, her fingers graze Hope’s cheek and the skin there is soft and warm and obviously loved, like that’s something that’s possible. This new reality doesn’t have any rules, though. So maybe that works here.

She must nod. Emma’s hair moves, so that’s got to mean something and she’s clinging to every victory she can get at this point. “I’ll try,” Emma says, not quite the promise she'd like it to be. Hook's fingers twist under the hem of her shirt, grazing across her actual spine and it’s disappointing when she tenses.

Noticeably.

David’s eyes turn appraising — but he doesn’t immediately look at Mary Margaret like Emma expects. He glances at Hook, a quick jerk of his shoulders that she only notices when they bump hers. “Did you hear about the knights, then?” “Ariel accosted us on our way here. What do they want, exactly?” “As far as I can tell, they’re just scouting, but who knows with those Camelot idiots.” Mary Margaret scoffs. David might actually blush. “I’m going to go out and talk to them now, and Snow sent a bird.” The hand at Emma’s back flattens. So as to keep her upright.

“Lance usually responds quickly,” Mary Margaret says, “but you know the cross-realm travel, it’s always hit or miss. Especially with the weather. Hopefully we’ll know what they’re doing sooner rather than later.” Humming in what sounds like agreement, Hook shifts Hope and keeps Emma pulled against his side. His eyes dart back towards David, an unspoken conversation Emma doesn’t entirely want to hear. When it’s obviously about her.

And her father doesn’t respond either, just crosses the space between them and kisses her cheek. “Everything’s going to be ok, kid.”

“Yuh huh,” she mumbles, but it sounds like a lie and Hope falls asleep with her head on Hook's shoulder while they walk home.

It takes her about three seconds to realize she used that word as well.

And then another fifteen to totally freak out about it.

As silently as possible.

To his credit, he doesn’t press the issue. He stares, without much subtlety — but Hook never comes out and accuses Emma of anything, or questions how little she knows about this life they’ve got, and she’s not entirely surprised when he doesn’t ask when she’s coming to bed. He just takes a deep breath, and kisses the top of her hair again, which is somewhere like the ninth time that’s happened, walking up the stairs and presumably waiting for Emma.

In their bed.

They share. Together. As people. Married people, with a very cute kid and Henry’s in some other version of the Enchanted Forest with his wife, which is only marginally screwing with Emma. That’s positive, she thinks. Marginally is better than totally.

But it’s also not her life, and around twelve forty-seven she starts to wonder if she’s fucked with the Emma that’s supposed to be here by waking up on that couch, and she can’t get over how comfortable that couch was, and she starts walking.

Aimlessly, really.

Down halls and from room to room, opening doors that regularly make breathing a legitimate challenge. Henry’s old room clearly hasn’t been changed, and Hope’s hair covers her entire pillow, much like Emma’s regularly does, and they’ve got an actual sitting room and family room, a nautical theme that feels a little to on the nose, but is also somehow perfect and she knows he’s there before he says anything.

“You’re lurking,” Emma accuses, jumping onto the edge of the kitchen counter now that she’s finished her patrol.

“And you’re admittedly freaking me out just a bit.” Her laugh does that bubble thing again, something that Killian could probably claim ownership over if he wanted. She knows he won’t, though. Not this version. Not this guy, staring at her like he’s torn between terrified and terrorizing, like he’d challenge the timeline to a duel if needs be.

“Where’s your sword?” “In the basement. Where it’s been for years.” “You don’t use your sword much?” Taking a step forward, the floor creaks under his sock-covered feet and the realization that he must have put socks back on at some point does what Emma can only imagine is irreparable damage to more than half a dozen internal organs. “Asking that adds to my growing pile of suspicions and worries.” “The freaked out ones?” “Aye,” he nods, hand and hook resting on her hips. Maybe there are magnets there. Maybe he’s just hardwired to touch her. Emma fists her hands. “Why are you surprised by that?” “If I ask you a question will you totally freak out more?” That time he shakes his head. Hair shifts in the process, and there have to be magnets involved. That’s the only reasonable explanation for how quickly Emma’s fingers find the strands, brushing them away and relishing the exact way Killian’s eyes flutter shut and—damn, she did it again. His hand tightens.

Like he’s nervous she’s going to disappear otherwise.

“Question for a question is breaking conversational rules,” he starts, “But—” “—You’re a pirate?” “Something that’s been well-documented. What do you want to know?” Everything seems unacceptably vast, and Emma’s not sure which question to pick when they’re all weighing down on her still too-large tongue, but Killian’s eyes don’t pull away from her and he turns his head into her palm. The one cupping his cheek.

She’s an absolute disaster. Which is, she’ll argue the exact reason, she asks: “Are you in love with me?” He doesn’t laugh. More credit to him, although this credit comes with an asterisk for the exact way his expression shatters. In slow motion. For maxim effect. Muscles in his throat shift when he swallows, the tip of his tongue darting between barely-parted lips, and his next inhale has a distinct shuddering quality to it.

“More than I knew I could be,” he whispers. “You want to tell me the truth now?” “About?

Bending his neck, Killian’s exhale brushes Emma’s cheek and for one absolutely insane moment, that would make sense if they were actually married, she thinks he’s going to kiss her. He doesn’t. Figures. Lips graze the edge of hers, sending shockwaves that ripple up her spine and threaten to make magic explode from the tips of her fingers and she has to close her eyes. At the force of his voice, steady despite the emotion behind it.

“Who are you, really?” The shockwaves disappear. Turn into fear, and something ice-cold and Emma has to blink.

“What?” He clicks his tongue. More than once, in obvious reproach, and she wonders if she’ll have to walk to the plank at some point, the tip of his hook threatening to dig into her skin. “I’ll ask you once more, darling. It’s very good magic, whatever you’re doing. I can feel it, but—” “—You can feel my magic?” “Stop talking,” he sneers, and the symmetry of it all feels like a slap. Several times over. “Now either you tell me the truth, or I’ll have to do something drastic. Who are you, and what have you done with my wife?”

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #but once a year #festive fic a thon 2k20 #i really will fill those other prompts now i promise #sorry i'm such a constant and consistent flake internet #also! this is apparently the 40th captain swan work of mine on ao3 #which is slightly skewed since there are so many collections but still #that's a heck of a lotta words #thanks for reading em

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iwrestlenow · 3 years

Text

Many More To Die, Chapter 15 (Epilogue)

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 15, Epilogue)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: Logan goes home for the first time in ten years--and ends this story so he can start a new one at Roman's side.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), Moceit (Patton/Janus) and Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: implications of violence, but mostly schmoop

This story is over, but THE story is just beginning. Still, I want to thank literally everyone that's been reading and enjoying this. Your kind words and comments, your support and kudos and encouragement...

For a while now, I've lost my passion for writing. This lit a fire under my ass. Thank you for helping to fan the flame.

I am your biggest fan. All of you reading this. Every single person. <3

Oh also this is unbeta'd so if it sucks it's on me, hope you have fun reading anyhoodle. :P

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

“You're nervous.”

“Falsehood.”

“I'm the one that's supposed to be nervous.”

“Roman, I am warning you...”

Roman's mouth was abruptly on his, warm and sweet and firm. His arms were secure around Logan's waist, pulling Logan's back against his chest, and Logan was helpless in the face of liquid golden warmth trickling through his limbs and pooling sweetly somewhere low in his belly as he leaned back into Roman's embrace.

It had been a week, and technically, Logan and Patton were still prisoners until a vote could be put to the people. As prince regent, with the king convalescing, Roman was already spreading word of the events in the castle, and the fact that necromancers had defended the life of the royal family.

Thomas, despite being alive, seemed hell bent on abdicating, claiming Roman was ready. Logan was in full agreement, but Roman refused to even consider it.

Not until he made sure his reign would be welcome.

Logan forced himself from the blissful reverie of Roman's embrace just in time to open his eyes and spot a figure on the horizon. People were appearing, but one towered above all the others.

Grandpap. Logan blinked hard against the sudden burn behind his eyes. Roman must have sensed his unrest, because a hand smoothed up the length of his spine.

The closer they drew, the more restless Logan became. His stomach was tightening, his chest compressing, a strange chill causing him to shiver when the air was perfectly pleasant...

Logan wasn't nervous. Logan was afraid.

Roman brought the horse they were riding to a stop once they were there—a dozen feet from the line of people that had formed to wait for their arrival, just at the boundary of the settlement.

Grandpap towered over them, but among the throng were Logan's parents—and endless others, so many he'd grown up with and around...

Roman gave him one gentle squeeze before he carefully dismounted and reached up to help Logan down. Taking one last breath, Logan walked up to face his grandfather as calmly as he could, where he stood, flanked by his child and goodchild—Logan's geni and his pari, Elliot and Talyn..

“Who claims this Weaver?” Josiah called out, raising his voice to be heard by the people around him.

“We do.” Elliot replied, their eyes too bright as they stared at Logan with a ferocity that made it hard to breathe. “We claim this Weaver, and grant him--”

“I will take no Name.”

Josiah regarded Logan sharply. “Scuse me?”

Logan took a deep breath. “I will take no Name, for I already have one.”

A gasp went through the group, and Talyn's hands flew to cover their mouth, tears slipping from their eyes.

“I am Logan Berry.” Logan continued, emboldened by the weight of a hand on his shoulder from behind. “Son of Elliot Crofter. Fruit of Talyn Crofter...heart-name of Starlight, recalled to life by the power of the Lazari.”

Logan paused, turning to face Roman.

“And I am claimed by the keeper of my soul.”

Roman smiled at him, bending to kiss Logan's cheek before he faced Josiah.

Only then did Logan realize Roman wasn't wearing it.

“Roman!”

Ignoring Logan, Roman stepped forward—and then dropped to one knee in front of Logan's grandfather as he drew his sword, offering it to him pommel first.

“To you, Lord Father, I submit my fate. If you have not the care to look into my soul, then it is better that you should run me through with my own sword and claim me as your thrall lest you believe me incapable of pure intent.” he declared without hesitation, his voice clear and strong. “What say you?”

Logan stood, breathless, as Grandpap gaped down at Roman with shock and anger in his face. His gaze flicked up to Logan, as if he couldn't help it--

Before he took the sword from Roman and hefted it into his hand with an ease that was unnerving. Logan had never seen his grandfather wield a blade, always fighting with bare hands and sharp words...

For the first time, he could see it: the blood of kings, the head that bore the weight of the crown, the noble blood that had passed from him to Geni and into Logan's veins.

Josiah used the flat of the blade to lift Roman's chin to meet his gaze.

“You know what you're askin', son?” he replied quietly.

“Yes, Lord Father.”

“To walk the grave and call it home?”

“To walk the grave, and call it home.” Roman replied, then continued with an ease that made Logan's chest tight with pride. “To give the dead my voice, to speak their will, to care for the lowest of the low as gods and as kings, for I seek no greater honor than to humble myself as a steward of the dead.”

“And why is that?” Josiah asked.

“For it is in the stewardship of death that we understand the blessing of life.”

Josiah slid another look up at Logan, raising an eyebrow. Logan had to bite back a smile—it was the same look Grandpap gave him whenever Logan asked for another new book or telescope or a third helping of jam with his breakfast as a little boy.

“You ask for death and resurrection as one of the tribe—what gift would you deliver for the honor of death and slavery?” Josiah asked, refocusing on Roman.

“The throne of the Kingdoms, and the crown that goes with it.”

Josiah blinked, the people around him dead silent with pure shock.

“Lies kill among this tribe, little prince.” Josiah warned.

Roman held steady, his breathing even, his voice colored with a softness that Logan knew meant he was smiling.

“Only a fool would come to the Lord Father of the Necromata with a lie on his lips—and while I am a fool many times over, I am not a fool in this.”

There was a startled, barely there ripple of tittering through the people at Grandpap's back—including the familiar roll of thunder that was Josiah's quiet chuckle.

“And the compensation you would ask for the soul you've gifted to my grandson?”

“I would ask for nothing, and accept only that which you would offer, Lord Father.”

“...then I offer you the throne of the Kingdoms, and the crown that goes with it. Didn't wanna be a king in my youth, and that ain't changed.”

“Grandpap--”

“Logan, hush your mouth.”

“But Grandpap, he's not--”

“Starlight, hush yer mouth.”

Logan's mouth snapped shut at the use of his True Name by his grandfather. Josiah watched Roman as he set the point of the sword against Roman's throat.

Roman was asking for the right to be with Logan not as a suitor or a spouse, but as a rightful member of his tribe. Such initiation required a blood sacrifice, usually represented with the symbolic slicing of a red thread or mutilation of a piece of red fabric.

And Roman wasn't wearing the thread Logan had knotted around his neck.

“It is done.” Josiah declared flatly, launching Logan's heart into his throat.

There was a soft twitch, and Roman's deep red travel cloak slipped off his shoulders to pool around him.

“The king is dead—and the king is reborn unto the tribe.” Josiah declared, lowering the sword and offering Roman his hand. “Rise, son of Shadow...and next time, wear the damn thread 'stead of showboating.”

Roman shrugged as he stood up. “I didn't want to give myself an out. I wanted you to know I meant it, I...I'm willing to die to be with your grandson, sir.”

“Well, now you are.” Grandpap replied, glancing at Logan again. “Provided this ain't an act?...”

Logan shook his head, then reached into his pocket and pulled the Soulstone free with shaking fingers, moving to Roman's side and handing it to Josiah.

“I apologize for stealing it, but I felt I had no choice.” he confessed. “For what it's worth, it protected me from the Cleansing—and likely protected Roman from far worse. Has news reached here?”

Josiah nodded, fingers curling around the Soulstone. “It has.”

“Then you know that Roman has had little memory of what led me to steal that ring—had the Soulstone not been present and working, the Animator might have done Roman harm much sooner to ensure he could successfully wipe out the royal family...and, without the king's protection, ours as well.”

Josiah just nodded, looking between the pair.

“So that's it? You two show up just to make the little prince Necromata and get my blessing? Where's your damn brother, and if the king lives why the hell did your soulmate just try to offer me the throne?”

Logan smiled, leaning into Roman's side. His arm came to settle around Logan's shoulders, the line of heat and pressure doing worlds to calm his nerves.

“It's a long story, Grandpap,” Logan offered, “but I think there's finally time enough to tell it—not just to you, but to everyone.”

Josiah smiled at that—a real smile, slow and broad and warm as fresh bread.

“I hope you mean more 'n just the Necromata, son...c'mon, let's go inside.”

With that, there was chaos, joyous and enveloping—and that word, once again echoing in Logan's head.

Necromata.

Once upon a time, Logan had nothing but that word to hold onto, alone in a dungeon cell, in pain and afraid.

Then Roman found him, for a second time, and saved him. Now, Roman had a future as king, and Logan...

Logan had that word again, but now that word also meant Roman. It meant his family, it meant his future...it meant real and lasting hope.

Necromata. It no longer meant the necromancers, or the legions of the Animator.

It meant his geni and pari, who chose that moment to leave Josiah's side and fling themselves at him.

It meant his Grandpap, snickering at them over his shoulder.

It meant Roman subjecting himself to the curious onslaught of questions from Logan's parents, not as a ruler but as Logan's future husband.

It felt like a Name now—a Name, freely accepted and made his own.

A life, restored.

For the first time, Logan could allow himself to have hope, because he had the power of the Necromata at his fingertips—and it was only a matter of time before that power and that hope brought the world back into balance once again.

#my name is liz and i swear to god i will fic again #this is all the artist's fault i'm just the hapless writer that stumbled across it #sanders sides #fic #logan sanders #janus sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #remus sanders #thomas sanders #logince #dukexiety #moceit

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snusbandxknifewife · 4 years

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So @the-chick-of-the-air mentioned something about wanting to know what Cardan said to Randalin and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head since. This is my attempt at writing what went down during that conversation, I hope you all like it!

~~~~

As Cardan Greenbriar drags his advisor into a separate room, all hints of a spoiled faerie boy are gone, replaced completely by the grace and danger of a High King who has been faced with treason.

“What vile, worm-hearted god spoke in your ear and gave you even the faintest idea that it was appropriate to enter the room of your wounded queen?” He hisses in the larger man’s ear. “And how, pray tell, did it convince you to stoop low enough to then question her sovereignty?”

A colossal, thorn-covered vine sprouts from the stone floor by the chamber door, actively shattering a brick as it moves to slam the door shut.

Randalin visibly swallows. “Your Majesty, please—“

“I must admit, Randalin, I thought you wiser than that,” Cardan continues. “I thought that you, for all your sniveling and spinelessness, would have enough foresight to see that your little plan could’ve never succeeded.”

The delicate pink roses in their little porcelain pot, set on the windowsill to capture sunlight, wither and die. Where their rotting petals fall, nightshade rises.

“I would’ve thought you would know my wife would never back down from a challenge. Especially one put forward by such a cowardly and insignificant man as you.”

Randalin stands, rooted to the floor by brambles growing over his feet, their thorns digging aggressively into his leather shoes. He watches, unable to move, as the boy king walks to where a cask of wine has been left on a table.

Cardan forgoes a goblet, instead gripping the neck of the wine bottle between his lithe fingers and turning it up, his eyes never leaving his advisor as he takes a long drink. When he sets the cask back down, wine as red as blood drips from his lips and down his chin, staining his moon-pale skin the same way castoff stains a wall during a murder.

“I would’ve thought you would realize that, even if it had worked, I’d find out about your meddling.” His voice is deadly quiet, his eyes swirling like whirlpools. “And I surely would’ve thought you smart enough to realize I wouldn’t appreciate someone taking away the woman I worked so hard to get back.”

“Your Majesty—“

“Have you ever been in love, Randalin?” Cardan cuts him off, his head tilting to the side and causing a stray drop of wine to fall onto his undershirt. “Have you ever looked into the eyes of another and felt your heart stop? Known that, as long as you live, no one will command your thoughts as this person does now?”

He steps closer, his boots clicking against the stone floor and the brambles at Randalin’s feet tightening with each step.

“Have you ever been given love, against all odds, and lost it?” He whispers in the shell of his advisor’s ear, a growl low in his throat as he does. “And were you then given that love back, only to find that someone you’re meant to trust is trying to rip it away once more?”

“The people of Elfhame will never accept a human queen.” Randalin tries, his face reddening with pain as a thorn succeeds in working its way through his shoe and into his toe.

“The people of Elfhame can all be damned.” Cardan smiles wolfishly, stepping back so he can loom over his foolish council member. “The land has chosen her, and it is the land’s support that proves a ruler’s worth here in Faerie.”

“Just because she said she was healed with the land’s help doesn’t mean we can believe her. Humans are liars, Your Majesty.”

Cardan Greenbriar walks away and turns towards the window, towards the land he and his wife will rule over until they choose for it to be otherwise. Beyond the gentle swaying of the curtains, a robin flaps by and the stars twinkle with the light of a thousand little suns.

“If you do not believe your queen’s word, believe Grima Mog, for she saw it happen.” The High King announces as he continues to look out the window, leaving the council member sweating behind him. “Jude stuffed her gutted belly full of soil and Elfhame chose to heal her. Flowers grew from the ground where her blood fell. The land answers to her, as it does to me.”

Randalin’s eyes widen. A human, a mortal with magic gifted by the land—

“How many people do you think my wife has murdered, Randalin?” Cardan’s voice is soft, the tone of a boy in love talking about his partner’s knack for making flower crowns. Not the voice of a ruler discussing his queen’s violent tendencies.

“I’m well aware that Lady Jude is—“

“High Queen Jude.” Cardan corrects, his voice void of all softness once more. “She is High Queen Jude. If you refer to her as anything else ever again, you do so at your own peril.”

“Your Majesty, if you would let me finish—“

“I shall let you finish a sentence when you begin to speak something other than nonsense.” Cardan’s tar-black eyes have the same devilish coldness in them that they had when he ripped that faerie boy’s wings at a revel so many moons ago. “Now refer to your queen by her proper title, or face the consequences.”

Randalin lets out a sigh and grits his teeth. “I am well aware that High Queen Jude is a woman with violent tendencies, but I do not know just how many lives she has claimed.”

“Nor do I.” Cardan smiles the smile of a man besotted. “She has a talent for swordplay that is unrivaled. Any night she is in my bed is a night in which I do not fear assassination, for I know my wife could kill anyone in her sleep.”

“Even you, Your Majesty.” Randalin tries to impart wisdom into his king, tries to show the boy just how dangerous this mortal girl is for both him and the kingdom.

“Especially me.” Cardan smiles as he catches Randalin’s eye, completely aware of what the older man is trying to say and also completely aware of just how wrong he is. “But she has had many chances, and she has yet to take them. Death at the hands of a god so sweet would be a gift, indeed, and yet I seem incapable of receiving such blessings.”

The brambles are growing up Randalin’s legs, cutting into his thighs and wrapping around his wrists as his arms stay by his sides.

The young man in front of him has danger etched into every line of his very being. The High King standing in this study is not the High King of days past, nor is he the High King one would ever wish to meet. Cardan Greenbriar is poison personified, malice dripping from his fanged smile and echoing in the light tapping of his fingernails on his elbow.

For the first time since hearing a doomed prince’s prophecy, Randalin feels true dread gather in the pit of his stomach.

“Do you think me a violent man, Randalin?” Cardan, who has always taken after felines in both his look and his mannerisms, seems far less cat-like than usual. It’s like his fangs hide venom, his body readying, not to pounce, but to strike.

“I’d never insult my king by suggesting something so rude, Your Majesty.”

“But you insulted your queen by suggesting that she abdicate her throne.” Cardan’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks and his smile grows cruel. “So do humor me this once.”

If the fae had warning sirens, they’d be blaring in Randalin’s head right this very moment.

“No, Your Majesty.” A bramble works it’s way under his doublet, drawing blood the entire way. “I think you do not have a taste for bloodshed. At the very least, not one as strong as the High Queen’s.”

Cardan smiles as the council member finally refers to Jude by her correct title.

He steps away from Randalin once more, walking over to the bookshelf by the desk and pulling a random leather bound volume out, fingers tracing over the lettering on the spine and longing for a more familiar title.

“You know, I’ve read my fair share of mortal stories in my day,” he announces, outwardly calm even as the thorns continue to torture his advisor. “The humans have a saying, a warning of sorts, about how even the devil runs when a good man goes to war.”

He opens the book to a random page, completely ignoring the words as his nails drag down the binding.

“Now, for all my distaste in violence, I wouldn’t call myself a good man,” he continues with a small quirk to his mouth, just a little upward tilt. “I am cruel, I am petty. I delight in the suffering of those who wrong me and I’ll settle for hurting those who are lesser, if I’m unable to harm someone I feel truly deserves it.”

His foot starts tapping, a quiet beat to him but a deafening war drum to Randalin. His ears pick up the sound of a racing heartbeat and his smile grows.

“I tortured even the woman I love for years, albeit not in the ways she likely would’ve preferred, but what good is torture if someone likes it?”

He snaps the book closed and Randalin jumps as best he can in his thorny prison.

“I suppose that makes me more dangerous in war than a good man would be,” he thinks aloud as he slowly turns his gaze back to where Randalin appears to be in the process of soiling his pants. “Surely if the devil runs when a good man goes to war, he would sprint when a man of questionable morals joins the fray, don’t you think?”

“Please, Your Majesty, my recommendations were only voiced out of a concern for the well-being of the kingdom.” Randalin, a man used to lording over those beneath him, sounds dangerously close to begging. “I did not mean to offend you!”

Cardan laughs, a joyless and wicked sound. “But you have offended me, Randalin,” his eyes are wild and his grin reckless. “You have questioned my ability to choose what is best for my kingdom and you have insulted the woman who occupies my every waking thought. You have even made the grievous mistake of disturbing my wife in one of her extremely rare moments of weakness, a moment where she undoubtedly needs all her time and energy to rest.”

The nightshade occupying the rose’s former home overgrows it’s pot and begins spilling down the side of the windowsill, flowers reaching towards Randalin like little fingers.

“Your Majesty, I beg your forgiveness,” Randalin’s voice almost catches in his throat. “I won’t ever suggest that High Queen Jude abdicate again. I promise!”

“Good,” Cardan says as he steps within reach of Randalin.

Randalin lets out a sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing forward.

And it’s all a moment too soon, for the High King lashes out in the blink of an eye, his long fingers wrapping around the advisor’s throat and pushing his head back against the stone wall with an audible crack!

“Because I am the man of questionable morals, and this is war,” Cardan continues as Randalin’s spine screams in agony at the angle he’s been forced into. “I, Cardan Greenbriar, High King of Elfhame, declare war!”

His fingers tighten around Randalin’s throat, his nails already leaving bloody half-moons in the older man’s skin as he presses his forehead to the council member’s.

“I declare war on everyone who opposes my wife’s right to rule beside me as my queen and my equal,” his eyes are wild, barely containing his rage. “It is a war that is unending, a war that is complete and total, a war that I have no qualms about getting violent during.”

Randalin tried to swallow, but he can’t as the king’s hand digs into his throat even harder.

“I, a man without a love for swordplay, will take up a blade. I, a man without a taste for bloodshed, will slit a thousand throats,” he continues, “if that is what it takes for my people to respect my wife.”

Randalin’s vision swims in black, his face beginning to turn an impressive shade of purple as blood starts to gush from bramble-inflicted wounds.

“And as for you,” Cardan is close enough to see tears gather in his advisor’s eyes. “You who was bold enough to openly question the High Queen, I reserve my greatest act of violence.”

The nightshade from the windowsill has reached Cardan’s feet. It begins to grow up his legs, over his waist and down his arms, forming a crown atop his head as Randalin watches in horror.

“I will skin you alive and bleed you dry, forcing you to watch the whole time,” he leans down to whisper in Randalin’s ear. “I will break your bones and tear your flesh, and when I’m done, I will find a way to erase every mention of you. No book in Elfhame will bear your name, even the stars will rearrange when I tell them to.”

“Please—“

“And then I promise I will use your hollowed our skull as my wine goblet for the rest of my days, just because I can.”

Randalin’s knees quake as his body gasps for air.

Cardan lets him go, watching in disgust as the man falls into a pile of blood-stained brambles with a sob.

“I promise this on my honor as High King, and on the vow I made with my Wife, Jude Duarte Greenbriar,” Cardan’s voice is the voice of an executioner. “So help me gods, I will rip the world apart for her.”

“Your Majesty, how can I atone?” Randalin is reduced to weeping, his hands covering his face as he cowers at his king’s feet.

“Never question the High Queen’s sovereignty again, and see that anyone else who dares to speak treason against her understands exactly how far I’m willing to go to support her right to rule beside me.”

The nightshade around Cardan disappears, withering back into the pot before dying and being replaced by pretty roses. The brambles around the room fade into nothingness, only a broken stone and a few blood smears left to remind anyone that they were ever there.

“And do hope that I don’t have to resort to violence again,” Cardan smiles that cruel little smile he wears so well. “Jude is so much more adept at wielding the hospitality of knives.”

~~~~

Tag list: @cardan-greenbriar-tcp

#cardan greenbriar #randalin #tfota #queen of nothing #jude duarte #mentioned #tyrannosaurus lex writes #hope yall enjoy #hope i didnt make it too violent #but that it was violent enough yknow #cant have someone do a 180 that hard without a little threatening

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bvllyhargrove · 5 years

Text

I’ll Take You For A Ride (Billy Hargrove x Fem!Reader)

Summary - After fighting for your attention, Billy offers to drive you home...

Words- 3717

Notes - Too many sleepless nights went into this, I forgot how to write smut halfway through the scene and this was born... I promise it’s not too horrible. Let me know what you think! It’s my first time writing for Billy and I genuinely enjoyed it

~~~

It was hot, the unforgiving Indiana sun rays beating down on your chest as you tried your best to stay in the shadow of your umbrella. You canceled out the joyous screams and laughter coming from the water as you relaxed, sunglasses perched gently on the bridge of your nose.

You could hear the soccer mom's just a few occupied seats from you, drone on about a new lemonade recipe they perfected - just in time for summer. Not even your friend's constant chatter didn't penetrate your eardrums as you mindlessly sipped the new recipe of Coke through the cheap plastic straw.

Lucas swore the new recipe tasted better than the original, and you loved the kid just enough to try it. Years of babysitting for The Sinclairs were both a blessing and a curse on your end. He's been trying to date you since he was a toddler.

"What about a job at the mall? Steve works there... at that ice cream place." Carol murmurs behind her pocket mirror. Somehow, In the hundred-degree heat, she still cared about her makeup. It was a blessing that it wasn't melting off of her.

"Give it up, he won't date you, he's dating Nancy Wheeler." Your eyes flicker over the crowded pool, lips turning down in disgust. There was no way in Hell that you would be caught dead in that water... with all of those kids... the mere thought made your skin crawl.

Carol shifted in her seat, moving the mirror away from her face to glare at you. "Uh, no he's not. Isn't Nancy Wheeler dating Jonathan Byers?" You shrugged, eyes slipping closed under your sunglasses.

"Ugh, Nancy is dating Jonathan? Like, barf me out..."

"What about the lifeguard? Do you know her?" You watched her descend the lifeguard stand, nibbling mindlessly on her whistle. Carol cocked an eyebrow, shaking her head.

"No, I've never seen her a- who is that...?" She tugged her sunglasses from her nose to glance at the shirtless male lifeguard making his way to take Heather's spot. "Is that Billy Hargrove? Holy shit."

Eyes turned to him, girls gaping as they walked past him. He was beautiful, the soft tan of his skin contrasting perfectly with the red of his swim trunks. You lifted your sunglasses as well, watching with mysterious eyes as he walked closer to you, sharing pleasantries with the soccer moms. He walked past you, his eyes lingering. He seemed to move in slow motion as you pull your bottom lip between your teeth - a movement that Billy noticed.

"Afternoon girls." He spoke slowly, his tone dripping with seduction. You breathed out a hot sigh, the blazing hundred-degree heat feeling more like a thousand on your skin.

Carol shot him a smirk, eyes sultry. "Hi, Billy."

Billy's eyes rake down your body, chewing on the end on his whistle. "The shades... they're rad." He murmured, teeth still bitten down on the metal. You shook your head, looking down.

"Thank you, Billy."

"Anytime." He shot you a wink, glancing at Carol and giving her a smirk. He moved his gaze back in front of him as he continued his path to the lifeguard tower.

"Oh, my God. He totally was eyeing you up! Y/N, this is big!" She sat up, grabbing onto your arm obnoxiously.

"Not even." You fixed your shades, before taking your coke back in your hands and taking a tentative sip, turning your nose up at the flat texture of the drink.

"Even!" She nodded enthusiastically. "Go up there and talk to him!"

"Carol, no." You waved her off, moving to grab your flip flops. "But I am going to get a bottle of water. Come with?" After Carol shook her head 'no', you stood, grabbing your wallet and making your way to the concession stand, trying your best to dodge the icky, sweaty kids passing by you.

You arrived at the stand, breathing out a sigh when the shade of the roof covered your overheated body. A short line of consumers stood ahead of you, taking their time in ordering their overpriced soft drinks and sticky half-melted ice cream.

"What's your poison, I'm buying." You jumped, looking to your left where Billy stood next to you. A delicious sheen of sweat covered his body delicately, giving his rippling muscles a more defined look. You simply shook your head, reaching for your money.

"Do you think I'm incapable of buying my own water?" You scoff, stepping forward as the line grew sparse.

You weren't dumb, you've heard about The Billy Hargrove. The handsome seducer that made girls cream their pants with a mere smirk from him. You weren't that naive to fall into his trap, no matter how deep his icy glare or how tempting his full, pink smirk was as he worked a piece of spearmint gum between his teeth.

"Come on, princess, don't make me beg, now." He chuckles, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth. You fought back a gasp, turning your gaze dead in front of you. His laugh was impeccably deep, stirring something from inside of you.

Fuck. You were fucked.

"No need to beg. You're not a child." You shrugged, inching towards the counter. There was one more person in front of you and Billy was still glued to your side. He cocked an eyebrow, ghosting out another chuckle.

"Calling me a child, Y/N? That's not very nice..."

You ignored him, asking for water once you got to the concession stand. Billy shook his head in disbelief, once again, laughing.

"Now you're ignoring me... playing hard to get, hm? Well, lucky for you, I quite enjoy a challenge."

"Shove it up your ass, Hargrove." You snatched the water placed on the counter for you and went to fish money from your wallet.

"Put it on my tab, hm?" He spoke slowly before placing a hand on your lower back, leading you back to the pool area. You felt a rush of excitement course through you at the defiance you shown. You couldn't deny that you wanted Billy, but he didn't need to know that. Not yet.

You and your friend waited until the sun started to set and the pool emptied of the countless children before starting to pack up. Thoroughly exhausted and sweaty.

You dreamed of getting into the shower, standing under the cool spray as water cascaded down your back, washing the stink and dirt from the day down the drain. The shower was your happy place, a place you could be alone with your thoughts long enough without disruption.

You craved silence and peace...

"Hey, Y/N," Your eyes screwed shut as you halted in your steps towards the entrance. Billy pulled a cigarette from his jean pocket, lighting it quickly before taking a slow, steady drag of the cancerous haze.

He was dressed simply, a change from his shirtless torso and red swim trunks. His tight jeans hugged his slim legs almost breathtakingly perfect and his loose-fitting pale pink button-up barely even buttoned halfway down his sun-kissed, ab rippled chest.

"Go ahead and leave, Y/N's friend..." He waved Carol off haphazardly. The setting sun cast an almost terrifyingly angelic glow on his face, his light eyes reflecting the golden rays - luring you in.

Your body unofficially belonged to him, you knew it.

"Uh, okay? Are you okay with that, Y/N?" She rose her eyebrow at you, a slight teasing gaze painting her features. You shrugged, nodding slowly. You turned to Billy, crossing your arms over your chest in slight defiance.

"Don't make me beg," He stared back at you, blowing his mouthful of smoke in your face. You wanted to slap that smug look off of his face but you also loved it. Making him fight for what he wants. It's obvious he's never had to before.

"Get on your knees, cowboy. Beg."

"What?" Billy chuckled, looking to the ground. You shrugged, urging him on.

"You want to drive me home? You beg."

He flicked the grey-hot ash onto the pavement before hiking up the fabric of his jeans and falling on one knee in front of you. "I can't believe I'm doing this..." He mutters, peering up at you with childlike innocence. "Oh, please, Y/N. Please let me drive you home." He tucks a curl behind his ear, smirking up at you.

You pretended to ponder for a few seconds before nodding. "Fine. I'll let you drive me home. Get up." Billy smiles gratefully, standing back on his feet and taking another slow drag of his cigarette before flicking it onto the ground, stomping it out. He was graceful as he holds his hand out for you.

"Take my hand and I'll take you to the stars."

"How corny." Carol snickers behind you, moving back towards the gate and to her car. The rising sound of crickets reached the two of you as you stood under the pink and golden sky. It looked almost out of a cheesy storybook.

You found your eyes gazing into his mysterious blues. Looking, searching, wanting... all of him.

He turned away on his heel, the smirk never leaving his face as he leads you out of the enclosed space, twirling his keys on his finger as he waves goodbye to his co-workers. You felt a new kind of confidence as you walked out of the pool with Billy Hargrove.

"This is my baby - A '79 Chevy Camaro. She's two and a half tons of pure, undisputed muscle." He knocked on the hood, sending a dull, metallic bang throughout the parking lot.

"So, are you an engine head?" You inquired, stepping into the passenger seat carefully. You could tell he took pride in the blue-tinted car. as you looked around the black interior. It was clean - you weren't expecting that much.

The ashtray, however, was full. Discarded butts of old cigarettes decorated the small compartment. The car smelled of cologne and smoke. It smelled like Billy, that delicious scent you wouldn't let your sinuses erase.

He climbed into the driver's side, keeping the door ajar as he fumbled around in the glove compartment, elbow resting on your thigh as he glanced up at you with those oh, so sinful jet blue eyes and those majestically long eyelashes.

You never understood how this beautiful man could be such a douche. But that's how all of the pretty boys were - hormonal idiots waving their dicks around without a care.

He finally retrieved a half-empty pack of gum, holding it up to you as an invitation which you denied. He shrugged, sitting back up in his seat and popping the thin white stick of the dry mint-flavored chicle into his mouth.

"You sure you don't want a piece, princess?" He flicked the metallic paper out of the window, working the gum between his teeth with a precise gaze, centered directly onto you.

"Uh - no." You cleared your throat, looking back outside of your window, finally letting yourself breathe the musty outside air. He was quick, shifting the car in drive professionally. He pressed on the gas, jerking the car into drive spaztically, causing both of your bodies to fall back in the hard leather seats.

He zoomed out of the parking lot, leaving a cloud of tire smoke in its wake.

A few minutes into the drive, to where - you weren't quite sure; the heady rock music played loudly inside of the car, irritating your eardrums. You've told Billy to turn it down multiple times, to which he ignored, playing it off as he couldn't hear your pleads over the songs.

Eventually, he reached over, turning the volume down to near mute as he glanced over his shoulder at you.

"Tell me about yourself." He drummed on the steering wheel to nonexistent music, his steady hand barely gripping the wheel as he rested his elbow on his thigh.

"There's not much to know about me." You shrug, glancing back over to him. He's still rapping his fingers obnoxiously on the wheel, light brown boyish curls moving almost angelically in the harsh wind. "Oh, well, I'm a babysitter. I sit for the Sinclairs, The Wheelers, etc."

"Yeah? Then you tell that creepy kid Lucas to stop harassing my sister. I tried to tell the little shit to keep her distance but she enjoys going against me. It's like she has a deathwish." He grumbled, tone harsh. You furrowed your eyebrows at the tone before shrugging it off. He was a universal douche, you doubt he acted differently to his family.

"You have a sister?"

"She's not my sister, just someone I had the grave misfortune of living with." He chews on his bottom lip impatiently as he turns into the parking lot of Hawkins High. You look around the familiar scenery, suddenly confused as to why he picked a high school to grope you at.

You knew his intentions, you weren't stupid.

And you knew you weren't the first girl to get fucked in the backseat of his car.

"I'm going to cut to the chase, baby. I want you. I've wanted you since I've seen you around the halls at school. I wanted you when that saw that sinful fucking body in that swimsuit at the pool. And I want you now, shivering in my presence." He spoke slowly, deep and brooding as he shifted the car in park, taking off his seatbelt and hovering close to you just over the console. You could feel his hot, minty, nicotine-laced breath on your hot skin, knocking the breath from your lungs.

Fuck.

"W-what?" Internally you screamed, hating the tiny squeak that left your red-bitten lips. He laughed darkly, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth even further. They were slick with sheen, red and pouty in the setting sun. His silver chain dipped from his shirt, landing on your slightly exposed chest. You shivered, eyes flitting closed.

"Beautiful..." He leaned closer, enclosing his lips around yours with haste. The kiss was messy and hot, teeth clacking together and tongues dancing in one another's mouth. He panted hotly against you, sliding a hand around your waist and pulling you even closer.

His hands were heated and quick as they explored your body just under your swimsuit cover and onto your stomach, feeling the soft skin under his fingertips.

You were melting, his touch beckoning you in. You were already aching, the buzz of arousal already pooling between your clenched thighs.

He pulled away, quick. Panting against your sucked raw mouth, causing a low, high whine to escape your parted lips. You needed him but you weren't surprised that he was a tease. Always a fucking tease...

"Billy... no." You breathe, tasting him on your tongue. He tasted just how you thought, of cigarettes and mint. It was his smell, his taste. You couldn't get over it.

It made you dizzy, needy... for him.

"Oh, what's that, princess?" He teased slowly, keeping his eyes steadily staring into yours. You shook your head, parting your thighs.

"I need it."

He attached his lips to yours again, nibbling on your bottom lip and slipping his tongue into your awaiting mouth. You focused on his every movement, the pulsing ache in your cunt becoming more evident with every single drag of his lips. "Get in the backseat, I want you absolutely naked." His words are articulated and dense, and if you weren't wet before, you are now.

You were quick, shoving off your loose-fitting bathing suit cover-up as you climbed over the console, your bare feet pushing against the upholstery of the car. You could hear the low jingle of Billy unlatching his belt and pulling down his zipper - still sitting densely in the driver's seat. He rolls up the windows, looking around at the barren parking lot to ensure the both of you were alone.

Your hands were busy pulling and tugging at your suit, peeling the skin-tight material off of your body, leaving you exposed and panting, welcoming the cool summer night air on your skin.

He was dark and brooding as he climbed over the console, fully unbuttoned shirt clinging onto his shoulders and half-opened jeans sitting tightly on his hips. He ran his tongue over his slick top lip at the sight of you. You could make out the half-mast outline of his cock through his jeans, making you shudder.

He hovered himself over you, noses touching. You breathed in his carbon dioxide and he breathed in yours. You reached up to tangle your fingers in his curly locks, pulling him down to another passionate kiss, letting the first moan of the night slip from your lips as you felt the rough fabric of his jeans and the outline of his sizeable member rutting against your thigh.

You threw your head back against the window, grinding down into his touch. You couldn't focus on anything else as your wetness fell onto the seat underneath you, soaking your thighs. He caught onto your neediness. You were right where he wanted you, soaked and writhing under him.

"Off, take them off." You breathed out, moving your finger down to tug at the fabric. He let you, looking down to you with those fucking eyelashes. Everything about this rippling man was perfection.

You dipped your thumb into the waistband of his tight briefs, pulling them down just so you could sneak your hand under the fabric, cupping him tightly through his pants. He finally let his eyes slip shut, his pink lips parting in a silent moan. You let your nimble fingers explore his thick length, mapping out the prominent veins on the underside.

"That's enough." He shot open his eyes, sitting back on his heels and tugging off his jeans and boxers, tossing them in the front seat haphazardly before taking his entire length in his hands, stroking his hand over it with a sly smirk.

"Like what you see?" He takes his free hand, spitting crudely in the palm before spreading it on the head of his already leaking cock. You bite out another moan, chewing on your bottom lip.

"Jesus fucking Christ..." You mutter, rubbing your thighs together, eager and begging wet-lipped for friction. You needed it, craved it, even.

"Language," He warned, hovering back on top of you, keeping himself balanced as one hand blindly leads his length towards your weeping cunt. It took all of your might to not sink down him as he pressed the head of his cock inside of you, watching your face intently as it twisted and morphed into one of utter pleasure, even pain as he stretched you out as no other man has before.

His hands grazed your skin, dull nails scratching down the insides of your thighs as he impaled himself deeper and deeper inside of you, keeping his bottom lip prisoner between his teeth, like always. You fisted his hair, already dampened with sweat as you tried to get used to the uncomfortable stretch.

Slowly, that pain morphed into immense pleasure, sending your eyes rolling back in your head. He bottomed out, leaning down to kiss and bite at your neck, leaving the skin irritated with his hickeys. You cried out at the contradicting feelings, wanting to focus on the hot wetness of his mouth but also needing him to just give in and fuck you already.

You let out a strangled sob as he rocked into your tight cunt, his mouth parted so perfectly the entire time, and his god-like eyelashes casting shadows onto his boyish face.

You found yourself staring at him, taking in his blissed-out expression as sharp moans fell from your lips. There was a refreshing gentility to how he fucked you - he rolled his hips into you, savoring how your walls clenched and spasmed around him

The air was hot with perspiration as he finally focused eye contact on you, curling his lips into a smirk as he strengthened his thrusts, nearly at the point of punishing as you already felt your orgasm flip and jump in the pit of your stomach.

"B-Billy!" You moaned, wrapping your legs around him tight, trying to get him deeper. You needed him deeper. Your toes curled, legs spasming as you felt the tip of his cock brush against that silvery sweet spot inside of you that made you scream at the top of your lungs

The hot leather stuck to the skin on your back, chafing the skin as you focused on your impending orgasm, sneaking up on you sinfully as you fisted at Billy's locks. "I-I'm close." You bit out, doing anything to get more friction where you needed it the most. He didn't take his eyes off of yours, drinking in your drunk off of pleasure expression as he fucked you into heaven.

"Cum, baby. Cum all over my cock, hm?" He whispered, nostrils flaring as his breathing picked up. He muttered out a string of curse words, eyes slipping shut as he used your cunt like a toy, chasing his impending orgasm.

It didn't take you much longer before you were seizing under him, cunt spasming and quaking around his length as you came, your hot liquids gushing around him. Your eyes fluttered as you fucked yourself down onto his cock. Still needing to feel every single inch of him.

You were whining with sensitivity, unwinding your arms from Billy as you grip the car seat for purchase. His thrusts barely faltered as he reached his high, throwing his head back in a guttural moan as he pulled out unexpectedly, letting the head of his already weeping cock fall on your lower stomach, letting his cum paint your sweat sticky stomach.

"Fuck! You fucking - Uh!!" The muscles in his arms tensed beautifully, allowing you to make out every defined tendon and vein. You bit down on your lip, the sticky cum on your stomach already drying.

"Take me home now?" Your arms shook as you sat up, everything single part of you in disarray. You sat in a pool of your sticky arousal, grimacing when you felt your skin peel away from the leather.

He simply chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, no princess. I have plans for you." He scooted closer to you, dragging a finger down your chin. "Big plans."

#Billy Hargrove #billy hargrove smut #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove fanfic #stranger things #billy hargrove fanfiction #stranger things imagine #stranger things smut #stranger things x reader #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction

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pengiesama · 4 years

Text

God of Love Descends, with Blessings of Cabbage (Fic, TGCF, HC/XL)

Title: God of Love Descends, with Blessings of Cabbage Series: Heavenly Official’s Blessing (Tian Guan Ci Fu) Pairing: Hua Cheng/Xie Lian

Summary:

Pei Ming gives Xie Lian advice on how to:

a) Get knocked up b) Get Hua Cheng knocked up c) Avoid getting his head eaten during sex with a grasshopper demon d) Grow cabbages

Xie Lian then takes some of this advice, but not all of it.

Link: AO3

Read on Tumblr!

“So…” Pei Ming said. “I heard you and your Crimson Rain were in need of some advice.”

On that last word, he winked.

“You heard incorrectly,” Xie Lian said. “Please leave, I have cleaning to do.”

With that, he tried shutting the door. Undaunted, undeterred, Pei Ming wedged his body into the crack; preventing Xie Lian from ending this intrusion peacefully.

“Then it was intuition! Being as I am a respected god of love, along with the whole martial thing, I just know these things. I perceive and understand when someone is in need of advice—” Again, with the winking. “—and a god cannot shirk his duty. You get it, your highness?”

“I don’t,” Xie Lian said. “Please do not damage my door with your body.”

Pei Ming finally squirmed his way in, despite Xie Lian’s best efforts – alas, he had been too concerned with the state of that door his San Lang had made for him, and in the process had welcomed disaster. Well, perhaps that was a strong word. “Annoyance”, “trouble”, “someone who was only here because he was desperate for attention”. Xie Lian could’ve almost felt sorry for him, against his better judgement.

“Anyway. This esteemed martial god of the north, this god of love, this – do you have anywhere for me to strike a pose for this speech? Like a big ol’ lotus or a fluffy cloud or something?”

Xie Lian leaned on his broom and stared at him, flatly. After a long moment, he walked to his scrap pile, picked up an empty wooden box, and carried it over. Pei Ming accepted it and set it on the floor before he clambered atop it.

“This god of love comes with great excitement to express his joy at your and Crimson Rain’s desires for offspring, and to provide his advice—”

“General Ming Guang, do you have an eye infection?” Xie Lian asked.

“No!” Pei Ming said. “I’m infected with the disease known as Baby Fever!”

“I wish you a swift and full recovery,” Xie Lian said. “Please leave so you can coalesce at a safe distance.”

Pei Ming sighed and scratched at his head, stepping down from the box. “Y’know, your highness, I really did come to help. A certain little birdie told me that you and Crimson Rain were thinking about bringing a bundle of joy or two into your household, and you won’t find a god in heaven that’s got more experience in that topic, I can tell you that much.”

Xie Lian’s cheeks colored, and he looked away. He had an idea of who that “little birdie” was, and as for the topic of that birdie’s chatter, well – it wasn’t wrong, necessarily, but just. Maybe getting a little ahead.

“I…I thank you for your sincere concern,” Xie Lian slowly said. “But San Lang and I, well, we’re, maybe, well, not, almost, well, maybe, a bit…”

“Listen,” Pei Ming said encouragingly, clapping his hand to Xie Lian’s shoulder, and not looking overly offended when Ruoye immediately smacked him away. “If you’re worried about the process, you and Crimson Rain have plenty of options! I heard he’s quite devastating in female form, for one; surely his highness would stand up tall to the challenge of bedding and planting seed in such a wicked beauty…”

Xie Lian’s ears were burning red. “I would advise General Ming Guang to not get any ideas.”

Pei Ming raised his hands. “No ideas in this head of mine, just full faith in his highness’ abilities. For that matter, surely Crimson Rain, if his highness wished to experience the joys of childbirth personally, would—”

“Pray General Ming Guang stop speaking.”

Pei Ming looked hurt. “I’m not judging his highness at all! I’ve gotten knocked up myself a few times, and I can confirm that the nine months are a valuable period of mediation and cultivation…”

“…” said Xie Lian.

Pei Ming smiled knowingly and slung his arm around Xie Lian’s shoulders; heedless of the Ruoye furiously smacking him on the head.

“I know what his highness is thinking. You see, when a man and a beautiful woman who is also a bee demon are very attracted to each other, sometimes, that woman asks the man if she can lay her eggs in him and then immediately drop dead afterwards. As a red-blooded icon of masculinity, could I possibly deny her final request? But! You have to be careful of beautiful women who are also grasshoppers, because sometimes they get feisty in bed. I of course would never be one to deny an expecting mother of much-needed protein, but you have to set expectations – you tell them, ‘my darling, my sweet, of course you can eat my head while we fuck, but it can only be a clone of me, because I’m not looking for that kind of commitment.’”

Pei Ming blinked, and he visibly was deep in thought for a moment.

“Do butterflies do that kind of thing too? Is your Crimson Rain human down there, mostly? Does he have a, whatchacallit, a proboscis? Just trying to figure out what we’re working with.”

It was common knowledge that Pei Ming’s many, many, many, many, many descendants were spread far and wide across the world. About seventy percent of Middle Heaven officials were Pei Ming’s illegitimate scions; some of whom were not fully human in form. Perhaps this revelation was new news to Xie Lian, but it was hardly surprising news. Surely such a prodigious array of progeny could only be achieved if one expanded one’s tastes.

“Listen listen listen!” Pei Ming squawked as Ruoye hauled him up by the armpits, his legs kicking in the air. “If you’re not into the idea of lugging something around for nine months, you can do it the old-fashioned way!”

How is that not the old-fashioned way…?, Xie Lian wondered.

“So those child-bearing pills you got,” Pei Ming began, thus proving that Shi Qingxuan was completely incapable of keeping a secret. “You build yourself a nice little garden, you get some holy water, and you grow yourself a little cabbage that you’ll pluck when they’re ready to make their debut.”

“Those are seeds? Seeds that you’re supposed to plant in the ground?” Xie Lian blurted before he could stop himself.

Pei Ming blinked. “…yeah? What, did you think that you were supposed to take them like medicine?”

Well, that at least explained why that hadn’t been working. Xie Lian made a note that he would have to beg the pardon of Rain Master and request her guidance in…cabbage farming.

“So basically,” Pei Ming summed up. “If your Crimson Rain’s proboscis can’t lay eggs in you, and neither of you are willing to grow a womb for the duration, pills. Pills in the ground.”

“Thank you for your input, General Ming Guang,” Xie Lian said firmly.

“And if either of you need protein, use a clone!” Pei Ming called back as Ruoye whirled around before flinging him into the distance. “General Ming Guang says practice safe sex!”

“Pray gege forgive this San Lang for not knowing the proper application method of the pills. He hadn’t dared presume gege would wish to use them, and this cowardice resulted in a shameful gap in knowledge.”

“Mmm,” Xie Lian replied, leaning back against his husband. He gazed at the little patch of fresh dirt in front of them. Puqi Village was a good spot to start a garden. It was quiet, peaceful; away from the hustle and bustle of Ghost City. The cabbage could be introduced to its second home soon enough. “Pray San Lang forgive this husband for being too stubborn to even consider that an alternate method was perhaps better suited.”

Hua Cheng nosed the back of Xie Lian’s neck; he could feel his smirk against his nape. “Ah, but gege’s stubbornness brought so many delightful nights…”

Hua Cheng’s breath and lips travelled lower, from his nape, trailing down his spine. Xie Lian sighed aloud and loosened his belt and ties to allow his robe to slip lower, off his shoulders and catching on his elbows. Hua Cheng could take a hint, and Xie Lian couldn’t help but laugh aloud in delight as he was pressed into the grass by his husband’s weight.

It had been a long and anxious day of gardening, and Xie Lian thought he could use some proboscis.

#天官赐福 #tgcf #heavenly official's blessing #tian guan ci fu #hualian #a tenderly crafted fanfiction

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pythosart · 4 years

Text

A big ol 2019 end of the year update

I felt somewhat compelled to write my end of the year/decade thoughts, but a warning before you read: This one’s going to be heavy, intensely personal, and long. If you don’t feel up to reading that, it may be best to skip it. I promise I’ll go back to shutting up and posting art afterwards. I’m profoundly incapable of being concise, ever, so apologies for the length of this.

2019 was a nightmare.

Some background: In mid 2016, my mother was diagnosed with a rare form of liver cancer. She was given a few months to live. She was given weeks or months to live multiple times, for almost three years. In that time my mom was in and out of the hospital, but spent all her good days living life to the fullest, starting and finishing dream projects, and keeping all of us going despite her own situation. Even when she was bedridden, hooked up to tubes and bags and god knows what, she found time to prop up her loved ones and pursue her hobbies. She even managed to develop new hobbies and interests while otherwise imprisoned by her physical state, something I struggle to do at the best of times even in my young and relatively healthy form. If there’s anything I can make of this experience, it’s that I hope to grow into even half the woman my mother was.

I ended 2018 with my final quarter at SCAD. I spent the entire quarter terrified my mom was going to die while I was away from home. It was horrific, I barely scraped by my last few classes (bless my professors’ endless patience), and immediately left Savannah for home as soon as the quarter was up. I never had room to celebrate finishing college. Any other year it would be a huge milestone, but I barely even care.

This past May, my mother passed away, after three years of petrifying suspense. It happened in the dead middle of the night, while my best friend was visiting for a con, and it still feels like a bad dream. It’s also one of the only vivid memories I even have of this year.

I wish I had more to say on that, but I genuinely think the drawn out suffering and fracturing of my whole world left me unable to fully unpack everything that’s happened. It’s hard to even think about for long, and at times I even half-forget she’s gone. I think of things I want to show her, or tell her, or cook with her. Just the other day I kept thinking I’d tell her how much I liked endive after she showed me how to make it. I found a historical Italian cooking channel that, every time I see it, I just think of how much she’d love it. I knew she’d love Hot Fuzz but never got to show her. Little, stupid things that shouldn’t matter, but they do. They just do.

My mother and I were close, much closer than I am with my dad. Especially towards the end of her life, we had gotten closer, and I felt like I was only just really getting to know her as an equal. I still want to share my life with her, but that chance is gone.

This holiday season has been especially rough in her absence, because not only was my mom the motivational and creative force behind a lot of holiday activities here, it’s the first everything without her. We had Thanksgiving with friends and a catered dinner, instead of spending several days cooking and polishing family silver and setting the table. I won’t be making handmade tortellini with her for Christmas like we did every year. It’s the little things like that.

We’re a tiny family, with over half of us in Italy and lacking much communication due to the language barrier. Family holidays were always small, but there’s just a huge hole how, much greater than the cold numeric value of “one fewer participant.” My mom was always a driving force and a keystone in our support networks, not to mention the main line of contact with the Italian-speaking side of the family, so now the family feels so much more scattered and isolated than ever.

My girlfriend was close to my mother too, and as she’s been living with me for years now and is practically part of the family, I think she took it just as hard as anyone. Cel saw everything I did, and dealt with many of the same uncertainties and traumatic experiences I did.

A month after I lost my mother, I lost my cat too. Galileo was twelve years old, a spry old man who yelled instead of meowed, and just a wonderful cat. I got him when I was in 7th grade, after begging my parents for years to get me a cat. It was my mom who eventually overrode my dad’s hesitations, and from then on Leo was part of the family. He went through a very sudden decline over the course of a week or two, and we learned it was cancer. Feline lymphoma, I think. I had to make the call to put him to sleep, and it ripped what was left of my heart out.

Not that it needs stating, but fuck cancer.

A few too-short months later, I cut ties with a “friend,” which despite how fucking much it hurt, was really for the best. At a certain point one simply can no longer afford to waste energy on a certain kind of person. Unfortunately I’m a persistently optimistic idiot, and it took me too long to cut my losses before deep damage was done. Done to me, my close friends, and even barely involved acquaintances this “friend” dumped on relentlessly and tried to harass into spying on me. Really, if any part of this is unforgivable, it’s that.

All this was, however, a valuable reminder that it’s no good to have any tolerance for habitually dishonest people, even if they think they’re doing it to look “nice.” Chronic liars will gaslight you whether they know it or not, and trying to navigate that in an already damaged mental state is inadvisable. It was an important lesson in picking one’s battles, albeit one learned too late. I’m still holding out hope I can find it in my heart to forgive this person, if only for my own selfish sake so I can move on. I have a lot of experience living on spite, and I don’t want to make a further habit of it.

Naturally all of the above did little to curb my already inflamed pessimism about the state of my country and the world at large, but I need not expand on that, I imagine.

I suppose it would be unfair of me to leave it all at that and only mention the negative, though admittedly positivity is hard to muster these days. A few bright spots of note:

Graduated from SCAD with my BFA in Sequential Art (technically last year, but I did the ceremonial bit this year)

Tabled at Animazement with Woods. We barely broke even, but it was a great time and I plan on doing it again in the new year.

Spent literally an entire month hanging out with my two best friends, which was amazing and exactly the kind of healing experience I needed around that time of year.

Properly did Halloween for the first time in years. I made a costume I’m proud of and we went out on the town… for like an hour, because it promptly started pouring. But fun nevertheless

Started therapy. As of writing this, I’ve only had an introductory session, but it’s a start. Should have started six months ago, but didn’t for reasons to be addressed...in therapy

Started volunteering at the local natural history museum, where I spent like half my childhood. I’ll be doing data entry in collections, but that’s still cool as hell

Got a start on figuring out what I want to do with my life. It’ll involve going back to school for science within the next five-ish years, but it’s nice to have a goal. More of a goal than I’ve ever had, in fact.

Played some extremely good video games (shout out to The Blackout Club and Control)

Made a shitload of unnecessary yet endlessly fun and good AUs with my friends and my one (1) OC

Got an iPad Pro and started learning Procreate, which has gotten me drawing more

Learned a bit of needle felting

2019 was a year of getting much closer to my two best friends, and I genuinely owe them my life at this point. I don’t know where I’d be without them. Nowhere good, certainly.

Woods and Dross kept me talking to people, kept me creating, told me when I was being unreasonable or needed to cool it, heard me out when I needed it but always kept me honest. They helped me keep some creative juices flowing when otherwise I’d have been at a frustrated loss and might have given up for good. If it seems like I’ve kept up my usual art output at all, and if you’ve enjoyed the Lou content (or not, whoops... apologies to everyone who followed me for monster content) you have both of them to thank.

Even moreso, I owe my girlfriend a great deal for being there for me through all of this while she herself was suffering similarly. She and I have had our ups and downs, and been through a lot in the five-ish years we’ve been together. We aren’t the most outspoken couple, but I think our mutual understanding and pain mitigated a lot of the damage this year has done. I don’t think I could have handled it alone.

Furthermore, I really need to thank a lot of other friends and acquaintances I’m not quite as close with, but still talk to. These people especially were willing to call me on my bullshit when necessary, or just talk to me at all, about anything. Even if these acquaintances didn’t know it at the time, there’s a good chance they were dragging me out of one of my frequent existential despair spirals.

I also, weirdly, owe a lot to helping my hen Julia recover from her dog attack. That was around the time that my mom’s health was in its final decline, when I felt the most helpless and despairing. I think having even some tiny something I could do to help was like, the only feeling of control I had in life for a bit there. Julia’s fine, by the way. Still queen of the yard, top chicken boss bitch, etc. Julia was always a kind of kindred spirit with my mom, in a way. Little but not to be underestimated, gray, big personality and commanding presence… Not to mention, she was one of the first in our flock and was always my mom’s favorite.

It would be too much to say I have high hopes or plans of any kind for the upcoming year, but I do have a list of things I want to try and do. Some of which will involve art, and the posting thereof.

Big if on this one, but I’ve also recently started therapy (only took me half a year to work up to making a phone call after the first failed attempt took all the wind out of my sails) and I have…maybe not high hopes, but hopes, for that doing something to help. I should have started therapy two years ago, but the second best time is now, etc etc.

I have a lot of New Year’s resolutions, beyond the usual “get in shape, drink less coffee, blah blah” that I’ll try and write up a little list of separately. Most of them are art-related, so you all will be there to watch me swing and miss I PROMISED I’D TRY TO BE LESS NEGATIVE. New Year’s resolution #1: Maybe don’t make so many self-deprecating jokes.

Anyway, I don’t know how to end any wall of text, be it an OC worldbuilding screed or something serious like this, so... I guess, love yourself, cherish your friends, know when to put your own needs first and when to put your friends’ needs firster. One of the things my mom taught me in this past year or so is that relationships are what you make of them, and that it’s okay to be selfish sometimes. Be generous, be genuine, don’t be a doormat and don’t lie to people you care about, even if it seems kinder in the moment. Savor the time you have with those close to you, and spend time doing things you love. Cliché, maybe, but cliché can still be true. Happy new year, everyone. I sincerely hope it will treat us all better. 2020 may just be an imaginary change of numbers, but I like to think it really does wipe the slate in a way, and make room for all of us to do what we can to be better. Speaking of which, vote. For the love of all that is good, vote.

A little bullet list of New Year’s resolutions, because it’s nicer to look at

Try to get back in shape (of course) - That 30 days of strength thing was good while it lasted, despite my joints hating me

Learn some new recipes, preferably with fewer carbs, you Italian ass

Keep a physical calendar and stick with it for at least a few months

Learn at least one new skill by the middle of the year, whether it’s art-related or something else

Start writing more. Don’t have to share it, but try. Write down ideas somewhere other than Discord where they’re easy to lose

Either reopen Patreon or figure out how ko-fi works. Even if it’s for no money, just to have structure and goals.

Do Animazement again and try out some new product types

Go to SCAD career fair with a decent portfolio

Get better about spending, by whatever method works

Attend some art classes at the local collectives, doesn’t matter what

Play more video games. I swear I only played like three new things this year

Read more classic literature and nonfiction, at least one book per month. I’ve been really enjoying Agatha Christie’s works and am about to start Guns, Germs, and Steel

Read more comics. Basically just consume more media

Do Halloween again, better this time

See friends in person more

Practice accepting whatever shitty thoughts show up and then letting them go, rather than dwelling on them

#not art #text post #death cw

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idealistsinc · 4 years

Text

09 // lush

wc: 1,555 content warning: nsfwish, interrupted coitus by way of the unfortunate reappearance of Limsan ale, Vhox being Vhox

Hauling a plastered, squirming Rin up the creaking stairs of an inn was not what Vhox had had in mind for this evening.

It was just meant to be a drink between the two of them. Call it an experiment. Rin always begged off alcoholic beverages when Vhox took him out to the Bismarck on some poor Ul’dahn merchant’s coin, but Vhox was determined that Rin at least taste the rich, malty sweetness of a good Limsan old ale — and if getting Rin tipsy loosened him up a little (enough so that he might be amenable to sloppy, drunken sex in the alley behind the tavern, even), well, that was all the better for Vhox.

So he had started Rin on his first pint with the intent that he’d only keep the ale coming if Rin could handle his drink. But he had been…distracted. It wasn’t his fault that the low collar of Rin’s tunic emphasized the column of his throat, or that halfway through his drink Rin had begun to speak vigorously on the point of the Limsan thalassocracy’s inherent fragility, so that Vhox was obliged to argue with him in good faith and, of course, call for another round to whet their tongues.

It was only when Rin stood up and immediately kissed the floor that Vhox realized they were both into their third pints of ale — and Vhox, who was also not completely sober himself, outweighed Rin by at least some fifty ponz.

That wasn’t to say there was nothing at all pleasant about Rin’s drunken company. In fact, despite being so utterly trashed as to require that Rin lean his full weight into Vhox’s side, Rin seemed to be putting forth a concentrated effort to make the experience as pleasant for Vhox as possible, which he was currently doing by way of thumbing slow, maddening circles just at the base of Vhox’s tail.

Oh, yes, drunk Rin had his virtues. Really, Vhox deserved a medal for reaching the room without stopping to fuck him against the wall.

“You’re goin’ to be in trouble if y’keep doin’ that,” said Vhox. He had barely kicked the door closed behind them before Rin was draping his arms about his neck, melting against him like a liquid and looking salaciously up at him through bleary, half-lidded eyes.

“Trouble?” said Rin. His fingernails scraped his hairline, sending electric tingles of lust shivering down Vhox’s spine. “You mean you didn’t bring me to an inn to fuck me, Vhox?”

Hell yes, said his body. Hell fucking yes.

Except there was a small, inconsequential, half-whispered voice in the back of his head that kept saying Rin was very drunk, that Rin was never this forward, that maybe Rin wasn’t being…quite himself. Vhox had already kicked that voice in the family jewels, but nevertheless, he found himself saying, with practically no conviction whatsoever, “I’m not goin’ to ‘ave you be sick on me. Y’can’t even walk.”

“How noble of you.” Rin dragged Vhox’s head down so he could work his lips along his jawline, his breath hot under his chin and his voice nearly a purr, “But I should hope that I can’t walk after you’re done with me, hm?”

Vhox’s brain immediately and irrevocably left the premises. He bucked his hips, feeling the press of Rin’s arousal, and was rewarded with a filthy moan the likes of which he’d never heard from Rin before. Gods, why the fuck hadn’t he tried this earlier? The part of him that was still capable of semi-coherent thought wanted to test this new and oversensitive Rin, draw him out, see just how responsive he could make him…but Vhox was, at the end of the day, impatient and incapable of grasping the benefits of delayed gratification. His hand was already at the waistband of Rin’s trousers, busy with the button, while he busied his mouth scraping his teeth down the velvety skin of Rin’s throat.

“Fuck. Ah—”

Rin’s hands fisted in his hair. He jerked Vhox’s head away hard enough to hurt, and before Vhox could think past the haze of lust, or even process Rin’s expression enough to realize that was not a gesture of ardor, Rin had already vomited colorfully down the front of Vhox’s shirt.

Well, thought Vhox, when he was again capable of such a thing. I s’pose that’s what I get, innit?

There was a moment of immense silence as Rin stared at him in slowly dawning mortification. His face had gone rather gray, spit trailing from the corner of his mouth. “Oh,” he said, in a tiny, trembling voice that deftly murdered what little was left of Vhox’s libido. “Oh no. Oh, fuck, I’m so sorry. Let me—”

Rin made a clumsy sort of motion as though to wipe it off with his sleeve, but, still in close quarters, he ended up nearly smacking himself in the face for the trouble. Vhox released him and took a measured step back so he could inspect the damages. He looked rather more like he’d been stabbed than gone awry of drunken emissions — old ale was astonishingly red coming up — and he was also still far more uncomfortably aroused than a man covered in vomit had any right to be, but one thing was certain: they would not be going any farther tonight unless Vhox wanted to risk a facial…and not even the fun kind. Small blessings that Rin hadn’t eaten—

At which point Vhox put a hand to his forehead in sheer self-reproach. I’m such a fucking idiot. Of course Rin hadn’t eaten anything. He’d all but dragged him to the tavern, and here he was, letting him drink three damn pints on an empty stomach. “It’s fine, Rin,” he sighed, shrugging self-deprecatingly to take the edge off that first little nibble of guilt. “I don’t know what I was expecting—”

He trailed off. Rin’s ears had lowered against his skull, giving the overall effect of a stray dog Vhox had just booted in the ribs. Vhox felt immediately like a prick, which meant, of course, that he would just have to keep talking until he finally landed on something that took that horrible look off his face. “Listen, this ain’t even the first time I’ve had somebody puke during foreplay. Hells,” he added, inspired, “the first time I tried to give someone head, his cock hit the back of my throat and I—”

Rin put his hands over his face. “Vhox—”

But there was a warm and familiar note of scorn in it. Vhox grinned. “The point is, I’ve been there—enough to know that you’re gonna wanna sit down to ride this one out.” So saying, he steered Rin toward the bed, not at all confident in Rin’s innate sense of balance. “Stay there an’ try not to throw up on anythin’ expensive. I’ll be back, all right?”

Downstairs, Vhox pilfered a bucket and a tin cup from the kitchens when the concierge wasn’t looking. He came back into the room to find that Rin had slid bonelessly to the floor, as green as a tenderfooted sailor rocking in his first storm. Vhox barely got the bucket in front of him in time.

“You good?” he said, when Rin had finished spitting up bile. “Can you keep some water down, you think?”

Rin made a helpless little hand motion that Vhox chose to take for a yes. He handed Rin the cup, then got down onto the floor with him and leaned back against the bedframe, working to undo the snaps and buttons of his ruined tunic. For a while, Rin dry-heaved into the bucket without speaking. Vhox noticed that he held his own bangs back from his face.

Finally, Rin said, “You don’t have to stay on my account, you know.” His forehead shone with sweat. There was no force to his voice at all…but there was something about his eyes that made it seem like an accusation.

“Who said I’m stayin’ on your account? Cleanin’ up after drunk guys is my kink.”

Rin made a face, but continued, with a drunken sort of persistence, “I can’t—satisfy you tonight.”

Oh.

Is that what he thinks I…

Out loud, Vhox said, smiling over the savage twist in his gut he had already decided to forget about come the morning, “I know. And I fully intend that you’ll make it up to me.” He idly traced his finger along Rin’s collarbone and was gratified when he shivered a little. “But you can’t do that if you choke to death in the middle of the night.”

“A vested interest,” said Rin, in a tone Vhox couldn’t read. He finally put the bucket between his knees and tilted his head back against the mattress, violet eyes squinting shut. “So you’re staying?”

Vhox was still quite drunk. He knew he was, because the words nearly meant something more to him than he thought Rin had meant them to mean. So you’re staying?

For a little while. For just one sun at a time until the next long voyage, the next siren song, the next desperate flight. Until he got hurt, or Rin did; until that day when Rin did mean something more by stay.

But until then, who was Vhox to deny himself his pleasures?

“Yeah, I am.”

vhox belongs to @mimiorzea

#ffxivwrite2020 #ffxiv #ffxiv rin weise #my writing #if rin and vhox had a ship name it would be 'disaster catboys'#they are both absolute hot garbage and i love them #the document name for this prompt is 'oh god why' and really that's all you need to know #ffxiv vhox tia

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finalhxaven · 3 years

Note

🎵

Send me ♫ and I will make a 5-10 SONG PLAYLIST for our muses! (Still Accepting)

Special Edition: Break Up Cloti and Feel Good Cloti (I’m here to break your heart and then piece it together again lol)

Break Up Cloti

1. Good For You (from “Dear Evan Hansen”)

And you say what you need to say So that you get to walk away It would kill you to have to stay trapped When you've got something new Well I'm sorry you had it rough And I'm sorry I'm not enough Thank God they rescued you

Tifa to Cloud. An angry Tifa upon realizing he would rather be at the church than at home has a few words to say regarding their relationship. She doesn’t tend to be angry much, but at some point with Cloud’s lack of communication reaches all time levels, she would reach a breaking point and say something much like she did in AC. It sounds almost like she’s hurting him on purpose, but there’s another poignant line that sounds very Tifa in this song, being:

I'll shut my mouth and I'll let you go Is that good for you? Would that be good for you, you, you?

Where she would be openly saying that she really doesn’t know what she could do to make him happy.

2. Explosions by Ellie Goulding

And as the floods move in And your body starts to sink I was the last thing on your mind I know you better than you think 'Cause it's simple darling, I gave you a warning Now everything you own is falling from the sky in pieces So watch them fall with you, in slow motion I pray that you will find peace of mind And I'll find you another time I'll love you, another time

Tifa to Cloud, and I KNOW I’ve sent this to you before ;) She spends so much time trying to make sure he is okay that she loses self confidence that she as a romantic partner can BE that for him. That if she is always attempting to help keep him together, she gets consumed in it too. And she leaves, even if it might mean someone’s not going to be there to help him pick the pieces up. It’s so bittersweet because he does love her, but his mind is so scattered and still making the effort just to gather itself up, but due to those efforts, it doesn’t leave much for her to have someone.

Even so though, maybe another time... If things were different...

3. Honest by The Neighborhood

Patience, test my patience. If I made it too hard for you maybe you should've changed it. Say it, you should say it, 'Cause I'd say I was wrong just to make it fill all the spaces. Waiting, always waiting. If I gave you control would you say that (We could've saved it?)

Cloud to Tifa. As much as I love Tifa, if they were to end their relationship this would NOT be all on Cloud. Girl is never honest with him, she always hesitates and almost handles him with kid gloves because she doesn’t want him to break. To not treat him with honesty is painful, and it would make Cloud doubt himself too.

4. Recover by Chvrches

I'll give you one more chance To say we can change our old ways And you take what you need And you know you don't need me Blow by blow Honest in every way I know You appear To face a decision I know you fear

Tifa to Cloud. But what if she DID be honest? At the culmination of their incapable asses to say ANYTHING, she explodes and tells him he has to be the one to do it. To end it, or to change things. But one thing she DOES want to have affirmed or denied, is whether he feels he even needs her.

5. Terrified by Among Savages

Yeah, it has been such a long, long time I've been asleep trying to sleep away my life Cause I'm terrified and I'm ruined by this mess Cause I needed you more than I needed to be blessed

I swear I’m not TRYING TO REGURGITATE SONGS FFFF. Cloud to Tifa. The guys been through so much and having uncertainty in a relationship doesn’t help when he’s over here still trying to figure out who he is as a person. He DOES say he needs Tifa, that she helps make him whole, but to see her have doubts also UNDOES him rather than helps.

6. I Hope by Rebecca Ferguson

Loving ourselves comes so easily Forgiveness was like the biggest sin to me And where there was war I wouldn't walk away But after a time I realized that for me to grow I've got to let go

This one is really rough and really particular, if he was interested in Tifa but fell in love with Aerith. The whole song is pretty self explanatory, it’s about Tifa moving on.

7. Miracle by Madeon

I've been trying to be every man you saw in me But in my eyes I just flicker out And blur like ghosts Before I go, I know Can you show me a miracle? I wish I'd stay the night, but I've got to go to America And this could take a while (mm-hmm) Isn't it time that I come alive? Endless in this life but I don't know how And so I'll go So I'll go

I give up, I’m giving you all the songs I’ve talked to you about I’m just SO SORRY REALLY I AM. Cloud to Tifa.

So many expectations on a single person’s shoulders makes them crumble rather than thrive. He leaves to find who he really is, and yet. At the same time...

Can’t you show him a miracle, Tifa?

And what you actually came for: Feel Good Cloti

1. Sway (Chainsmokers Remix) (I’m not linking this one you KNOW IT ALREADY)

Stop! Take it slowly, darling This time I'm feeling a change Stop thinking too much about it Love's gonna heal us again and again Sway! Just move with me, darling And I'm going to move with you too Can't stop, now you got me started On top, such a beautiful view

Words aren’t the only way, right?

2. Mountains by Emeli Sande

He said I'm going to have a bed with lots of pillows And that we're going to build a house with lots of windows And when we have the kids we'll tell them to remind we Of where we were now so we never get lazy

Tifa to Cloud. This is a visceral understanding on how Tifa feels towards him, that even if everything isn’t perfect or luxurious or grand, she really doesn’t care so long as they build something together. But more so than that, they will have a future together based on the dreams and wishes they make now. Also the mountain metaphor and them being from Nibelheim, a mountain town is...

I’m clever okay??? Tell me I’m clever!

3. You and Beautiful World A vocaloid song by Yuyoyuppe

There is something I need to tell you, and though I look for the words I cannot find them. Even though the things to say Are overflowing, I still can't do it. Look at me... Repeating this... All over again...

These words have no heart behind them, just a closed mind; Unconcerned actions are becoming bright. I don't need love like in dramas and such. Just to be by your side That alone is enough for me That alone is enough for me... That's all...

A love confession is hard for Tifa, she was never so good with words and especially when it comes to Cloud. But she’ll try again until she gets it right. For the one she loves, she’ll do anything, even if it scares her.

4. You Can Be King Again by Lauren Aquilina

You've got it all You lost your mind in the sound There's so much more You can reclaim your crown You're in control Rid of the monsters inside your head Put all your faults to bed You can be king again

Tifa to Cloud. There’s a reason she stays by his side the entire time, and it isn’t for shits and giggles. The love she has or him as pure, and is inspired by the true belief she has in him that he can be more than what he is right now when losing his mind. In OG, she stays by him because she still BELIEVES in him. And that’s some true kind of love right there.

5. Break The Silence by Richard Haddock

I can feel it coming and it's falling down on me I've been losing all control of everything I see Am I losing all my mind on my own? You have been here all along, I know Trying to break the silence My mind speaks in between Feeling trapped and isolated Like it was only just a dream

Cloud to Tifa. Plotwist he knows she’s been by his side the entire time and it motivates him to keep going until he breaks free to the real him.

6. Ultimately by Khai Dreams

Ultimately I don't understand a thing I try to do the best I can I know you try to do the same We're just so bound to make mistakes You could call it a disposition I apologize for all your tears I wish I could be different But I'm still growing up Into the one you can call your love I don't know if I'll ever be enough I'm throwing in my chips I guess I tend to push my luck

Cloud to Tifa. He’s loved her for a long time, but from the very beginning felt he needed to earn you. Grow to become someone worthy of her. Because for all his self loathing and unusual way of going about things, he never stopped going AFTER her. And Tifa finds that so damn charming that he’s always fighting for her, despite the fact she never needed him to. She just wanted HIM.

7. Omoide Kakera by Nano

I hear the sound of your voice, I hear it echo inside my dreams Turning into memories as they start to fall away And the tears that I cry, washed away by the rain I promise this is where I'll be, Waiting for you

Tifa to Cloud. She’s always waiting for him, to come back. To her, to home, to who he is. But the one constant he will always have, no matter what.

She’ll always be there. No matter what.

#cavusvitae #congrats you have a full set of playlists to cry for very different reasons now #im not tagging this because the rabids will kill me for th ebreakup cloti ffff

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elecilaombre · 5 years

Text

Alone

This fic was originally wrote in french, and I struggled quite a lot to translate it without spoiling the meaning behind the words. It’s Tim centric and an “Stalker AU” ( I guess) in a no cape AU, idk... anyway, it’s quite long, around 8k words ... Also it is one of my work who are kind of important for me so I hope you will enjoy it ! And a big thanks to @crypterion-moon who kindly corrected it and helped me to translate it in a correct english, you are a blessing ! And to you @nanadrawsrobins who wanted to read it ! Happy reading !

// trigger warning : mention of paranoia, depression, suicide, death, blood and stalker \\ I don’t believe it’s too hardcore but better safe than not....

“ At first it was just an impression,as if I was being followed, or spied on. From time to time, I’d turn and catch a glimpse of a leaking form. But it was alright, my fault, I always blamed my lack of sleep for those apparitions. Or maybe it was only me being too suspicious for no reason. Indeed, at first, it was only feeling, a bad one…

But suddenly it became more, so much more. Now, I saw - no, I felt - a presence always behind me, close to me. I could catch sight of this thing that was always following me, my eyes seeing glimpse of his silhouette. I was starting to be afraid of turning around and see it there right before me. Never would I have believed that it could have got worse, I thought things would improve, it couldn’t be any worse that how it was now. Except that it didn’t. I couldn’t explain exactly how or when, but the presence kept getting closer and closer. I just shouldn’t let it go by, and I learned that the hard way, the day I heard him breathing, from somewhere inside my own bedroom. He was there. In my own house. Stalking me.

I stayed awake until dawn that night, paralysed with fear … I don’t believe I have slept since …That doesn’t matter right now !

My main point is that I am being followed. Spied on. They are here, somewhere, even while I’m talking to you right now.

Even when I walk in the main hall, with their steps echoing with mine.

Even when I hold my breath, will I am lying stiffly in my bed, I can hear them just before they held their own breath, a moment too late.

Sometimes … Sometimes I swear they are whispering things, cold and dead things.

So, please, I am begging you, help me. I am tired, exhausted. I haven’t had a real night of sleep in days, weeks. I live off coffee and caffeine. And I am so terrified. Not just creeped out… It’s a chilling fear that fills my body.

But you, who is always there, present in every corner of this damn apartment. You, you must have seen them. Even if it’s only once. Just tell me where they are ! Who they are !

Oh I’m begging you, you are me, I am you… So why wouldn’t you help me. To save me ? To save us !”

Tim then fell silent and raised his head toward his reflect. He gave him a sad little smile and the other offered him a crazed one. To think he was alone with this fool.

A cold anger had begun to pervade him, will the other face took on an awful look, deformed by hatred. It made Tim gone berserk.

“ And you dare mock me ! Mock everything that happened to me ? They are going to kill me ! Or worst … Abduct me ! And you think it’s funny ? That is fucking unbelievable ! I surely hope from the bottom of my heart they will butcher you too, maybe that will be enough to erase that stupid smile off your face !”

The other was mimicking him, each one of his ticks, like a grotesque mockery of himself.

And even if Tim heard the door opening, it didn’t stopped his fist to crash against the other face, sending blood everywhere in the process. Cracking the mirror so violently that the glass shattered, sending tiny little pieces everywhere, glasses sinking into Tim’s flesh.

He was done. Already dead. His only hope, himself from the other side, wasn’t there anymore, didn’t wanted to help him.

Tim let himself fall on his knee, surrounded by glass debris, and began to cry. To sob, hysterically, hiccuping and eyes dilated. Smile distorted on his face. However, he still had enough clarity to have heard Stephanie coming in, exclaiming softly, her voice so warm, so reassuring, this was all her. Even her footsteps were soft and calming, as well as her scent or warmth of her skin.

He let himself go against her, eyes stubbornly closed,crying harder, sinking into her arms, her embrace into her, her, and just her. Tim was now crying because he knew. He knew she wasn’t - and couldn’t - be here. He murmured it again and again, she wasn’t here but Oh how he wished for it.

And when he opened his eyes again, Stephanie was, indeed, not within sight. He was alone and he was hallucinating. Tim was just so tired. He rubbed his eyes,trying to rid them of the burning and got up. He could just go to bed. He could finish taking care of his wound and just go to sleep, to take a well deserved rest. Or he could just finish the bandage, make himself a coffee and finish his paperworks. Yeah, that sounded about right. And when he said it out loud, tasting each word like adrénaline, giving them more strength, more tangibility in his weaken mind … He thought he heard a laugh, someone chuckling quietly.

But, well, at this point, was it even important ?

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

“I feel like I am losing it… Or I might already had lost my mind. I … I saw Bruce. I saw him yesterday, in a coffee shop. I walked right by him and I just… Runaway !

You know as well as I do that he died, he died too. I am just so exhausted, I can’t do this anymore. I keep seeing each one of them one by one. All those I lost, my brain keeps making them reappear… Or maybe it’s the caffeine that’s making them seems so real.

I really want to sleep now. I don’t think I can’t keep doing this. Or it might be my body craving another dose of coffee … What do you think ?”

The lightbulb sizzled a little, then shut down. Tim sighed, basking in the dark, water clapping softly with the rhythm of his breath. Actually, Tim was quite relaxed right now, even with the lack of sleep. So relaxed he might even let himself sink into Morpheus arms. Might.

The water from the bath was steaming, the bathroom clammy. Tim felt his head nod, sinking softly little bit by little bit in the water, which kept lapping slower and slower as his breath calmed. His mind got fuzzy, forgetting Bruce his deceased father. Or Stephanie, his rotting best friend. Forgetting about the one from the other side, about this foreign breath getting closer.

Then, the clapping intensified, the water rising suddenly, submerging Tim’s face. Tim’s who was panicking, feeling a hand settle on his upper thigh while someone breathed against him.

He then tried to straighten, in full panic, spitting water swallowed by error. Tim slipped, water submerging him once again but still found a way to get out, yelling as loud he could, crying, terrorised. He threw himself right to the door, almost ripping of the knob, ejecting himself in the corridor, feeling a hand brushing against his neck.

Naked, Tim ran past the living room, directly in the kitchen, slipping on the wet floor. He ended by collapsing in there, clutching a knife against his body, breath loud…

And after five minutes of dead calm silence, Tim found the courage to light up the place.

No one. There was nobody. Not even in the bathroom or in any other rooms. He saw nobody.

He was trembling, fear and adrenaline still pumping through his body.

Tim cried all that night, sleep seemed impossible. So he just cried until the sun rose, incapable of putting the knife down or to do anything else than to trace over and over the finger shaped bruise on his tight.

The mark was just confirming his theory, giving a sense of reality to this invisible threat and revealing a new problem : the stalker was done just following. Now they wanted contact and proximity. And so they had ambushed him in the bath.

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

“I am a mess. A living trash. I see things, peoples, events that aren’t real. Yesterday, someone chased me in the street. For something that felt like half and hour. I wouldn’t even had thought I was able to run for so long, not in my state.

And you would never guess who was behind me … Damian. Yes, my deceased brother. Who died with my father. I can’t even empase how terrible it must have felt. And …

I don’t even know why I’m laughing, why it seems so funny to me ! It’s actually kind of depressing, that everyone I had loved had died. That I am so unlucky. It almost sounds like a tragedy.

But, well, at least, you still here, by my side. Maybe it was meant to end with just us two. Maybe you will be enough to replace all my loved one.

I love you so.”

Tim was whispering his thoughts kindly to his coffee pot, while it prepared him the umpteenth cup of coffee got this morning. He was nursing against him an empty mug.

This morning, while busying himself, he had fallen on a nest of the other. It was mainly built of blankets, foods wraps … And thousands and thousands of pictures of him.

And creepier, the blankets were still warm. The other had just left his nest. But Tim was well aware it implied other’s existence and his apartment was big and messy, so many potential place to hide yourself and never be found in this bazaar.

So, yeah, they had made nest everywhere, on Tim’s own space. And this thought made him wring his hands, twisting them painfully with worry marked all over his face, terror and stress in his eyes.

He poured himself another cup of coffee.

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

“ I heard howls all night long. I am sure they hooted until dawn. I could almost swear I even heard their wings flapping inside my own bedroom. But I am a rational man. I know it’s impossible. I mean … No howl could get inside my house - that wouldn’t made sense . And never, never they could survive in a big city like here. Oh Gods how I can be so exhausted. I truly wanted to sleep yesterday, I swear ! But it was just like if the other wanted me awake. At least, it’s what seem the more logical to me… That they want to stop me of resting so I get even more careless and repeat my mistake error back in the bathroom. They want me to let my guard down once again so they could get closer.

But it won’t happen, I am too well organised for it. I have a very strict program to give me some release. First, I go to the office where I gave myself a short nap of 20 minutes. And another one before lunch and after. Last one is just before I get back here.

But, no need to be worried, I only allow it because I know fairly well they couldn’t dare to do something there, with so many witnesses around. I took those measures after my fourth sleepless night in a row, knowing I can’t skip sleep forever.

On the other hand, I believe the other is getting reckless, and isn’t as careful anymore. For example, my secretary found one of their hiding spots behind a couch, in a recess of the wall. She notified it to me immediately, worried at the idea of someone living there, under our noses. And I believe I never got so relieved : unwittingly, she just confirmed that this whole situation was real, not my mind playing tricks on me. Confirmed because I obviously doubted myself on this, like if all of it was just a simple delirium from my sick mind. Except that visibly, the other is real, there is truly someone who has been observing me all this time.”

Tim’s lips pulled into a tiny smile, facing the window, a book on his laps. The lights of the city against the night sky calming him, proof of life following his course, even while his own was falling apart. Just like it did when all his friends died in a car accident, Tim losing his childhood friends, his best friends and boyfriend all at once, feeling like his life stopped with them. But it didn’t and kept his own flow, rhythm, still running by, along with time. Just like it did when another car accident took, this time, his family , brother,sister and father, leaving Tim with no reason to live. But he did, because life doesn’t stop for someone’s end. And Tim’s life still kept running without his consent or concern, even with all this pain and sorrow. He shut his eyes tightly, savoring both the burning tears and the dim light.

He thought he heard a movement, like the flapping of wings, a flow of air coming across his face. He opened his eyes abruptly and, in the same moment, with a swift movement, swung at the bird’s head with his book.

The beast emitted a distressed sound, and flopped a little down, his flight shaky. It disappeared in the corridor, and Tim heard a dull sound, notifying him of his fall. He then rushed there, in the darkness of the corridor, despite his head feeling light and nausea filled him after this too quick movement. He lit up the hall and discovered the bird. The poor beast had broken his skull on a door, misoriented by Tim’s strick.

The man grabbed it by his hook and studied it for a long time, oscillating between terror and dismay … Tim had just killed an owl.

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

“ Someone slept in my bed this night. I know it because when I was changing, I noticed my sheet were undone… Also, I could still see the shape of their body they left. And it was still warm.

I know it might sound dumb, but I think… I believe they might have been… I don’t know, less active ? I’m not sure but I feel like recently their presence seemed less and less strong, as if they weren’t there anymore.

At least, the night, I don’t hear them anymore. I don’t see them. I just don’t feel them. Of course, during the day, the situation is worse. They follow me everywhere, it’s usual, but now they are harassing me, calling me at my office, or even sometimes on my phones, both work and personal. Most of the time, they doesn’t talk, just stay on line, breathing heavily. Except on a few occasions were they talked, whispering me all the things they wanted to do to me, horrors and nightmares, explaining the reason of their obsessions. How much they desire to touch me, to smell me, taste me.

Sometimes, I’m the one doing the talking. I beg, I yell and scream, throwing tantrum, or I cry, always asking for the same thing : to stop, whatever this is. I even cursed them once.

And, two days ago, I stopped mid-sentences, having lost my train of thought. A silence had planned on the line, for a few long seconds … Before they whispered “ talk to me”. I hang up. I hang up terrified, sure of having done another fatal error. Never had we tried to discuss together and I was fine with this “way”. It was one listening and the other talking. It was an unspoken rule and they broke it. Since, I make sure to have my secretary answer the phone first.

While I am at this, she seems more and more worried. She won’t stop telling me how I should take better care of myself, especially with my past. The worst is that I don’t even have any idea of what ‘past’ she is referring to… I mean, sure, I had some rough times, lost many, many beloved people… But how is that related to taking care of myself ?

Anyways, back again about the other, they seems less and less worried of being caught. For example, only this weeks, they came to my office three times. Three times of them announcing themselves as my brother. Them waiting for me in the entrance. Three times of me yelling at my secretary I wouldn’t get out of my office. That my poor brother was dead ! Dead. Dead … And each time I had a mental breakdown right after it. I can’t continue like this anymore. I am too tired, too exhausted, so done.”

Tim kept cutting in rhythm his vegetables, eyes hypnotised by the blade. He was so lost, in his thoughts, in his life, in this life. The bags under his eyes were a darkish shade of purple, like bruises, proof of too many sleepless nights. Tics were movings his eyelids, as well as his mouth, in random moments.

Tim had always been pale, but at this point, it would have been more correct to say his skin was transparent. Only his eyes stayed the same than before this downfall. They stayed clear, with no redness or blood injected troubling the pure white surrounding a soft sky blue iris and then darkness in there center.

He finally was done with his vegetables, throwing them in a pan and got back to sitting on the bar, observing his apartment. Most of it was surrounded by the darkness but he was okay with that. There wasn’t a sound. Not even one, as if the other was gone. But Tim knew better : they were somewhere near, scrutinizing him and every movement he dared do.

His head wouldn’t stop nodding up and down, he was scared and exhausted. Exhausted of living with this terror and stress. Terrified of letting himself relax. Exhausted of having the pictures of his deceased friends always imposed into his memory.

Tim didn’t want to think of them. It was easier to act as if nothing happened. And truly, in some of his memory it was just like it. After all, he didn’t remember the funeral for any of them, as if just never happend or Tim just wasn’t there. Same for his family.

Tim sighed once more and stretched toward the coffee pot. He wasn’t ready to sleep.

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

“ I am scared you know. I mean, I don’t know what to do, how to get out of this situation.

Every body, well, the few people that I see regularly, kept saying how I look so sick, so broken, and I should be more careful because of my accident. I’m not even sure to know what ‘accident’ they are referring too. Also, my secretary kept complaining I drink too much coffee for my own good and how angry would be my doctor, who doesn’t like me taking stimulants, because it stress my organs too much. And there too I don’t get the reference, like if it was some inside joke they all share… Whatever.

All that I know is that she seems more and more weirder these days, suspicious. Like she was stressed, anxious , like if she had some kind of secret concerning me. Or maybe like she had remorse… But I don’t see what she could hide from me.

Except if she was … pairing up with the other? That would be as surprising than horrifying. But I don’t think it’s the case. She just must be worried about her own life, or maybe about me. She is just such a nice girl, she can’t be that bad.

Anyways, I’m happy that I talked to you… You’re always here, such a good listener, I love you so much Cassandra.”

Tim fell silent and listened. Listened to the waiting tone dialling over and over, in the void. The only sound was his breath reverberating through the phone, coming back distorted to his ears. His sister didn’t pick up.

It wasn’t so surprising, he already knew it. After all, she simply couldn’t, being dead for almost 4 years already. Nevermore will she answer and talk with him, calming him, recomforting him… No, nevermore.

Tim put his head in his arms, face turned toward the bay window. It was late, but the young man hadn’t found enough courage to come home. He might just stay right here until the next morning. The light of the city downward were the only source of luminosity, so small with Tim was so high up here. He liked this idea, that he wasn’t with them, detached of this world he didn’t wanted to belong to. All this activity will he was up there slowly falling asleep, the light lulling him.

He needed to be detached, away from anyone. He already lost everything, so it could be so easy to die now. That’s why he wanted nobody around him, not wanting anymore string to this world, to get hurt or hurt. And only when he will be fully alone, only then, Tim wouldn’t have to suffer anymore.

The dim light kept him in this state, half asleep, and then, slightly out, fully asleep. The exhaustion and lack of sleep had reason of him.

And, while Tim’s eyes moved erratically under his eyelid, only then, he dared to enter his office. He took cautious step toward the sleeping man and kneeled next to the desk. His gaze fixed on Tim’s inky hair hiding his face away. The man took off the coffee mug sitting next to Tim, throwing it away in the toilet, cleaning it roughly. Then he got back to his previous spot, kneeling next to his protégé.

He stayed right here, crouched against the desk, caressing Tim’s hair softly, lovingly. The younger man seemed to relax against the touch, falling deeper into sleep. They stayed in this positions for hours, until the first light of dawn appeared. It seemed to motivate him to get up, going to the bathroom to put fresh water in the mug. He then placed it next to a deeply asleep Tim. The young man had finally got his deserved full night of sleep, but his worried and exhausted expression was still present on his features.

The stranger, the intruder, sighed softly and bent down, kissing kindly Tim’s forehead. And,with his hand still on the younger’s one, he scribbled a little note for him. He then kissed him a last time. And left.

He rushed through the stairs to go meet her, waiting at the escape for her. She arrived late, but she always did. They only briefly spoke, him hurrying her, but still thanking her warmly. He had needed to see Tim. Needed. She proposed that they go for a breakfast, or maybe to meet again for lunch. He declined, but told her how thankful he was. After all, she let him get into the building and covered him. He left quickly, and she got upstairs.

It was her job to be here early, her boss was always one of the first one in the office. She snuck a glance into his office, saw that he was still fully asleep and got back to her desk. Two hours later, she heard a scream, an ugly one, full of panic and fear. It was coming from her boss office, proof he finally awoke. It was quickly followed by the sound of glass shattering, a mug crashing down, swatted to the ground. She sighed. Tim was awake.

He indeed was up, acting as if the devil was on his heels, tripping on his own feet. He looked terrified, a little bit crazy and so pitiful, with his big blue eyes full of suppressed tears. It saddened her, knowing she was a little guilty of his state.

Tim left sobbing, without a word, shaking.

His secretary looked at him go, worried of feeling no guilt. Ô the things she was able to do for handsome face…

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

“ You were there. You took advantage of my state, of my weakness. Of me falling asleep. You took advantage of it to come once again torment me, haunt me. To touch me… To violate my space, my life.

I don’t know what you want of me, from me. But I do know you are a monster, a psychopath. A maniac ! You follow me, watch me. You ruin my life. I just want to end it, end everything, end it all. I need to find a way to stop all of it, no matter the consequences.

And what about this note ! Why would you even left me one ? “ Even if you don’t want to see me, I will always be by your side”. Bullshit ! What does you even wanted by that ?

It’s terrible. I feel like I am losing myself, reality beginning to mix with nightmares and visions. I’m going crazy. I’m drowning, I can’t breath, live… I’m drowning in fear, panic, lack of sleep, irrationality.

It’s been fifteen days that I hadn’t been back to my office. Not since you … That you… Since…

Fuck ! STOP IT ! RIGHT NOW ! I can’t , I can’t do it anymore. I wanna die ! I’m done with all of this, the people, the worlds, them, you … with myself too. I just cry all day … And that’s it. I do nothing, I can’t anymore. I’m stuck here, and sick of it. I don’t even dare to get out, I’m so scared to see you. To see the dead. To see all of these who will disappear, and those who already had. I’m so sick of not being able to distinguish between lie and reality. I can’t go out anymore.

I’m stuck. I’m stuck in this place and in my head. I’m stuck. With me. With me and you. You.. I… You must leave. You have to stop. I can’t keep doing this for much longer. I have already lost my mind and sanity. Aren’t you satisfied ? When will you stop tormenting me ! To force me to remember. Ignorance is such bliss….”

Tim ended whispering, adrenaline and anger disappearing until all that was left was his loneliness, abandoned.

He blinked quickly, trying to stop the tears from flowing, even if they already were sliding down his cheeks. And Tim was left alone to weep. Soundlessly. In the dark. Laying on his back, in his bed. Arms hugging himself. He cried.

On his arms, spot color of the sky range. The young man didn’t even remember hurting himself, but those bruises weren’t real for him. They didn’t mattered. He was lost, a lost cause, forsaken. Day and night were becoming one, an indistinct temporal mass. Sometimes he’d find himself in room without any memory of going there, or why. He caught himself multiple time doing round of the rooms, knocking against flat surface, looking under furniture … Searching for someone - or something - hidden away reflex as archaic than childish.

And everytime Tim caught himself doing this, he froze, aware of having close to no control of his own actions. And each time the hours had gone from 2 to 10, without him remembering, losing track of it, it worried him even more. One day, he even found himself covered in spiderwebs and dust, without knowing how or where he got himself this dirty.

He was unstable, incapable of reconstruct his days. But he still knew the howls were watching him with their fluorescents eyes. He knew he couldn’t go in the bathroom, fearing to catch the reflection of the other in the mirror, behind him. He knew he shouldn’t get to close of the bay glass, the dead waiting for him on the balcony.

So Tim cried even more, almost hoping the other would talk, or even breath, right against him. But there wasn’t any noises. No movement. No reaction. The other was gone.

Tim’s felt his throat tighten. Abandon. Once again. Poor Timmy, dumb little Timmy would be left alone. He curled on himself and waited, awake, for the morning to happen.

The other breath reappeared close to 6am.

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

“ I couldn’t find my way back. Well, not surprising, I didn’t come here that much, sorry. The gardener helped me, he even told me how to get to my family’s tomb next.

I don’t know why I am here. There isn’t really any valid reason for it, I just felt the need to… It never happened before.

I… Well.. You… Oh gods, I’m blushing now, all of this is absolutely ridiculous. I’m absolutely mortified of never coming to see you by my own will. Of trying to erase you from my life, to forget you for real. You are a whole part of my life. My childhood, my teenage year and the beginning of my adult life.

There is someone, something, who want me to remember you, or at least to think of the dead. For it, they keep me from sleeping, follow me and call for me in the street. Try to usurp the identity of someone they can’t be. Call me to talk about you. Force me to remember.

And the only positive aspect of this whole situation is me finally reconciling myself with my past, and with you all, guys.

I must go, I still have to see my family. I just wanted to say sorry and remember you - and myself - of how much I love you all.

Goodbye.”

Tim felt his voice shaking, tears running down his face, while he disposed flowers in front of the memorial, dedicated to all his friends. To his childhood friends. To his best friend. To his boyfriend. To the dead and the ghost of his childhood.

He stroked the plaque with their name and walked away. He had quite a hard time finding his family’s graves, but maybe he needed this time to prepare himself for it. Because it was going to be ugly and he knew it very well.

He indeed broke down in tears when he finally got in front of them, ugly sobbing for quite a long time, until it calmed a little. Tim never felt that pathetic, that pitiful, fragile. Then, word began to fall from his mouth, rain of apologies, remorse and regrets, flooding in an impetus flow. Tim didn’t bothered to stop it. And, when he was done, he felt a feeling of relief flood through his mind. He finally talked to the dead.

Tim began to lay a flower for each of them.

“To Bruce, beloved father and friend. He protected and loved the out cast”. A bouquet of lys.

“To Cassandra, beloved sister and daughter. She lived without regrets or remorse.”. A Camelia’s bouquet.

“To Tim. Son and bother. Other died so he lived”.

He froze. It was wrong. On the third tomb should had been Damian’s name. Not Tim’s. NOT HIS !

In full panic, he threw himself on his knees, finger deciphering the words. It indeed wasn’t his name. Neither it was Damian’s. It was someone else’s, a stranger stele.

Tim straightened and finally saw him. His dead father. He seemed younger. He seemed alive. He seemed surprised of seeing him. And while Bruce took a step toward him, hands stretching to grasp Tim, this one ran.

He didn’t slow down for the two hours ride it took to get back to his apartment, focused on the road. It’s only when his door locked behind him that he collapsed, hands clasped around his heads, screaming behind the closed door.

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

“ I shouldn’t have come back. It’s dumb, I didn’t even wanted to. But, well, turns out I am here. And likely you didn’t expected me. You thought I would disappear, or worse, be cast out. You thought I would just be abandoned … And that you would win, and that without me being even aware of us playing against each other.

But, sweetie, you are way too stupid to beat me. I always had been greatest at this kind of game, I’m not a quitter and I have stamina… You are so dumb you didn’t even noticed you were only a mere pawn… Brainless secretary.

Although, I hadn’t been this efficient either. After all, I was dumb enough to trust you and never doubt you… That was as stupid as your action. Anyway, it won’t change the fact they lost. They aren’t aware of it right now, but they have lost. No matter what they are to you. No matter what I might be for them. No matter what they think they are to me. I’m going to end this sick game. And I will make sure you will suffer the consequences. Or just suffer. I will make sure you won’t be able of closing your eyes without doubting of being able to open them once again. I wish, almost wish, you will die, so I won’t have to see your face ever again. But, Jessica, I won’t do it… After all, you are my secretary …

I will be the first suspect of your murder. But I still need you to suffer. To suffer as much I did those 4 last months. I want you to fall on this hellscape like I just did.

But don’t worry, I will catch this son of a bitch and make him regret his fucking fixation. I’m not an object, I’m not breakable. I’m not malleable. And I’m not fucking rational ! NOT ANYMORE !

So now, you will be a good girl and tell me who employed you. Who you helped to play me this ‘trick’. Tell me so I can end it for real with them. SO … WHO. IS. IT. WHO ?”

Jessica began to cry once again in front of Tim. She was unable to articulate two coherent words and it only pissed off the man more. He threw suddenly his coffee mug through the room, sending it to shatter on the opposite wall, missing Jessica. She curled on herself, yelling even more.

Tim massaged his head, feeling a headache coming. She should shut up soon or he will lose the poor self control he maintain. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. No, Tim won’t hit here. No, he won’t lose control. No, he didn’t tried to aim the mug at her. You must understand Jessica, the poor man is exhausted, so stressed. He just lost a little his calm but he is better now. He just needed to know who left the note signed by his brother. And after, he could rest. After he would be better, calmer, and will finally stop yelling at her. Maybe he wouldn’t even take her to the justice… He just needed a name Jessica, just a name.

But the secretary wouldn’t talk, keeping her mouth sealed, mute if excepted the sob. So Tim sighed. He couldn’t do it, he didn’t know what to do. Maybe he wasn’t awake enough to think straight… Maybe he needed a nap… Or a coffee, yeah, that sounded about right ! After he could handle in a better way this whole situation !

He stopped only when he registered Jessica giggles, horribly distorted and ugly in her rattle voice. She never had a pretty laugh, more a travesty of one, something sounding like a cackling. No, Jessica never had a nice laugh and this one wasn’t an exception. Tim realized she wasn’t even trying to hide the truth now, because she believed she had the upperhand in this. That she was smarter, than him, than them.

She explained everything, proudly, sure of having outsmarted both of them, tears turning into a smug grin. Yes, she helped them to find Tim. Yes, thanks to her, they got Tim’s address. Yes, she was also the one who helped them to sneak in the office. Yes, yes , yes she was the one who made it all. All of this… And who could blame her ? It wasn’t her fault, oh no no no. It was Tim’s fault. He caused this whole situation all by himself. After all, it was him who drank too much coffee for his own good… Or refused to go see a doctor … Who denied the simple existence of his accidents and their sequelae. It was Tim who had stopped to even try to sleep, live and eat !

And, indeed, she started to do all of this for him. She really wanted to help you, Timmy, you know ? To help you get out of this whole paranoia spiral thing, this psychosis he had. So she called them, revealing him where Tim’s place were.

And, at one point, quite quickly actually, it wasn’t about Tim anymore, but about herself. The other was gorgeous. They were desperate. They were heart broken,weakened by Tim’s rejection. So, yeah, at one point it wasn’t for Tim at all, she switched camps, she was there to help the other. They needed affection so badly, craved it, and Jessica was the solution. Her objective had become to have him for herself, maybe even get rid of Tim, never mind of him. She wanted them in her bed, in her arms.

Today, she reached her goal, almost there. The other would give up soon. And for Tim, given his state, it was only a matter of time before he mess up, make an - another - error, which would either get him to a psychiatrist hospital, or to the tomb.

Jessica almost have her date, almost, she was so close to it. The other promised her a dinner for after he got a chance to talk to Tim. Both of them were so close to their goal.

And that, Tim just realized it. She had almost reached it, at least it’s what the other made her believe. They had baited her with a promise of a pseudo relationship, in exchange for him. His stupid secretary had sold him for a one night hook up. Apparently he wasn’t worth much more.

To be fair, she was just plainly lying to herself, at what point sending a stalker after Tim was for his so called “ well being” ? Did she truly believe they would heal him of his paranoia by spying on him !

She was crazy. Jessica had lost her goddamn mind… She had sent him a stalker … A STALKER ! And she HELPED them !

So Tim did what he did best : he panicked. Once again. She betrayed him, she knew everything about him and she sold him… And what would have happened if Tim hadn’t confrontate her ? Jessica would have let the other go to the end of his fantasy, even if it mean mean Tim’s death ?

Then, Jessica made another error. One of too many. She announced point blank to Tim how she invited the other to catch up with them here. In Tim’s own office, with the whole building being empty… But she reassured him, no need to worry, they just wanted to talk, and once it will be done, she will finally have her date with them. And no, Tim hadn’t a word to say about them coming here, it was already engaged, too late to back up. He was just so lucky to have such a handsome brother.

It finally clicked on Tim’s overwhelmed mind. Of course ! She had believed them ! She fell into their trap like the idiot she has always had been… Jessica believed they were related to Tim, but it couldn’t be possible in anyways. Because Damian and Cass, his only siblings were dead.

He got up quickly, realizing they were going to show up soon. Tim needed to get out of here or he’d be a dead man when they arrived. Jessica reacted quickly, displeasure at Tim’s attempts to ruin her chances of that date clear on her face. Given Tim’s manic and sleep deprived state, it wasn’t hard, catching him by the collar and pulling him back before he could make it to the door.

It might be because she was way taller than Tim, or because the young man was in such a bad state that Jessica believed she could overpower him. She just ignored how much caffeine was currently pumping through Tim’s vein, how much adrenalin fear could release in a body, how much strength this broken Tim had.

Jessica just had time to pull on his arms that he punched her in the stomach, before knocking her down. His head was full of noise, of fear, he didn’t have time for this, he didn’t have enough time, he couldn’t … He hasn’t… She shouldn’t … She grabbed his legs; pulling hard and he lost it again. He lost his train of thought. He lost control. Tim tried to free his legs, he had to go and when he saw it wasn’t working, he just grabbed a chair next to him and began to hit her repeatedly. He hit her, over and over, until she curled on herself, letting go of his pants.

Jessica was fine, she was fine, it was mostly bruises, maybe a broken ribs, Tim repeated himself while he hurtled down the stairs. After all she deserved it, she was going to be fine, just fine, he didn’t have enough strength to hurt her too badly. He kept saying it over and over, while sprinting through the darks alleys, alone, odd mirage in the night. He kept himself to think how close he had been to be caught by them until he locked the door behind him.

Less than five minutes after his escape, a silhouette would lean over Jessica, before calling 911.

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

“ I know you don’t wish to see me or hear from me. But I need to tell you something. You don’t have to answer, or even to believe me… Please, just listen for once. And I want you to know I respected your privacy until now, I never came here because I never thought you needed help that much. But right now you didn’t leave me any choice. I hoped, truly, you would get better without me having to step in the picture, but turns out I had been wrong, the events of this afternoon talk for themselves I think.

This time, I’m not here to tell you how much I miss you, neither of how much I need you in my life, by my side. No, I’m here to help you get a grip on yourself. You can’t keep acting like you do, you are putting yourself in danger. You make yourself sick.

No, please, I hear you moving, don’t go… I’m begging you, just listen to me until the end. And when I’ll be done, you can call the cops on me if you want…

Let’s just go back to the beginning… Six years ago, you and all your friends, your childhood friends, planned a trip to celebrate the end of your classes. And, at the last moment, you call in sick and stayed home, confined to bed.

The bus they had rented might have been a problem, or maybe something else happened … But what we knew, is that they had an accident. And nobody survived. This day, you lost your boyfriend, your best friend, and all your other friends, all at once. It pushed you into depression, which lasted over more than a year…

And two years after, you were doing better, so much better. We thought you had finally accepted it…

Then, Bruce and Cassandra - your dad and sister - had decided to go to the Opera. You had gone all three of you, your whole family minus Damian, your brother. You had an accident, another accident in your life. It was such a stupid one, a drunk driver who collided with your car. The driver died under the shock of the impact, so did Cassandra. Bruce was declared deceased during the hospital ride. You, fell into a deep coma.

Your family got buried when you were still unconscious, you stayed in this state for at least three months.

And, when you finally woke up, you were alone. All alone. They were dead. Your friends. Your family. Dead… Only you were left… And your brother Damian.

So, you can guess what had been my surprise when Jessica contacted me, making me discover an … Interesting fact. Damian was dead. Well, it’s what you had said to everyone you knew. It’s what you convince yourself of. That Damian had a car accident, with your family, and that he died in his coma.

It’s false. And I believe you aren’t even aware of being wrong. Damian is alive. Your brother is alive.

And, even if unconsciously, you prefer to believe he died, so you could detach yourself definitively of everything you loved, I know it wasn’t deliberate.

I can accept you not wanting to believe I am Damian. After all, I had already accepted to stop contacting you like you begged me last time. But, your current health worried me too much to kept myself from staying away from you. So please, I’m begging you, Tim, open up…”

The other voice was hesitant, pleading. Tim was still curled in a nook of the wall. In a cache. His cache.

On the floor, surrounding him, lied dozen of papers. Birth certificate. Death certificate. Press articles. Hospitals bills. And, in the center, nothing, if it is the lack of one death certificate. Damian’s one.

Tim had indeed come to this conclusion. Damian was alive. Damian hadn’t abandon him. So why ? Why was he dead in his mind ?

And, if the other, this person who had been in his office, who tried to contact him… Was really Damian ? Then, did that mean, that this “other” was never in his apartment ? That all along, it had been … him ? Tim ...

It would explain why Tim found himself so many times in the hidden places, without knowing how he found them. Would it be why he never could prove he wasn’t alone… Why he lost the course of the time … Could he be the other ?

Tim curled even more on himself, and sobbed. The other on the other side of the door began to pound on it, imploring Tim to open it, to let them console him.

Tim was slowly being aware of losing touch. But he didn’t wanted to, no, he couldn’t lose control once again and being what he feared for so many months. He had to pull himself together. Right now. He began to bang his head against the wall, the pain keeping him aware.

He got up, slowly and began to walk to the kitchen, shaking like a leaf. He had two choices … To pour himself another cup of coffee… Or to go open to the man who identified as his brother. The one who begged him to open.

And … Suddenly. Black.

Tim regain consciousness of the reality shortly after. The pain was trashing up his brain. He still registered the bloody knife and his forearms open and dripping of scarlet.

Tim yelled, screamed, in full panic mode and run straight to the door. His hands were slippery, but he still succeed to open the door. He then came to a stop, astonished by the vision, right in front of him. His surprise was mirrored by a younger Bruce, with a desperate look in his eyes.

The man then took him in his arms, pulling him close. Tim tried to breath, to stay awake and recognised the smell of the man : Damian. Damian.

“ Oh please, please, Dami… Don’t left me alone. I don’t wanna die ! I don’t want it anymore !”

And, with Tim weeping in his arms, Damian called 911, for the second time in a few hours. He then kept his brother right against him, whispering sweet words and praise. About how much he loved him. About how much he missed him. How he would never again left him alone.

Damian was crying too. His brother was sick. His brother had cut his veins open. His brother was dying once again.

Tim lost consciousness little time before the ambulance arrived.

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

While Tim lying unconscious in Damian’s arms, who kept talking to his brother, the dark figure changed of hiding spot, trying to get a little closer to Tim and his brother.

They heard Damian trying to explain to his brother about Jessica and how she would be alright, with no long term complication and with no complaints. That he made sure she wouldn’t approach them anymore. After all, she was crazier than Tim was.

And the third man keep waiting, in the shadow, boiling rage pooling in his stomach. He should be the one touching Tim, he was his protégé… HIS Tim. But he waited, he was patient enough for it. He knew that one way or another, Tim would be his… Soon enough.

So he watched silently Tim go with the paramedics, and with a terrified Damian. And when everybody was gone, when he was sure of it, he got out of his hiding spot.

He stretched, slowly, cat like and find his way to the kitchen. He casually grabbed the knife, and cleaned it, as well as every blood spot.

Tim had almost caught him, the young man knew he was there. He was aware of Tim being intelligent, but had underestimated him. He sighed of satisfaction : he was truly captivating. Even if Ra's has been stalking him for quite a long time, he never got tired of it.

How could he got bored of watching the man sink into worse and worse desilusion. His pretty Tim had first developed an addiction to coffee, then a sudden partial amnesia, quite selective actually, and a compulsive need to stay awake. And the big final one : a second personality !

Ra's guessed it was the lack of sleep who created this split : after all, everytime Tim loose control, letting another facet out, he persisted to take pillows and blankets to make nest, like if his only goals was to get ready for sleep.

Ra's smiled, deep in his thoughts, smelling Tim’s clothes, smelling him. Yes, Ra's was quite pleased of the turning of the events. Tim’s other facet would cover him. Nobody would believe someone, a stranger, had lived hidden in the apartment …

At worst, they would believe Damian’s presence had triggered Tim to believe so. If only Damian hasn’t came here, had let Tim sink just a little bit more, Ra's would finally had the boy for himself. To take him away with him, somewhere nobody could find Tim.

Sadly, he would have to wait. Damian was the brother, he had more right to have Tim. Ra's was just a stalker, a nobody.

They were two to lust after Tim … And Damian had currently won him… But it’s alright, Ra’s is patient.

“ I knew I would find you here Ra's. We need to talk.”

Damian deep voice rumbled in his back. Ra's sighed.

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