#you could afford to put in a movie room but not to paint the walls anything but white beige and off-yellow?

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

sick of rich people with boring homes. if you're going to set the standard for desirable lifestyles I will never afford, would you at least put some color into it dangnabit

#you could afford to put in a movie room but not to paint the walls anything but white beige and off-yellow? #it's so depressing you have a house i could never afford and it is hideous. and not even in an interesting way

[latenightsimping]

Kink the 1st - Shibari

Summary: After a bad day, all you want is some downtime with your boyfriend. And downtime includes some rope and a whole lotta fun.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem reader

Word count: 4,693

Warnings: SMUT SMUT SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI, bdsm, shibari (using rope), oral sex (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, kiddos), aftercare, lots of fluff, sex with a lil humour sprinkled in as a treat, just quite sweet really? porn with plot, softdom!Eddie, sub!reader, reader has a vagina, use of petnames (sweetheart, angel etc.)

AN: Massive shoutout to @mantorokk-writes, @steve-harringtons-slut & @charlie-heatons-whxre for giving me a boot up the arse to get Kinktober kicked off! Hoping to do at least once a week? I got ideas for the next one, but if there’s anything you wanna see please lemme know! Hope you enjoy!!

You’d both had a hell of a day.

Everything that could go wrong, had gone utterly wrong. Murphy’s law, and all that. Work had been a drag; usually, you could have sworn the diner was cursed or haunted, considering how temperamental the old machinery in there could be. Today? Today, you were sure gremlins had snuck in during the night shift and were determined to fuck with you any way possible. The coffee machine went bust, the dishwasher refused to turn on, and to top it all off, your boss was in one of his shitty moods.

You’d finished up your day shift in a mood that caused your whole features to harden, practically scowling the whole way on your walk home. Usually, you didn’t mind the twenty minutes it took to get to your little run down home, but it was just that little bit too cold to be pleasant, and you’d forgotten your jacket on your rush out the door. Yet another straw to the camel’s back, and you could feel yourself beginning to break.

Though the dark cloud looming over your head didn’t shift fully, it lightened a few shades as soon as you stepped through your front door. The place was pretty run down; when you had first moved in, you could tell the previous owner was still firmly stuck in the 60’s. Wallpaper peeled off the walls, stained jaundice from cigarette smoke, and the kitchen was in desperate need of a renovation, “A fixer upper,” Eddie had told you, when you’d first seen it with him. At first, it all felt like too much. Sure, it was the only thing you two could sensibly afford, but it was hard to see the bigger picture. Luckily, Eddie could see that picture clearly. You kind of missed that honeymoon phase now, when you’d first moved in and spent your free weekends decorating. Painting the walls side by side as the radio played, only getting into a paint fight once. Alright, two times, but you couldn’t leave Eddie that smug that he was the victor. He was quite the handyman, as it turned out. Wayne had come to help, lugging heavy toolboxes, and the Munson men had got to work fixing loose fittings and squeaky hinges. You’d supplied the beer and lunch, watching the two men from a distance as you painted old photo frames that you’d thrifted.

Your home wasn’t perfect. A lot of the furniture didn’t match – a few pieces plucked from various dumpsters around town, the rest second-hand – some doors still had to be jiggled just right to open and close, and your oven seemed to have an attitude problem. But it was yours and Eddie’s. Various photos of moments of your relationship together dotted surfaces and walls, his beloved posters hung neatly in different rooms. His amps and guitars in the living room, your battered old record player and collection of vinyls beside them. Home wasn’t bricks and mortar. It was a feeling. It was feeling safe, and secure, and remembering that the stain on your couch was thanks to Dustin spilling Pepsi when he jumped out of his skin during a Halloween movie night. It was a feeling that soon, Eddie would be home, and you could ease each other’s minds without having to put much effort in.

You heard the roar of his van while you were making dinner, music blasting and no doubt pissing off the neighbours even further. By the time you took the plates out of the cabinet, you heard the front door unlock, Eddie’s voice calling out he was home. You could tell instantly that he had just as much of a shit day as you had by voice alone. The usually melodic timbre now sombre and flat, sounding bone tired. As he came into the kitchen, though he graced you with a smile, it didn’t quite reach his eyes like it usually did. It made your heart slightly ache as you frowned at him. “Bad day?”

He hummed in agreement, hands coming up to scrub his face as he leaned against the counter. “Phil’s been riding my ass all day,” he murmured through his palms, arms dropping as he winced. “Shit, sorry baby. Didn’t mean to come in and just start complainin’.”

“No, tell me about it,” you said as you shook your head, busying yourself with serving up as Eddie moved to set the table. No matter what mood you were both in, it was a routine heavily engrained by now. Whoever cooked, the other would set the table and clean up after. Pretty much muscle memory, at this point.

“First of all, Tina called in to let us know that her kid had broken his arm falling out of a damn tree, so I was left to fend for myself. Then the shipment for that Dirty Dancing album still didn’t show yet again, and I had to deal with hormonal teenagers complaining no fuckin’ end about something I have no control over, y’know? It’s like they expect me to magically pull CD’s out of my ass or something.”

You nodded along as he complained about his day, pottering around the kitchen to grab a couple of beers and finally sitting yourself down at the dinner table. As Eddie talked between mouthfuls of food, you could see him starting to ever so slowly unwind. Having someone to vent to always helped him, and no doubt he was hangry from not being able to grab more than a couple of bites at work. He loved working at the record store, for the most part. He knew about music probably better than anything else, and it was usually slow and steady work when new releases that swept Hawkins like wildfire were readily available. But it seemed like for the both of you, today was just one of those days.

“But enough about me,” he sighed after a few moments of silence, grabbing his beer and taking a sip. “What about you? You look tired.”

“Feel tired,” you chuckled, shrugging as you leaned back in your chair. “Just the diner gremlins acting up again. You know, the usual.”

“Ah,” he nodded, clicking his teeth with his tongue. “Should really cast banishment in that place.”

The serious tone of his voice, mixed with that whisper of a smirk, never failed to make you smile. “Yeah, should really get on that,” you nodded with a mock look of sincerity. “Hard to find any warlocks around town, though.”

You both smiled, tensions easing as you fell into that comfortable bliss that you could both create with one another. The rest of the meal was spent with small talk; everything and nothing, including Eddie asking you if you’d still love him if he was a worm for some reason. To which you replied honestly. Of course. Only the finest soil and decaying leaves for worm Eddie. That seemed to cheer him up.

At first, you wondered if he wanted to just cuddle for the night, considering how you both had a long day. But it seemed that the good meal had given you both energy, and all it had took for you to agree with his slightly raised eyebrow as he suggested going to the bedroom for a bit of playtime was that certain look in his darkened eye as he gestured his head towards the stairs. It was something you both enjoyed often, especially when both of your minds were racing. A way to turn your brains off, for one to relinquish control and the other to reclaim it. Working in tandem to a headspace where nothing but each other’s bodies existed, soft inhales and exhales between locked lips and soft sounds of ecstasy. And by the look on Eddie’s face, he needed it just as badly as you did.

…

“Turn around a little for me, angel.”

It had felt like hours since you started, but you knew it was realistically not too long ago. The sun had settled behind the horizon just before you sat down on the bed, the bedroom now softly illuminated by the lamps on the bedside table. Eddie had taken his time undressing you, pressing kisses to your skin after each layer was dropped to the floor, beginning to sink you into that place in your mind where everything became slightly fuzzy and dreamlike. He had chosen the hemp rope from the selection that you had both acquired that lived in the bottom drawer of your dresser, and you slowly closed your eyes as you relaxed into the feeling of the soft strands whispering across your skin as he worked.

From the endless conversations that you’d had with Eddie about using rope, you knew it had just as much of an effect on him as it did for you. But it came from another angle. Where you were happy to give up the control for the however hours it took, revelling in the sensation of being restrained and cared for, he found it intensely helpful to have a single thing to work on. He wasn’t thinking about work, or bills, or the trash that needed to be taken out. He was thinking of the intricate folding and gentle tugging of the rope to create works of beauty that made you look so ethereal, so beautiful, nothing else but the here and now. It soothed his mind that was constantly racing about a hundred different things at once, and it was nice to have a repetitive, comforting task. And you have to admit, he was getting really good at it. He would spend hours pouring over books that he got from God knows where, always wanting to try new positions or knots. And you were more than happy to indulge.

Tonight, he had chosen his favourite ties. A pentagram harness that decorated your chest and cupped your breasts, using the extra length to secure your arms in a box tie. Both hands cupping your elbows as comfortably as they could, with enough rope to let them rely on the strands to hold them up. He was getting started on your legs, and judging by the way he wanted you kneeling and the two lengths of red rope in his hands, you had an idea with what he wanted.

Shifting yourself as much as you could with his helpful grip on you, you turned to face the foot of the bed, halfway down the length of it to give you enough space. His warm hands lingered on your skin, smoothing over it as you softly sighed at the sensation.

“Still with me?” he whispered, taking great effort not to be too loud in case it startled you. He knew that you were more fragile in this state, always attentive to when your shoulders slightly sagged and your lips parted. You nodded slightly, and you heard him huff in slight amusement as he gently squeezed your knee. “Need to hear you, baby.”

“Still here,” you murmured, taking a second to take a deep breath before you opened your eyes. Your gaze drifted to him, and you could melt under the look he was giving you. It wasn’t the hard, steely glare that he sometimes had when you played rough, the one that sent shock waves to your core. The look still held control, but God, he was looking at you like you were the finest masterpiece that he’d ever laid eyes on. It made you feel like a priceless piece of artwork in the best way possible; like you were made to be looked upon and revered, worshipped even. But you wanted him to continue, and to finally sink into that place where nothing existed outside of those four walls. “I’m green, Eds.”

He smiled at your use of the traffic light system that you used – green for continue, orange for slow down and red to stop completely – and pressed one final kiss to your temple before he resumed his work. As you suspected, it was a frog tie. Your thigh secured to your calves, making it impossible to move your legs and keeping you kneeling. You opened your eyes just enough to watch his face as he secured the final ties, and you couldn’t help but smile as you noticed the way the tip of his tongue was peeking from his lips, eyes narrowed as deft fingers pulled and knotted the strands. He must have caught you staring out of his periphery, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he tucked away the loose ends and leaned back to take you in. “Well, aren’t you lookin’ all pretty? Gimme a lil wiggle, gorgeous.”

You did as he asked, being careful not to topple over as you struggled against the restraints. Just like you knew would happen, the ropes didn’t yield, sparks shooting down your spine and straight to your pussy when you realised that you were truly helpless. You could feel how wet you’d become during his work, most likely already forming a damp spot on the sheets. You knew he liked to watch you squirm, and you could tell it was having an effect on him. He was still fully clothed for now; you knew it was for a reason. A non-verbal show of who had the power, and it fuelled your headspace like logs to a fire. But you wanted him to touch you so bad, to finally give that part of you attention that was now grabbing all your attention, and you let out a small whine as you bit your lip, giving him your most sultry look to try and entice him.

Eddie could read you like a book. He knew exactly what you were trying to do, yet he was seemingly playing the clueless card as he tilted his head. “Something the matter, baby?” he asked, a brow raised as he smirked.

“Please,” you mewled, knees separating even further to expose just how soaked you were. “Please Eds, need you to touch me.”

“But I have been,” he countered, face slowly morphing into one of knowing as he tutted once. “That’s it, isn’t it baby? Need me to take care of you? Need me to touch that pretty little pussy of yours?”

You nodded frenetically, letting out another small noise of need as you desperately tried to gain some friction on your clit, trying to rut against the bed and failing to gain any contact thanks to the position you were in. “Please, I wan’ it,” you whimpered, worrying your lower lip between your teeth.

You watched as he reached behind you, laying down two pillows behind your back and pressing a large palm to your chest, fingers curling under the pentagram of your tie as his other hand rested on the back of your head. Gently laying you down with a show of control that had you reeling, you settled on your back, thankful that the pillows left a gap for your arms to slot into, making the position a lot more comfortable. Your knees came up closer to your chest, falling to the sides and exposing you even more than your previous position. Eddie towered over you, sitting on his haunches as his eyes followed every curve and dip of your body, a look of hunger evident in his eyes as his palms skated over the insides of your thighs. So close to where you wanted him, but not enough. Not nearly enough. “You know the rules, baby. You gotta ask me real nicely,” he murmured, a small smirk on his face as he relished in the power.

“Pleeeease.” Your voice sounded so small, elongating every character or the word as your back arched. “Please Sir, please make me feel good. Need it so badly, wan’ you to make me come so much.”

You knew the honorific would wreck him, and judging by the low groan he let out, you were going to have what you wanted. “How can I resist when you say it all pretty like that?” he said, voice gruff and low in the way that it did whenever he wanted you. You watched as he shifted down the bed, laying on his front as he peppered your innermost thighs with kisses. “Gonna keep those legs open for me like a good girl, sweetheart?”

You nodded vigorously. You’d agree to anything, do anything, sell your soul to the fucking Devil if it finally meant having his mouth on you. And fuck, you almost came when he licked a languid stripe from your entrance to your clit, latching onto the sensitive bud as his tongue swirled around it. Your eyes screwing shut as your head tipped back, the sensations of his moans vibrating against your cunt as he continued his ministrations sending you barrelling towards your climax that much quicker. All you could hear were the sinful sounds of wetness and messy kisses to your slit, Eddie’s mumbles against your skin of “you taste so fucking good,” and “so wet f’ me,” making your legs shake as you rutted against his mouth, desperate for your release. You felt his finger enter you, one at first, hilted to the last knuckle before a second joined it, curling until it hit that spot that made you see stars behind your eyes, that coil deep in your gut tightening and tightening until it reached a near unbearable tension.

“Gonna- Fuck Eds, please, gonna…” You could barely think, barely speak under his skilled tongue and hands, but you wanted his permission. Knowing that with it, you could come undone even harder, until the tiny remains of thoughts finally slipped out of your grasp. All you wanted to feel was the bliss, and to know that he was the one causing it.

“Come for me baby, I got you,” he urged, fingers pumping into you eyen faster, words garbled as he didn’t let up from his task of swirling the tip of his tongue against your bud in dizzyingly fast movements. “Let go.”

It was his words, a final jab to your sweet spot inside you, and a soft suck to your clit that finally snapped the last remaining threads of your tether to reality. Your jaw fell slack into a silent scream, back arched and head thrown back as you tightened around his fingers, hips bucking as you rode out your orgasm. The restraints fuelling it, elongating it, as you writhed underneath them and found no escape. The pure hedonistic ecstasy causing your walls to pulse, even after Eddie removed his fingers from you.

Crowding over you after you managed to catch your breath and wrench your eyes open, Eddie kissed you with fervour, all teeth and tongue as he settled his weight onto his forearms on either side of your head. You could taste yourself on him, a pleasant tang that you grew to love whenever he kissed you after going down on you, the shame long gone about it. “You doing okay?” he murmured between kisses, lips trailing down your chin and across the length of your jaw.

“Green,” you managed to whisper, suddenly needy for him again, now he was finally on top of you. You craved him; you craved the fullness of his cock deep inside you, knowing it’d send you toppling over the edge again. During the moments of your comedown he must have got undressed, since you could feel his bare chest against yours, causing the rope to rub against your skin deliciously with his every movement. “More, please. Need you more, Eds. Fuck me.”

He huffed out a small laugh, now tracing his canines over the soft flesh of your neck, soothing it with his tongue afterwards. “Planning on it, pretty girl. Just gotta check you first, ‘kay?”

You were confused for a second, until he pulled away enough to turn you to your side. You felt his fingers gently pinch the tip of your own, checking for good blood flow. You couldn’t help but smile as you felt it, adoring how even in this moment, he would forgo his own pleasure just in case there was a hint of you being uncomfortable. “Feels fine,” you nodded reassuringly, words ever so slightly slurred. “Can go on for a bit longer.”

You were starting to come back to yourself, though everything was still hazy. Like your mind was replaced with cotton wool, like a fogged up mirror after a hot shower. Placing you back down gently, he smiled as he kissed you again, feeling the expression against your own lips. One of his hands reached between your bodies, and you felt the tip of his cock rub against your slit, eliciting a high pitched keen from you that he gleefully swallowed down as his tongue explored your mouth.

Eddie could be patient, when he wanted to be. And right now? Now, he was pacing you, stretching you out so slowly you thought you would combust. You swore you could feel every vein and ridge of his cock, each thrust stealing the air from your lungs as his lips never left your own. You could hear his soft grunts and whines as a hand comes up to stroke your hair away from your face, his hips setting a slow pace when he finally bottomed out into you.

The fact that this was lovemaking so tender, so stark against your restrained body clad in rope, that made it all the more intense. It’s not like he didn’t have the tendency to be rough with you on other occasions, and as much as you loved it, you were thankful that he chose tonight to worship your body. The bad day you had was so far away, when all you could feel was him, the way he rutted into you so carefully, as if you were made of fine china. The hand that tucked away the errant hairs came down to explore you, brush against your pebbled nipples, one after the other, trailing down your stomach and to where of you both met. Circling around your sensitive clit and made your cries even louder. You knew you weren’t gonna last long.

“M’close,” you managed to puff out, wriggling as much as your prone position afforded you to fuck back against him, the urge to come again starting to balloon inside you, until it was all you wanted.

“Me too,” he replied through gritted teeth, pace beginning to get irregular and more frantic as his hand settled on your hip for leverage. “Come with me baby, ‘kay? Can feel you getting so tight, shit.”

All that could be heard were your mixed sounds of pleasure; his grunts and low moans, your high keens and mewls as you tightened around him, walls pulsing and milking him for all that you could. You felt him twitch inside you, the tightening of his jaw the indicator that he was finally there. He spilled into you for what felt like hours, hips still rutting into you as if to push his cum as deep into you as you possibly could, and you loved the sensation of it. He finally slumped after the last few groans, resting his forehead on yours as he panted hard to catch his breath. You were doing the same, and you loved how you seemed to be breathing in tandem. His exhale to your inhale, and vice versa. Sharing air in a way that felt so intimate, making your head spin as you started to finally come down.

You both lay there what felt like an age, until the ache of your joints finally started to seep in, reality hitting you that you’d been in the same position for a while. Eddie must have picked up on your squirming, pressing one last kiss to your temple before slowly pulling out of you. You gently whined at the loss, and he smiled at it, giving you an apologetic look as he kneeled in between your legs and started to untie them. “You back to Earth yet, space cadet?” he asked you, the little quip making you giggle.

“Getting there,” you nodded, slightly hissing as he ever so gently started to ease your left leg straight, discomfort shooting through your muscles as he did so.

“I know baby,” he murmured, soothing you as he gently massaged your thighs and calves to get the blood flow back to them. “Sorry, should’a thought to let your legs go before I fucked you.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” you smiled, looking down at him as he worked on the other leg. “Was really fuckin’ hot being fucked like that.”

“God, it really was,” he wistfully sighed, taking a second to marvel at the indents that the rope left on your skin. Tracing his calloused fingertips over them, the motion making you bite your bottom lip and let out a soft moan at how good it felt. “Take it you wouldn’t mind doing this tie combination again?”

“Would I mind,” you scoffed, a playfulness coming back to you as you nudged his waist with your ankle. “If you make me come like that again, you can do it whenever you want.”

“Noted,” he smirked, tossing you a wink as he reached forward to carefully take hold of your shoulders. “Gonna help you sit up, if that’s okay?”

You nodded, allowing him to guide you until you were sitting as he settled you on his chest. You perched your head onto his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his cologne and a smell that could only be described as Eddie as you nuzzled into his neck. “Y’ smell good,” you mumbled into the skin.

You felt his laugh rumble though his chest against yours more than you heard it. “I probably smell like nothing but sweat at this point, sweetheart,” he answered, carefully letting your arms fall to your sides as he took care in massaging them like he had done your legs. “Been at work all day and just came so hard I think I saw God for a minute. Need a shower after all that.”

“Noooo,” you whined, wrapping your arms around his neck now they were finally free, hating the idea of him leaving your embrace. “Shower later. Cuddles first.”

Though it surely made his task more difficult, he didn’t make you separate from him as he uncoiled the rest of the harness around your chest, shushing you gently as he carefully pulled the beginning knot from around your middle. “M’ not goin’ anywhere yet, sweetheart. Cuddles first, promise.”

That appeased you enough, letting your eyes close as you felt yourself be gently moved until you were laying down, your head on his chest and hearing his heartbeat begin to slow to a normal pace. He only shifted you one more time, so he could pull the blankets up over you, making sure you were tucked in and warm enough as he kissed the crown of your head. “Did so well f’ me, angel. Such a good girl.”

Your only answer was a small hum of acknowledgement, sleep starting to pull at your mind as you began to drift away. You were so cosy, and so warm and felt so loved. You could barely remember what had led you here, to this moment. All you knew was that before, you were having a bad day. Now, you were finally so relaxed that you couldn’t find it within yourself to move.

“You fallin’ asleep on me baby?” Eddie whispered, sounding amused as he stroked soothing patterns up and down your spine, the motion aiding you in drifting off.

You vaguely remember nodding, before you finally dozed off. And you could remember him saying something about a shower, but you were too blissed out to worry about that. Knowing Eddie, he’d probably wake you up in a while to clean you up and get you changed into fresh pyjamas. But right now, all you wanted was him. To feel him so close to you, and to feel protected and cherished in his arms.

And you felt exactly that.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson kinktober #eddie munson x you #stranger things x you #stranger things x reader #stranger things smut #eddie munson smut #stranger things kinktober #cw:bdsm #cw:nsfw #cw:smut

[fre4kshqw]

Not All Stories Have a Happy Ending - CH1

The air was heavy, a thick fog covering the building. The bright moon is shining as bright as the sun. The building was shone with the moonlight, the only other thing lighting it up was the big motel sign in a bright neon red The breeze brushed the trees and bushes around the building, showing off the buildings cracked plastered walls and mouldy white appearance. It looked like it wasn't taken care of in years, luckily most of the walls were covered by windows and balconies. Most of the windows are covered with the curtains from the inside room, some breezed with the dark cold wind as some windows are left open. To the left of the building was a yellow sign that led to a tunnel, the tunnel leading to a small car park on the other side, the ceiling of the tunnel covered in iridescent lighting like the ones from shopping malls. Two men loomed on the path leading towards the building, both with tired paranoid expressions.

One holding a camera and the other smoking a cigarette, chain smoking, Cigarette after cigarette. The man holding the camera was tall and slim, his eyes constantly wide, like he was running from something. His face was hollow from malnourishment, like he hadn't had time to eat a proper meal. His jaw was covered in a small amount of stubble, almost as if he's given up on shaving. His outfit looked thrown together, it consisted of a brown basketball cap along with a brown hoodie, underneath a plain white shirt, finished with light washed jeans and muddy sneakers. Though the man next to him seemed like his opposite, he was big and broad. His hair was slicked back, leaving his side part to the side still, his facial hair ran down his jaw like sideburns and his eyes had a cold, tired stare. In his hand lay a cigarette that he'd bring to his mouth every few seconds, his lips cracked from the nicotine and cool breeze. His outfit consisted of a red flannel and a beige jacket over it. Then dark washed jeans and steel capped boots.

The two men finally walked inside the ominous building, the place we're they'll stay for the next few weeks. Unless that thing finds them. As they walked in the inside was just like the outside, the walls were cracked and chipped in places, the front desk looked worn out and scratched up, the paint chipping off it revealing the mouldy wood underneath. The two men weren't currently working so this was all they could afford. "You really think this is a good place to stay?" The taller man mumbled anxiously, Jay was often like this always looking over his shoulder and worried about everything. It was a normal reaction to the situation they were in. Along with his anxious behaviour he also records himself, others and every action he takes, which often annoys the smaller man, Tim, off.

Tim took one more drag of his cigarette before pushing it into the already destroyed front desk to put it out. He saw the 'No Smoking' sign and wasn't in the mood for an overpriced fine. "Not sure." he said shortly "I've stayed at worse, we should be grateful for what he has" he spoke quietly while shrugging. Jay nodded in response, he knew he should be grateful considering there's people out there on the same budget with no place to stay. After the two men got their room keys they walked to the room together, the hallways dark and dim, as if they were in a horror movie. The light in the distance flickering and the carpet a deep crimson red, the walls and off white. Almost yellow tone with the same cracks and peels. They get to their door, the wood chipped with the numbers '222' engraved and painted in with white to stand out, though the middle two was barely noticeable.

#writing #marble hornets #jay marble hornets #jay merrick #tim wright #tim wright marble hornets #jam marble hornets #sad ending

[hickeymqxwiggins]

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#thiết kế nội thất nhà cấp 4 đẹp

[thelastdj]

I may be a film nerd but I can tell you that I have absolutely zero knowledge about German Westerns from the 1800s— you gotta tell me more about that for sure! Haven’t heard of those comics either but I’m into most comics so I’ll have to check ‘em out sometime.

I think it’s pretty funny that your dream job ended up being a fear, funny how it works out that way.

I wasn’t really a theater kid personality wise, but I did a lot of theater when I was younger (aunt is an actress and I decided to try it out for myself). I think my main obsessions were like… Monsters, honestly? I knew everything about vampires and would probably get into a fistfight if someone tried argue with me about whether a werewolf could beat a vampire.

My mom also had all these decorative plates of monsters that were supposed to be for Halloween but I was utterly obsessed. I must’ve spent hours just looking at Al the little details on them— there was one of the Creature from the Black Lagoon that I remember real well. Otherwise I was really into cowboys and might’ve just wound up one if not for the fact that my parents couldn’t afford to let me keep taking horse riding lessons.

And then as a kid, well, I found an old assignment I did about what I wanted to be when I grew up and it was a doozy. I believe my dream FIRST job was a blacksmith, and then I went on to say that I wanted to have a bunch of different jobs— some notable ones including musician, something to do with cowboys, artist, and then I listed like a million more.

Do you collect anything, or is there anything you wish you could start a collection for? If you could decorate a room however you wanted, what would you do?

about the westerns, i mainly read the books, but there were a couple movies made as well. they’re by an author called karl may. i got the books from my grandfather when i was 11, and looking back they were a bit too violent for an 11 year old lmao. what kind of comics do you read?

monsters seems like a really interesting topic. so… could a werewolf beat a vampire?

thats really cool that your aunts an actress. theater or movies, if you don’t mind me asking?

i collect corks from wine bottles, mainly to make stuff out of. also that little ring you use to open soda cans. and of course, vinyl. i’d love to start collecting beads or something like that since there are so many really pretty ones. or, if i ever become a millionaire, guitars. do you collect anything?

wow, blacksmith isn’t really a common first dream job lol. how did you get the idea? did you read it somewhere, or is a family member a blacksmith?

i have put a lot of thought into this lmao. i’d love a room in the attic, with slanted ceilings y’know? the walls would be covered with posters and pictures and paintings. maybe paint a mural or smth on one side. i’d have a couple succulents or cacti on the window sill and white linen curtains. and fairy lights too. i’d have either a couch with lots of fabric patches on it and a random assortment of pillows or a hammock. 

#mutualmatchup #valentine

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Headlights Girl

Genre: Urban fantasy + wlw romance

Words: approx. 8k

Summary: The story of a girl with headlamps for eyes and the moth-girl she meets along the way.

My book 🌸 Ko-fi  🌸 Patreon

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

Most humans carry the night with them. Even during daylight hours, they can shut out the sun, turn off the light, recede into themselves and into that soft secret place behind their eyes.

Did you know certain animals don’t have eyelids? Gecko’s have nothing between them and the violent sun which wishes to cook the colors of their world. They have to use their tongue. Dust and sand and rain, can you imagine? I was obsessed with lizards as a kid.

I stacked up books on snakes and lizards and skinks. I traced the way that sand snakes crested across the dunes, sideways and wrong. I put glue on the pads of my hand and tried to climb the walls of my room— I didn’t even get one handhold up. I went to the zoo and peered into their cages, up on my tiptoes, trying not to smudge the glass or breath too hard. I tried make out their triangle heads and slow tongue-flicks, but they each shrank away deep into nooks and crannies of their cages. Most things do when I look at them.

Most humans carry the night with them, right there behind their eyelids is an entire world of darkness. I have something else inside me, not quite, not soft, not secret. They called me “headlights girl” in the newspapers.

There were even stranger kids born in the Age of Spirits. I checked. Every morning of fifth grade, I scanned the papers for mentions of “oddities” growing into anomalies.

A boy who could breath fire. A girl with leaves sprouting from her head. A kid with antennae that could taste the wind. There are stranger things than me in the age of beasts and magic. My father called it the “Epoch of Bastards,” sons and daughters of flickering fire elementals and wind ghosts who seduced half-asleep ladies from their beds.

He didn’t look at me much growing up. And I knew what he meant. I knew what he was getting at by calling it the Epoch of Bastards. Growing up, I played in my little puddle of carpet on the floor as he blustered in and out of rooms like gale force winds. He’d be looking for his keys or a left shoe or wallet since he was going out, out, out. I think I missed him at first, in the way you miss strangers you’ve never met.

Later, still on my puddle of carpet, still on my island, I would glare at him with that sour, acid taste in the back of my throat. Acrid, smoky, I would barely blink as he passed; he’d jump when he turned too quickly and accidentally fell into my path. Later still, I would begin to wish they were both like that—blustery and calling people names, gone more often than not.

It sometimes felt better than hearing my mom weep to herself on the couch. I wish she’d do it in her room or outside or anywhere else than that theatrical sobbing in the middle of the house, a naked heartbeat to the place. She spoke to her friends on the phone in that same watery voice, handkerchief in hand and sniffling, she spoke to them more than me.

What else am I supposed to do? This isn’t how it was supposed to be. She’d wail, just a bit, and then find a new thing to wail over. They could barely afford to send me to That School. They could barely afford the special doctor’s appointments for my eyes. They barely knew what to do with me.

Sometimes, I wanted to shout right back: It’s not like I didn’t want to be here either!

But she wasn’t talking to me. 

School wasn’t much better. We weren’t the same, not really. None of us were the same age or had the same affliction. Plus, most everyone else stayed in dorms where they bonded with secrets and whispers and hiding from matrons. It wasn’t the same.

They called me The Lighthouse and Car Face and Nightlight. Sometimes they’d give me a few bucks to close my eyes so they could see my face. I did it. They’d laugh and reassure me I was as ugly as you’d think. Or beautiful. Or perfectly average-looking or I had a pig-nose or unibrow. I’d never seen anything but the blinding light of my own eyes in the mirror so I could never contradict them.

A boy with antlers handed me a twenty for a kiss in the 6th grade. I closed my eyes for that too. It was chapped and dry and he ran away with a screaming laugh afterward. There are stranger kids than me, I reminded myself. So why do I feel so much stranger than the rest of them?

I was 16 when I heel-toed my way down the stairs toward the front door. A duffel bag slung over my shoulder stuffed with loose clothes, change, a bath towel, three books with broken spines, all the tampons in the house, and a Swiss-army knife.

I hoped to stuff as many cheddar-cheese sandwiches in my sack as possible before the midnight bus came, but he was at the kitchen table. I don’t think either of us expected it, like running into your teacher at the mart and you’re both buying the same brand of toilet cleaner. There was a beer in front of his idle hands and he still wore his rumpled work shirt. He glanced at the bag on my shoulder for a long minute.

Finally, he sighed like I cut him off in traffic.

“Gimme a moment.”

My father leafed through a wad of cash he kept in a safe. He handed me almost three hundred bucks and we nodded at each other. At the time, I thought there was a kind of satisfaction to that nod, an endnote.

I was out the door before the midnight bus arrived.

Only three people were at the terminal. None of them looked at me with my pack and my knife stuffed in one hand and my eyes glowing. They did look at the glow, but not for long.

Remote and empty like maybe the world had ended and the last bits of if were nothing but strangers not making eye contact.

Finally, I watched the headlights of the midnight bus approach through dense summer night. I was struck by the thought that it was like looking at like, the glow of my eyes against its eyes. Can a bus be your father? Can your father be a man after all this time? Will your mother come looking for you?

I got on the bus and kicked my feet up against the seat in front of me. Scrunched into a ball, crossed my arms over my chest, and watched the trees turn into flickering bodies of shadow with each passing mile. ------------- My feet moved like tides. They tossed me against nameless city streets and toward empty forested slices of land. I stumbled into the painted deserts toward the west. I dipped my toes into the neon districts of the east with lights brighter than my own. I slept on benches and in kid’s treehouses and hunched my shoulders against brick walls of back alleys.

No one touched me. Maybe they’d approach now and then, but I’d open my eyes and they’d see nothing but heaven or devils or an absent lightning-God father that would smite them. I was the daughter of spirits after all.

I found my way to the ocean; beaches where other stragglers gathered and it was easy to stretch out on empty pieces of warm sand. I didn’t talk much by then, I didn’t like to; people stared whether I was speaking or screaming and clamping down on my jaw so hard it ached. Sometimes I get yelled at: Turn that off! No phone lights in here. You’re blinding me, bitch!

I’d never seen a movie in any theatres, but I could imagine what it’s like.

It was crowded, but I liked that ocean city, despite myself. It had pale buildings built into cliffs, narrow winding sidewalks where cars couldn’t fit, reckless bikers, and crushed seashell parking lots. I liked the tang of salt in the air and the way my hair crinkled from the ocean water as it sun-dried. I camp out on beaches and bummed cigarettes and hotdogs off strangers. I was good at taking care of myself once I got into a rhythm.

I had a tent by then and even an enormous sun umbrella to keep any prying eyes away. I still liked to sleep under the stars most nights though.

I often dreamed of sinking to the bottom of the ocean. I dreamed of descending on pointed ballerina-feet to the silted black bottom. I’d be weighted down through the cold and the silence to where no human being had ever been. I’d open my eyes there, open them all the way, lightning-bright, and unflinching. In my dreams, the salt didn’t even sting. I lit up the world, the whole untouched world of whales and fish and terror and maybe I’d do something good then. Maybe I’d do something good and bring the sun to places that had forgotten it. 

I hated those dreams.

I met Mags on the beach after one of those dreams. Mags had one eye and twelve teeth and carried around nothing but string and scissors everywhere. She smelled like seawater and burning kelp, dank and crusted over. Her clothes were neat despite her leather-cracked skin and arms and neck covered in tattoos of shipwrecks. We ran into each other at some bum gathering and she cackled and pulled me aside.

“What’s your name?” Her voice was old creaking wood. I didn’t answer. “I could give you one.” She offered with a grin that was more empty space than anything.

“Nana.” I gritted out. “You want something?”

“Not sure. What do you want, kid?”

I glared openly, my beam of light slanting. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come here.”

I didn’t know why I was chosen.

Mags liked me more than I deserved. I pocketed her last pair of socks when she wasn’t looking. She never mentioned it and dragged me down to the community showers to get clean with soap and shampoo. She took me to the soup and salad restaurant for something that wasn’t burnt or freeze-dried or from a convenience store. She cackled, she spat when she talked, people shot her looks as well.

I thought she was normal, not touched by the spirits, but she liked me more than most people and I didn’t know why.

“You like art, kid?”

I snorted. “No.”

“Why not? You broken?” Yeah. Probably.

“How am I supposed to know?” I snapped back.

“Lippy squirt. Come on, I’ll show you something worth your forked tongue.”

She heated the needle before she used it, red hot and untouchable. She dipped it into deep black inks, only black and sometimes red, she called them the only colors that matter. She shows me how to prick the skin and clean it. She showed me how to slowly, painstakingly etch images. I wasn’t sure I liked it, there was something so permanent and intentional about the act.

I watched her lessons though: stick and poke to her right foot, all over those fine little bones that must hurt, in and out, a little bloody.

It took her six hours to make a tiny shipwreck right above her big toe. It was a narrow schooner going under and I was the only witness. She made the waves come to life and crash against its sides and sometimes I forgot to blink. She didn’t seem to mind.

She washed another needle. She heated it red-hot. She dipped it in ink and handed it to me.

I still wasn’t sure I liked the permanence of it, but I told myself I was bored and it was something to do. I decided quickly I did like the bite of it, I liked the focus it took, and the ability to pull something from nothing.

I practiced all over my thighs first, there was enough meat there and it was easy enough to reach: a lizard design that looked like nothing but squiggles, a TV set playing static, a tiny smudged skink with its tongue out. I practiced designs in the sand and then on paper when Mags splurged on pen and paper.

Mags took me to the museum on Sundays. They were always free on Sundays.

Something stirred in my chest, even as the guards yelled at us about how flash photography wasn’t allowed in the museum. Even as I was shooed out of exhibits for ruining the paint. Still, an ache so old it rotted roared to life in my chest.

I stabbed in and out, gentle, a collection of stars right above my right knee. A winding sand snake on my wrist, and then finally, something good, something that gave people pause and reason to stare. I made it in the mirror: a ghost on my collarbone. Shadowed and intricate and yet simple, I put a ghost right above my collarbone and it bleeds more than any of the others.

That was a good year or so; one of the best I could remember.

I didn’t want to leave the ocean city though and Mags said she had to keep moving. She had places to be. She gave me a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

“You're a gem, kid. You’ll knock ‘em all to the pavement.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “You’ll be back?”

She cackled. “Wouldn’t miss it. You know me.” She winked as she turns to the bus, my second father. “You think I’ll miss your great becoming, kid? I’ll be back.”

I wanted to make her pinky-promise like I was a kid again begging one of the others to tell me if I’m beautiful when I close my eyes. I couldn’t do that; I waved as she tottered up the steps of the bus and was taken away with the tides of her own feet.

A had a moment of thinking it was the end then; I was ready to get back to my real normal. I was ready to disappear again. But even shipwrecks with no witnesses leave things left to be found.

------------ I got an apprenticeship. Technically, Mags talked them into it and I just followed up when I had nothing better to do.

I didn’t think I’d like it much, but couch surfing and camping out was the pastime of the especially young. And I’d lost my giant umbrella.

It was a small shop that smelled like bleach and dried flowers. A tattoo parlor in one of the steep arts districts neighbored by food trucks and beaded necklace shops.

Penguin Davies and Bitch-Annie ran it together. Davies walked like he’d never encountered land before, and Bitch-Annie had a throw-pillow embroidered with “If you don’t have anything nice to say then come sit next to me.”

Davies was covered in nothing but birds and dizzying M. C. Escher house-designs up and down his chest and arms. Bitch-Annie had topless mermaids and pinup girls across her shoulders and legs. She’d been asked to leave a number of stores before the children started staring or thinking thoughts.

Neither of them had ever met someone like me. It was not that type of town. I rankled at most their questions, a cat meeting a steel brush. Where are you from? What’s your family name? What kind of school did you go to? Is your sight better than other people you think?

I brushed off anything more personal than my favorite type of soda. Bitch-Annie called me “Shadow” probably as a joke, probably. Davies said I must be possessed by the ghost of some dead star: a blackhole that takes everything in and lets nothing out.

Neither of them let me touch a needle in those first six months. They had me practice on pig skin and trace designs and stand by their shoulders as they worked. I felt like a dental assistant except I was the hanging light shining into open mouths instead of anything with a pulse. I stood at their shoulder as they drew thick lines and thin dots and made hearts and wolves and names of dead lovers come to life.

They asked me to stand still and stop wiggling the light. I almost walked out several to find a new cliff to crash against, almost. 

No one had ever expected anything of me before. They never expected me to show up somewhere or do something well. No one really cared if I went to school or if I did my homework, if I dressed well or went to bed on time. And no one kept any tabs on me at all after I took that first bus. That’s how I liked it.

I should’ve left, tattooing didn’t mean anything to me, not really. But Bitch-Annie stomped up to my attic-apartment one morning and threw pants at me.

“Get up, Shadow,” she barked. She was sterner than Mags, no hint of humor in her eyes. “I told you 9am so I expect 9am.”

“The fuck!?” I was eloquent in the mornings.

“Pants, shirt, shoes, and bra if you don’t want that desk idiot staring at something other than your eyes all day.”

“Are you serious?”

“Serious as a root canal. Mags swore up and down about what you. Let’s see some of that, up, up!”

I grumbled. I put on everything but the bra. No one ever expected me to be anywhere before and 9am shouldn’t have even been a concept much less a real thing. I told myself I hated it. I’d leave the next week. Or maybe the week after that or in just one more month. I kept a bus ticket under my pillow but every time the date arrived I shrugged and made myself busy.

There’d be no harm in having a savings too and seeing what all the fuss was about with having a dishwasher and a kitchen.

I wasn’t an artist of course. I didn’t understand what everyone else was seeing when they looked at the “old masters” paintings of water or war or lovers pulled apart. I didn’t feel anything in front of stain-glass windows in churches or mosaics on walls. Maybe there really was something wrong with me, my eyes. I didn’t let up though. I put on pants for it after all.

Penguin Davies hovered by my shoulder when I made my first real design.

“Mm.” He rumbled deep in his chest. He’d gone grey at an early age, had tired eyes and quick hands. The desk kid said he’d been in medical school once, a surgeon. It was hard to tell. Davies muttered a lot, stared off into space too much, and laughed like it was always a painful surprise

“Perfectionist,” he muttered at me as I start over on a crappy unicorn design. “That line was barely off. You’re being a perfectionist, Nana.”

I scowled over my shoulder and let the full weight of my light hit him across the face. “Got a problem with it?” I challenged. He chuckled darkly. His grin was crooked like a broken door handle. I tried to hide my work from him with my shoulder. “It’s not done yet.”

“It’s late.” The rest of the street was dark. I knew that.

“I said I’m not done yet! You can go home.”

“Hmm.” He scratched his grey beard.

“What?”

“Look at you. You know who makes the best artists, Nana?” He was always a bit of a philosopher. Maybe he used to study that before medicine.

“Yeah, yeah, shut up. I’m working on it.”

He gave my shoulder a light push. “The ones that don’t quit.”

They let me touch a needle gun after that. I told myself I’d only sign my new apartment lease as an experiment. I didn’t have to actually stay. I’d just run from the ink on paper and hope no one chased after girls with eyes that glow.

I didn’t break my lease. I drew suns and moons, trees and fireflies, hunks in speedos on tipsy college girls who swore they were sober and erotic vampires on the chests of men getting their first divorce. I had to give two refunds for a duck that turned out lopsided and a tattoo of someone’s dog which I swore really was that ugly to begin with.

There was one at the end of that next year though, another college girl with perfectly white piano-key teeth. She asked for a stick and poke, that was what I was best at anyway, she asked for a butterfly. Butterflies were easy, I could do the little ones in my sleep. She wanted one all across her back, she said I could make it look however I wanted. So I did. Wings like fringed shawls and straight heavy lines combined with wispy swirling ones. It was dark, black ink with red highlights and gray shadows under each wing to give it movement and flight.

I hid my smile when I finished and showed her the results in the mirror. She went to my bosses and jumped up and down. She pointed and babbled, ohmyspirits, the best thing I’ve ever seen! Fuck. I should pay you double! Where did you get this girl? 

I held myself perfectly still and studied the ceiling until my eyes dried out.

I took the long way home that night. I stopped once, at the corner where the midnight bus arrived, and watched the the passengers trudge off. I didn’t expect to see Mags again so soon, not really, but sometimes I wanted to show her: Hey, maybe your work wasn’t all wasted. Maybe I did start to become.

---------------- “I’m getting you chocolate.” Annie spat, her thick arms flexing as she cleaned off the spotless counter. “I’m getting you fucking chocolate, Shadow, ‘less you tell me what flavor you actually like.”

I hung at the back of the shop next to the narrow window that faced the road. I let the sun warm my face in thick strips and watched the bicycles pass. “It’s not my birthday.”

“Tell us what your actual birthday is then, you sugar-toasted tart.”

I shrugged. “Not today.”

“Well happy fucking birthday. You’re turning two. You came to work for us two years ago today, washed up from the beach like a deranged feral cat, so this is your birthday now.”

I rolled my eyes which served to look like a flashlight given a shake. Annie spent another minute splashing disinfectant on anything that might have had even a passing conversation with a germ.

“You talk to Birdie?” She asked, but mischievously this time. I responded by setting my mouth in a hard line. “You’re turning twenty-something and you’re not even talking to Birdie, are ya?”

“I’m not telling you what I’m turning. It’s still not my birthday.” I dodged inelegantly.

“Birdie will give you a proper go-around. Even shadows like you must need a little rub now and then.”

“Go dunk your head, Annie.” I huffed.

“Afraid you’ll blind her in bed?”

I turned with a snarl. “I’ll start with you.”

“I’ve seen you flipping through those poetry books, every word about hands or mouths or rosebuds.” She gave me flat a once-over. “You’ve got a sweet tooth in you.”

I dragged myself over to the desk to snarl at her some more, but Annie was already putting her hand up and going toward the backroom.

“I’m getting you a chocolate cake either way.”

There must have been a proper way to get her to never look at my little leather poetry books again, the ones with watermarked pages, the spines broken-in, and words that oozed. No one had to know that I could read, much less that I read that.

The door dinged instead.

“Excuse me.” She walked in. Her. “Is someone, um, named Nana here?” I turned before I could stop myself. That was still my name. And it was still my work.

Twenty-something, curtains of straight black hair falling in her face, pinched nose, thin energetic lips, shorts that gave way to milk-dipped legs that never seemed to end. A slight girl in a university t-shirt. College kids came in often during their breaks, but this one was a bit different. My eyes dragged up and fish-hooked there.

Feathered tendrils sprouted from her head and reached toward the ceiling. Long and searching, a pearly green color that reminded you of leaves or plumage.

I knew within a moment where I’d heard of this: Antennae Girl. The newspapers ran our stories close together along with the boy that breathed fire and the girl with roots growing from her head. We were all born in the same year during the epoch of monsters and bastards.

I think she recognized me too.

We stopped like heartbeats seizing up before the ambulance could make it. A confused, unnatural silence. I glanced at the door and considered making a run for it.

She cleared her throat first.

“Someone said that Misty’s butterfly tattoo came from here?” She blinked once and I noticed how her feathered antennae seemed to twitch. I averted my eyes so I wouldn’t blind her. She took a step forward. “So are you . . . Nana?”

The door was right there.

“What do you want?” I had been spending too much time with Bitch-Annie.

“A tattoo?”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then why are you here?” I grunted. Footsteps came in from the back room. I was examining the smudged off-white tiles of the floor one by one.

“I wanted to . . . hey, you can look up if you want.” She said, curiously, softly. I didn’t look up. “I’m still figuring out the design.” She trudged on ahead.

“Fine.” I pivoted away. “But we’re busy. Come back later.”

A hand slapped across my shoulder. “This is Nana.” Annie stopped me from leaving. “Don’t let her eyes fool ya, it’s her personality that’s actually the problem. You saw her butterfly you said?”

“Yes!” She gushed. “It was gorgeous.”

“It was fine,” I corrected.

“It’s her birthday today.” Annie shared because she could and because she was a failed evil villain still trying to get her kicks in.

“Oh cool, happy Birthday.” A deep pause followed that could fill oceans. “You can look up. I don’t mind.” She repeated.

I opened my eyes wide and lifted my chin in one jerky motion. A beam of fluorescent headlights hit her across the face. “Is this what you want?” Venom dripped from my lips. This was why I tried not to talk too much.

The young woman squinted for a moment before covering her eyes and nodding. “I read about you,” she stated as if it was nothing. “I’m turning twenty-two this year . . . so I guess, you are too?”

“What?!” Delight filled Annie’s entire expression. “Hot damn! Twenty-two?” I groaned deeply. “Hey, you, girlie,” she addressed antennae-girl, “you want to come out for drinks tonight?”

I tried to protest as quickly as possible, but somehow didn’t summon the words quickly enough.

“Sure.” She agreed. ----------------------

The night was humid and clung to us like a second skin. I wandered through the hilly streets with Penguin Davies wobbling beside me. The desk kid—Daft Jeff, said Davies had some inner-ear problem that made it hard for him to keep his balance. Annie said he just didn’t belong on land— he couldn’t walk straight unless something was tilting and rolling under his feet.

Davies made his way up the hill, faltering and missing the musical beats of it. He refused to let me steady him and I refused to have him sing to me. It was apparently my birthday.

“Someone saw your design.” He noted on the downhill.

“Yeah. Some college girl.” I grumbled.

“What’d you think?” He asked in his usual mysterious way.

“She just wants a good look.” I returned in a neutral tone. “She read about me in the paper. All she wants to do is look.”

“She saw your design.” He paused. “And Jeff said she was like you.”

I blinked hard so the path ahead was eaten by shadow and Davies stumbled. “Not all of us have to be friends . . .” I said sourly and didn’t fill in the rest. “I’ve met kids with antlers and frog-hands before. I doesn’t mean anything.”

“Any of them come visit?”

“They’re smart enough not to.” I snark. “But the ones who manage to be pretty don’t have the brains to stay away.”

“Mm.” He made a soft sound. “What kind of tattoo do you think she’ll get?”

“How should I know? A heart or anchor or something dumb like that.” I walked on ahead. “Maybe I’ll give her a quote from some dead poet.”

“You like poetry.”

I huff dramatically, “Not what I mean. Girls like her don’t like my type of poetry, you know I’m saying.”

“What kind of girls?” Davies was patient. I hated that about him.

I stopped at the corner to let him catch up. “Don’t play dumb. Hot ones, college ones, getting a degree in money or music. They don’t watch over their shoulders enough or know when to stay away.” I scuffed my shoe on the ground. “Whatever.”

Davies was still thinking. I considered pushing him over. He finally spoke up again as we approach the bar, “That sea witch ever show up again?”

“Mags?” I snorted. “No. Why?”

“Cause I’m sure she’d like to see this.”

I didn’t say anything else as we reached the doorway. -------------------- The bar was loud. More people than I liked came to my “party.” I should have seen it coming. If the cliff city liked one thing it was an excuse to drink.

I crammed myself up against the bar and ordered a gin and tonic before the rest of the night crowd could arrive. Birdy was holding court at a corner table and waving at me. “There she is! Someone put a blanket over Nana, lights out, party up!”

Her puns usually left something to be desired. She sang “Blinded by the Light” every time she saw me for half a year.

I drank half my gin and tonic in the first gulp as a new stream of townies burst in. They arrived to buy me birthday beers and shout their opinions on the shitty new chain restaurant on 3rd street. I was almost tasting the bottom of my second glass when someone tapped on my shoulder.

I barely looked over.

The girl with sheets of black hair and a practiced-appearance stood before me—like she was at dress rehearsal and expected everyone else to know the lines as well. She carried a baby-blue bike helmet in one hand, and I noted there were two hand-drilled holes in the top.

“You.” I was tempted to shake her hand like I might make this a transactional hello and goodbye in short order.

“Hey.” She smiled, hesitant, like maybe the food on the fork might be too hot. “Nana, right?”

“Yep.” I sighed the word real long and heavy. “Listen, I really can’t give you a tattoo if you don’t know what you want.”

“No, no, I get it. But I want you to know . . . I didn’t know it was you.”

“Uh, okay. Though I’m pretty hard to miss over here.” I was looking at the dirty wine bottles stacked near the ceiling. Her antennae hang over both of us like fern fronds.

“No. I mean, when I saw the butterfly. That’s when I wanted to come here. Not after.”

“After what?” I was gonna make her say it.

“After I found that it was, well, you know, Headlights Girl.”

“Mm.” I was spending too much time with Davies. “You want something to drink?”

She sighed as well, real long and heavy. “Sure.” She took the seat next to me. “I’m Park by the way.”

“Park.” I rolled the name around in my mouth. “And you already know me.”

“I don’t think I do.” She laughed, sharp and bristly like something you can get cut on. “And I’ll have a beer. . . but only once you look up. Come on, I’m not like that.” I looked up. Her face was bright, round like the moon, her grin was sneaky and unearned. “There we go.”

She waved over the bartender Kipp and ordered her dark beer.

“It’s not really my birthday.” I informed her, dumbly. Every word felt dumb and clumsy all at once.

“Why not?” She was teasing. I knew that.

“That’s not how birthdays work.” I informed and wished I could backtrack into hostility again.

“Oh darn,” she winked. “And here I was about to make it my birthday too.”

“Uh, well,” I really should have left when I had the chance. “It’s not too late?”

“That’s the spirit!” She laughed, fuller this time and rounded. I looked her straight in the face and then quickly looked away again. Her grin was aimed at me, somehow, and seemed to reach high cupboards inside me you usually needed a stool for.

“Park,” I repeated the name and shifted in place. “So did you go to Haveryards or Simmons?” There were only two schools in the country for spirit bastards like us. Haveryards was close enough for me to get bussed to—an hour one way and then an hour home.

“Neither. I went to public and then Bakerville Uni.” She rapped on the counter. “Hey, you want another gin and tonic? Or I’ll mix you up something.” Her eyes flickered over everything. “I bartended my way through college so I can make a mean margarita.”

“Oh, Bakerville U., yeah. That ones close.” I stuttered a bit. She was leaning across the counter and trying to get Kipp’s attention a second time. My words were feeling dumber and dumber by the moment, perhaps losing all shape and meaning altogether. “That’s where you went?”

“How’d you guess?” She said playfully and pointed to her t-shirt. She finally got the bartender over. “Right, you want something hard? Vodka maybe? A mule?”

I scratched my chin. “ . . . I don’t care. I’m easy.”

She rolled her eyes and I knew she must feel me staring. “I can’t imagine shopping for you for today then.” She snickered and climbed over the counter. “Happy birthday, how about one chocolate mule for a free tattoo?”

“You wish.” I made a face. “You don’t even know what you want.”

“And you do?” She was still grinning, somehow. “I’ve decided I’m making you the equivalent of all the soda flavors mixed together at once. Close your eyes.”

I closed my eyes and I tried to turn off my thoughts. It was bright as knives inside my skull; I carry the daytime with me. Panic threatened to rise up (for no reason of course), but a soft hand brushed against mine, soft like sheets in fancy hotels and flower petals. I peaked and Park slid a full murky glass toward me.

“Drink up.”

It was sweet. It wasn’t even my birthday. I didn’t care. She called it a chocolate-mule-Park Special and maybe chocolate really was my favorite flavor. -------------- Park started coming around. She rode a sky-blue bike with a white basket and rusting hinges. I couldn’t imagine doing all the hills in the city without any gears, but she managed. She said she was figuring things out after graduating. She said she liked it here.

I grumbled when she came by. I complained like Annie when Wicker the cat visited: Get that thing away from me. I hate that. Smells awful. I’ve got allergies. Put that away, it’ll kill me.

I never said anything when Annie left fish heads out and bowls of milk of course.

Park smelled like sunscreen and breath mints. She had strong opinions on everything from street paving techniques to which sun hats went with which dresses. She invited me on walks. She invited me to help her change a flat tire. She invited me to the corner shop to help her pick out bottle can openers.

I said no. Sometimes I said no. I started to say yes.

“Look at this,” she liked to show me things. She liked to show me pictures of squirrels on her phone and weird pieces of glass she found. She liked to point out new restaurants (that I’d already been to) and play videos of funny traffic jams.

This time she held up a seashell. It was rounded and flat with a swirl in the center.

“I’m looking.” I said carefully.

“Watch how it catches light.” I shun my eyes on it and she moved it back and forth. There were bits of silver veins caught in the cracks of it.

“There’s tons of those.” At this point, I had valiantly refused to be impressed by even her cutest squirrel pictures.

“Ugh.” She pouted. “Are you kidding? I spent all morning looking for this.”

“They're right by the surf. I could find you five bigger ones than this before sunset.”

“Alright, hot-shot.” She jut her chin out and jabbed my shoulder. “Prove it.”

I said yes to that one. I left right after my shift ended with the sun setting in the waters like a stabbed orange bleeding out. I met Park by the parking lot with drooping palms trees lining the sides and lost flipflops everywhere.

“This is where you went wrong.” I announced. I couldn’t help it. “This is the tourist beach. You have to go somewhere real.”

“Alright, alright. You’ve already established you’re the hot-shot here. Lead the way.”

She followed me. I ignored how she lingered by my side. I ignored how her hand wrapped around my arm as she stopped us to look at a tiny horseshoe crab. Her hand was soft, like velvet, soft enough to smother something in my chest.

I found two seashells with streaks of silver and rainbow through them, both bigger than my palm. The sun was a flat line on the horizon before I could find a third and Park hooted.

“You said before sunset! It’s sunset, baby, pay up.” She called. “And you were so sure you were a better seashell hunter than me.” She tsked.

I scanned the ground more quickly. “It’s barely nighttime.” I pointed to the sky. “And I can keep looking. I have the built-in equipment for it.”

“Oh I know.” She planted herself on the soggy crusted sand and sat down in a heap. “But can you find why kids love the taste of not doing that? Take it easy. Take a seat.”

“So pushy.”

“You know me.” It was fond. It had only been a few months, but there was something fond there.

I ran a hand through my short choppy curls. “Fine.” I sat next to her, not too close. “It’s your loss.” We both looked out at the gently lapping waves, foaming and anemic. She let a long breath of air and for a moment I considered brushing her hair back. It was always in her face.

It was a quiet moment, bottled, and pitching toward something. Like the the moment where you miss a step on the stairs and the certainty of the fall was right there.

I was the one that scooted a little closer.

“I’m considering getting a storm cloud,” she commented off-handedly. “Can you do storm clouds?”

I made a sound of consideration. “Sure.” I glanced toward the opposite corner of the night sky. “I think I’ve seen one of those before. Big puffy wet things?”

“Kinda fluffy? You’re getting there.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I’m smiling, which is alright since there’s no way she could see it. She’s silent for another moment longer.

“Or would you make fun of me if I got something like a butterfly? Like your other one.”

“A storm cloud butterfly?”

“No. The cloud would it’s own thing.” She chewed on her bottom lip, ragged and chapped. “I mean, I’ve been doodling some ideas. And tattoos should be personal, right? So I thought a storm cloud might be fitting. Kids used to pay me a couple dollars to predict the weather. It could be a memorial to childhood entrepreneurial spirit.”

I watched her speak and something beat inside my chest like a second animal. I wanted to be closer. I wanted to feel velvet again.

“Why?” I rasped after a moment.

“Uh, why did they pay me? It’s just something I can do. Whenever it's going to rain or storm or be sunny out. I dunno, I don’t know why the rest of you can’t sense it.”

“And you didn’t become a meteorologist?” I smiled a bit bitterly.

She made an indignant noise. “And you didn’t become a professional lighthouse?”

I choked on a laugh. “Not yet.” A quiet consumed us from both sides, I made sure my light didn’t crash into her. I made sure to look at anything but her. She’d have to squint if I did and cover her eyes and I’d be there, ready to run her over.

“Kids in my class paid me too.” I barely realized I started speaking. “They slipped me a couple bucks to close my eyes so they could see my face.”

“You got money for that?”

“There wasn’t always much to do. Teachers were quitting all the time and sometimes it was just the TV. I dunno, they paid me. Then they’d giggle and run away afterward.” My voice sounded automated like the announcer at an airport, informing travelers their flight was canceled. “They always said I had a pig nose or a unibrow or looked like the lead singer of that Minx girl band-- super hot, but you know, it didn’t matter.” The laugh that escaped was high, girlish in a grotesque way. “Since, you know, no one would ever see it.”

“Kids are fucked up.” Park contributed simply.

“Adults are too.” I sniffed. “Everyone wants a light show.”

“Oh.” She said slowly. “Is it . . . is it bad I wanted to meet you then? I mean, I wanted to see the art first, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a factor.”

“No.” I said quickly. I lit up my own lap and empty hands. “Does it matter?”

“I never went to those schools,” she said hesitantly. “My parents fought them, said the schools were unfit. They shouldn’t be able to force us there. And that I wasn’t even dangerous since,” she gestured helplessly upward, “I just have these. So then, well, I never really met anyone else like me.”

“I mean, everyone’s different. It’s not . . . a big deal.”

“You’d think so,” she commented sardonically.

I folded up into myself like a complex origami piece. “Yeah, well, sometimes I wish I was dangerous. Actually dangerous.”

She giggled. “Didn’t you just say everyone’s different? I’d say everyone’s dangerous too. Just gotta find the niche.”

“Oh yeah,” I dared to turn toward her. “What’s yours then?”

“My danger niche? Hmm.” She was leaning now, pitching forward like a wave come to drown me. “I do have a few tricks up my sleeve I’ll admit.”

“You have a pair of wings hidden away?” I stopped breathing as her hand lifted up, strange and all at once. I wasn’t ready.

“Here.” Her skin was against mine. She cupped my cheek with one velvet-hand. It was heated cashmere, tiny feather-light hairs on her palm. “Feelers.” She whispered with a hesitancy there.

“Ah,” I was indulgent. I closed my eyes. I leaned in. “And you want to put a needle over these?” I put my hand over hers, loosely, so she could pull away if she wanted to. Tiny hairs pulsed there with some kind of life all their own. 

“I wanted . . .” She paused and I peaked open my eyes. I could see every detail of her face, illuminated. “I dunno.” She finished. “I guess I just wanted whatever I saw there, before.”

“In the butterfly?”

“In the butterfly.” I turned toward the ocean, but my hand remained over hers. “I’m not sure how good it will be a second time. It’s not like I’m really an artist. . .”

“What did you want to be?” Soft.

“Who knows. I mean, I’m glad my parents didn’t try to fight the schools. Being there during the day was better than being home, listening to my mom crying all the time and my father exploding . . . They wouldn’t have wanted me home.”

Before the sunset, when I was walking over, I thought maybe we’d kiss that night. I thought I’d feel that first electric pulse and maybe we’d climb into the ocean and swim in circles, laugh until the moon rose. I thought maybe I’d get something out of my system and there wouldn’t be anything left to say or do.

I’d kiss Park, once, and she’d be satisfied. She’d understand. She’d go on her college path and I’d go on on mine.

But the words spilled out, unbidden. Park stayed in place, steady and unflinching. That made it worse, so much worse.

“My parents weren’t like yours.” There was an accusatory edge to it. Don’t you know? I wanted to shout. Don’t you know? Even without the eyes or the school bills or the bus.

“Hey,” she cradled my cheeks with both hands now and smeared the tears away from one eye. “Hey, listen, I know. Alright? I know.”

I scowled back at her feathered little feelers.

“It’s not about the damn antenna or head beams or anything else.” I tried to pull away. “Even the kid with the antler’s kissed me and I didn’t stop him. I ran away from home and my mom never came looking. It didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter! You wouldn’t even get it. You wouldn’t get it!” I squeeze my eyes closed. “You were wanted.”

Slowly, like an awkward animal burrowing into soft earth, she pressed her forehead to the crook of my neck. I could feel us both breathing in, strong and steady. She was lean and silky, and I swore I can feel her heartbeat hammering through my throat.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered. I inhaled her sunscreen scent. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know. But I could.”

“Why are you here?” It was miserable and wet, I hated that my eyes were so different and yet still the same. Could still spill over like theirs. She took a long breath but didn’t move away.

“My last girlfriend broke up with me for being . . . sensitive and I thought maybe if I got a tattoo, I’d stop feeling so much. I’d prove something. I’d feel everything less, you know? It would hurt and then it wouldn’t.”

I took that in a parsec at time. “Are you,” I sniffed. “Are you alright?” Her legs and arms were plastered over mine. “You’re so soft, but, but I don’t want to,” I wipe at my face like it didn’t matter. “Hurt you.”

“I know.” Her face was still pressed to my neck and her lips fluttered across the hallow of my skin. “I didn’t want to hurt you either.”

A stillness settled into my bones. I glanced toward the moon, and it was like looking at like, a terrible moon to another moon. I gathered myself. I took a deep breath. I flattened.

“I shouldn’t have said all that.” My voice had dried up. “We led different lives.” It wasn’t her fault if she was wanted.

“No.”

“I wasn’t thinking . . .”

Her hand wrapped around my wrist. “I talk to Annie sometimes when you aren’t there.”

“Okay?”

“And Davies. And that front desk guy.”

“Daft Jeff. Yes.”

“They all say the same thing . . .” I blinked a couple times. “That I really should wait for you to give me the tattoo. You have a steady hand and an eye for detail.”

“Alright . . .”

“That someone taught you tattooing the right way. They wanted to show you the right way to do it.”

I snorted despite myself. “It’s not that hard. Mags was batty. Who knows why she showed me how to pick up a needle.”

“Don’t you see? They say they wouldn’t know what to do without you.” She was still there. She wasn’t moving, almost in my lap now. “You were wanted.”

“Park?” My voice cracked like a question.

“And you come with me to restaurants and help me buy bottle openers. You find shells for me and help me fix tires.” Her breath was hot and dragged across my cheek. “You are wanted.”

I blocked out her face, her voice, I turned on the sharp white sun inside and for a moment I imagine never opening my eyes back up again. Maybe I could make it night forever inside myself as well. Wouldn’t you rather have something quiet inside?

She wrapped herself around me, fully, one long arm at a time until it was cocoon. Soft. “Listen, sometimes the first people aren’t the right people. Sometimes your first relationship isn’t the right relationship. Sometimes you’re sure the world is one way, and like, always one way . . . and then it rains and the whole world is different again. You know? People pass.”

“My parents aren’t the weather.”

“But they’ll pass.” I should have pushed her off. But even against that, even those words— I liked being held, indulgent as chocolate and twice as guilty. “People sometimes feel forever, especially those kinds of people.” I was off again. “But it rains. And hey, I always know when it’s going to rain.”

I hiccupped; a smile found its way uninvited onto my face, unsure and just wobbly on its feet as Davies. I glanced down after a deep breath. Park grinned back at me and it reached the highest shelves of me all over again.

“So what happens when it rains again? Do you people like you pass?”

“Nah, not me. I don’t know how.” She winked. I didn’t notice that we’re lying flat now, stars and carpet of black above. “You can’t get rid of me. You haven’t given me that tattoo yet.”

The sound of shushing waves filled the midnight air and the moon looked down like that very first bus arriving to get me all those years ago. I wrapped my arms right back around her. She didn’t seem to mind that I was sticky or strange or sometimes kept tearing up all over again even after we’d stop saying anything worth tearing up over. ------------------

It happened. I felt like I should have been more prepared, brought flowers or poetry or earned it through honored warfare. But it happened. I was wearing ripped jeans, a spotty t-shirt and my breath smelled like coffee. We were looking for Park’s lost earring along an overgrown hill she usually biked along.

I found it, one shiny red dewdrop in all that green. Park pointed at some clouds that looked like my last “abstract” tattoo. We lay back in the grass and let the sky pass overhead. She giggled and touched my wrist, side by side. I let her.

“Summer’s almost over.” I mumbled it first.

“Yeah?”

“You find your next step then, college girl?” I tried to keep my tone light. She turned to be on her side.

“Maybe.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Oh, you know. This and that.”

“That does not sound like a college-girl plan.”

“Maybe I’ve got other plans. Maybe I’ve got other priorities, huh?”

“Ridiculous.” A playfully push her shoulder. “A lousy seaside town really isn’t priority material. There’s only one bookshop you know.”

“Two thank you very much. And that’s not my priority either.” Her voice wavered.

“Are you going to share with the class?”

“Is the class ready?” She whispered and I turned toward her as well now, taking in her perfect round face and question-mark mouth.

“I have been.” I matched her whisper. I tremor from my center outward and hopes she can’t tell.

“Do you know what they say about moths?”

“What?” I gave a breathy laugh. It wasn’t what I was expecting. “I’ve heard of them.”

“They tell your fortune.” She was grinning in that way that put out a stool and reached up. “I used to cry a lot growing up, because some kids said that moths are just evil butterflies. I was sensitive and ran all the way home. I threw myself at my mom’s feet and threw a fit about how moths were just evil butterflies. They were just ugly, wicked versions of a good thing.”

“Evil? Well, I suppose you are rather sinister when you haven’t eaten.”

“Shut up. I’m telling you something.” She put a hand on my shoulder. I inhaled deeply and turned over in place to face her. Only the shallow breeze kept us apart.

“I’m all ears . . . though maybe not as many as you.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“What can I say? The sun is adorable. I take after him.”

A finger ghosted over my cheek, tracing the arc of my cheekbone. “Well, you’re not so bad behind those headlights too. Some of us have good day vision you know. And good taste.”

I wished those words didn’t make my chest do funny things. “Thanks.”

“Do you want to hear what my mom said or not?”

“That you shouldn’t worry about evil butterflies?” I wiggled closer. “Because you’ll be really hot and funny and smart one day. So who cares if you’re evil?”

“Yeah, those were her exact words.”

“So?”

“So,” a firm hand took my chin. “Look at me.” I looked at her. I was glad she couldn’t see the flush in my cheeks in any way. “Moths show good fortunes she said.”

“Right. Lots and lots of good fortune.” I breathed, dumbly, of course. She was close and sweet and there was hair in her face. The fronds of her antennae tickle right past my ear.

“They can help you find good fortune. They’re good omens. You know why?” Park’s lips were barely moving as she spoke, hypnotic and unhurried.

“Why?”

“Because they follow the light.”

It happened all at once. Like every cheesy love poem or bad lyrics I wrote in my journals at night. It was every cracked-spine of a book using words like “rosebud lips” and every overdone song about people who find their way to each other.

I kissed her, leaning in with no life vest on or readied crash-landing position. She kissed me and my chest filled with her, breathless, drowning, soft as dreams and stranger than hope. I cradled her and she dragged me closer and closer until it was nothing but floods and brimming.

I’d been nothing before I think, I’d been an island that waits, a bus that leaves, a shadow that hides. And then I had been hers. ----------------- I was strolling home from work along the main road. The thin strip of sidewalk was streaked with bleached sunlight and the salt air was thick enough to burn throats. It was the long way home, but I was in the habit of going back to this corner.

The bus pulled up with little ceremony. It was an interstate one that crisscrossed over empty bellies of land. I stopped in place to watch, just in case, as I had many times before.

A silver head bobbed down the steps and planted herself on the concrete, unbelieving. She took an enormous noisy sniff of the air. “Not so bad!” She bellowed.

“Are you?” That wasn’t meant to be my first word. She was more stooped now and wearing shiny things on her wrist that clanked. She’d lost another tooth. “Mags.”

“Eh!” She yelled and waved frantically as if I hadn’t shot up another inch since I last saw her and started wearing clothes without holes in them. Her eyes sparkled as she tottered over. “So how’d you do, kid?”

“See for yourself.” I smiled. It was nice when the tides came back in. Mags gave me a thorough appraising. “Like this I guess.” I held up my hand. I wiggled my ring finger at her, heavy with a silver band and glittering opal.

“That’s my girl! Always knew you’d find your feet.” She cackled. “Am I too late to give you away, kid?”

I shook my head. She waddled over to me so I could take her hand. I took her home to show her my art and new tattoos, I showed her our terrible one-eyed kitten, Basket (Wicker’s son), and the little house we styled ourselves. I showed her our shoe closet and our queen bed, our messy kitchen and busted screen door. I showed her the moth tattoo over my heart, and Park showed her the matching lighthouse one over hers.

I tried to thank her, of course, I tried to say I owed her more than she knew for picking up an angry, dirty kid and seeing something in her. I owed her everything. But she just patted my hand and said that it’s not about our debts in life, kid. It’s about the becoming.

-----------

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[dawn-moths]

“Forever and Ever More”

CHAPTER 4

Undertaker x Female Reader / Ron x Female Reader

word count: 22,700+

part 1 * part 2 * part 3 * part 4 * part 5 * part 6 * part 7

(Ever since your return to Undertaker, things have been good. Too good. Perfect enough to feel like a dream. But your flawless life of wealth and luxury is soon to take a nightmarish turn, unbeknownst to you. Because your life carries much less weight when it can be restored to you in the event of a deadly accident. So while you flit from your home of the ornate, gothic estate to London fashion week to Paris and everywhere in between, Undertaker works behind the scenes to ensure that he never has to put you in a coffin or dig your grave.)

disclaimer/content warning: 18+ sexual content! minors DNI! descriptions of violence and gore (it actually opens with some pretty brutal stuff so you’ve been warned), mention of a drug overdose, abusive/controlling behavior, daddy kink, jealousy, cheating, edging, mention of suicide, title taken from the nothing but thieves song of the same name.

***

The sharp, whirring buzz of a chainsaw echoed through the dim, damp basement halls of the Aurora Society headquarters. A splatter of red covered the already stained concrete floors, more painting the walls with every slash of the violent cutting instrument wielded wildly in Grell’s hands.

But oh, how he loved the color. That seductive, dangerous, cherished shade of crimson.

A wide, crazed, sharp toothed smile was splayed across his face, giddy giggles mixing in with the bone chilling sound of the weapon revving as more blood flecked his glasses.

And this was how your favorite body guard, someone you considered your friend, spent most of his evenings when he wasn’t curled up on the couch watching old movies with you or accompanying you on lux shopping sprees.

Because Grell was a real killer. He’d relished in the art of murder long before joining the Aurora Society and he’d made good use of his vicious talents since being invited in.

Tonight, he was busy chopping up the body of a young man who’d tried to steal from the organization’s stash, an emaciated, amateur thief from a low ranking gang who’d thought he could work his way up the hierarchy by succeeding at a severely overambitious heist.

Now his body lay in pieces as his blood swirled down the drain, Grell lapping his long tongue over the red that stained the end of his fingers, savoring the copper flavor while he admired his work.

Grell was covered in the carnage, the white shirt under his vermillion waistcoat soaked in the same brutal shade, though he didn’t care about his ruined clothes. That was one of his favorite parts of this job— the fact that the next time he admired himself in the mirror, he’d be covered in even more of his favorite color than usual.

Besides. It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford a hundred more shirts just like the one he’d stained so savagely.

Othello popped his head into the room eventually, requesting the head of the victim as usual. Grell weaved his blood stained fingers into the sticky hair of the man’s decapitated head, picking it up and staring into its glassy, lifeless eyes a little more closely before handing it over.

“This is when I like them best…” Grell had muttered as Othello leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed, waiting for his colleague to finish up playtime and let the others continue their work. “Once they finally stop screaming and they’re covered in red, they actually become quite beautiful.”

Another shrill giggle was hummed through closed lips in the final moments of adoration before Grell approached Othello and handed him the head, which was quickly placed into a black bag by the fluffy haired little man.

“What about the other parts?” Othello inquired curiously as he glanced at the arms and legs scattered near the torso in the center of the room, not batting an eye at such a grisly, gruesome scene.

“Why? You want ‘em?” Grell teased with a raise of his eyebrows and a suggestive smirk, one hand placed on his hip as he drummed his manicured fingers against his waist. “I was just gonna burn ‘em like usual, but if the boss has other plans…”

Othello considered the limbs with a little more thought then, and after a moment replied, “Yeah, y’know what. I think I have enough to hold me over for now. You can just get rid of ‘em.” He held up the bag with the head which was already beginning to drip blood out through the bottom of the burlap. 

I’m getting closer though, the sketchy scientist wanted to chirp. I suspect soon I’ll have a breakthrough on that theory the boss had. But instead what he concluded with was a droning, tired, “I’ll leave you then.”

Grell and Othello exchanged a nod of farewell and then parted ways, Grell going on to clean up the cruel mess of all the blood and bits of flesh around the room and polish his chainsaw back to gleaming perfection while Othello continued on down to his lab, whistling a pleasant little tune to himself while he scuffed his slippered feet lazily along the floor.

The place where Othello did his work resembled a morgue with all its stainless steel drawers running up and down the wall at the far end, but also like a morbid aquarium with the water tank cells that covered one of the adjacent walls, some of the pods containing eyes or hearts or lungs or, similar to tonight’s haul, full on human heads.

“Now then, my bodiless friend…” Othello began in a chipper tone, always talking to himself— and the remains of his experiments— while he worked. He pulled one of the square, fish-tank like compartments outward from the wall to expose the surface of the water and dumped the head in, stepping back quickly as some of the water sloshed over the side and onto the grimey tiles of the floor, a few droplets speckling his slippers.

The scientist watched in a dreamlike daze as the head bobbed just below the surface and the blood turned the water a light shade of coral before a sadistic smile spread across his lips. “Welcome to the family,” he muttered, going to push the cell back in and stepping back to adore the new addition to his collection embedded in the grotesque wall of human souvenirs, most of which were from petty thieves or rival gangs or, in a few cases, just some poor souls who’d looked at Undertaker the wrong way on the wrong day.

But Othello had work to do. Important work. He couldn’t afford to stand around all night and reminisce about when his collection had just been a few mismatched eyes and a single heart. Because laying out on a cold, metal table in the center of the room was a corpse, this one fully intact aside from the entrance and exit wounds that a bullet had left behind after passing through the young man’s skull.

Othello was marveled with the dead boy laying before him, not because of his appearance per se, though he was likely to have been very handsome while he’d been alive, but more so by the potential that the lifeless body lent itself to.

Because, if this worked, this plan that Othello had been painstakingly perfecting for years now, this technique that, if successful, would lead to enormous wealth and global power for the Aurora Society…

Then anything would be possible.

The boy with the bullet wound through his brain would become the very first example of the living dead, of a corpse reanimated, melting from his rigor mortis and morphing back into a fully cognizant human being.

If the plan worked, that is.

Othello hooked the various wires and electrodes to the body, making sure to align the cables symmetrically— even if only for the pleasure of his own aesthetic satisfaction— and then retreated to the complex machinery behind the safety of a glass viewing pane.

He put a pair of protective shades over his small, circular glasses and then fired up the rig, watching as rows and rows of red lights gleamed up the front of the machine before pulling down the latch and letting the electricity spark down the wires and cause the body they were connected to to convulse and jitter with the shock.

Othello had a hard time tearing his eyes away from the blinding light that illuminated the experiment to keep track of the hands on his watch, not wanting to miss it if something happened but knowing that he’d fry the corpse if he wasn’t precise with the timing.

He flipped the switch down after ten seconds, waiting and watching for any signs of movement, any signs of reclaimed life.

Nothing.

Othello flipped the switch up again, keeping time while he snuck glances at the shuddering corpse. Ten seconds. Switch down. And still nothing.

Damn it. Come on!

Before the third attempt, Othello stepped out to readjust some of the wires on the body, glaring daggers down at the young man, who’s eyes were closed, as if he were simply sleeping, and willing them to open, to so much as blink, to flutter or shift under the lids as if in the middle of a dream.

Come on!

He leaned over the body and adjusted his glasses, feeling for a pulse and coming back empty handed before returning to the little room behind the glass window to try one last time.

The shades went on. The latch was flipped. The hands on his watch ticked by ten more seconds as the room was filled with searing white light. The latch went down. And still, the body didn’t move, didn’t even twitch.

Frustrated, Othello let out a disgruntled sigh and tossed the shades onto the desk by the window, considering trying a fourth time but knowing that the more attempts he made the worse the condition of the corpse would end up. Even if he did make a breakthrough, it would only be a matter of time until the scarred heart gave out or the charred lungs ceased their function.

Feeling defeated, he powered down the machine and crossed back through the lab to unhook all the wires and electrodes as he mentally rewrote the formulas and tried to calculate where he’d gone wrong this time.

His eyes darted around on the tiled floors as he paced about, finding a slight inconsistency in one of his equations and rushing to his notes to make a correction before the idea escaped his scatter-brained train of thought.

The pen skritched across the page in swift, jagged lines, ink smudging a little when he started a new line and accidentally swiped the sleeve of his lab coat through the previous one.

But that doesn’t make any sense… He then realized, ceasing his scribbling and tapping the end of the pen against his chin as he stared intently down at the equation covered page. No. No that definitely should’ve worked.

In the silence of the room, the faint buzzing noise of the fluorescent lights lining the ceiling usually being the only sound to accompany the soft tapping of Othello’s slippered feet, there was a sudden and very distinct shift— a brisk jolt of movement atop the metal table that caused the shaggy haired scientist to whirl around and stumble back into his supply counter.

And he was terrified, truly, as the sound didn’t lend itself to any apparent source for the first few seconds, leaving him wondering what could’ve been the cause.

Until the corpse moved again, the leg twitching and fingers curling into a fist on one hand.

Othello’s expression of petrification melted into a deranged kind of celebration, eyes wide and teeth showing through a sinister beam that looked like it belonged to a monster who was trying to smile for the first time, uncanny and wrong and malicious in nature.

He shuffled one timid step forward, anticipating more progress, praying for just one more twitch, one more movement to really prove that he’d done it, that he’d successfully reanimated a corpse.

And the moment felt like an eternity, the second hand on his watch ticking from the five to the six with a tortuously slow pace before—

Othello let out a yelp of triumphant disbelief as the head turned to face him, milky eyes revealing themselves from under the lids slowly but surely, the creature still blind but attempting to look around as if it would see something if only it’s gaze caught the correct corner of the ceiling, the right crack in the tiled floor.

“C… Can you hear me?” Othello then attempted to communicate, shuffling towards his success a few more steps, hands wringing themselves relentlessly as he watched the boy open and close his mouth, the rigid skin stretching and threatening to tear at the corners the wider he went. Then the corpse let out a weak, raspy growl, a sound from somewhere in the back of its throat, as it reached a frail hand towards the man who’d brought it back from the dead.

Othello couldn’t contain himself. He was so elated that he almost forgot to record the evidence, fumbling for his phone and filming his work with a shaky hand, his incredulous bursts of laughter peppered throughout the video as he tried to document this moment in science, in history, that could change the world as everyone knew it.

“It worked…” he breathed to himself once he’d hit the red record button a second time to end the video and dropped his phone back into the pocket of his lab coat. “It actually worked…”

He’d send the video to the boss right away, knowing that he’d want to know as soon as possible, probably disappointed that he hadn’t been there to witness such an important breakthrough himself, but first Othello wanted to take in the moment privately for just a little while longer.

The creature’s voice evolved from a hiss to a low, hungry groan, nearly tumbling from the table as it tried to turn and reach for the scientist more and more each time.

And this is when there was a small twist of fear somewhere deep down inside of Othello, the stark realization of what this thing, this monster really was hitting him like a ton of bricks.

And it killed him, the idea of what he knew he had to do next.

But Othello had no choice.

He had to end this experiment, put this creature out of its misery for a second time until he could figure out how to make these sinister creations more than just ghouls who were starved for something they could never possess again after the initial loss of their life.

Because these beings, no matter how much they might’ve resembled the humans they used to be, were and would always be devoid of the one thing that really marked a person as being alive.

They were missing a soul.

And the jury was still out on whether Othello could use science to conjure up something as abstract as that.

Othello grabbed one of the surgical instruments, scissors and scalpels and saws a bit jostled from when he’d initially backed up into his workspace, and approached the creature with caution. His hands were shaking again, but this time not with excitement or anticipation.

No, this time it was pure regret. It was sorrow in the act of having to drive the blade back into the young man’s head and cause his body to still once again until it was nothing more than what it had started as by the time it had found its way into the dingy basement halls of the headquarters. 

Just an unmoving corpse.

The creature feebly thrashed about when the blade was first inserted into its skull, fighting the inevitable pull of death that Othello was trying to plunge it back into.

“I’m sorry…” the scientist muttered through clenched teeth as he drove the instrument in a little deeper, his grip being jerked around for a few more breaths until the creature ceased all movement and stilled. “I’m so, so sorry…”

Once Othello was sure that the corpse had returned to its previous, lifeless state, he pulled the scalpel from its brain and hung his own head, letting the blade clatter to the floor with a sharp metallic clang as he staggered back a few more feet, finding himself overwhelmed with emotion.

He’d just crossed the boundaries between life and death, humans and gods, and brought a boy who’d been very, very dead for at least forty-eight hours back to a state that was almost alive, but not quite.

He’d just had to slaughter the biggest achievement in his entire career with his own hands, not dissimilar to a parent killing off their own child, as sick as that sounded.

But after remembering that he’d recorded the evidence— the evidence that he now had to relay to his boss— Othello reached for his phone again, wiping some residual blood from his hands onto the crisp whiteness of his lab coat, and replayed the video, letting out an exhale of relief in knowing that, yes, this actually had happened and, hopefully, he had the right equation to do it again.

He’d need a new body, sure. But those were easy to come by nowadays.

He’d need to tweak the voltage most likely. Perhaps it was the severity of the electricity that had caused the corpse to reanimate in such a primal state. But that was merely a side note at this point.

And next time Undertaker would probably want to be there with him behind the glass as Othello pulled the latch, the boss able to stare with full attention upon the sight while Othello kept time on his watch.

I’d better perfect that formula, Othello thought to himself. When he comes to see it, it’ll be flawless.

So as the strange little man grabbed up his many scattered notes and shuffled them into a neater pile on the worktable, he sent Undertaker the video he’d taken, knowing that his boss probably wouldn’t receive it till morning since it was nearly three AM, and once that was done he threw a sheet over the body that had died twice and wheeled the metal table down the narrow halls and towards the incinerator, flipping back the covering to expose the boy’s face and allowing himself to view him one last time before discarding the remains and reducing them to nothing but ash and blackened bone fragments.

Othello lightly stroked a knuckle along the corpse’s jaw, the final touches of fondness between creator and monster before letting go of the sentiment and sliding the body into the incinerator, unable to watch this time as the flames engulfed the figure and ate away at the flesh, little sparkling embers swirling around as the contained fire raged.

Othello stalked down the basement halls with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, both conflicted and thrilled.

Because now what?

Now that he’d done it, now that all of his experiments had amounted to something much, much more than a macabre excuse to play with the victims before extracting their organs and jarring them for the black market trade, what would come next?

How was Undertaker going to evolve the mission he’d requested of Othello oh so long ago to bring someone back from the dead? And, an even more important question that Othello had managed to keep swept under the rug time and time again, why had the Black Reaper made such a request in the first place?

Othello didn’t know— didn’t dare to ask— but he was certain of one thing.

This was just the beginning. And whatever was to come would be so much bigger than even Undertaker could’ve predicted.

***

It had been two weeks since you’d come home, nearly three since you’d left with Ron, and almost an entire month since the violent incident with the whip.

And it all felt like a lifetime ago, your days since falling back into Undertaker’s presence clouded by a sweet haze of tender touches, whispered words, and precious promises.

It was like a dream, better than it ever had been as he spoiled you rotten, indulging your every want or need without the slightest ounce of hesitation. He cooked you all your favorite meals, had extravagant desserts and delicacies shipped to the mansion (though you were good and had kept to the rule about no sweets after nine), and spent so much time with you that the two of you were rarely apart for more than a few hours at a time.

You’d received new dresses in only the most luxurious silks and velvets and dazzling jewelry, expensive fur coats and shiny platform shoes, imported purses and handbags, any and every accessory you could think of to add to your limitless shopping cart.

And Undertaker made sure to remind you how gorgeous you were in each and every one of them, especially as he took them off of you, undressing his perfect, precious little doll and putting you in the state he found you prettiest— in absolutely nothing at all as you lay under him and let out your adorable little moans and mewls while he used your body to warm him night after night.

And you’d missed this, actually, the way his hands were always cold and his scarred skin was still soft against yours. You missed the way he held you in place, cradling the back of your neck and head with one arm while he fucked you sometimes, his broad chest and shoulders lending you comfort as you dozed off on top of him afterward, his long fingers combing gently through your hair.

You missed the silence that filled the master bedroom after he’d cleaned you up and tucked you under the expensive sheets, his slow heartbeat like a lullaby against your ear as you curled up and rested your head near his heart.

And you wanted to believe it would last this time, this ideal dynamic where you were his perfectly behaved, pretty little angel and he was the kind and calm man who had vowed to protect you, to nurture his priceless princess.

“Daddy…?” you mumbled through a cute, sleepy voice, already beginning to doze off while you’d waited for him to change from his day clothes into something suitable to sleep in, you still procrastinating putting on your pajamas.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he inquired with a smile, coming to sit on the edge of the bed and pull you up from where you were lying to straddle his lap, your chests pressed together in a gentle embrace as he rubbed a hand up and down your back, taking in the subtly sweet scent of your shampoo that lingered in your hair as your little head rested against his chest where it belonged.

“Guess what?” you smiled then, a playful lilt woven into your otherwise tired tone.

“What?” Undertaker chuckled, voice low and soothing, the vibration in his chest every time he spoke comforting you.

You pulled back slightly for a moment however, wanting to see the look in his eyes when you gazed up at him in that sinfully innocent way of yours and said, “I love you.”

And, god, weren’t you just the most precious thing?

Everytime Undertaker saw you like this, saw how pure and genuine and just plain divine that you were, he made a vow even stronger than the last to ensure that his princess never got hurt again, especially by his hand.

Because he loved you too.

He loved you so, so much and he let you know that. Not just when you said it first, but on the daily, in the mornings during breakfast and the afternoons when you were walking by his side in the rose gardens and every night before he kissed your forehead and watched you fall asleep.

You both were intoxicated by this atmosphere, both trying so hard to be perfect for one another.

But still, something else you both shared was the fact that there were scheming plots brewing in the back of your minds. Acts of defiance and deceit, betrayal and trickery.

Because it wasn’t a matter of if this lovely fog that had clouded both your minds would clear, it was a matter of when.

And when it did, there was a storm on its way. One that was bigger and badder and more treacherous than either of you had ever seen before.

“What shall we do tomorrow, my love?” Undertaker asked you after you lay your head back on his chest, his hands drifting a little lower everytime they stroked down your back, his skin craving the feel of yours again. “I have the day off. Perhaps you’d like to go to one of the museums or out to dinner or…?”

“Not the museums…” you muttered into his shoulder. That would just remind you of Ron. And you didn’t want to think about him right now. Not because you were mad at him or yourself or what the two of you had done. You didn’t want to think about Ron because that meant you would miss him. Because even after all this time you still believed what you’d admitted to him in the car when he’d dropped you off.

You did love him.

But right now you really, really loved the man who was holding you.

Right now, you loved Undertaker just a little more.

“Well, you know what’s next week, don’t you?” Undertaker then inquired. Not really paying much attention, you just shook your head. You were too distracted by his scent and the softness of his touches, his hands now finding your thighs, fingers just barely brushing under the skirt of your dress.

When he let out a low chuckle, however, you pulled back again to look up at him, this time with confusion. “You know…” he assured you, wanting you to remember by yourself before giving away the answer. “Think about it. Here, I’ll give you a hint. It comes twice a year.”

Your eyes widened a bit with the realization, a soft smile spreading across your lips now. “It’s London fashion week!” you exclaimed, a little energy igniting in your blood. “I can’t believe I almost forgot!”

“Yes, well, I suppose we could go shopping in preparation for that tomorrow, if you’d like,” Undertaker offered.

You snuggled back into him as you wrapped your arms around him as much as your reach would allow and said with excitement, “Yes, let’s!”

Undertaker helped fuel your pleasant mood a little longer with the prospect until he felt like he had you right where he wanted you— tightly wrapped around his finger like a well fitted ring and willing to bend at his every command.

Your dress had hiked up a little further as you’d pressed yourself as tightly to his body as was comfortable in your current position, the delicate lace of your panties rubbing against the thin silks of his pajama pants where you’d begun to feel him get hard.

Since he’d gotten you back, it didn’t feel like it took much for either of you to find yourself in such a state, the simple act of you straddling his lap as he ran his fingers gingerly across your body causing your stomach to twist with the familiar first sparks of arousal while his bulge grew underneath you.

“D-do you wanna…?” you stuttered out, as if you even had to ask.

“What I want…” Undertaker began as his hands found purchase on your hips, pressing you down a little harder onto his erection, making a small moan escape you as your clit rubbed against the friction of the material separating you both. He leaned closer and whispered in your ear, the seductive growl of his voice making you wetter with every word, “What I want is for my baby girl to feel good…”

“D-Daddy…” you breathed out, mind already glazing over with sugary sweet lust.

With that plea, that unspoken request, Undertaker used his grip on you to grind harder, moving you effortlessly over him and making you squirm when he hit just the right spot.

You hung your head forward with the next breathy moan that crawled its way up your throat, face feeling hot and reddening despite being well used to this by now. But he took your chin between his fingers, lifting your gaze until he could meet it and taking in that pitifully innocent glow in your eyes, some misty tears of embarrassment sparkling on your lashes.

“Awww, what’s the matter, sweetheart?” he cooed condescendingly, clicking his tongue as he pushed you down over his hard-on with even greater pressure, making a strangled whine fill the room as you threw your head back and felt that knot in your stomach twist tighter. “I know that you know how to be good for Daddy. And when you’re good for Daddy… you know you always get a reward.”

He was relentless with the way he knew how to make your body bend to his command, but it was the best kind of cruelty, this infuriating form of foreplay that he knew you loved.

And he loved pulling as many of those pretty little sounds from you as he could before sinking deep inside of your tight, fluttering pussy, a new wave of pride washing over him everytime he satisfied you with barely any effort at all on his part. Because you were just too easy sometimes, and there was something endearing about that to him, the way that every time with you could feel like the first time, like he was taking your virginity all over again.

“Want you…” you whined as you clutched the smooth fabric of his button up pajama shirt in your trembling fists, trying to keep your need for release at bay until he allowed you to have it.

“You know how to ask nicely, don’t you, princess?” Undertaker teased as he grinded against you particularly hard, pushing up against you and pulling you down on him at the same time, making you attempt to wriggle from his grasp lest you come early, though he’d have no problem making you come as many times as you could take, if you were willing.

“P-please…?” you breathed out through a moan, the mist of tears that glossed over your eyes shimmering as they welled up a little more. “Please, I-I want you…”

And Undertaker just couldn’t help himself, never loving the sight of you more than when you were at his mercy. Just one more time, one more time before he submerged you into pure pleasure, Undertaker allowed himself to roll his hips up to press into your sensitive core, the sweetest moan you’d made yet sounding like music to his ears as it filled the master bedroom.

“D-daddyyyy…” you begged in a whine, growing impatient with his teasing, at least, the kind that occurred through your clothes.

“Alright, baby, you’ve earned your reward,” Undertaker chuckled, softening his grip on your hips so that you weren’t pressed so hard against him, though once there was a little more space between you and him you realized how drenched you really were, cold air in the room feeling even chillier against your cunt with the wetness of your panties.

Undertaker carefully cradled you as he leaned you to lay back on the bed, his hands wrapped around your wrists as he held your arms above your head and kissed you deeply, passionately, his tongue swiping along the seam of your lips which you parted naturally, allowing your mouths to meet and taking in the taste of each other, you always so sweet while he was often indescribable, mysteriousness never failing to keep you guessing.

When his hands left their place around your wrists, you still kept your arms above your head, surrendering yourself to the vulnerable position while he rubbed his palms up your thighs and hips and pushed the skirt of your dress to bunch all the way up to your chest, your tummy exposed to him now.

You couldn’t help but let out a little giggle when he kissed you there, the soft touch of his lips tickling your skin as it trailed down your belly. But you just felt so loved, so tended to as he moved about you gently, with consideration and care more for your body than his own for once.

You sucked in a gasp when you felt his teeth graze against your clit, pulling your panties off with his mouth as you watched him with equal embarrassment and arousal. He let out a low, sinister simper as he met your eyes, still holding the delicate lace between his sharp incisors for a moment before letting them drop into the palm of his hand and tossing them to the floor. You were getting so hot that you could feel your mind starting to slip, your body growing impatient as that tightly wound coil in the pit of your stomach constricted even tighter.

“You’re so beautiful, baby,” Undertaker praised you, slowly lowering his head to rest between your thighs again while you relaxed your neck and felt your head sink further into the plush pillow, closing your eyes as you felt his lips pressing against the inside of your upper thighs, sucking and biting and licking at the sensitive skin as you squirmed at the sensations, all kinds of pretty little sounds sneaking past your lips.

Your little hole kept clenching around nothing, needing something, anything to be stuffed inside and quell this sexual craving, be it Undertaker’s cock or his fingers or his tongue.

You panted out short, uneven breaths and gripped the sheets in your fists when he finally moved his mouth to your pretty little pussy, lapping over your arousal and making you even more wet, teasing your clit and your hole with the tip of his tongue while you were reduced to a pathetic, shivering mess lying on your back, eyes already beginning to roll as you muttered out broken pleas of, “I… I’m gonna…” but were never able to actually finish that sentence as it was often punctuated halfway with a new moan.

“You’re being so good…” Undertaker cooed as he took a break to admire his work, take in the sight of your glistening cunt and the way your skin shimmered under the dim lights with the thin sheen of sweat that was forming. He pulled your dress over your head and undid your bra while you just lay there and tried to fight against your body’s urge to come, knowing that it would be more worth it if you held on a little longer.

“D-daddy pleeeeaaaase…!” you whined, beginning to curl into yourself as a wave of goosebumps skittered up your spine, cold air perking your newly exposed nipples painfully fast.

“You’re gonna have to use your words, sweetheart…” Undertaker muttered against your neck as he began sucking love bites into your flesh there as well, little constellations of ebony and violet spotting your skin. “I know you know how to ask for exactly what you want.”

You let out another indistinguishable whimper, face reddening even more at the thought of having to say it, having to ask.

But still, your Daddy was right.

You did know how to ask for exactly what you wanted.

And it was only after you asked for something that he could deliver it to you.

“I-I want…” you breathed, another shiver running through you as his tongue lingered over a particularly sensitive bruise that was blooming from under his lips. “I want you…”

“Yeeees…?” he sang through a chuckle, gaining pleasure in your struggle to say just a few simple words.

“I want you…” you swallowed hard, saliva thick and sticky in your throat, “to make me come, Daddy, please!”

The tears that had begun to well in your eyes spilled over in a few crystalline drops as a sob punctuated your begging, Undertaker swiping his thumbs across your cheeks to still the stream before the tears could meet under your chin.

“See, sweetheart?” he continued to coo condescendingly, stroking his knuckles softly along your jaw in gentle petting motions. “That wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

You tried to hide your face behind your hands, but Undertaker quickly took your wrists in one of his palms again, pinning your arms above your head and using his other hand to lightly graze his fingernails from your collarbones to your hips, making sure to trace back and forth over your ribs and lower stomach because he knew that it would make you flinch, that your body would retract against your control and cause you to suck in another one of those cute, startled little gasps.

Once he’d finished entertaining himself by triggering your sensitive spots, never really able to get enough of your whimpers and helpless little whines, he finally dipped his fingers in between your soaked folds, massaging up and down your slit and rubbing circles over your clit once again, alternating between soft and hard pressures in order to continue keeping your orgasm under his control.

Then, without you even realizing it, you choked out in barely a whisper, “Y-you’re killing me…!” and at this Undertaker couldn’t help but laugh.

There was a sickening irony to the fact that you were saying this now, when things were better than ever, even if it was just a figurative expression.

Because you could’ve said that when he’d revenge fucked you that night after dinner, or just a month ago when he’d gotten out the crop and cuffs.

But you were choosing now to say this, while Undertaker was torturing you with pleasure, and that was perhaps the biggest boost his pride had gained that night. Because that statement said by you in this setting was satisfying both his sadistic nature and his want to please you.

“Patience, baby girl,” he reminded you, though did nothing to quell his vicious ministrations against your pulsating cunt. “All in good time.”

He toyed with your clit for a few more strokes, holding you down as you writhed in his grasp, before finally slipping two of his fingers inside your tight hole and feeling your walls clench around them, so eager for more, for something bigger to fill you up.

“That’s a good girl,” he commended you as your cunt clenched tighter with the skilled curl of his fingers, knowing your body inside and out better than even his own at this point. “You want Daddy’s cock?” he breathed through a low chuckle.

You nodded your little head in quick, short motions, panting breaths coming out with the rapid rising and falling of your chest. “P-please…” you begged, though he was already stretching you, scissoring his fingers inside as your hole tightened even more.

Fuck… he wanted to exhale in awe at the desperate sight of you, the fact that your body was his and his alone.

Or so he thought.

However, one thing that Undertaker had been sure about was that, if nothing else, he’d gotten to you first.

Because two years ago when he’d taken you back to his mysterious mansion on the outskirts of London for the first time, no one had ever had you.

And that had only made him want you more.

And now, even after he’d had you countless times, that effect still lingered, this indescribable want, this need that he had for you, whether it was to hear your cute giggles echoing through the mansion halls or feel the way your body stretched around him, squeezing with the warm wetness of your insides as he thrust deep into you.

“Alright, baby…” Undertaker chuckled as he finally began to undress himself while you continued to lay trembling with pent up euphoria on the bed. “Since you’ve been so good, I’ll give you your reward.”

He sunk into you faster than you were used to, causing a hiss of pain to escape through your clenched teeth at the sudden entrance, but you quickly adjusted with his help. He folded your legs so that your knees were nearly touching your chest, allowing himself to go even deeper, and you squeaked out a few more sounds of discomfort until he began with a slow and steady pace, the roll of his hips smooth and rhythmic.

As he began to pick up speed, you wrapped your legs around him, ankles interlocked around his waist to keep yourself from slipping too far from him as his thrusts carried enough strength to move you a few inches closer to the headboard everytime.

And he’d done it again. Reduced you to nothing more than high pitched mewling and a quivering, glistening mess who only knew how to look pretty while you took his cock.

And when he was done with you this time, you having come twice before he finally finished, he cared for you even more thoroughly and gently than he ever had before.

And this is how it was supposed to be, you realized once you’d come down from your high of lust. It was supposed to be perfect. You were supposed to be perfect, treated perfectly in return.

Undertaker even took a bath with you this time, didn’t just wash you off while he sat beside the tub fully clothed, his expensive black dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He relaxed in the warm water with you, cradling you in his arms as your back rested against his chest, feeling your eyelids getting heavy as you traced your finger along the lines of some of his scars.

Just when you were sure you were about to doze off, you swore that you heard him mutter, “I love you so much, my love. So, so much…” into the crown of your head, but you were drifting in and out of that in between state where it could’ve simply been a dream.

And maybe all of this was just some twisted yet oddly pleasant dream.

Maybe any day now you’d wake up and find yourself not next to this beautiful, silver-haired man in a luxurious master bedroom, but back in the tiny shared flat that you’d come from before getting fortunate enough to find him.

You hoped not.

The thought of having to return to your old life now was nothing short of an unimaginable nightmare, one that the mere idea of was sending you into a state of anxiety.

But once Undertaker had drained the water, dried you off, and dressed you for bed, you were certain that all of this really was real.

When he pulled the many layers of sheets and blankets and fluffy goose down comforters over top of you as he cuddled you close to him, he repeated the same phrase.

“I love you so much, my love. So, so much.”

And that time, just barely coherent enough to respond, you mumbled sleepily, “I love you too. Forever and ever…”

You fell unconscious only moments later, so safe and secure in all the tenderness and love that you’d experienced tonight, ever since you’d returned as a matter of fact.

But still, Undertaker smiled to himself, whispering your final words back to himself with a sick kind of satisfaction, as if he was in on a joke that you had yet to realize the punchline to.

“Forever and ever… Yes, my love. Forever and ever indeed.”

***

Undertaker had risen before you the following day, as he usually did. Though, instead of staying in bed and cuddling with you until your eyelids fluttered open and a sleepy groan hummed in your throat while you stretched your legs, he got up and retreated to his office.

Because he’d seen that Othello had sent him a video last night and he knew that it could only mean one thing.

The reanimation experiments were working.

They were making progress.

They were getting closer.

A chill scurried through Undertaker’s bones as he stared down at his phone, replaying the video a few times until it finally sunk in that they’d done it. They’d finally managed to find a way to bring someone back from the dead.

And even though the logistics of the aftermath still had to be tweaked, that didn’t even matter.

Because if they could cross such an impossible boundary— a boundary that was no longer impossible, now that they’d actually done it— then they could do anything.

And Undertaker felt so relieved.

Because now no matter what happened to him or you or any of his closest confidants, really, he had a way to undo the devastation.

It was mostly about you, honestly.

It may not have started that way when he originally proposed the idea to Othello all those years ago just before they’d left university, back when Undertaker was just a young man who had yet to gain the title of the Black Reaper and Othello was merely his scientifically inclined classmate. 

Back then, when the sacrilegious scheme had been expelled into the air between the two of them, it had simply been about making money and gaining power.

But once Undertaker had met you, had claimed you for himself and was sure that you were it, that you were the only one…

Then the prospect of returning the life to one who was undeniably dead was solely so he could never lose you whether you wanted to be brought back or not.

So when he took you out to hunt down the perfect look for fashion week, his mood was somehow even more jovial than he’d been to you as of late. Though, unbeknownst to you, you weren’t actually the cause of his easy laughter and constant grin.

You were part of it, sure.

But what really had Undertaker so joyous was his work.

Because he didn’t care about shopping or the nice dinner you went out to that night or how you oh so graciously thanked him for all he’d been doing for you in bed afterwards.

What he cared about was the fact that he’d never have to worry about picking out a coffin for his baby girl, god forbid any of his enemies got their hands on you.

He cared about the fact that no amount of cold earth could keep you buried under its grave.

He liked that he was about to become so much more powerful than even he could comprehend, of course.

But what he loved was the fact that, soon, not even death could keep you two apart.

***

The day had finally come.

What had felt like a lifetime waiting (though in actuality had only been six months since the last time the event was held), London fashion week was here once again.

And you were decked out from head to toe in the latest and most exclusive designer brands alongside Undertaker who was sporting the same level of luxury.

Like always, even amongst the most immaculately dressed and decadently styled, you two were a sight to behold.

Today Undertaker wore his long, silver hair in a low, loose braid that draped elegantly over his shoulder, contrasting brightly against his entirely black ensemble of a fitted suit and turtleneck underneath. Each one of his fingers was decorated with a ring beholding a precious gem, the biggest and most noticeable one being the dazzling ruby on his middle digit, and you were coordinated with a ruby encrusted choker and earrings to match.

As the two of you strode down the red carpet, the cameras couldn’t get enough of you, dozens of blinding flashes and snapping shutters going off every millisecond, though it wasn’t anything you weren’t used to when making a public appearance at a gala as prestigious as this.

And oh, how the press were so intrigued and entranced by the most powerful mafia boss in London and the pretty, sweet looking girl under his arm.

You had to try hard to remind yourself not to smile too much, to keep a calm and composed expression just like the man beside you always wore. It was your mask, Undertaker had explained to you. It was a way to maintain the mystery and keep everyone guessing. Even when photographers and hosts called out to you to try and get a personal picture or interview, you had to act like you weren’t interested despite loving all the attention.

But you knew how to pretend.

You’d been doing it for months now, the situation with Ron giving you good practice.

And you were one of the biggest and most popular influencers at the event. Everyone would have their eyes on you at some point or another, which meant you couldn’t afford to drop the act until you and Undertaker were back in the privacy of the mansion and he made sure to remind you of that several times that morning.

“I promise I’ll be good,” you’d whined while rocking back and forth on your feet, staring up at him through your lashes with those big, innocent doe-eyes of yours that you knew he was weak for. “I won’t talk to anyone about you and I won’t leave your sight.”

Undertaker had kissed your head and then smoothed down your perfectly styled hair with one of his big palms, voice low and smooth as he replied, “Good girl. Now…” He opened the car door for you and allowed you to slide into your seat. “I believe that the event is waiting for its most important guest.”

Pulling up in the Rolls-Royce had been quite an entrance to begin with, the cameras flocking to you and setting off so many flashes that the car momentarily appeared to be shiny white instead of black as the bright lights reflected off the spotless vehicle. But once the surrounding crowds and fellow celebrities caught sight of your outfit— and the man who was accompanying you— you were turning heads from all the way down the red carpet.

Nearly to the showroom now, more and more people began calling out your name. You’d glance their way and see what network they were from, and when one particularly prominent one summoned you, you looked up at Undertaker with a hopeful shine in your eyes and he nodded at you, reminding you once again to only answer questions regarding your career and not to say anything about him besides the fact that you two were dating, if you really had to say anything at all. Only once you’d nodded again and promised you’d be good did he let you go, lingering nearby and keeping within earshot just in case.

Your interview began with an overly eager greeting and an introduction from the host to the main network camera about you and who you were, your impressive social media climb, and unique style. You just smiled and nodded for a while, trying to mind the severity of your pleasant facial expression, and kept your tone calm and matter of fact just like Undertaker had instructed you.

It wasn’t too hard though. All you really had to do was imitate your Daddy and you’d be golden. And god knew that you’d spent so much time with him that you could imitate his mannerisms to a T.

At least, the ones he showed in front of you.

At the end of the interview, you thanked the host for their time, as they thanked you for yours and told you to enjoy the show, and then you returned to Undertaker’s side where his arm could rest over your shoulders and keep you close again.

You passed by many more hosts who called— begged— to catch an interview with you, but you were already overwhelmed by the spectacle of it all that you didn’t even ask Undertaker if you could go to meet them. Instead, something else caught your attention, or rather, someone.

Because only a few more couples down the red carpet was the back of Lizzy’s blonde, ringlet-haired head, dressed in her usual soft pink and white fashion with the little boy wearing the eyepatch at her arm.

“Look!” you went to point out to Undertaker, but he’d already seen them.

Actually, who he’d spotted first was the black clad butler who trailed alongside the children inconspicuously, keeping an eye on his master and his bubbly girlfriend.

Undertaker’s grip on you tightened a little bit, and then even more so when the butler actually turned and locked eyes with him, nodding his head with a devious smirk before turning again to continue on after Ciel and Lizzy.

“I didn’t know they’d be here!” you whispered eagerly, your smile widening. “Let’s go say hi—”

You’d just been about to step forward and run off when Undertaker latched onto your arm and held you in place, causing your joy to drop as you stopped and looked up at him with confusion and— as much as Undertaker hated to admit it to himself— fear.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he tried to ease your concern, voice gentle and cautious. “We’ll see them after the show, alright.”

You looked away and attempted to hide your disappointment behind a meek, “Alright…” before continuing down the carpet and finally making it inside where the show was soon to begin.

But your disheartened mood was nearly forgotten once you began mingling with mutual influencers and friends you’d made over the past couple years while attending the various fashion week exhibits, whether they be in London or Paris, Milan or New York.

Once everyone was seated, you and Undertaker securing your usual front row spots where you could inspect even the tiniest details of embroidery or embellishment on the one of a kind garments that passed by you, the lights went down save for the ones lining and hanging overhead the long catwalk and the fashion show was underway.

And you were nothing short of blown away by this season’s collections, each designer bringing a fresh spark of inspiration for your own upcoming fashion trends that all of your followers were sure to be envious of.

Undertaker and you had a wordless sort of system that you used during these types of events, a silent wishlist where all you had to do when you saw something you wanted was tap a finger on his arm or his knee or anywhere where your little hand was resting upon his person and he’d make a mental note to get you one of your very own.

You didn’t want to push it, but this year presented the hardest decision yet.

Because you wanted almost everything.

But, since you were being so good, there was no reason why Undertaker shouldn’t give you everything.

After the final collection departed from the catwalk and the lights went up, the crowd slowly began to mutter and mingle amongst themselves until a steady filter of conversational noise filled the venue.

You were searching around for Lizzy, head bobbing and weaving as you stood in place and tried to catch a glimpse of her pink and white dress through the many moving people until finally you heard her high-pitched voice giggling nearby.

Undertaker was once again caught in a staring standoff with that suspicious butler. However, unlike Sebastian’s faked pleasantry, if a smirk could be referred to as such, Undertaker showed no signs of kind familiarity.

Because he knew that that man had done something to you. He might never know the specifics for sure, but he didn’t need to. The fact alone was enough to stir a vengeance in the cruelest parts of Undertaker’s heart, to rile his craving for vendetta.

But his raging enmity was put on pause the moment he caught you maneuvering through the crowds further ahead of him and directly towards where he saw Lizzy and Ciel standing and talking with some others adjacent to Sebastian’s position.

Undertaker sucked in a short gasp and his bright emerald eyes went wide with panic as he rushed after you, pushing and shoving through the rich and famous as if they were nothing more than downtown strangers. For all he cared, they were even less than that. Because Sebastian’s predatory glare was trained on you now, moving with a cat-like swiftness to meet you just before you would come face to face with Undertaker’s competition and the girl that he wished you’d never met.

“Heeeeey!” Lizzy called over and waved once she noticed you approaching her through the crowd, her beaming smile widening even more somehow as she left Ciel’s side to come meet you. “Oh my god you look amazing! We should totally take a picture together for—”

But you were faced with an obstacle now, staring up and frozen in fear as the butler stood before you, his towering figure like a looming shadow even amidst all the colorful patrons of the event that were lingering to further socialize.

You felt your blood run cold at the sight of that sly smirk, too devious for anyone’s good, and instantly wished that you’d waited for Undertaker to accompany you.

That night came back to you in flashes— the pitch black of the room you’d snuck into, the way the desk dug into your hips as the butler painfully twisted your arm behind your back, the way his gloved hand muffled your screams and how skillfully he’d lied when he’d nearly been caught.

“How nice to see you again…” Sebastian began sinisterly, leaning over you a little more and causing you to shuffle back a step, nearly knocking into the person directly behind you. “I don’t suspect your partner is anywhere nearby, is he?”

Just then, Undertaker appeared at your side, pulling you into his chest with his arms wrapped around you as you felt frantic, shallow breaths rise and fall unevenly in his chest, a scowl beginning to form on his brow as he clenched his jaw and dared that butler to say even one more syllable to you.

“I thought I told you not to run off,” Undertaker lightly scolded you through a stern mumble.

“Ah, so you are here after all…” Sebastian commented, his smirk turning a little friendlier now, his gentlemanly mask sliding back down over his devilishly handsome face. “I do believe that my master would like to exchange greetings. Perhaps I should direct you over to him and—”

“Actually, we were just leaving,” Undertaker cut in abruptly, straightening his posture and clearing his throat as he regained as much of his composure as he could. “I’m afraid you’ll have to apologize to him that we couldn’t stick around. Come along now.” Undertaker quickly guided you away and out of the venue, leaving you to peer over your shoulder to meet eyes with Lizzy who was confused and disappointed when she saw you making your exit, appearing to be inquiring with Sebastian as to what happened while the butler merely gave a vague excuse and ushered her back towards Ciel, who’d been watching the whole thing through that singular blue eye of his.

Neither you nor Undertaker said another word until you’d safely returned to the Rolls-Royce, an uneasy silence settling in the closed space and hanging there until you started to get nervous, eyes darting back and forth from where his knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel tight and your own little hands nervously fidgeting in your lap.

“I’m sorry, Daddy, I—”

“Please,” he cut you off sharply, and you were sure that you were in trouble again. But when Undertaker took a hand off the wheel to rake it back through his silver hair, a deep sigh exhaled through his nose in an attempt to calm his temper, he said, “Please, sweetheart. Please tell me what really happened that night at the Phantomhive manor.”

He pivoted in his seat so that he could face you better, looking into your stare with the utmost urgency, with a grave concern that made tears instantly begin to well in your eyes because, well…

Because of everything.

“He—” But you didn’t get any more of an explanation out before a sob choked the rest of your sentence and rendered you to a crying, trembling mess in the passenger's seat, your palms pressed into your eyes as if that would stop the tears from breaking through.

And you really thought that, if Undertaker hadn’t been angry with you before for running off, then he sure as hell was going to have something to say about how you’d lied to him, withheld information, whatever.

But he wasn’t.

He was angry, sure. More than that, he was furious that that man had put his hands on you, harmed you, done something bad enough to upset you even after all this time.

But none of that hostility was directed at you.

No, not at you.

You flinched when you felt Undertaker’s arms wrap around you in an embrace, pulling you closer to him and whispering something into your ear as he stroked your hair like he knew always had a way of soothing you. Once you were able to calm your crying a bit, you were able to make out what he was saying.

“I’m so sorry…” he muttered sorrowfully. “I’m so sorry that I wasn’t there to protect you. I should’ve never brought you in the first place. I promise I’ll never bring you to such a dangerous place again. That I’ll never leave you again…”

Part of you wanted to remind him that, that night, it had been you who’d left him. That you were the one to blame…

But you didn’t.

You reached up to wrap your trembling arms around him now, pulling him closer to you as another sob hitched in your chest. Because, you thought to yourself, you should’ve just been honest with him all along. And it was that acidic, poisonous feeling of guilt that was suffocating you now, all the pain making it hard to breathe.

“Can we go home now?” you asked with a shaky voice once Undertaker leaned back into his seat, your hand still in his where he could feel you continue to quiver.

“Yes, baby, let’s go home,” he cooed, lifting his hand from yours to turn the key in the ignition and shift the car into gear, speeding through London and back towards the desolate countryside where the gothic Victorian mansion— your beautiful prison, your haven of darkness— lay in waiting for its residents to return.

***

London fashion week had come and gone and after that initial first day in attendance you’d chosen to forgo the rest of the festivities for this season. It had begun to rain soon after the two of you had returned home and had shown no signs of stopping until this evening after almost nine straight days of storms.

You and Undertaker had taken a long stroll through the now wilted rose gardens, the hedges bare of their black flowers this time of year yet still spiraled with plenty of thorns. But the sky was cloudless and blue for once so you couldn’t complain.

The sun was just beginning to set and you let out a big yawn as you leaned your head to rest against his arm where it was interlocked with yours, the east wing of the house coming back into view as you’d circled back.

“Are you tired already, my love?” Undertaker asked you with a bit of an amused chuckle, running a palm up and down your arm.

You rubbed your eyes and nodded your head, humming out a cute little mm-hmm and covering your mouth as another yawn crawled up your throat. “Wanna take a nap…” you mumbled as the two of you started up the steps to reenter the mansion, Undertaker grabbing the door for you.

“You know that if you take a nap now then you won’t be able to fall asleep tonight,” he reminded you, but you threw yourself onto the nearest couch and curled up into a little ball, pulling the blanket that had been draped over one arm of the furniture over your body.

“Just for a little bit,” you grumbled adorably as you already had your eyes closed, clearly having made up your mind. “Just for an hour…”

Undertaker sighed and crossed his arms, staring down at you and saying in a simultaneously playful and warning tone, “Alright, but if you try and use this as an excuse to stay up later tonight, Daddy’s not going to be very happy about it, you know.”

“Promise… I won’t…” you muttered with fading volume. And just like that, you were out.

Undertaker shook his head, though was unable to suppress his smile, as he picked you up off the couch while you were still bundled up in the blanket and carried you up to the bedroom where he gently lay you over the many layers of fluffy comforters.

It wasn’t unusual for you to take a nap, just not this late.

Usually, it was sometime in the afternoon if you were left at the house with one of his confidants, your boredom or the old movies re-running on the TV lulling you to sleep. But never as the sun was going down, right before dinner.

But what was Undertaker to do?

His baby girl was so tired, had seemed exhausted all day but had held on for as long as she could.

How could he deny you this?

He checked his watch, making note of the current time, then retreated to his office to finish up some last minute work until he’d come to wake you an hour later.

Or at least, that had been the plan.

By the time he’d gotten caught up in paperwork and phone calls nearly three hours had gone by and the only thing that had made him realize just how late it had gotten was the fact that his stomach was starting to growl because he’d forgotten all about dinner too.

He clicked his tongue at his own carelessness and then forced himself to vacate his office and return to the master bedroom where, sure enough, you were still fast asleep.

And what a wonderful dream you’d been having while Undertaker was away.

Because your other favorite boy had come to visit you in the lovely lavender fields of your subconscious mind.

You and Ron were walking hand in hand in your dream, the scenery painted in vibrant color and all the flowers in bloom on a beautiful summer’s day. The two of you were smiling and laughing and you didn’t even know what the cause of it was but everything just felt right. There was a sparkling lake in the distance and you started to run towards it, Ron close behind, and just before you appeared to be falling back into the glassy surface of the water that reflected a sorbet sky Ron had you in his arms.

But the heavenly image of your dreamscape began to fade and blur until you found yourself back in the dim light and dark woods of the master bedroom, Undertaker shaking your shoulder to wake you as you startled with a quiet gasp.

“W-what time is it?” you asked as you glanced out the window and saw pitch blackness.

“Much later than I intended, I’m afraid,” Undertaker sighed, seeming only disappointed with himself. “Are you hungry?”

You didn’t feel any particular craving, but you said you wouldn’t mind a little something just to hold you over until morning. Undertaker returned not much later with some warm milk and honey for you, something he’d made you before in the past when you’d been sick and could barely eat anything at all.

“Thank you…” you said as you sipped at the drink, hoping it would help you fall back asleep in a few hours like it normally did.

As Undertaker sat on the edge of the bed next to you and took a sip of his tea he said with a rare kind of lighthearted guilt, “Perhaps tonight bedtime should be pushed back an hour or so.”

You giggled and nodded your head, reaching out to accept one of the biscuits he was handing you that he’d brought up for the two of you to share.

But that night, even with the later bedtime and the lingering tiredness that you’d carried all day, you struggled to fall asleep just like Undertaker had originally warned you about.

You tossed and turned from one AM till two, then two to two thirty, and then by the time the dreaded witching hour droned on the intricate grandfather clock from the main entrance, the low, eerie tone faintly echoing through the upper floors, Undertaker just couldn’t take it anymore.

“Darling, please…” he groaned sleepily, turning back over to face you and pulling you close to him, wrapping his arms around you in an attempt to still you. “It’s three in the morning… Are you having nightmares?”

You let out a pathetic little whine, voice muffled into Undertaker’s chest as you nuzzled closer to him. He took that sound as a yes, but it wasn’t a nightmare that was making you so restless.

It was that dream you’d had earlier.

The one with Ron.

But it wasn’t only the lavender fields and the lake that painted the memory of him, but the way he’d made you feel, especially the night he’d had you under him in his bed in that tiny little flat on the edge of the city.

That night that felt like a lifetime ago was stirring something in you, causing that familiar coil to tighten in the pit of your stomach at the thought of the way he’d listened to your commands, actually been concerned with what satisfied you before satisfying himself.

Because he’d asked you if you were ok, if you’d wanted this, and then he’d helped you feel safe, helped you feel whole when you were sure that you were broken beyond repair.

“What’s wrong, baby girl?” Undertaker muttered as you squeezed your legs together, trying to quell the growing heat between your thighs. “Hm? What’s wrong? Does your tummy hurt from not eating dinner?”

“‘M fine…” you grumbled, wrapping your legs around one of Undertaker’s and discreetly trying to press up against him just enough to feel some pressure.

But he knew.

He knew what you were trying to do the moment he felt your pussy pulse against his thigh through the thin material of your silky pajama shorts.

“Sweetheart…” he cooed condescendingly through a low chuckle, his hands sliding down your body to grip your hips, grinding you down a little harder until you let out a pathetic little mewl and tried to wriggle free of his grasp despite how badly you wanted to keep going.

Undertaker found your reluctant fight adorable, that devious smirk spreading across his lips as he let out another sinister simper, pulling you back down to press against him and making a shiver scurry up your spine, a high-pitched, strangled cry escaping from your throat as your little fists balled up in the fabric of his pajama shirt.

“So needy,” he snickered, clearly amused by how desperate you were right now, even if it wasn’t for his touch, exactly. “You know all you have to do when you want something is just let Daddy know…”

But your words wouldn’t come to you right now. All that you could manage were little whimpers and whines while you weakly grasped at Undertaker’s night clothes, nuzzling your face into his chest as if trying to hide, as if that would mask the fact that you were already getting wet just by reimagining that night you’d spent with Ron.

And how you cursed that dream that had come to you earlier, how you wished that the sprawling lavender fields that had swayed in the breeze would’ve caught fire and disintegrated in a vicious, burning rage. 

Because then maybe Ron’s image would’ve sparked fear in you, would’ve ignited anxiety and worry. Not an ethereal haze of afternoon picnics and sunsets spent out rowing across a gorgeous body of water, the pastel sky reflected below the boat as you stared at the scenic landscape beyond Ron’s calm smile while the two of you drifted off into the starry night.

But right now you weren’t floating across a glassy lake or admiring the way the sky changed color as the sun sunk below the horizon with a strawberry blonde boy sitting across from you.

You were in bed laying beside a silver-haired man who you’d deceived time and time again, who’d given you the world and then some but that still hadn’t been enough.

But I love him, you swore to yourself as you squeezed your eyes shut and tried to turn your attention back to the movement of his cold hands across your skin, fingertips grazing your ribs back and forth, back and forth until he migrated to your lower stomach and slipped his touch below the waistband of your silk pjs and the lace of your panties, coaxing your legs apart so he could slide his fingers along your soaked slit, causing your breath to hitch with barely any contact at all.

“What’s got you so excited at this time of night, hm, baby?” he teased you, beginning to massage slow circles on your sensitive clit. “That must’ve been some kind of dream you were having…”

“P-please…” you whined, gripping him tighter and trying to press harder into his touch. This time, instead of pulling away and making you beg with pathetic frustration for release, Undertaker actually let you satisfy yourself, his fingers matching your rhythm as you rolled your hips into his palm, your entire body beginning to tremble as you felt your tight little hole begin to clench around nothing, more and more arousal leaking out of you every time.

Truthfully, Undertaker just wanted you to go to sleep. He needed you to so that tomorrow he wouldn’t have to carry you around all day like a ragdoll due to your exhaustion. And if the only way to get you to finally relax and lay still was to fingerbang you into unconsciousness, then that’s exactly what he’d do.

“You’re almost there, baby,” he whispered in your ear, slipping two of his fingers into your hole and filling you with something that your walls could tighten around, a pretty little moan escaping you as he curled his skillful fingers and hit that one spot deep inside you just right. “Shh, shh… It’s ok…” he cooed to you as your breathing increased speed and you felt yourself getting close, his fingers pumping in and out of you while his palm pressed down and rubbed against your tender bundle of nerves. “Now be good and come for Daddy.”

So you did.

After a few more moments, your body once again bent to his command and gushed all over his hand, pussy fluttering relentlessly while he let his fingers rest inside until he felt you start to come down, your panting fading to a slow, steady pace as your eyelids grew heavy and closed, this time for good.

Only once he was sure you were asleep did he carefully get up from bed and retreat to the bathroom to rinse his hands and return with a soft towel to clean you up, changing you into a different pair of panties and pj shorts before sliding back into bed and hugging you close to him.

And that night, he was met with his own dreams. Ones of you and him and his own idea of surreal scenery to set as the backdrop to your love making. 

Because Undertaker loved you more than anything.

And he was once again reminded that no one— nothing— was ever going to take you away from him.

***

Ronald Knox had just turned eighteen the first time he’d been arrested.

He’d been in and out of a series of ragtag, low level gangs since he was fifteen, sustained his first stab wound when he was sixteen, taken his first life at sixteen and a half, and by the time the scrawny, scrappy teenager had entered his seventeenth year, he’d risen up the ranks among his peers and had the complete, arrogant audacity to think he could take on the malicious man known back then only as the Black Reaper.

But if he was going to do this, he figured, he needed the perfect opportunity to present itself. Even if that opportunity wouldn’t come for another two years.

So, after being released from his first forty-eight hours in a holding cell once his comrades had somehow scraped together enough cash to pay his bail, Ron got to planning.

And in a different world, maybe the silver-haired, ebony clad mob boss would’ve tied the strawberry blonde, bespectacled boy to the rusty folding chair in that little soundproof cell, gotten out his taloned gloves, and sliced the brat’s pale, pitifully tender skin with a thousand ribbons of dripping red.

But instead, when Undertaker had caught Ron on his side of the docks with a pistol in his hand when the boy was barely twenty, the smoke still fading from the barrel and aimed where the boss’s former supply guard lay dead over the salt rotted planks, a stainless steel case full of millions of dollars secured with an airtight security code, the Black Reaper hadn’t returned the favor. In fact, he hadn’t even tried to visualize what the boy would look like tucked snug into a coffin with his arms folded over his chest.

Undertaker had simply smiled, flashing a sinister glower.

He was intrigued by Ron.

“You know, it really is rude to steal…” the monochrome figure had sighed as he stepped into the light, causing Ron to spin and point the gun his way instead. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners?”

Ron didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t even dare to blink.

Because, even though he knew exactly whose stash he’d attempted to skim from, the last person he’d expected to grace him with his presence was the leader of the Aurora Society himself.

“What’s the matter…?” Undertaker cooed sarcastically, his lips twitching down into a mocking frown as he stopped a few meters from the boy with the gun, Ron’s hand starting to shake the closer the pale, towering figure approached him. “Did you leave your spine back at that pathetic excuse for a hideout you think you keep a secret?”

Ron remained frozen, finger trembling over the trigger as he tried to swallow down the thick lump that had formed in his throat. His eyebrows were knit close together in a scowl that he hoped looked menacing, but really just showed all of his fear and hesitation in a single expression.

It wasn’t until the Black Reaper’s glowing, emerald stare narrowed and his smirk returned with a low, lilting tone of, “They’re all dead, you know,” that Ron’s facade faltered.

His pistol nearly slipped from his quaking hand when he took a step forward and shouted, “You bastard! What did you do to them?!”

But still he couldn’t pull the trigger.

It was like Undertaker had him in a trance, like something had possessed his body and caused him to lose all capability of completing such a simple action.

Because all that had really stood between Ron and getting away scot free back then had been the bang that followed the bullet exiting the chamber.

All he’d really had to do was just not be a fucking coward.

“What do you think?” Undertaker replied through a low, wicked chuckle. Ron tightened his grip around the handle of the briefcase, his jaw clenched. “Well, if anything, I have to hand it to them…” Undertaker shrugged, continuing his lazy stroll closer to Ron, who was rigidly shuffling back now. “They all had some rather hefty sets of lungs. Even after I closed the coffins and buried them alive, I swear I could hear them screaming under the earth for at least two minutes.”

“I’m going to kill you!” Ron threatened, actually pulling the trigger that time.

But when Undertaker’s serene smirk remained on his face, only a few strands of silvery hair drifting down to the docks where the bullet had almost grazed his skin, Ron’s eyes went wide behind his glasses.

“You missed,” Undertaker stated, and it only took the split second for Ron to attempt to turn and run while he thought he still could for the swift, long limbed man to close the gap and pin the young criminal to the splintered dock boards, the silver pistol clattering off the side and sinking into the black water as Ron put all his strength into holding onto that case.

“I’ll kill you!” Ron threatened once more, though there was a pathetic crack in his voice with the dread of his oncoming death. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

Though, instead of slitting Ron’s throat and rolling him over the side and into the ocean to join his weapon, Undertaker waited until the boy’s struggling and empty promises of revenge and retribution for his deceased comrades was reduced to nothing more than heavy breathing and periodic wincing to lean in close and mutter quietly in his ear, “The next time you see me, for your sake, I either hope that you have better aim or are smart enough to accept my offer.”

And then, as if on cue, the strobing flash of red and blue lights illuminated the choppy waves lapping under the docks and reflected onto Undertaker’s pale complexion, the contrasting colors painting him in an even more foreboding way.

“Put your hands up!” a police officer hollered down the docks, quickly approaching with backup as Undertaker did as the man instructed, taking his hands off Ron and holding them up more as if he’d been caught by an acquaintance rather than the authorities, and turning to face the group of men who rushed past him and secured Ron, who watched on with cold blooded horror when one of the cops actually handed Undertaker the case and apologized for not arriving sooner.

And as he was pushed and shoved all the way to the car, Ron was realizing just how fucked he’d always been from the start.

Because Undertaker was leagues ahead of anything Ron could ever aspire to become.

He owned this city. Hell, Undertaker owned the whole damn country.

And now, because Ron had been naive enough to fall into the trap that had been set specifically for him like a rabbit caught up in a snare, he couldn’t help but laugh.

In the back of the cop car all the way to holding, Ronald Knox was cackling like a fucking hyena. He couldn’t stop. Not until he was informed that he could very well find himself swinging from the end of a noose come the first light of dawn, if the Black Reaper so ordered.

Because Undertaker owned the city, the country, and the cops. He was the first and final say with any law, followed or broken, and it wouldn’t have been the first time that he sent a stranger to the gallows just to send a message to the other cronies who thought they could outsmart or outgun the man who made the rules.

“You sure chose the wrong side of the docks, didn’t you?” one of the guards scoffed once the story got around about the trouble that Ron was in. And for three whole days he was tormented by their mockery, some giving a little more insight into what atrocities Ron might find himself faced with should Undertaker make those decisions, others merely scrunching their noses in disgust at yet another kid from the bad parts of town who’d fallen into a life of petty thievery.

So when Undertaker appeared at the end of those seventy-two hours on the other side of Ron’s confinement and presented him with a choice, well…

Ron figured that if he couldn’t beat the boss of the Aurora Society, he might as well throw his hands up, say fuck it, and join him.

“As you know,” Undertaker had begun, hands clasped behind him as he slowly paced back and forth along the short patch of cement on the free side of the cell, “I’m currently down a guard…” Ron knew where this was going. And it almost made him laugh again, a curt, cold chuckle at how badly he’d been played.

But Undertaker had been very clear when he’d told Ron he had a choice.

Sure, one option meant an immediate and very unpleasant death while the other at least beheld the possibility of gaining even more wealth and power than he’d had while running with the other starving and forsaken east end boys.

But Ron did not like the man standing before him. He didn’t trust him, not with so much as accepting a friendly cup of afternoon tea from him and especially not enough to let him be his boss.

But what choice did he really have, other than the obvious one?

So Ron accepted, shaking hands with the devil himself, or at least someone of the same family tree, and agreeing to the terms that, from now until the end, Ron would follow Undertaker’s orders to the letter and never question them. He’d kill whoever his boss asked him to kill and risk his life just as obediently. Because if Ron failed to comply with these terms, he’d be joining his late comrades six feet below the earth in a wooden box.

It was an unpayable debt, one that renewed every single day, over and over again, never able to cut enough heads off of the hydra before countless grew back, until the inevitable hour would drone out on the metaphorical grandfather clock and Undertaker would fulfill his promise to send Ron to the afterlife.

And the hands were ticking past the seconds faster than they ever had before.

Ever since that fateful afternoon in the Corvette on the way back from the museum when he’d licked up your wrist and the palm of your hand, the sticky, sugary drips from your ice cream nowhere near as sweet as your skin.

You were the one causing his time to count down to nothing, to zero.

Whether it be your innocent little giggles or demanding whines of wanting something or, god, the way your body had taken him in like that’s what it had been made to do…

But Ron was willing to dance with death if it meant stealing one more minute, one more second with you.

He’d been able to remain unscathed so far, but as he sat in his tiny London flat now, thinking back on how he’d ended up in such a position from all those years ago, he couldn’t help but imagine the version of himself who hadn’t grown up on the streets. The life he might’ve been able to lead if only he’d made a couple better choices for himself in his youth.

And maybe he’d have met you at some pub or in line picking up takeout or, hell, maybe even strolling around one of those museums you loved.

Because if he would’ve gotten to you before Undertaker did, then maybe his funeral could’ve remained a little further away, a few more years at least, maybe even an entire decade if he played his cards right.

But ever since he’d gotten himself addicted to you, Ron’s deathbed was clearly on the horizon.

Tonight, he stared out the window and sipped at his third glass of whiskey, the alcohol warming his blood and numbing his body, but not drowning out his conflicting thoughts like it usually did as he watched the rain drops spotting the glass race each other down to the ledge.

He was heartbroken. He was pissed off. He wanted to take you and run, but he knew you’d never agree to that. He wanted to kill his boss, the man who’d both spared him and chained him to this life, damned him to it. He wanted to throw himself from the roof of his apartment complex just to go out on his own terms, but not before he told you how he really felt about you. Not before he had you one last time.

But I love her, his inner monologue slurred through his drunken haze. I’m not ready to lose her. Not yet…

He tossed the last gulp back and slammed the glass on the tabletop, slumping in his chair and tugging at the tie that looped around his neck like a leash, Undertaker always having kept his men under some form of control, on some kind of chain, even if it was just a metaphorical one at this point.

And Ron didn’t even make it to his bed as he began to stumble toward his room, his world slanting as he swayed to fall onto the couch, burying his face into the cushion as he began to cry— began to sob— at the very thought of the life he wanted so badly but would never get to have with you.

And it was all his fault.

It was all his fault.

***

Undertaker stood under the pale fluorescence of the laboratory lights as he and Othello stared down at a fresh corpse laid across the metal table.

“Can you do it again?” Undertaker asked the fluffy haired scientist, his most trusted colleague and oldest friend in the underworld.

“I’m pretty sure I can,” Othello replied, clearing his throat and flipping through his notes. “I think the problem with the last time was the voltage. The electricity has to be able to reanimate the deceased upon the first try, while the brain activity is still intact.”

“Like defibrillation after a heart attack.”

Othello nodded, slightly adjusting his small circular lenses. “Similar to that, yes…”

Undertaker leaned in a little closer to the body, this time being a poor young girl who’d died of a drug overdose and been found in one of the alleys near the nightlife district. She almost looked like you— y’know, if you’d been dead for two days— and Undertaker couldn’t help but gently stroke a knuckle along the soft line of her jaw.

Soon, my love, Undertaker thought fondly to himself, not even death will be able to touch you.

“How long until you can stage a presentation?” Undertaker asked next. But Othello wasn’t paying attention. Instead, he was studying his scribbled equations with squinted eyes and full focus. “Othello…” Undertaker raised his voice a bit, causing the scientist to jolt his attention back up towards his boss.

“Huh?” A nervous chuckle escaped his slightly parted lips. “Oh… Well, how about I work on it over these next few months and the moment everything’s ready I give you a call?”

“The next few months…” Undertaker considered, as if that already wasn’t pushing it for the crunch time on such an operation. Then the tall, monochrome man let out a dramatic sigh, raking his slender fingers through long, silvery hair and said, “I suppose that will have to do,” before bidding Othello a goodnight, stopping in the doorway momentarily and tacking on an obligatory, “Oh, and, Othello… Please do try not to get too carried away. More than just global prestige and a hefty paycheck are on the line this time,” before swinging the door open and making his exit.

And Othello wasn’t exactly sure what his boss meant.

Because what else was there besides money and power in the deepest depths of the underworld where Undertaker and his men dwelled on the daily?

The scientist glanced behind him at the girl on the table and let out a remorseful sigh, setting his notes down on his work table and retreating behind the protective glass viewing window after connecting the electrodes to her body.

And, this time, it only took two tries to reawaken the dead instead of three.

Within the next few months, Othello leveled with himself. Sure. I can do that.

***

Undertaker had slipped out of the mansion in the middle of the night to pay his loyal comrade a last minute visit. He’d tried to call Will first, who didn’t pick up on account of it being nearly three AM, and then Grell, who’d answered but had been unable to make out the words being spoken to him on the other end of line over the blaring music and tangled voices of the club he’d been in at the time, two men sitting on either side of him that he was in the middle of seducing, so that only left one option.

Undertaker had paced before the living room fireplace with agitation while he listened to his phone ringing, Ron’s number scrolling across the top of the screen until finally—

“Boss? What’s goin’ on? What time is it? Is everything—”

“How fast can you get to the house?” Undertaker had cut in with a hushed, demanding tone. He knew that Ron only lived about thirty minutes away, twenty if he sped, which he always did, so after his subordinate seemed to snap awake, saying he was on his way as he tumbled out of bed and pulled on the clothes he’d thrown over the back of a chair, Undertaker simply told him to hurry and then ended the call.

And, as Undertaker periodically checked his watch while he waited by the front windows overlooking the long driveway, Ron arrived twenty minutes later just like Undertaker knew he would.

Before the silver Corvette had even come to a halt, Undertaker had jumped into his Rolls-Royce, so pitch black at this time of night that one may have struggled to see it parked in the driveway if they didn’t know it was there, and simply rolled down his window as he pulled up to Ron, informing him that he’d be back soon and to keep watch on things until then.

“But what’s going on?” Ron had tried to ask again, pure confusion and worry written all over his face. “Is everything—” But Undertaker had floored it and sped off down the winding road, leaving Ron to watch him disappear in his rearview mirror for a few minutes until he just sighed to himself and exited his vehicle, marching up the grand front steps to sit in the dark and quiet of the gothic mansion.

But, like you, Ron wasn’t always the most patient person. And he was easily tempted. Though, instead of the rich delicacies and luxurious fashion that you had trouble denying yourself, Ron’s trigger was the pretty girl currently asleep upstairs.

And the entire way that he tiptoed towards the master bedroom he couldn’t fight the giddiness that had risen in his chest the moment his boss had ordered him to the mansion. Because he’d been dying to see you again, no matter how dangerous the consequences.

He just hoped that you’d want to see him too.

“Wha’time issit…?” you slurred sleepily as Ron lightly shook your shoulder. He kneeled by your bedside and tried to whisper something to you but you were too out of it to hear him. “Daddy…?”

“No, baby girl…” Ron couldn’t help but coo as he gently brushed some of the hair from your face, finding your innocent and helpless state so adorable. He wished he could see you like this every morning, be there to wake you and revel in the moments where you’d nuzzle in closer to him with your eyes still closed and whine out a cutesy little, “five more minutes…” before drifting back off to sleep. “It’s Ron. Can you hear me?”

“R… Ron?” you repeated, eyelids fluttering open and then squinting through the dark to make out his features with the dim glow of the moonlight shining in through a crack in the curtains. “Wha… What are you doing here?” You sat up, looking over to Undertaker’s side of the bed and then back to Ron with confusion and fear when you discovered it empty. “What’s going on? Where’s Daddy? Is he— Is he ok?”

You were starting to panic, a surge of anxiety coursing through your veins and tears beginning to well in your eyes as you imagined the worst.

“He’s fine, baby. Everything’s alright,” Ron attempted to soothe you, taking your trembling little hands in his and rubbing his thumbs along your palms. “He just had to step out for a bit. He’ll be back.”

Your big, worried gaze searched Ron’s for any signs he was lying to you, even if it was just to protect you from something horrible that had happened, but when his tranquil, half-lidded expression yielded nothing you could decipher, you averted your eyes and tugged your hands from his grip.

“It’s late…” you muttered, your voice a pathetic little squeak that was barely audible despite the room being quiet enough to hear a pin drop. “And we shouldn’t… You shouldn’t be up here…”

Ron’s calm grin dropped, his expression even more unreadable now than before. A silence even heavier than the eerie stillness that the mansion usually held this time of night fell between you for a few nervous beats of your heart and then Ron’s smile returned, this time a little more sinister.

“Don’t be scared, sweetheart.” He came to sit on the edge of the bed, leaning in closer to you and trying to meet your eyes again, craving the way the whites showed under your irises as you looked up at him like a begging puppy. “It’s all gonna be ok. Nothing bad will happen so long as I’m here…” His fingers brushed against your upper thigh, the covers having slipped further down the bed as you’d squirmed out from under them to lean against the pillows that were pushed up against the headboard. When he planted his touch more firmly into your flesh, his thumb beginning to stroke your inner thigh and sending a slight shiver up your spine, you finally looked up at him, giving him exactly what he wanted.

“Ron…” you whined with further emphasis, shoulders slumping as you sighed. “Please… We can’t…”

“Sure we can,” Ron debated with a lazy shrug. “Plus, it takes him about half an hour to get to headquarters. It’ll take half an hour back. That means we have at least an hour to—”

“I can’t.”

You hugged your legs up to your chest and sulked with your chin resting on your knees, looking away from Ron’s bright green eyes and feeling that horrible emotion fill up your heart, something akin to heartbreak but not quite as sharp.

“Please… I’m tired…” you tried to deflect before the guilt came crashing in. “And… I’m— I’m scared, Ron.” Your eyes darted back to his, a slight scowl forming on your delicate brow. “He really didn’t say anything about where he was going? What he was doing?”

At this, Ron’s disappointment softened and he released a regretful sigh. “No,” he shook his head. “I mean, I assume he was going to headquarters but…”

But Ron had no idea what his boss was actually up to.

Undertaker usually informed at least one of his colleagues before making a move that concerned the company.

Unless this doesn’t concern the company, Ron realized with unpleasant intrigue. Maybe he’s gotten himself tangled up in something else…

Because no one outside of Undertaker and Othello really knew what went on in that basement lab.

Sure, Grell knew that Othello was doing something with the chopped up bodies after hours, and Will had speculations as to why the erratic scientist often smelled of formaldehyde and ash, but Ron had never really suspected anything other than Othello being in charge of the organs that the company sold on the black market in addition to sometimes accompanying him on a late night survey of the activity buzzing around down by the docks.

Maybe it was time Ron started doing a little digging of his own.

“Look, I’m sorry…” Ron admitted, nervously scratching the back of his head and leaning away from you a bit. “You’re right. I should’ve never come up here and woken you. And I’m sure the boss is fine. He knows what he’s doing. I wish I had more to give you than that, baby, but I don’t…”

“Ron…?” you asked, pulling his despondent daze back to meet your doe-eyed concern. “If you guys were in any real danger, you’d tell me, right?”

The strawberry blonde was dumbfounded.

It’ll never come to that, he wanted to tell you. We’re the best in the business so don’t worry your pretty little head.

But all that came out after a stint of uncomfortable hesitance was, “Why don’t you get some rest. I can wait outside in case you get scared.”

And you, well, you wanted to be able to tell him to take his shoes off and curl up under the covers with you, to have him hold you close and run his touch up and down your back until you reentered the land of dreams and were released from this sudden wave of trepidation.

But what you said was, “Yeah, ok…”

Ron wished you a goodnight before closing the bedroom doors behind him and posting watch, leaning against the wall and hanging his head in defeat, feeling like lately he just couldn’t do the right thing when it came to you.

Maybe it really is over between us, he struggled to accept, especially when you were only a wall away, nestling your head back onto the cool side of your pillow and cocooning under the comforters. Maybe she really does hate me.

When Ron just couldn’t take it anymore and after he was sure you were asleep, having poked his head back into the room about half an hour later and finding you fully unconscious, he retreated from the master bedroom and returned to the main entrance where he sat on one of the lounge couches and stared at the hands of the grandfather clock sweeping around as seconds, minutes, and then hours passed.

His own eyelids grew heavy by the time five AM approached, only having gotten a few hours of shut eye before being called upon and finding his fight to stay awake harder to battle when he couldn’t occupy his time with you.

But luckily, Undertaker walked in to relieve him just before he would’ve lost the war waged against himself, the man of the house thanking his underling for being able to come at such late notice and reminding him to drive home safe.

Ron simply gave a delirious nod and staggered past his boss, slapping his cheeks a few times once inside his car to try and wake himself for just long enough to arrive home and fall into his own bed.

And he hoped he could reunite with you in his dreams.

Even if they presented as nightmares at first, Ron would slay any monster or demon that stood between him and his precious baby girl.

Especially if that monster had long silver hair and an immaculate ebony suit, several rings adoring his pale, slender fingers and a piercing chartreuse glare separated only by a scar that slashed across his sinfully handsome face.

Yeah, Ron thought as he flopped on top of his mattress, not even bothering to kick off his shoes before hugging his arms around his pillow and preparing to fall unconscious.

That’s a monster I’d be willing to kill any time.

***

The bitter chill of London’s winter season had come and gone and now the weather gave way to the brisk breezes and drizzling rains of early spring. You’d begun trading opulent fur coats and knee high boots for cozy cardigans and cute lace up platforms which, like always, paired with your babydoll dresses and pleated mini skirts.

You hadn’t seen Ron since that night he’d woken you in the early hours of the morning and Undertaker had seen to it that either Grell or Will would always be on call in case another emergency meeting between him and Othello needed to take place.

Because the “next few months” deadline was approaching with every passing week, every passing day.

And until that time came to pass, Undertaker couldn’t risk putting you in any danger.

There were even times when he felt like he had to protect you from himself.

“But you promised!” you whined as you childishly stomped down a foot, little hands curled into weak fists by your sides.

Undertaker sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his cool while you threw a fit over the fact that he was going away again.

“I know, sweetheart,” he replied curtly, now with his hands resting in each other behind his back, chest puffed outward as he towered over you, a scowl beginning to form on his tired face. “But it’s work. And you know that sometimes it just can’t be helped.”

Tears began to well in your eyes and your bottom lip quivered as your defiance dissipated. “But…” Your voice cracked as the first tremors of a sob hitched in your chest. “You promised you wouldn’t leave me again— You promised— Y-You—” But the rest of your pitiful pleading was caught in your throat as Undertaker came forward to wrap his arms around you, picking you up and cradling you against his chest as he gently rocked you, hushing you as you buried your face into his expensive suit and cried.

“Shh, shh… It’ll all be alright, sweetheart…” he cooed. “Daddy just has to go away for a few days and then he’ll be back to take care of his princess. Don’t worry…”

You were muttering something incoherent into his shoulder then, and it took him a few tries to listen until he realized you were whispering, “Don’t wanna lose you,” and “Don’t leave me alone,” over and over again as if it were your mantra.

“You’ll never be alone, my love,” Undertaker swore to you, taking a seat on one of the chaise lounges with you and gently taking your chin in his grip, lifting your doe-eyed gaze to meet his calm sea of emerald. “Besides, I’ve made sure to get Grell to come play with you this time. He’s still your favorite, isn’t he? The two of you will have so much fun that you’ll forget that I’m even gone.”

He combed his long fingers through your hair, managing to direct a small upturn of a smile towards you as the last tears of your breakdown clung to your lashes in watery spikes and you sniffled weakly, leaning in closer to soak up his lingering body heat and wrapping your little arms around him.

“Please be careful…” you mumbled shakily, hugging him tight as if this might be the last time. “I love you, Daddy. I don’t wanna lose you…”

“And you never will,” Undertaker replied solemnly, stroking his hand down your back now. “Don’t you go worrying your pretty little head over that.”

Though, despite his reassuring words and soothing touch, you knew that something was brewing on his side of the underworld.

Ever since that night when he’d slipped out and left Ron to keep watch on you, disappearing off to who knows where to do who knew what, you couldn’t shake the sinking trepidation.

And how he’d acted during fashion week when you’d tried to get to Lizzy and instead run into the menacing butler of the Phantomhive household…

Perhaps somehow that little boy with the eyepatch and his company were involved.

You didn’t know for sure— might never know for sure— but all you really cared about anymore was that your Daddy returned home to you safe and sound at the end of each and every day.

Because if he wasn’t there to hold you, to laugh with you or give you a shoulder to cry on. If one day his scent which brought you the feeling of comfort and safety faded from your atmosphere. And— if there really was a god, you prayed that he forbade it— if Undertaker earned his place in a coffin before his time was really supposed to be up… 

What would you do with yourself?

You couldn’t bear to think about it.

So, after filling your head with ideas of all the fun and excitement you were going to face in the next couple days with your favorite bodyguard, Grell, Undertaker had finally convinced you that he wasn’t in any danger and that he’d return safe and sound to his favorite girl before you even had the chance to miss him.

Once Grell had arrived and given you his usual enthusiastic greeting, he and his boss migrated to a room where they wouldn’t be overheard so Undertaker could fill his comrade in on a few things. Business being one of them, that was a given, but also how he needed Grell to keep you in good spirits this weekend. He gave him permission to take you to Paris, if you wanted, and to let you buy anything you set your sights on, leaving the black card in his care.

“I understand, sir,” Grell had nodded, trading his sharp-toothed grin that you were so used to for a much more serious expression. “Please leave it to me.”

Undertaker had thanked his colleague before the two of them returned to the main entrance. You’d said your hundredth goodbye and thousandth “I love you, Daddy. Be safe,” and after one last peck on the cheek Undertaker had to depart.

You stood by the front window and watched the onyx Rolls-Royce grow smaller in your view and disappear over the horizon with a heavy heart, your worry not fading as you wished that you knew just a little more about Undertaker’s work, things that went beyond ruling the cops and running a multi-million dollar company that had something to do with the medical industry and often staged operations overseas.

You had guesses about what sort of dark and nefarious details could be woven into such a vague job description, but again, you tried not to think too hard about that.

And by the time that Grell was psyching you up with all the fun the two of you were going to have over these next few days, bringing up Paris right away and casting the perfect line to reel you in, your greyscale speculations of black market trades and human experimentation were covered by the saturated vermillions and brilliant greens of your best friend.

And maybe one day you’d come to wonder why you hadn’t trusted your gut and gotten out while you still could.

But you supposed that would have to wait until after Paris.

***

It had been a while since Ron was covered in so much blood that both lenses of his glasses were smeared with a filter of crimson. He could taste the copper of another man’s life draining away in the back of his throat and there was so much rust caked under his fingernails that he thought no amount of scrubbing or scraping would turn the ends of them white again.

“P… Please…” the man begged through a garbled wheeze, more blood bubbling up out of his mouth and dripping in long, sticky strands from his lips to the concrete floor where he was kneeling, only kept partially upright by the restraints securing his wrists above his head in a Y. “Just… make it stop…”

Ron wore a bored expression, ignoring the man’s pathetic pleas to end his suffering while the strawberry blonde pulled out the handkerchief he kept in his waistcoat and attempted to wipe away some of the red clouding his vision.

“Yeah, well, I guess you should’a thought about the consequences before you tried to raid our stash,” Ron replied with abundant apathy. The man chained to the wall choked out a sob. That only made Ron click his tongue in irritation and take up his knife again, the man flinching back violently when he saw the blade glinting under the light.

“P-please! Please, spare me! I-I have a family! A wife and two kids! Please…!”

“Yeeeaaah, whatever,” Ron rolled his eyes, crouching down to be closer to his victim’s eye level and gesturing the knife towards him as he continued, “Would you rather one of them take your place? Huh? Because after what you did, someone’s gotta pay and if it ain’t you…”

The man’s eyes went wide, his entire body trembling at the threat. “N-no! P-please! Leave them out of it! I just—”

“That’s enough talking,” Ron cut in as he shifted position and dug the blade into the man’s neck, swiping the shining silver across his throat and causing a ribbon of red to blossom in its wake.

The man only let out a few more suffocated wheezes as he choked on his own blood, the light fading from his eyes while Ron couldn’t care less.

“So fuckin’ noisy…” he grumbled to himself once the deed was done, tossing his weapon back to the stainless steel table with a shrill metallic clank on his way to the door of the torture cell. “Othello!” Ron shouted down the long hallway, poking his head out of the room. “He’s dead!”

There was a short period of silence and then the strange little scientist called back, “Coming!”

Ron waited in the room until he arrived, leaning against the wall next to the door and staring off into space near where the thief slumped forward in a mangled mess.

And he was so fed up with everything.

With his job and his boss and his colleagues.

With the fact that he couldn’t see you and had to settle for a few sporadic text messages here or there that often consisted of smalltalk.

With the taste of blood and bitter resentment.

With no sample of anything sweeter because the sweetest thing in his life was being kept from him behind the lock and key of the goddamn gothic mansion on the outskirts of the city.

“Fuckin’ hell…” Ron sighed to himself. And then Othello walked through the door wheeling in a metal cart just big enough to carry a body.

“Wow,” Othello chuckled darkly, adjusting his glasses as he studied the shredded corpse. “You really went to town on this one, huh?”

“Whatever, just take ‘im,” Ron replied with a lazy wave of his hand, pushing from the wall and dragging his feet out the door, letting it slam behind him.

“Huh… What’s got him in such a bad mood?” Othello mumbled to himself after watching Ron exit, only to then give an unbothered shrug and move onto dealing with the corpse.

And normally it would take an extra set of hands for Othello to lift a fully intact body onto the table, but Ron was probably already long gone and there was no one else left at headquarters at this time of night so it looked like Othello was on his own.

“Alright, upsy daisy,” Othello chirped as he attempted to hoist the dead weight. It took a few attempts and a lot of clattering to finally situate the body upon the rolling table, but Othello was tapping his slippered feet down the long hallway soon enough and whistling a pleasant little tune all the way.

What the strange scientist didn’t know was that he wasn’t alone after all.

Because when Ron had left the room he hadn’t taken a right to stroll down the long stretch and then up the stairs back into the main floors of headquarters.

He’d taken a left and hidden in the narrow nook that was placed adjacent from the incineration room, lying in wait until he heard Othello exit the cell and carry on with his work being none the wiser.

And Ron followed him, carefully turning corners and tiptoeing just far enough behind that he wouldn’t lose tail of which halls in the basement maze the wheels on the rolling table echoed down.

Once Othello finally chose a room to enter— his lab— Ron snuck up to the door and peered through the tiny window.

And when his gaze fell upon the sight of the corpse convulsing as the electricity coursed through its limbs, he had to try hard not to let out a startled yelp of horror.

Because, sure, Ron had been the one to kill the poor soul twitching on top of the table. He’d sliced and diced and cut him up with no problem at all, no regard for his pain and suffering even while he’d begged for mercy. That had just been him fulfilling an order, completing his duty to the company to dispose of petty thieves from low ranking rival gangs.

But Ron had thought that when the heartbeat stopped and the lungs ceased to intake oxygen that that was it.

Death had always been the final step, a means to a finite, indisputable end.

So when the man he’d just killed opened his eyes and began to scream, began to flail about horribly and shout about how he was sorry, begging to be spared as if he thought he were still chained to the wall in that blood stained cell, Ron turned and bolted down the hall, not sticking around to see what became of the man or what Othello would do next.

And Othello, well, he was cackling like he’d lost what little remained of his marbles upon witnessing such scientific perfection.

And even after he drove the blade through the man’s head to send him back into the everlasting darkness or the afterlife or whatever truly lay ahead for us at the end, Othello couldn’t help but think, as if being played on a broken record, the needle caught over the same words again and again…

I’ve done it! I’ve finally done it!

I am a god.

When the boss returned from his business trip, Othello would deliver the good news. The life changing news. The world changing news.

And then the Aurora Society, this empire that he and Undertaker had built up over all these years, would rise to the ultimate power that it was always meant to be.

For Othello, it wasn’t even about the abundant wealth and power like he knew Undertaker was so keen on.

For Othello, it was more about the prestigious acclaim to the entire human race knowing that he was the man who’d crossed the boundary between life and death. He’d been the man who’d made the impossible a reality.

So while Othello celebrated his victory in the confines of his lab, Ron was speeding back through London flip-flopping between the decision to just go home and pretend that he hadn’t seen anything or zoom to his boss’s mansion, kick down the door, and take you somewhere far away from here. Somewhere where the evils of the underworld couldn’t find you, if such a place even existed.

But he knew he couldn’t. He knew, so long as Undertaker stood between him and you, he was powerless.

And if he still decided to go up against Undertaker and lost, well…

He knew he sure as hell wasn’t getting brought back to life after that battle.

***

Paris was a dream, like always.

The weather was perfect and you were adorned in the latest and most local fashion, fitting right in with the wealthy wives and beautiful young women of the French upper class.

“Where shall we go next?” Grell asked you through his abundant eagerness, also sporting a new red trench coat and glittering ruby heeled boots. “I’m just dying to go to the Louvre! Or perhaps you’d like to catch one of the Seine river cruises tonight and eat dinner while overlooking the Eiffel Tower?”

They all sounded like good options to you, despite the fact that you’d done them before during your past trips with Undertaker. But tonight what you really felt like entertaining yourself with was watching a performance from a VIP booth. You hadn’t seen Moulin Rouge in a while. Maybe your favorite balcony would be open tonight.

“Ooooh, that sounds perfect!” Grell agreed as you walked arm in arm down the busy streets, beaming a big grin at you as your many shopping bags bounced on his other arm. “I just love the theatre!”

And, thanks to your energetic and enthusiastic bodyguard, traveling companion, best friend, all of the above, you had the best time ever. You wished that Undertaker could’ve been with you, could’ve been around to hear all your laughter and see that angelic smile light up your face. But that didn’t keep you from enjoying yourself. Not this time.

And by the time you’d returned home, once again safe inside the familiar walls of the ornate estate, your good mood hadn’t dwindled.

In fact, it had only grown.

Because your Daddy was coming home today, and the moment you heard the gravel in the driveway shifting and popping under the tires of the vintage Rolls-Royce, you leapt up and rushed to the window, pushing yourself up onto the ledge by standing on your tippy-toes and exclaiming a delighted, “Daddyyyy!” before darting out the front doors and throwing yourself at Undertaker, who took you in his arms and spun you around, a smile spreading across his lips as a chuckle vibrated in his chest.

“I missed you, sweetheart,” he cooed, kissing the crown of your head several times over before picking you up and carrying you back into the house, your limbs wrapped around his body as you nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck and took in his scent, silvery hair tickling your cheeks as it swayed with his movements. “Did you have a good time while I was away?”

“Yeah,” you responded in a cutesy lilt. “Better now that you’re back though.”

He couldn’t help but let out a smooth and silky, “Awww,” upon hearing such an adorable reply.

And after a successful partnership meeting up north, Undertaker couldn’t have been happier to have his baby girl in his arms again.

Because he had it all.

He had money and power and success and love.

And he didn’t know anyone else who could say the same and truly mean it.

“Thank you for taking care of her while I was gone,” Undertaker said quietly to Grell after setting you down and asking you to show him one of the new outfits you’d bought while in Paris, buying himself a little time to talk privately with his colleague as you ran upstairs to change.

“Of course, anytime,” Grell assured his boss with a cheeky wink. “I trust that your meeting was successful?”

��It was, yes,” Undertaker nodded, not really elaborating much further but seeming of pleasant temperament which spoke enough for itself.

“Oh! Before I forget!” Grell remembered suddenly as he was gathering his things to head out. “I left your mail on your office desk. There was one letter in particular that looked especially important so I left that one on top.”

“Thank you, Grell. I’ll see to it tonight.”

After that, you were skipping down the main stairs in one of your new dresses, giving a dramatic twirl to show off your outfit and waving goodbye to Grell as he was out the door, telling him to drive safe and that you’d see him soon.

And for the rest of the evening it was just you and your Daddy and all the love and affection he showered you with, treating you to a dinner at one of your favorite restaurants and making slow and sweet love to you until you were asleep and tucked into bed, floating on cloud nine where you belonged.

But Undertaker still had one last thing to see to before he could join you under the covers, pulling his robe tighter around his body as his long, silent strides carried him towards his home office where that pile of mail waited to be dealt with.

The invitations to exclusive events and inquiries about possible business partnerships could wait.

What Undertaker was really intrigued with was the red envelope sitting at the top of the pile, a gold dragon stamped into the wax seal curling around itself like a noose dangling from the gallows.

Hello, my friend, the letter began in a slashing, red-inked script. I hope this letter finds you in good health. It’s been quite some time since Tokyo, but fortunately I will be dropping by London in the next few weeks and would like to further discuss our possible partnership over some tea, if you could spare the time… 

Undertaker narrowed his glare at the parchment and the crimson slants, each letter appearing like a streak of blood left behind from the cut of a blade, tortured and threatening.

So Lau’s finally come to his senses… Undertaker thought ominously.

He’d need to make sure he had backup that day. He’d need Grell and Will, maybe even Othello too, which meant that he would be left to guard you, much to Undertaker’s dismay.

I’ll give you a call once I’ve landed and we’ll arrange the details from there, the letter went on. I look forward to seeing you again. We have much to discuss.

Sincerely, Lau. And the very bottom was stamped with an official seal of, Shanghai Trading Company, Kong-Rong.

Undertaker considered this letter very carefully, eyes stuck on that dangerous gold dragon adorning the seal.

Because he’d known the first time he met Lau that this man was the type who disguised threats as opportunities, who chose his words carefully and masked his true intentions behind a calm and unsuspecting grin.

But still, Undertaker would meet with him. He’d bring his boys and make sure the area was one he knew all the ins and outs of. And then, if what the letter said was true, they’d discuss business and perhaps strike up a deal.

And if Lau tried anything, well…

Undertaker was sure he could find a coffin made of the same red and gold that the man seemed to flaunt as a symbol of status.

When Undertaker glanced at the pendulum clock hanging over the door across from his desk and noticed the time was nearing two AM, he folded up the letter and locked it in his top drawer, fully intending on revisiting it later while he awaited the promised phone call from the sender.

And then he returned to curl up beside his baby girl, huddling you close to him and taking in your warmth and scent, the way your shampoo smelled subtly of strawberries and cream.

He enjoyed it while he could, because tomorrow afternoon he’d be right back to work, right back to the rigorous routine and relentless scheduling as things in this complicated chess game ramped up once more.

But tomorrow was an important day.

Because, tomorrow, Othello was to present his research on raising the dead.

Tomorrow, Undertaker will have obtained a way to ensure that the two of you were together forever, even in the event of an untimely death.

***

“Nine seconds!” Othello exclaimed after nearly colliding with his boss in the hall of the headquarters basement, eyes wide and wild behind his small circular lenses.

“What…?” Undertaker asked with the raise of one eyebrow, still holding his jittery colleague in place from when he’d bumped into him and nearly fallen back.

“It was nine seconds! Not ten!” Othello further elaborated, shaking his head but still wearing that wide, easily excitable smile. “And the voltage— It needed to be higher! God, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner!”

“Alright, Othello…” Undertaker attempted to calm his hysteria. “Just show me the progress, will you?”

“Oh, yeah, right!” Othello chuckled out, taking the lead towards the lab where a new corpse was already laid out on the table— another young girl, this one resembling you even better than the last.

He and the boss retreated behind the safety of the glass viewing window and put on the protective eye gear, Undertaker finding it harder to contain his impatience to just see it already with every passing second and shuffling sound of Othello’s slippered feet over the linoleum.

“You ready?” the scientist asked, hand already on the latch and coat sleeve pulled back from his wrist watch.

Undertaker nodded once, slow and even, and then Othello pulled the switch, releasing the blinding light that traveled up the wires and zapped the body through the symmetrically placed electrodes.

Nine seconds— not one moment over or under— went by and then the spectacle ceased, latch being pulled down and the room reduced to its buzzing fluorescent ceiling lights which seemed dim compared to the bright strobes of the raw electricity.

Othello rushed out to inspect the body, the muscles twitching and limbs beginning to strain against the restraints while Undertaker remained in the viewing room for the time being.

“It’s happening!” Othello called, waving his boss over. “Come look!”

Undertaker stood beside Othello and watched on with an odd mixture of awe and relief, disbelief and sinister thrills as the girl’s eyes fluttered open and darted back and forth between the two men leaning over her.

“Wh… Where am I…?” she asked through a raspy, croaking voice, coughing at the dryness in her throat, the bruises that marked death by strangulation still keeping a hold on her in some way. “Who… are you…?”

“Unbelievable…” Undertaker breathed, unable to take his eyes off the girl who was now beginning to panic as she found herself bound by the wrists and ankles to the cold metal of the table.

“Isn’t it though?” Othello remarked in cheery agreement, something dark finding its way into his usually wide-eyed wonder of a gaze.

“H… Help!” the girl began to call out. “Help me! Somebody!”

Undertaker stepped back and clasped his hands behind his back, looking pleased with the results. “Keep an eye on this one,” he instructed Othello. “See how long she lasts and if there are any side effects that we’ll need to account for.”

“Will do,” Othello nodded, preparing to wheel the table out of the room and down to one of the cells where he could keep the girl confined for further observation. “Anything else?”

“No…” Undertaker shook his head, meeting stares with the helpless, begging girl once again and causing her next pleas to become wrapped up in a gasp upon viewing such cold emerald eyes. “Just keep me posted.”

“You got it!” Othello nodded, exiting the room with the revived young woman who once again began to scream, her shouts echoing eerily through the narrow, concrete halls all the way to the cell. Undertaker accompanied his scientist, who injected the poor test subject with a substance to make her sleep, and the atmosphere was once again drenched in silence.

“This is a big step,” Othello remarked as they ascended towards Undertaker’s private office on the second floor of the building, the boss pouring them both a drink and inviting his colleague— his friend— to sit across from him and engage in a toast. “Once we secure the market, imagine how many people will be trying to get into our good graces.”

“Thank you, Othello…” Undertaker praised him after a moment of studying the scientist’s jovial expression, no matter how naive it seemed to be.

Othello turned a little more serious then. Surprised, more like, and looked upon his boss— his friend— with pure gratitude and trust.

“Of course.” He raised his glass before taking a sip of the expensive whiskey. “We’ve been working on this for a long time. It’s our greatest accomplishment yet.”

Undertaker allowed the silence and a smirk to speak for him at first, causing Othello to begin to question what was really going through the mind behind all that silky, silvery hair with a suspicious squint and another slow sip of the amber alcohol.

“What is it?” Othello asked, dread beginning to claw its way up from a grave dug deep inside him. He cracked a nervous smile then, asking though an awkward chuckle, “Is there still blood on my face or something?”

The boss took in one long, deep inhale, slowly exhaling the breath before asking in that smooth, low tone, “We’ve known each other for almost fifteen years, Othello. And all that time I couldn’t help but notice…” He laced his long, slender fingers before him gracefully on the pristine desktop, alabaster skin absorbing a warm hue under the dim lamplight of the room. “You’ve never had anyone to hold close to you, have you? You’ve never let yourself find love…”

Othello straightened in his seat a little, his glass of whiskey cradled in both hands which rested in his lap as he stared down into the liquid. “My first and only love has always been my work,” he shrugged. Then, lifting the drink back to his lips and flicking his eyes towards Undertaker, he concluded with, “You know that.”

Undertaker’s scheming smirk didn’t falter. In fact, it only widened just enough to show he was indeed clearly up to something.

It was the very look that had drawn Othello to him all those years ago when they’d met outside the gates of the prestigious university that Othello would come to get kicked out of after a notoriously scandalous senior thesis and Undertaker would disappear from after gaining some connections in the industry that he currently ruled.

“Well, for your sake, I hope that’s true,” Undertaker lightly teased, taking another sip of his own drink. “But, as for me, well… You know how much my baby girl means to me.”

“Course,” Othello responded quickly, swallowing down the last of his whiskey in one wincing gulp. “We all do. Which is why we all work so hard to keep her safe. In all the years I’ve known you I’ve never seen you be with anyone like you are with her.”

Undertaker’s smirk twitched into a grin that could almost be described as bashful, so overwhelmed by his love for you that he’d never really noticed how clearly everyone else around him saw it too.

“Yes, well, she is everything to me. More than the Aurora Society. More than all the money and power in the world…” Undertaker hid his adoring smile behind his palm, resting his chin in his hand as he leaned further over the desk. “And now, thanks to you, I have a way to save her in case anything were to ever happen.” Othello cocked his head to one side slightly, considering his friend with a cynical sort of confusion. “So— and I really can’t say this enough— thank you, Othello. I couldn’t have asked for a more loyal colleague— a more loyal friend.”

“Right…” Othello nodded, placing the empty glass upon the desktop and trying to hide his discomfort. “Cheers.”

Disappointment was more like it. Because, for as much as Othello wanted to ensure your safety for his boss’s sake, the point of the reanimation experiments hadn’t been to allow some girl a redo button, an extra life given some disastrous incident that claimed her original one prematurely.

He thought that Undertaker had been looking at the bigger picture too, had seen the way the greatest leaders of the world would bend and scrape for the invention developed by what was just a gang of well dressed criminals in their eyes like Othello often imagined.

But clearly it hadn’t always been about you.

When Undertaker had proposed to Othello one drunken night wandering the streets after dropping out of university that perhaps death wasn’t the end, that artificial life could be created, conjured from the fragments of a soul long gone…

You hadn’t even been in the picture.

But over these past few years— since Undertaker had gotten his hands on you, really— you truly had become the most important thing to him.

And that scared Othello. Because that meant that the company that he’d built with the man he called his boss out of respect was dropping down the priority list.

And without Undertaker heading the operation, everything would fall apart.

“Well, I think I’ve earned myself a few days off, at the very least,” Othello stated through a crooked grin as he stood from his chair and prepared to leave. “I’ll make sure to keep an eye on that girl though, update you accordingly. Goodnight.”

“Othello…” Undertaker stopped the scientist just before his hand wrapped around the crystal doorknob. Othello gave pause and glanced over his shoulder. But then, Undertaker simply shook his head and said through a tired smile, “Nothing. Nevermind. Go home. Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

Othello nodded once and then left the room.

And Undertaker knew, as he stayed behind and sat at his desk, pouring himself another glass and figuring that he also deserved a little break for all his hard work, that his friend was hiding his hesitations, holding back the words he really wanted to say.

Because yes, for the boss, this project had become solely about preserving you, need anything happen, though that didn’t mean he wasn’t willing to go forth with the original plan and sell their second chance to the highest bidder when the time came.

But, most of all, Undertaker felt an overwhelming wave of calm settle upon him that he hadn’t experienced in years.

Because you were going to be his.

Forever and ever more.

And that was worth more than all the money in the world.

***

(So we’re really in the thick of it now, huh? I really hope you guys like the direction that things are headed. It’s been fun to explore some of the darker plot points and backstories I came up with while originally planning this fic.

But you better buckle up and hold on because it’s only gonna get crazier from here lol.

Anyway, like always, thanks for reading (and being patient with me while i wrote and edited this part) and i’ll see you next chapter!)

#kuroshitsuji #Undertaker Kuroshitsuji #kuroshitsuji fanfiction #kuroshitsuji x reader #kuroshitsuji x y/n #black butler #undertaker black butler #black butler fanfiction #black butler x reader #black butler x y/n #black butler x you #undertaker x reader #undertaker x y/n #undertaker x you #Ronald Knox #ronald knox x reader #ronald knox x y/n #ronald knox x you

[ibis-gt]

*slides you 37 pennies* how would luther handle trying to go on a public date with cam (movie, restaurant, etc.) with the whole… affection turns height to no.

had two requests for this one so here u go! luther does his best to keep it together for date night. 2750 words, warning for brief mention of violence in a movie and some hanky panky between consenting adults. not explicit, just a little spicy.

~~~

Four months into their relationship, and Luther has more of a handle on things now.

He’s got the size thing totally under control. He hardly ever shrinks just because Cam looked at him anymore. He can take a compliment like a champion. Those soft, sweet, gentle smiles that spread across Cam’s face like molasses? Barely make him lose an inch. Physical contact? He’s… still working on that one.

But at the very least they can have date nights in public now, as long as Cam behaves himself, and Cam is quite willing to behave himself. Most of the time.

It’s a snowy Saturday night in December, and they’ve got a date planned. Cam will pick Luther up at eight, they’ll go have dinner at a local sushi place, watch a late night special feature from the 80s, and then come back home for some wine and light snuggling before bed. An absolutely perfect night, if Luther can make it through enough of it full-size.

He’s still debating his outfit when a gentle knock at his front door heralds his beloved’s arrival. Five minutes early as usual.

“It’s open!” Luther calls. “C’mon in and help me choose, will you?” He’s standing in his bedroom in a pair of black slacks with the horrid green jumpsuit undone and tied around his waist, staring critically at his two choices of top. A lovely turquoise turtleneck, or a stylish electric blue button-up. The floor creaks behind him as Cam ambles in. “Which one do you think is better? I guess it depends on what you’re wear - eep!”

Luther squeaks and jumps as Cam presses his lips to Luther’s neck, big warm hands sliding up his arms to rest on his bare shoulders, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine.

“Both look nice,” Cam murmurs in his ear. “But I think I like the blue one better.”

“C-cam,” Luther whines, his face going pink. “If you keep this up we’re not even going to get out the door.” The hands remove themselves, and Cam pulls back, chuckling.

“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself. All that exposed real estate, you know.” He lets out a perfect wolf whistle. God damn him. Luther glares over his shoulder and folds his arms, letting annoyance take over.

“We’ve been planning this for weeks, and you’re going to ruin it,” he pouts. “Go on, out. Wait in the living room if you’re going to be like this.” Cam puts his hands up in a placating gesture and retreats, but that damn smile doesn’t leave his face. Luther tosses his hair and huffs, secretly proud of himself. He didn’t even lose a half inch. He turns back to consider his options.

Well, if Cam is so focused on his neck tonight, that sweater might be the better option to afford him some protection. But he said he liked the button-up better… It’s lighter than the sweater so it won’t keep him as warm, but that means he can steal Cam’s big coat later on. The turtleneck would completely cover the green jumpsuit, but the blue of the button-up actually compliments it nicely. Luther nods decisively. The button-up will be perfect.

He dresses quickly, gives himself a final once-over in the mirror, unbuttons his top button, and heads out to see Cam. His boyfriend - his boyfriend! The thought still sends a thrill through him - has picked up the cat, Scrunge, and is stroking her head, making little baby noises at her. She purrs in her usual way, fast and loud, like a revving motorcycle. Cam sets her down when he sees Luther and sighs happily.

“You look fantastic,” he says.

“You clean up pretty nice yourself.” Luther crosses the room and fondly brushes a loose strand of hair behind Cam’s ear. Cam’s in a dark grey v-neck shirt and black suit jacket, slightly tarnished silver cufflinks adorning the sleeves. He’s got his big heavy winter coat draped over one arm so he doesn’t overheat in the relative warmth of the apartment. Luther sneaks a covetous little glance at it before grabbing his own shabby coat off a hook near the door.

He bends down to give Scrunge a goodbye scritch behind the ears. “Behave yourself while I’m out,” he tells her. “No tearing around the place and knocking things over.” She meows plaintively. Luther retrieves her bag of treats and gives her two as a bribe, which she accepts happily.

“Okay,” Luther says, straightening and shrugging on his coat. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Cam says, and takes his hand.

They walk to the restaurant. No point in searching for parking, it’d take longer than just hoofing it anyway. It’s been snowing on and off throughout the week and piles of dirty slush cover the sidewalk. It’s cold, but Luther’s coat is keeping him warm enough for now. He and Cam hold hands as they walk to the restaurant, and Luther doesn’t even shrink a little bit. His chest swells with so much pride he thinks his feet might leave the ground.

The place is only a little busy, so they have a short wait before they’re shown to their table. They get their usual orders. Luther prefers simple rolls and nigiri so the taste of the fish is front and center, while Cam likes to get the complicated, loaded rolls for the variety of texture and flavor. While they wait for their food to arrive, Luther fills Cam in on Scrunge’s latest reign of terror in his apartment, and how much it’ll cost to fix the cracked frame of the painting she’d somehow managed to knock off the wall in her frenzy to catch the fabled red laser dot.

The food arrives. Cam offers Luther a taste of his rolls - he’s gotten something deep fried with cream cheese, cucumber, and crab, and another loaded high with four kinds of fish, topped with roe. Luther tries the one with all the fish, but passes on the deep fried one. He trades Cam a piece of mackerel nigiri. Then he continues on talking, telling Cam about his week, how work’s been, the new guy they hired, and the annoying new habit his coworker’s formed of singing along with the music on the jukebox, regardless of whether she knows the lyrics or not.

Luther suddenly catches the look in Cam’s eyes. There’s something… hungry in them. It’s the only way he can describe it. It’s not regular hungry, because he’s practically ignoring his food in favor of listening intently to Luther’s rambling story. He’s leaning forward, arms folded on the table in front of him, drinking in every word Luther has to say. He’s hungry for him. The realization hits Luther like a truck and he stops mid-sentence, jaw dropping, a blush starting to spread across his face.

“What’s wrong?” Cam asks, innocent as ever. How could he even know the effect he has on Luther? How could Luther ever explain?

“N-nothing, um, I… I’ve been talking a lot, why don’t you take over for a bit? What’s keeping you busy at work?” It was delightful to listen to Cam ramble on about his job. Luther barely understood a word of it, but his enthusiasm was adorable and, importantly, not about Luther. He could keep it together and breathe a bit, work on calming down the scramble of emotion in his gut.

Sure enough, he wins himself a good fifteen minutes of calm while Cam talks on about carburetors and mufflers and manifolds. He could be making it up for all Luther knows. It’s not until Cam realizes his deep fried roll has gone cold that he breaks off to eat. They finish their food, decide to pass on dessert, pay, and head for the theater.

It’s only a few blocks away, a fifteen minute walk at most. The night has gotten a little colder and darker, and now stray snowflakes drift and spin through the air, catching the streetlights and twinkling like stars. Cam has a lot of fun pretending he’s a dragon, his warm breath turning to steaming clouds in the freezing air. Luther’s shivering now, his old secondhand coat doing little to protect him from the chill. Cam notices, of course, and whips his own coat off in an instant.

“Oh, please,” Luther demurs, “You’re so chivalrous, but really, I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking like a weathervane in a hurricane, sweetheart. I’ll be fine, I’m my own space heater.” Cam arranges the coat over Luther’s shoulders neatly and slips his arm around Luther’s waist, pulling him in close. It’s so warm and so nice, and so very, very close. Luther’s shivers slacken and cease, and then one more shakes him, different from the rest.

“Oh no,” Luther whispers, “I was doing so well, please…”

Luckily, he only loses about three inches. His clothes are a little looser, and he’s engulfed a little more by Cam’s huge coat, but he’s still a perfectly normal height. He sighs in relief.

“So what’s this movie we’re seeing?” Luther asks, trying to take his mind off of things.

“Oh, so it’s this old sci fi cult classic based on a book no one’s ever read. I saw it the first time when I was like… eight? And it scarred me for life, really, and now I’m obsessed with this shit. The special effects are super gnarly, and they hold up okay, even though you can totally see the tube for the fake blood in the decapitation scene. Don’t worry too much about following the plot, it’s not really the point of the movie, but what you should know ahead of time is…”

Cam rambles on like that, filling the night with fog. Luther snuggles in closer and listens happily, totally at ease. He made it through the most important part of the night, and once they get in the theater, he can relax. It doesn’t matter if he shrinks in the theater - from what Cam’s said, the only people watching this late-night special feature will be die-hard fans who’ll be glued to the screen, and in the darkness they won’t have to worry about anyone catching sight of them.

That also means, of course, that Cam might get a little handsy once the lights dim. If he’s being honest, Luther would be disappointed if he didn’t.

They get a seat in the back row. As the previews start up, Cam reaches over and takes Luther’s chin in his hand, turning it gently so they face each other. For a moment, he just holds them there, staring into Luther’s eyes with an adoring softness that makes Luther’s heart sing. Then he leans in and kisses him, just once, softly on the mouth. Luther shivers and loses another few inches. Cam lets him go, but Luther’s not satisfied. He grabs Cam’s collar and pulls him down for another kiss, this one deeper and hungrier. Cam chuckles against his mouth and nips at his bottom lip, catching it between his teeth for just a moment. Luther sits back heavily in his seat, breath coming in shallow gasps. He grips his armrests tight, trying to pay attention to the trailer for the newest slasher flick as it blares out through the theater. No dice. He’s losing height fast now, shrinking down to four feet tall, his normal clothes hanging off his frame.

They stay apart for all of a minute before Cam’s hand sneaks across the seat and slides into place on Luther’s thigh. He strokes his thumb back and forth in a slow rhythm, humming happily. Luther gasps and shrinks more, staring wide-eyed as Cam’s hand covers more and more of him, soon easily encompassing his entire thigh.

He’s maybe two feet tall now and he can’t see the screen over the seat in front of him. Cam glances down, catching the pouting, grumpy look on Luther’s face, and presses a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter.

“Here, sweetheart,” Cam murmurs, and picks Luther up with one hand. With the other, he frees him from his clothing so that he’s only clad in the jumpsuit. Cam settles Luther gently on his lap. This has fixed the problem of not being able to see the screen, but only momentarily. Luther goes bright red and dwindles down even further. By the time the previews have finished, he’s only eight inches tall.

As the opening theme blares with discordant trumpets, Cam pinches the back of Luther’s jumpsuit between thumb and forefinger and lifts him up. He dangles Luther in front of his face for a moment, expression torn between adoring and apologetic, then brings him in close for a gentle kiss. He sets Luther on his shoulder and hands him a piece of popcorn.

Luther hides his burning face behind the buttery morsel. He’d been expecting a little hanky panky, but nothing so direct. Stolen kisses, maybe a fake yawn that disguised Cam putting his arm around Luther, a little playing with his hair. Going for the thigh like that… that was entirely unexpected. He’s beginning to suspect Cam was trying to get him tiny.

The movie is just as gory and weird as promised. Luther isn’t super squeamish, but more than once he turns and ducks his face into Cam’s neck, squealing in disgust, his voice quiet enough at this size that he doesn’t have to worry about disturbing anyone else. Every time, he feels Cam shake under him with silent laughter, enjoying Luther’s reactions.

The movie ends before too long, and the other theatergoers file out, chatting animatedly with one another about the flick. Cam holds his hand up to his chest, and Luther pushes himself off Cam’s shoulder, landing gracefully in his palm. Cam sets him down on the armrest while he folds up Luther’s discarded clothing and tucks it in an inner pocket of his big coat. He looks down at Luther and tilts his head to one side, lips pursed in a calculating expression.

“You’re just a little too big to hide comfortably… here, let’s fix that.” Cam puts his elbows on either side of Luther on the armrest and looms over him, completely blocking the dim theater lights overhead. Luther takes a few involuntary steps back and bumps up against Cam’s hands, linked together behind him to form a ring penning him in. “You’re all mine now,” Cam breathes, quiet as a whisper. “So tiny and cute. I’m going to put you in my pocket and carry you home, and then… well, then we’ll see what I’ll do with you, hm?” A crooked, meaningful grin spreads across Cam’s face, and that hungry look comes back into his eyes.

It works like a charm. Luther’s legs shake, his heart pounds, and he shivers. He dwindles down to half his height, a mere four inches.

“There we go,” Cam croons, and scoops him up in one hand. Cam stows him safely in his coat pocket, held in a loose fist to keep him safe from jostling and the cold. He exits the theater and moves through the crowds easily. People tend to make way when they see a man his size coming towards them.

Luther curls up against Cam’s fingers and sighs happily. Cam’s hand is warm, calloused in places but soft in others, and the pocket sways gently with his gait. It’s so safe and cozy, combined with the late hour and the exhaustion of the day, it’s the perfect recipe to knock him out. He fights the heaviness of his eyelids as long as he can, but only makes it a few blocks before he’s fast asleep.

~~~

“Whew, cold one out tonight,” Cam says as he unlocks the door to Luther’s apartment. He can already hear Scrunge wailing on the other side. “I hope you weren’t too frozen in there.” He pushes the door open and addresses the cat. “Yes, we’re home, hello darling, we missed you too.” She winds around his legs and purr-meows at top volume. “Okay, okay, other people are trying to sleep,” Cam hisses. “You’re gonna wake up the whole floor, shitty kitty.” She mrrps in disapproval.

He pulls Luther out of his pocket. “So, babe, do you wanna - oh.” The little dear is asleep, snoring softly. Cam smiles and presses a kiss to his chest. He takes a seat on the couch, sighing as he plops himself down. Scrunge leaps up into his lap immediately and puts her front legs up on his chest, sniffing at Luther in his hand.

“Poor dear’s all tuckered out,” Cam murmurs, giving her a scritch. “Let’s let him rest.”

#asks #writing #cam and luther #gulliver's hanahaki #g/t #giant tiny #hit post before i remembered tags exist oops

[wagner-fell]

I am still very new to this website and I don’t know how link a post but this fic is based on a post by @sandersgrey

(If someone reading this knows how to link a post please either explain it to me or link it in the comments because that post is *amazing*)

“Hmmm,” said Tessa, depositing Mina into Kit’s waiting arms and examining her buzzing phone critically. She shot a quizzical look in his direction.

Jem looked up from his novel. “What is ‘hmmm’, my love?”

Kit mimed vomiting but stopped dead in his tracks when she replied, “it’s Astrid’s mother. You remember her from parent teacher night, don’t you, my darling?” Kit swears they were being extra insufferable just to mess with him but he didn’t have the time to be annoyed when Astrid’s. Mom. Was. Calling. Tessa.

To understand why Kit was panicking as much as he was, you must know that Astrid’s mom was incredibly chill. She never got mad. The worst punishment she’d ever given her daughter was taking away her iPod for a week so she couldn’t listen to Mitski.

Was she calling about last night when Astrid, Mari and Kit threw eggs at the Shadowhunter’s that were giving Mari’s pack a hard time for no reason? No, that couldn’t be it. She’d given them the eggs.

Could the call be about the day before yesterday when Kit and Astrid got distracted doing homework and ended up snapping the coffee table clean in half while battling gladiator style with pool noodles? No, that wasn’t it. She’d just handed Astrid a twenty and told them to go to Kevin’s parents' shop and get a new one. Was she pissed because they ended up spending the money on ice cream instead? No, they ended up finding a table for free in the rubbing bin outside a fancy hotel.

Kit clutched his sister to his chest and prepared for the worst.

“Seo-yoon! What can I do for- Oh, hello Astrid!” Tessa paused briefly, presumably to listen to Astrid speak, and Kit sighed in relief.

“Kit is occupied at the moment but I can relay the message.” Another pause. “Oh don’t be frightened of me. I’m a tots rad mom. Your secret is safe with me.” Kit felt his face flush red as he heard his best friend’s laughter echo across the living room. “Okay! I’ll let him know. He has to get Mina to sleep before he can leave though. Lord knows he’s the only one who can these days.” Tessa chuckled at something Astrid said before wishing her good luck in her endeavour and ending the call.

She turned her attention back to Kit. “Astrid needs your help breaking into your teacher’s home to retrieve her cell phone.”

Kit blinked at her, dumbfounded. “You aren’t mad I’m going to go break the law?”

Because of course he was doing it. Astrid’s dad had bought it for her and he was extremely cautious about money. That was one of three things Kit knew about her dad. He was cheap, he lived in America and he loved the movie Fight Club.

Tessa ruffled Kit’s hair affectionately. “Please. I’ve raised two other Herondales. At least I know about this particular adventure beforehand.”

Mina began snoring softly and Kit handed her back to her mother. He grabbed his bag and started his journey to the door when Tessa added, “she also told me to say hi to a ‘daddy Kit’. Are you ‘daddy Kit?’”

‘Daddy Kit’ closed his eyes and wished for the sweet release of death.

“Why is Kit a daddy,” Jem asked, genuinely confused. “Aren’t I the daddy?”

Kit swung the door open so fast not even a speed rune could have aided him. But not before I heard Tessa reply, “Lily Chen certainly thinks so.”

Mrs. MacNamara clapped her hands together. “Why don’t we all go around and say a few things about ourselves?”

Kit buried his face into his hands. He’d been relieved when no other teacher had fulfilled the Disney channel stereotype of making every student introduce themselves to the new kid. But Mrs. MacNamara didn’t even seem to realize what she was doing.

All Kit’s fellow classmates groan. Expect one. Her hand shot up immediately. She was short, like smaller than Clary short. She wore a baggy pink shirt with the words ‘Queen Glimmer of Etheria’ sewed on with purple sequins and tight black jeans. Her colourful, choppy hair was in a low ponytail and she flew a few strands out of her eyes as her hand wiggled in the hair.

Mrs. MacNamara pointed at her. She stood up and smiled at Kit. “Hi. My name is Astrid. My hobbies include making my little cousin’s girl Barbies kiss, as it should be, and watching television shows where everyone is a terrible person so you can love all of them!”

“And what shows might that be?” asked Kit, already in the process of pulling out his phone and opening the Notes app.

“Grey’s Anatomy, Glee, Grey’s Anatomy again because it’s seventeen seasons as of right now. And to be fair it practically became a different show when they killed off Mark Sloan.”

“That’s enough, Miss Yang,” said Mrs. MacNamara. Astrid sat down and winked at Kit. Then she took out her phone and airdropped him a complete list of all her favorite shows, along with her number.

After Blessica’s pre-birthday birthday party, they went to Cirenworth and stayed up till four A.M. binging them.

They met outside a queer dry bar called Aries Not Welcome, the unspoken gathering place of the Merry Hoes. It was run by a poly lesbian couple in their mid-thirties. Quinn, Sydney and Aliyah may not have served alcohol but at least they were open 24/7.

“Did you bring the shit?”

Kit gave her a look. “The shit? How conclusive.”

“Shut up. You know, the shadowhunter thing.”

“The shadowhunter thing?”

“The, the, the glow stick that you draw with.”

“The glow stick that I draw wi-“ Kit closed his eyes briefly. “Do you mean a stele?”

Astrid snapped her fingers. “That’s it!” Kit shook his head in exasperation, smiling fondly. “I borrowed a torch from Quinn, let’s move.”

“Should I be worried that you know where Mr. Smith lives?�� questioned Kit as he followed Astrid’s lead through the park.

“Should I be worried that your mom was fine with us breaking and entering?” she shot back playfully. Kit pushed Astrid and she fell off the path, laughing all the way.

“You called me ‘daddy’ to my mom’s face.”

She just laughed harder, slinging her arm around Kit’s shoulder. “It was over the phone, Christopher. And as I should.”

“Pffffttt. Why did you get your phone taken anyway?” She put her hands into her jumper pocket and looked at the ground. “Astrid.” She remained silent. “Astrid?”

She mumbled something under her breath. “What?” asked Kit.

“I WAS READING NINEJ FANFICTION!” she shouted.

Kit gasped. “I thought you were a die hard Kanej shipper,” he whispered.

“I’m a multishipper, okay?!” she replied, equally quiet.

“Does Blessica know?”

She shook her head. “And she will never find out.”

Kit saw the opportunity and he seized it. “She’ll never find out as long as you never call me daddy in front of either of my parents.”

She removed her arm from his shoulder and guided them out of the park, in the direction of the many apartments that lined this side of town. “I hate you.”

“Well, so does Mari. You're not special, Ast.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know Mari doesn’t actually hate you, right?! They’re just still in the enemy phase of your enemies-to-lovers romance. She only dislikes you because they feel something for you but they don’t know what so she interrupts it as loathing. In reality, her inner soul knows you’re hot and shmexie.”

Kit didn’t know how to process this so he just nodded and follow Astrid in silence to Mr. Smith’s house. (Plus, he was kinda glad that, according to his best friend, he had a little more time for Mari to ‘discover their true feelings’. If Kit screwed this up, he was out of countries to run off to.)

“Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me.”

“What,” asked Kit, turning around to face Astrid and closing the drawer he was rifling through. “Did you find your phone?”

“Yeah. But I also found Blessica’s. She was Snapping Kevin. Platonic my ass. But he took the fucking trans flag out of her phone!”

Kit snatched Blessica’s phone out of her hand to examine it for herself. She was telling the truth. Where the glitter pride flag usually rested was just a clear purple case. Kit couldn’t believe his eyes.

“It’s one thing to misgender her every day.” Blessica had forced all four of the other Merry Hoes to sign a contract saying they wouldn’t do anything to harm him because of it. “But this is the last straw. You know what we have to do.” Oops.

“Yeah, but we don’t have any spray paint.”

Kit eyed Mr. Smith’s pink sofa, blue bar stool covers and white picture frames. “I think I have something better in mind.”

It would have been easier for both parties to just zip off the sofa cushions and tape them to the wall but by ripping them off in strips, they ensured he would have to buy new ones. And judging by the car he drove and the fiji water in his fridge, Mr. Smith could definitely afford it.

That reminded him, “I’ll finish up with this. Go put all his fiji water into my bag.” Astrid saluted him and ran off. “Wait.” She stopped and looked at him. “Steal all the remotes you can find.”

“How is he not awake?,” asked Astrid as they ripped the fabric of his seating from the stool.

He shrugged. “Don’t question it.” He shoved the bundle of cloth into her arms. “Glue this above the pink. I’ll handle the frames.”

“Say the magic word,” she sang.

“Please?”

“No. Lesbian. Come on, I thought you knew me better than that.”

Kit laughed quietly. “Can you lesbian glue this above the pink?”

She grinned at Kit. “It would be my pleasure.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Hello! Sorry I haven’t written anything in so long. School just restarted and it has been…a lot.

@adoravel-fenomeno @thechangeling @the-blackdale @the-wckd-powers @thomas-gaypanic-lightwood @im-not-ruined-im-ruination @ithurielkeepsgettingkidnapped @noah-herondale-lightwood @arangiajoan @shelvesofgold @maxboythedog @book-dragon-not-worm @hardlymatters

Very sorry if I forgot anyone. Lmk if you want to be addEd/removEd from the tag list.

#mari the werewolf #mari machado sotomayor #mari machado #kit rook #kit herondale #astrid yang #blessica reyes #Kevin chu #tessa grey #jem carstairs #lily chen #mina carstairs

[sebstanseabass]

Afterglow (A Bucky Barnes AU fan fiction) - Chapter 4

Previous chapter links:

Afterglow chapters

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

CHAPTER FOUR

The cab ride towards the White Wolf was much faster and louder than you anticipated. The cab driver's blaring music from the radio was so loud it felt like you were inside a rave. You and Bucky had to yell over the music for you to talk about what has been happening in your lives for the past few months. You couldn't summarize everything in a five-minute cab ride. So far, these were just some milestones you both gathered (well, more of his): while Bucky was in different parts of the world (Greece, Macau, Amsterdam, Monaco, Aruba) managing interrelation business and hosting nightly parties and whatnots, you were just in New York tending to drunkards (and that includes Peter sometimes) and taking photos of whatever products that come your way.

At that moment, you saw your life pass by in black and white, while Bucky's in color -- just a parade of rainbows trailing behind him wherever he goes.

Yet he still found the things you did interesting.

You wondered what the word interesting meant to him. Of course, you didn't bother asking him that. Perhaps he just felt sorry and wanted to make you feel good.

The moment you got out of the cab, you guys took a deep breath, thankful that that awful ride was over. The music floated away as the cab sped up in the streets.

"What a dick." Bucky commented, watching the cab race through the streets. Any more speed, the cab would've flown in the air.

"I know." You snorted. "God, that was an awful ride. I felt like I was at a frat party."

"Funny. You don't look like someone who would go to one." He joked.

"I went once." You defended. "With Parker."

Bucky raised his eyebrows at you and stared.  Blue eyes piercing right through you in disbelief. "Okay." You sighed. "I picked his drunk ass up at that party. But I really have been to a party with Parker." You left out that detail of you and Peter making out at that party. That was just between you and Peter and you wouldn't want to include his stepbrother in it. Or perhaps Bucky knew about it. You did just found out they talk to each other almost every night. But as you told Bucky about that party, you received no reaction whatsoever which meant he knew nothing. You felt good about that.

You and Bucky stood in front of the White Wolf, trying to shake out the ringing in your ears. Stupid cab ride. Why you couldn't just walk here was because of Bucky. Apparently, he was still a bit hungover. You wondered what would take him to get fully sober.

You stared at the wolf headstone once more, admiring it for the second time today.

"I commissioned an artist for that." Bucky spoke, poking his finger on his right ear. "Just found him on the subway one day. He was selling some sculptures he's made. Asked him if he could make me one and ta-da!"

"It is beautiful."

"I have others he has made inside." With this, Bucky started to walk towards the inside of his hotel.

The uniformed man greeted you on the steps. You sent him a knowing smile once his eyes landed on yours. He smiled back as you introduced yourselves to each other.

"Is she still in my room?" Bucky asked the uniformed man who you now know goes by the name Leonard.

"Yes, sir." He replied. "She said she'd -- "

"I know what she said." Bucky groaned, remembering what you'd told him earlier. "I'll call you from up there if anything goes wrong, okay Leonard?"

"Yes, sir. I'll be on alert."

You watched the exchange in utter fascination. It was like watching something straight out of an action movie: "I'll be on high alert" "I'll tell you when the coast is clear" "Roger that" "I'll call you when something goes wrong"

The only thing was, this wasn't some action movie though Bucky did have a plan. You just never knew about it until you got in the elevators.

"Here's the plan." He started. "We go in holding hands, I'll introduce you as my girlfriend. Maybe fiancé! When she sees you, tell her you're my fiancé and when she tells you that she slept with me, I'm going to deny and you're going to believe me because as my fiancé, you deeply love me and believe everything I say."

"Ew, it's like I'm a sub."

"Wow, you're a dom?"

"I can be." You winked at him.

"Huh, I honestly thought you're a virgin. You know, that type of 'never been kissed, never been loved' type."

In your head, you started singing the rest of the song. "I'm an angel in the streets and devil in the sheets, Bucky." You joked which he took seriously seeing it on the look on his face. "Anyway, your plan?"

"Right! She'd yell and go nuts until she gives up and then leaves the hotel -- "

"Then we get married and let Peter pay for our honeymoon!" You finished for him with a sarcastic smile on your face.

He smirked. "I like the way you think, Aria. But I don't think Peter's gonna want that."

"What do you mean?"

"W-well, he's not gonna afford it is what I meant."

"You're probably right." You gave him a low chuckle. "You're rich. Pay for our honeymoon." You joked.

"As soon as we get this bitch out of here, yes I will, doll." He scrunched his nose up and winked at you right before the elevator doors opened. Swiftly, Bucky grabbed your hand and intertwined your fingers. "Let's do this."

Hand in hand, you stepped out of the elevator. What stood in front of you was the same woman from earlier this morning. Body still clinging to Bucky's shirt. Faint red lipstick still smeared on some parts outside her lips. Blonde hair still disheveled. If you didn't know any better she was just here in the penthouse, waiting, not moving even a single inch.

You put your hand on Bucky's arm, hiding a faint expression of how big it felt against your skin. "Honey, who is this?"

"I-I don't know!"

The unnamed woman managed to step forward, looking Bucky in the eyes. "What do you mean you don't know? We slept last night!" Then, she looked at you. "Who the hell are you?"

"His fiancé." There was a sly smug tone in your voice. Even on your face.

"Fiancé? He didn't tell me anything about a fucking fiancé!"

"What the hell are you saying?" Bucky yelled. His grip tightened on your hand. "I've never even met you! How did you get in here?"

"We spent the night together, what the hell, Bucky!" She bellowed like a monster, then her voice softened. "I-I told you I love you."

"You're crazy."

"Call security." You said. "Now, Bucky!"

While Bucky grabbed for his phone, the woman pleaded, still trying to convince you that she slept with your fake fiancé. "If he says he doesn't know you," you responded, "then I believe him." Bucky slipped away from you, probably calling Leonard from downstairs. He gave you a knowing look, as if ushering you to unleash some kind of hell on his one-night stand. "You need to go, lady, if you don't want to be banned in every hotel here in New York. Yes, my fiancé can do that. So better get your ass out of here or -- "

"Okay, okay!" She held up her hands, giving up. "I'm out of here! Jesus fucking Christ -- " She mumbled more under her breath as she took of Bucky's clothes, revealing a white tank top underneath. She picked up her heels that were scattered on the living room: one shoe on the couch, the other near a foot of a small table. Picked up some pair of jeans on the carpet before stepping inside the elevator.

"I wish you luck in your fucking marriage." She said, tone filled with rage. Then, she proceeded to flip Bucky one last time before she disappeared behind the elevator doors, eyes boring into Bucky's.

"Okay, she's going down. Tell her to never come here again. Thanks, Lenny." Bucky dropped the phone call and gave you a smile. "And thank you for your performance."

You bowed, like how actors bow after a play ends, and flashed him a smile. "Why, thank you."

"Thanks to you I'm never gonna see that woman again in my life."

You turned your back on him, seeing the place for the first time without a tainted image of the woman. A line of little sculptures near every wall (perhaps the ones he commissioned from that subway artist). Family photos, albums and trophies took up a whole cabinet. You shifted your gaze towards the living room where a nice brown couch sits on top of a beige rug, which faced a huge flat screen television. Two pairs of love seats sat across from each other. A glass table set in the middle. On the back wall was a photograph of Bucky which took the whole space. He wore a neat, well-pressed grey suit, sitting on what seemed like a throne inside a home office, one leg stretched outwards and one leg just resting normally on the floor. He had this head tilt on one side, right hand under his chin, blue eyes looking directly at the camera. On its floor were stacks of magazines, and papers.

Even you couldn't deny how good Bucky looked in the photo but the photograph itself? You knew you could do better than that.

You turned around and found Bucky nowhere. "Bucky?"

He then emerged from what seemed like a kitchen because he was carrying loads of food and trod towards where you were and placed everything on the coffee table. "Yeah?"

"If I wasn't here, what would've you done?"

He shrugged, and opened a yogurt. "Probably stay in your apartment forever."

"Wow," you sat on the couch, watching him devour the food on the table, "seems like you've planned everything out."

"Seems like it, yeah."

"Do you always do this, Bucky?"

"What do you mean?"

"Have sex with girls, then make up a lie to get them out of your life."

"Oh, that was the first time." He replied. "Those three words really freaked me out. I've never heard that come from someone besides my family. Never even told anyone I've loved them, again, except my family."

You nodded in response and looked around the penthouse some more, admiring some paintings, big and small, on the walls. Perhaps some were real, perhaps some were just school ofs. On your right, was a draped curtain covering a whole glass wall that overlooked New York city. Bucky clicked some button somewhere which let the curtains open, letting some of the New York sun inside. From here, one could see the whole view of New York. All its pleasure, glory, grime, and lowliness.

Oh, the things you would give to live in a place like this. If you wanted to take in the beauty of New York, you had to climb up on the fire exit towards the rooftop. And the view from up there wasn't as pretty as this one. All the pretty spots were behind million dollar skyscrapers.

You looked at Bucky once more who leaned against the love seat, then closed his eyes. That same fuzzy image, which you thought you had buried at the back of my mind, resurfaced.

"Bucky?"

He shot straight up. "Yeah?"

"Have we... met each other before?"

A frown formed on his face, his blue eyes meeting yours, his gaze intense; as if he was trying to put a finger on something, on you. But then he gave up, telling you perhaps you'd just seen him somewhere here in New York the last time he was here, bumped into him. Something like that.

You agreed. Maybe that was it.

Again, you pushed that image at the back of your mind, hoping it would never come up while Bucky was still here.

You were about to ask Bucky how long he was planning to stay in New York before partying in every country outside America when your phone rang.

It was Steve. You picked it up immediately. "Hey, Steve. Is everything okay?"

Bucky shot his head towards you, perhaps wondering who this Steve was.

"Hey." He replied. His voice was groggy, like he just woke up. "There's been some misunderstanding with the shipments. They thought I said drop them in the morning. Long story short, the shipments are just outside the pub's door."

"What? They can't do that!"

"They have a lot of deliveries today so they had to. I told them to wait for you but those are impatient bastards. New shipment boys."

You cursed then stood up. "I'm actually not in the apartment right now. I'm somewhere else. Not important. I'm on my way."

"Get there fast, Aria."

"I will, don't worry. Bye, Steve."

Once you got off the phone, you told Bucky the whole situation.

"Let's go then!" He said with much enthusiasm. "Those drinks are no good sitting out there. How else am I going to make you the best drink you'll ever have, darling?"

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes smut #bucky x y/n #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes story #fan fic #fan fiction #bucky barnes fan fiction #thank u so much 4 all the support ily all #chapter 4 yay

[fangirlwriting-stories]

A Kind Of Understanding

Summary: Remus' decision to babysit a kid for a couple nights to earn some extra cash ends up getting him in over his head when the kid tells him something the parents didn't mention.

In all fairness, Roman had told him he was probably getting in over his head.  Remus was the idiot who didn’t believe him.

He just needed money.  If he was actually going to be able to afford all the spray paints he wanted for his new art project by the roller rink, he was going to need a lot more money than he had.  Curse him and his ambitious ideas.

Remus considered himself lucky when he quickly found a family willing to pay 60 bucks a night to watch their eight year old kid.  Roman took one look at the offer and said he was definitely going to be dealing with a brat.

“Why else would they pay so much?” he asked, giving the flyer a suspicious look.

“So?  I need, like, two hundred bucks to get the kind and amount of spray paint I need.  I’d only have to watch the bratty kid for four nights and I’d be good.  I can set her up in front of a movie she really likes, make her some mac and cheese for dinner, and it’ll be all good.”

“I think you’re underestimating kids, Re.  You have met Patton and Logan, right?”

Patton and Logan were Virgil’s little brothers, and Remus honestly wasn’t sure why he was bringing them up, because they were both absolute sweethearts.  Sure, Logan could sometimes get a chip on his shoulder about being too old for a babysitter, and Patton could be a bit of a crybaby sometimes, but otherwise Remus never minded when Virgil brought his friends along for a hangout.  Especially when Patton teased Roman about liking Virgil, and Remus got to watch him go bright red with embarrassment.

Well okay, granted, Logan had been much more insufferable when he was Patton’s age.  But Patton was still a sweetheart.

“I’m telling you, I’ve got this,” he said, waving Roman’s concerns off.  “It’s just one little girl, anyway.  How hard could it be?”

This was the attitude Remus took with him when going to the Ekans house the following night.  The parents sent him the address, and the mom was waiting outside.

“Hi, Mrs. Ekans,” Remus said, putting on his ‘I am talking to an adult that I respect’ voice.  “I’m Remus.”

“Yes, hello dear,” she said.  “I was so happy to get your call.  It can be rather hard to find a babysitter to deal with Janice, what with how she can get with all her silly fantasies.”

Remus tipped his head in confusion.  “Silly fantasies?”

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll tell you all about it.  You don’t need to indulge her, dear, we’ve told her many times that no one who watches her will be doing so.  But anyway, here’s ten dollars for a tip, we ordered a pizza, the delivery man should be here any minute, so you won’t have to worry about dinner.”

“Thanks,” Remus said, taking the money and putting it in his pocket to grab when the delivery person showed up.

The door opened behind the two of them and a man came out, adjusting a tie.  Behind him, a girl in a sparkly pink dress stood in the doorway, who could only be Janice.

“Oh, good,” the man said when he noticed Remus.  “Janice, your babysitter’s here, be good for him, okay?”  He turned to Remus.  “Bedtime is at 8, pizza’s on the way, otherwise you should be good to go.”

“Thanks,” Remus said again, heading past him and into the house.  They both waved at Janice as they left, who notably did not wave back.

As soon as the car drove off, Remus shut the door and turned to face Janice.  “Well, sweetheart—” he started.

“First of all,” Janice snapped, sounding so furious that it took Remus aback.  He had barely even said anything yet.  “I have rules.”

Remus raised an eyebrow.  “Isn’t that kind of my job?”

“No!” Janice screamed, stamping her foot.  “You are here for me, that means I’m the boss!  First of all, don’t ever call me sweetheart.  And I am going into my room to change into my real clothes, and you aren’t going to stop me!”

Remus’ brow furrowed.  “What’s wrong with the clothes you have on now?” he asked.

“Dresses are for girls,” Janice snapped, voice filled with way more vitriol than Remus expected.  “I’m a boy.  And you are not going to take away the only chance I get to wear my real clothes!”  And, like that decided that, he turned and stormed away towards the back of the house and where his room no doubt was.

Remus looked after the kid, blinking for a second as he tried to process everything that had just happened.  So that’s what Mrs. Ekans meant by silly fantasies.

Well, fuck, he was way out of his depth with shit like this.

The kid came out of the hallway a couple minutes later wearing a t-shirt and shorts.  And while the t-shirt was still bright pink, he at least looked a little more comfortable than he had in a dress.

“Okay, J— kid,” Remus said.  “So let me see if I’ve got this right.  You say you’re a boy?”

“Yes,” the kid snapped.  “And you don’t get to say otherwise, you got it?”

“Hey, understood,” Remus said, holding his hands up.  “Can I just ask a question?”

The kid narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms.  “What?”

“Do you want me to still use the name your parents gave me, or do you want me to call you something else?”

The kid seemed to grow even more suspicious at that question.  “Mom didn’t tell you not to indulge my silly fantasies?”

“Doesn’t seem to me like there’s anything silly about it,” Remus said with a shrug.  “I was just wondering if you had a different name picked out.”

The kid’s eyes widened slightly, though not enough to stop looking suspicious.  “You can do that?”

“Of course you can,” Remus said, taking a couple steps forward and kneeling down in front of the kid.  “I have a friend named Virgil who changed his name.  He used to be called Jacob, but he hated that name.  He thought it was boring.”

“He was right,” the kid said instantly.  Remus laughed.

The kid seemed to think for a minute.  “I don’t know,” he said finally.  “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Do you want me to use the name your parents gave me, then?”

“No,” the kid snapped instantly, looking angry again.

“Okay.  Got it.  For now, I’ll just call you kid.  How’s that?”

The kid seemed to consider that for a minute, then nodded.  “Okay.”

Remus smiled.  “Okay.  So your parents said that a pizza delivery person should be here soon.  Do you want to watch a movie while we eat?”

“No,” the kid snapped.  “Movies are stupid.”

Remus blinked.  “Okay.  What do you want to do while we eat?”

“I want to sit in silence and do nothing!” the kid snapped.

Remus blinked again.  “Uh, I’m not so sure that would be very fun.”

“You’re not fun anyway!” the kid screamed.

Remus was honestly a little offended.  How dare this child say he wasn’t fun?  He could be super fun!  Before he could reply to correct this wildly false statement, the doorbell rang.

Remus stood up and headed over to the door, and opened it to see, as expected, the pizza delivery person.

“Thanks,” Remus said, taking the pizza and pulling out the ten dollar bill Mrs. Ekans had left him.  He handed it to the delivery person, who thanked him and headed back towards the car parked out front.  Remus shut the door and carried the pizza over to the table, and the kid came over after him and grabbed one of the plates that had been left out on the counter.

“Give me two pieces,” he said, holding the plate out to Remus.

“Let’s start with one,” Remus said, taking the plate.

“No!” the kid snapped.  “I want two!”

“Kid, I’m gonna start you with one,” Remus said, taking a piece of pizza and putting it on the plate.

“No!” the kid snapped again.  “I want two pieces!  I’m hungry, are you trying to tell me I shouldn’t eat until I’m full?  That can have harmful consequences!”

Remus took a deep breath.  “I am going to start you with one.  If you want another piece after you finish that one, I will happily give you one.”

“I want two right now!” the kid screamed, stamping his foot.

Remus squeezed his eyes shut.  “Nope,” he said, handing the kid the plate.

The kid narrowed his eyes, and Remus had a second to wonder if eight year olds still threw temper tantrums, when instead the kid shot Remus a glare that could kill and stomped into the other room and sat down on the couch.

Remus took a piece of pizza and put it on the plate.  This was about as bad as it was going to get, right?

…

“Kid, you need to go to bed,” Remus said, leaning against the door frame, looking at the kid who was sitting resolutely and reading through a book.

“Why should I?  Bedtime is a social construct.”

“Oh my god,” Remus groaned, looking up at the ceiling.  This had been a recurring theme for most of the night.  The kid’s father was apparently a philosophy nerd, and the kid listened in on a lot of his conversations about the subject with his wife, and had turned that into a belief that all of society was a construct and he could do whatever he wanted.  He was brilliant for an eight year old.  And it was as annoying as all fuck.

“Look,” Remus said.  “If you go to bed now, next time I come, I’ll bring you a surprise.”

“What kind of surprise?” the kid asked, narrowing his eyes.  “How could any surprise you give me be worth it?”

“Well, if you don’t go to bed now, you’ll never know,” Remus pointed out.

The kid seemed to know exactly what Remus was doing with that, but he also finally put the book aside and laid his head down on his pillow.  Remus flicked off the lights and shut the door, and finally let out a breath.

He made his way back out to the living room, put the remaining pizza in the fridge, and then collapsed on the couch.

“Children are exhausting,” he said to no one.

By the time the kid’s parents got back Remus was ready to go home and sleep for a week and a half.  But that was a feeling that faded as soon as Mr. Ekans walked through the door and opened his mouth.

“How was she?” he asked, putting the car keys on a hook by the wall.  “She didn’t give you too much trouble, did she?”

Remus had to fight to keep from grinding his teeth.  “Fine,” he said, keeping his voice as pleasant as he could.  “The flyer said I should come back Saturday next, right?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Ekans said, pulling out her wallet and thumbing out the sixty dollars in cash.  She handed it over, and Remus took it.  “I’m glad things went well.  Janice has been known to drive away a few sitters in the past.”

I can’t imagine why.

Remus got out of the house as quickly as he could.  He had some thinking to do, and he wasn’t going to do it in front of a couple of transphobic pieces of shit.

…

By the time Saturday arrived Remus had a battle plan.  Roman had been amused when Remus had described the first night as “frustrating,” but had been surprised when Remus had been determined to go back.  Remus left out most of the details that weren’t his to share, though he imagined Roman must have figured something was up when he spent most of the week researching boy names and hairstyles.

When he got to the Ekans house next time, the kid looked surprised to see him, and Remus couldn’t say he blamed him.  He tried to smile and nod whenever possible, as hopefully it would get the kid’s parents out the door faster.  The second they left Remus took off the backpack he’d brought and moved over to sit on the couch.  “Hey, kid, c’mere.”

“No.  Why?”

“I’ve got something for ya.  I promised you a surprise if you went to bed, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I turned the lamp on again as soon as you left the room.”

Remus sighed.  “Of course you did.  Come here anyway.”

The kid looked curious, and given that it was one of the few times he hadn’t been glaring at him, Remus would take it as a good sign.

“So I did some research these past couple days,” Remus said, starting with the notebook.  “And I found some names you might like.”

“Wait, what?” the kid sat on the couch and took the notebook from him.  “What do you mean you looked at names for me?”

“Well, you said you didn’t know what you wanted your name to be.  I don’t really want to call you ‘kid’ forever.  If you don’t like any of these we can keep looking, though.”

The kid turned and stared at him.  “But I was mean to you.”

“You’re the kid I’m babysitting,” Remus said, smirking at him.  “I think I can take it.  Besides, what does that have to do with your name?”

“Why are you being nice to me if I was mean to you?”

“Being nice and basic human decency are two different things.  You can be the snottiest kid in the world, that doesn’t mean I’m going to start treating you like a girl.”

The kid’s eyes widened.  “Really?”

“Really.  You say you’re a boy, I believe you, and I’ll treat you as such, okay?”

To Remus’ surprise, the kid’s eyes welled up with tears.

“Oh shit, don’t cry.  Hang on—”

The kid threw himself at Remus’ and buried his head in his side.  Remus awkwardly patted him on the back and waited until the kid stopped crying, after which he pulled back and wiped at his eyes, still sniffling.  “Mommy always says I shouldn’t make people indulge me,” he whispered.

“I’m not indulging anything,” Remus said.  “This is what you said you want, and it should be respected.  If you change your mind later, that’s fine too.  But even if you do, I’m not going to treat you in any way that makes you miserable in the meantime.”

The kid sniffed again and wiped at his eyes.  He looked like he didn’t know what to say, which was fair.

After a moment, he picked up the notebook and started looking at the names, sometimes pointing at one he didn’t know and asking Remus to read it.  He stopped at one on page three.

“You just wrote Janice,” he said.  “I thought you said I didn’t have to use that name.”

“J-a-n-u-s is a masculine spelling,” Remus said.  “I just figured if you liked the way your name sounded but didn’t like that it was associated with being a girl, that was an option.”

The kid looked at it for a while longer.  “You could use this one around my parents,” he said.

“Technically, yes,” Remus said.

The kid turned and looked at him.  “Where does Janus come from?”

“It’s the name of a Roman god,” Remus said.  “He’s the god of doors, gates, and beginnings.  He has two faces.”

The kid started to grin.  “I could be named after a god?”

“If that’s what you want.”

He started nodding.  “I like that.  I like that a lot.  And it could be like lying to my parents.  They’re forcing me to lie to everyone else, but this way I get to lie to them.”

Remus started to smile too.  “Yeah?  You think that’s the one?”

“Definitely.  And besides, if I don’t like later it I can change it again, right?”

“Of course you can.”

Janus beamed at him.  “Yeah.  That’s the one.”

“Awesome,” Remus said, leaning over and ruffling his hair.  “Now, onto the second manner of business.”

“There’s more?”

“Yep.” Remus reached into his bag and pulled out a hairbrush and ponytail holders.  “So I’m not going to cut your hair without your parent’s permission or I’d get fired.  But I have a couple ways I can deal with your hair as it is right now if you want to.”

Janus nodded quickly, and turned around so Remus could get to his hair more easily,  “So we could put it up in a bun so it’s out of your face, or I could move the curls further behind your head so it looks more like a style than just you having longer curly hair.”

“What would a style look like?” Janus asked.

“Alright, give me a sec,” Remus said.  He grabbed the bobby pins he’d borrowed from his mother and used them to tuck Janus’ curls further behind his head.  He turned Janus around after a moment and brushed some of the curls across his forehead so they looked more like bangs.

“Alright,” he said, sitting back.  “Here, check that out.”  He pulled out the mirror he brought with him, and handed it to Janus.

His eyes widened as he looked in it.  “Woah.  You did this with my hair?”

“Mm-hmm,” Remus said.  “You like it?”

Janus grinned at him again and nodded.  Then his gaze turned curious.  “Why are you doing all this?”

“I already told you—”

“No, I mean… Mommy says boys and girls can’t change who they are.  She says I’m a girl no matter what I do.”

“Bah,” Remus said, waving the concept away.  “Gender is a social construct.”

Janus snorted.

“You laugh, but it’s true.  Have you ever heard the term ‘transgender’ before?”

Janus shook his head.

“It’s a term people can use to describe themselves when their gender doesn’t match the one they were born as.  Plenty of people describe themselves that way.  I’m friends with a couple on the internet.”

Janus looked fascinated, and almost painfully hopeful.  “Not just me?”

“Definitely not just you.”

Janus sat back, seeming to take a minute to process that.  “Can you show me?” he asked, looking back up at Remus.

And so they spent most of the day on Remus’ phone looking at transgender people and stories and definitions.  Remus made sure to steer clear of any discourse or transphobia.  Janus had enough to deal with already without having to learn about that on a broad scale yet.

By the time Janus’ parents texted Remus saying they were on their way back, they’d been there for hours.

“Okay,” Remus said, setting the phone aside.  “I should probably take your hair down now.”

Janus sighed, even though he seemed to have expected that.  “Okay,” he mumbled.

“We can put it back up next time I come, okay?” Remus said.

Janus nodded.  “Yeah, we fucking better.”

Remus coughed in surprise.  “Wha— where did you learn that word?”

Janus grinned at him.  “You’ll never fucking know.”

Remus laughed despite himself.  Okay, so maybe this kid wasn’t so terrible.

…

Things went smoother for the last two times Remus had signed up to babysit him.  Janus had so obviously needed some kind of positive role model, because the second Remus reassured him that he believed him and would treat him as a boy, Janus got loads easier to handle.  At the end of the third time Remus babysat for him, Janus looking at him very seriously and told him that he was clearly one of those rare smart adults.

“Well, technically I’m a teenager,” Remus admitted.

Janus nodded.  “Oh.  That explains it.”

Remus blinked at him.  Well, this kid was definitely going to turn into even more of a nightmare as he got older.

Roman seemed more than a little surprised that Remus hit it off with the kid so well, and when Remus eventually mentioned it to Virgil, he got the same result.  But Remus would just shrug and say something generic along the lines of “We just clicked, I guess.”

He found himself actually looking forward to the last time he was supposed to babysit, which unfortunately came with a realization that this would be the last time he babysat for Janus.  The time passed much too quickly, and Remus, at the end of the night, was not looking forward to leaving.

So for once, an interaction from Janus’ parents brought a positive consequence.

“You just make Janice so happy,” Mrs. Ekans said.  “And that’s not really something that happens with her very often.”

I can’t imagine why.

“I know this wasn’t supposed to be a long term thing, but if you would be willing to become her regular babysitter, we’ll pay you eighty a night instead of sixty.”

Well, Remus probably would have agreed even without the pay raise, especially after he noticed Janus watching hopefully from the hallway, but the extra twenty a night didn’t hurt either.  In the end, after what was basically the opposite of a long and hard decision, Remus agreed, and was now going to spend his Saturdays (and many week nights) watching a kid that he was quickly growing to care for.

Janus plopped himself down on the couch next to Remus a second after he showed up next time, with his lip wobbling and sniffling in a way that immediately made Remus nervous.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked.

“Do you only like me because my parents pay you?” Janus asked.

“What?  Of course not, I love hanging out with you,” Remus said, relieved he was actually telling the truth.

Janus brightened immediately.  “Cool!  So if we’re actually friends does that mean you can take me out for ice cream?”

Remus blinked at him for a couple seconds, trying to figure out how in the hell he just got played by an eight year old.  Regardless, they ended up at an ice cream parlor that day.

There came times Virgil had to watch his little brothers too, and Virgil must have told them about Janus, because one day Virgil texted him asking if they could maybe set up a playdate with the little girl he babysat.  Remus winced, but said he’d bring it up next time he was there.

“Their names are Patton and Logan,” he said to Janus, who was looking up at him over the the drawing he was making.  He’d become insistent on drawing better than Remus ever since he’d shown him one of his pieces.  “They’re Virgil’s little brothers.  They want to meet you.”

Janus bit his lip.  “Do I have to pretend to be a girl around them?”

“Kid, that is entirely up to you,” Remus said.  “I haven’t told them yet because you haven’t given me permission.  I can tell you they won’t mind, if you’re worried about that.”

Janus gave that a moment of thought.  “Okay.  You can tell them I’m a boy.  If you’re really sure they won’t mind.”

“I’m sure.”

Janus nodded.  “Okay.  Can they not come here though?”

“I don’t think we picked a place to go yet.  But we could go to a park, or possibly Virgil's house.  We’d have to run it by everyone’s parents.”

“Ugh.  Well that’s not gonna work out then,” Janus said, turning back to his drawing.  “My parents never want me to do anything that makes me happy.”

Remus felt his heart crack at that.  He didn’t know how to explain to the kid the difference between his parents being transphobic and his parents never wanting him to be happy.  He supposed the end result was the same either way.  But Remus couldn’t imagine them having an issue with Janus meeting some other kids.  He was apparently pretty lonely.

“Give it a chance,” he said eventually.  “They could surprise you.”

Janus gave him a look of such doubt that Remus considered, not for the first time, murdering Janus’ parents and hiding their transphobic asses out in the shed.

Luckily, Remus was at least right in Janus’ parents wanting him to meet new kids.  And he was of course also right about none of his friends having a problem with Janus being trans, although they seemed sad for the kid when they learned what his parents were like.  Good.  Remus would have lost respect for them if they didn’t.

They ended up meeting over at Virgil’s house, which was good, because Remus had a sneaking suspicion Janus’ parents would not have approved of Patton, and his love for all things pink and/or sparkly.  They walked through the front door and saw Virgil and Roman sitting on the couch chatting as Logan was doing a puzzle nearby.  Patton was sitting next to him, coloring in a coloring book and wearing a bright pink sparkly dress similar to the one Remus had met Janus in.  Janus’ eyes got really big when he saw Patton, and he hid behind Remus’ leg.

“I thought you said Patton was a boy,” he whispered.

“He is,” Remus replied.  “Patton likes wearing pink sparkly dresses, but that doesn’t make him any less of a boy.”

Virgil glanced up and waved.  “Hey, Remus.  Guys, Remus and Janus are here.”

Patton and Logan both glanced up, and then Patton hopped up and ran across the room.  “Hi!” he said, sticking out his hand.  “I’m Patton!  Virgil says you’re eight just like me!”

Janus slowly stepped out from behind Remus’ leg and shook Patton’s hand.  “Hi,” he said.  “I’m Janus.  J-a-n-u-s.  It’s the boy spelling.  Because I’m a boy.”

Patton grinned at him.  “Yeah, Remus told us!  I think that’s really cool!  Do you want to come color with me?”

It was clear Janus didn’t know quite what to do with that, but he nodded anyway, and Patton took his hand and dragged him over to where he’d been coloring.  Remus noted Logan saying hi as he did so, and including a note about how he was ten and too old for a babysitter.  Remus walked over to sit on the couch next to Virgil and Roman.

“That went about like I’d expected,” he said, nodding at Patton.

Virgil snorted.  “Yeah, pretty much,” he agreed, leaning back and ending up partly against Roman.  Remus would have to tease him about how bright red his face got later.

Overall, the afternoon was a success.  Janus and Patton got along very well, and they made a deal that next time, Janus would bring a sparkly dress and trade it for some of Patton’s more boyish clothes.  Janus talked the whole drive home about how much he liked Patton.

“Even though he could be a little less bouncy,” Janus said.  “He’s kind of a lot.”

“I get that,” Remus said.  “Patton is a really excitable kid.  He’ll mellow out the longer you know him.”

Janus nodded.  “Good,” he said, and Remus laughed.

Just like Remus had expected, Janus’ parents were glad to see him happy from hanging out with other kids.  Which unfortunately also meant they likely had no idea what had actually been happening at the playdate.  It was definitely worth it, though.  Janus gave Remus a hug, a beaming smile, and said he would see him on Saturday, before running off to his room still smiling.

Remus texted Virgil that they would have to do so again sometime soon.

…

Remus arrived on time Saturday, but Mr. and Mrs. Ekans were already rushing out the door, barely having time to hand Remus money for dinner, and saying something about getting something to cheer Janus up before they ran out their car and drove off.

Remus blinked as he watched them drive off, before processing the fact that they’d said something about cheering Janus up.  He headed inside, looking around and hoping to find him.

“Janus?” he called, but no one responded.  He started looking around the living room and found no one, there wasn’t anyone in the kitchen, not even the cabinets, and Remus checked in all their usual hide and seek places, but didn’t find anything.

“Janus?” he called, sticking his head into his room.  There still wasn’t anyone obviously in there, but just as Remus was about to leave he heard sniffing that sounded like it was coming from under the bed.

He shut the door quietly behind him and pulled up the blankets, and there was Janus, curled into a ball.

“Kiddo?” he asked quietly.

“Adults are stupid,” Janus said.  “They don’t understand anything.”

“As a seventeen year old I wholeheartedly agree,” Remus said, trying to get a chuckle or a smile, but not succeeding.  “Are we talking about something specific?”

“They just don’t understand,” Janus said, tucking his head into his knees.  “No matter how many times I explain it to them they don’t get it.  I don’t want to be a girl, Remus.  I mean, am I just explaining it wrong?  If I explain it enough times they have to understand, right?”  He sniffed.  “I just have to explain it a few more times, right?”

“Oh, kiddo,” Remus murmured, reaching a hand under the bed.  Janus grabbed it and let Remus help him out before burying his head in his chest.

“I thought they were supposed to love me,” Janus whispered.  “Isn’t that what parents are supposed to do?”

“They do love you,” Remus tried to reassure, because he’d seen some proof of that.  He’d seen the way they smiled when they saw Janus happy.  They’d thanked him so many times, saying they were unsure of how he did it.

“No.  They love J-a-n-i-c-e.  They love the little girl they think they have.  But that’s not who I am.”  Janus looked up at him, tears pouring down his face.  “Remus, why do they hate who I am?”

Remus didn’t have any good reply to that.  He just gently pulled Janus back to his chest and rubbed his back.  He wasn’t surprised when that just made Janus cry harder, but he didn’t know what else to do.

Janus pulled back and looked up at him after a second.  “Remus?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you still like me if I was a girl?”

Remus had no idea what that question entailed.  He nodded.

“And you like me even though I’m not?”

“Of course I do.”

“What if—” Janus sniffed.  “What if I end up liking boys too or something?  That would be even harder to explain.”

“I like boys,” Remus said instantly.

Janus sniffed again.  “You do?”

Remus nodded.  “Kid, you know what my mom said when I asked her about this stuff?”

“What?”

“She said love should never be conditional.”

“What does conditional mean?”

“It means, Janus,” Remus said, shifting so Janus could sit more comfortably on his lap.  “That you could be trans, cis, gay, straight, a weird half snake man who wears a really stupid hat—”

Janus finally laughed a little at that.

“And if you ask me that question, the answer will always be ‘I love you,’ over and over.”

Janus blinked a couple times.  “You mean you like me?”

“Nope.  I mean I love you, kid.  No matter what.”

Janus’ eyes got big, and tears welled up in them again.  “Over and over?”

“Over and over,” Remus agreed.

Janus sniffed again, and leaned his head into Remus’ chest again.  Remus wrapped his arms around him.  “I am so sorry your parents can’t see what an amazing kid you are just as you are,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” Janus said.  “They just don’t understand.  They’re stupid adults.  Adults don’t understand anything.”

Remus held Janus tighter.  “Yeah,” he agreed.  “Adults don’t understand anything.”

…

Over the next couple months, Janus and Patton ended up trading half their wardrobe.  Janus often had a monster truck or dinosaur shirt on within ten minutes of Remus coming over, though he would admit to Remus that those weren’t really his favorite.  He said he liked the one with the cartoon snake on it.  Remus spent the day going over shirts with more realistic snakes on them that Janus liked.  In the end they purchased a couple that Remus said he would keep at his house for days that Janus came over there.

They also spent quite a few days at the park with Patton and Logan, sometimes with Virgil, sometimes with Virgil’s mom or dad.  They felt bad about Janus’ situation too, and Remus could tell they wished they could be doing more.  But Janus wasn’t being abused or neglected, and transphobic parents weren’t a legal reason that someone could be removed from a home.  Remus was really doing about all he could for him.  At least it seemed to be making Janus happier than he was.  Sometimes, Janus told Remus everything he would do once he was too old for his parents to stop him.  Fifteen, he said.  When he was fifteen he would get a haircut.  And Remus would come, right?

Remus would consider for a moment that he’d probably be in college at that point, but he couldn’t imagine leaving this kid to deal with his parents alone, no matter how old they both got, so the conversation always ended with Remus promising that he’d be there when Janus got his first real haircut at fifteen.

There were, of course, things to teach Janus about how to rebel against all of society, though the kid already had an excellent head start with all the philosophy he knew.  Remus took him spray painting one time, and Janus sprayed all of curse words he knew on the wall.  Remus couldn’t be prouder.  They’d shoplifted together a couple times too.  Remus made sure Janus understood that you couldn’t shoplift from a small business that would actually get hurt by it.  Only big chains like Walmart.  And no stealing in a way that would hurt the employees.  Janus seemed to accept all of this easily.  “It’s about eating the rich,” he said, nodding firmly.  “Not hurting people who are already struggling.”

“You’ve got it,” Remus said with a proud smile.

But one of his favorite parts of being with Janus, after he spent one time at the park with Roman and Virgil, was how easily the kid picked up on how in love the two were.

“We have to do something about it,” Janus insisted.  “They’re wasting time!  They don’t have mean parents to worry about, why are they wasting time being scared?”

“I ask them that question all the damn time,” Remus said with a smirk.

“Okay,” Janus said, biting his lip as he started thinking.  “We’re gonna come up with a plan.”

“Oh, are we?  What are we doing?”

“I don’t know yet.  Come help me.”

They spent the rest of that afternoon coming up with their plan, and planned to enact it that Saturday.  They ended up at the ice cream parlor along with Patton and Logan, who were also in on the plan.  Janus was there with Roman and Remus, and Patton and Logan were there with Virgil.  The two in question were not aware that the other group was there.  So, after a couple minutes, Janus loudly remarked to Roman that Patton was there, and could they go say hi.

“You know,” Janus said before Roman could reply.  “I’m going to marry Patton one day.”

Roman smiled, his heart no doubt melting in the same way that Remus’ had when Janus had first told him this.  “Are you?” Roman asked, taking a bite of his ice cream.

Janus nodded.  “And he can wear a wedding dress, because he likes wearing dresses, and I can wear the tuxedo because I don’t like dresses, and you and Virgil can be the best men because it would be cool to have another married couple as the best men.”

Roman started coughing, and Remus patted him casually on the back as he struggled to stop turning bright red.  “What— Virgil and I aren’t married!” Roman exclaimed.

Janus gasped.  “What?  Why not?  When are you going to propose?”

“I— Janus, we’re not dating,” Roman said, turning more into a tomato by the second.

“What?” Janus said, sounding for all the life of him like he was heartbroken.  “You have to ask him out then!”

“Janus—”

“Roman, it could mess up Patton and I’s whole wedding!  You’re gonna mess up our wedding?”  His lip wobbled in a way Remus could tell was fake three months ago, but Roman was clearly not there yet.

“I— look, kiddo, I do like Virgil, but—”

“Then go on!  Time’s ticking, you have to get married before Patton and I do!” Janus called, jumping up and pulling Roman up out of his chair.  “Go on, go on, go on!”

Roman was left with not much of a choice at that point, and he headed over towards the booth across the parlor, where an equally red-faced Virgil had appeared to have been having a similar conversation.  Remus and Janus both followed him over.  There was no way they were missing this.

Virgil stood up quickly when Roman got there, and they both started stammering something that was barely coherent, but in the end, Roman managed to get out something about dinner on Friday, and Virgil managed to nod.

All of the kids, and Remus cause what the hell, started to cheer.

“Look at that, we finally got your heads out of your asses!” Remus called, slapping Roman on the back, who smacked him on the arm right back.

“You all planned this, didn’t you?” Virgil asked, looking too embarrassed to be angry, though Remus had no doubt that would come later.

“Maybe,” Remus said, sliding into the booth after Janus, who was now sitting next to Patton.

“We correctly deduced you would never do anything yourselves,” Logan said with a smile from Patton's other side.

“Janus and I are still getting married one day though,” Patton said, completely seriously.

“Yes,” Janus said, nodding along.  “And you two will be our best men.”

“Okay, slow down,” Roman said.  “That’s taking things a little fast.”

“I think they figured they’d make up for all the time you two wasted,” Remus said with a grin.

“I’m going to kill you later,” Roman said.

“No, please, think of my children,” Remus said.

“What children?”

“Me!” Janus exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.  Remus laughed and pulled him to his side, giving him a noogie.

As the conversation started to head back into a normal direction, Janus nudged Remus in the side.  Remus glanced over.

“Sorry I made the children joke,” Janus said quietly.

“Oh, don’t be sorry.  It’s true is what it is,” Remus said, ruffling his hair again.  “I have adopted you.  You can never get rid of me.”

Janus started smiling.  “Promise?”

“Promise,” Remus said.  “You know why?”

“‘Cause you love me over and over?”

“Because I love you over and over,” Remus said, giving Janus a quick side hug.  “You nailed it, my little man.”

“Little man,” Janus said quietly, though he was still smiling really big, and Remus smiled back.  “Little man.  Yeah.”

#sanders sides #remus sanders #janus sanders #trans janus #transphobia #misgendering #tw misgendering #deadnaming #tw deadnaming #babysitting

[hearteyes-for-killmonger]

It's been a long time comiiiing down this rooaaddd. I haven't updated this foreverrr, but I'm doing it nooooooowww! ��🎵🎶

Part 23: Movement

"I hope I don't have to jump up here," you sigh gripping the pole to test its sturdiness. It seems strong enough, but then so does the hardwood floor. "I don't have the upper body strength to hold myself up and I definitely don't need to bust my ass in these slippery socks--what," you smile watching Toni bite her lip at your skepticism from Ava's other side.

"Nothing. You have a lot of cushion, you'll bounce back," she gestures eyeing your rear. She's joking but you're serious.

"I'm just saying socks on hardwood with jumping if you're uncoordinated seems like a recipe for disaster."

"You get used to it, stick with us," Ava comforts. Stick with us.. It echoes in your mind. They actually want you there.. continuously.

A small group of women in variety of shapes and sizes, mostly black, gradually takes the remaining poles as the mingling conversations rise. It's a comfortable environment. The sun streams in through the windows bringing in nice natural light. Adjusting the band on your sports bra, you hop but neglect to wrap the pole with your legs. Toni chuckles in good humor.

"Ugh.. I don't know about this you guys."

"It's just a workout, girl, you'll be fine," she waves. "Besides, your NOT sugar daddy will love it when you show him all that assss in motion."

"Oh my God, he's NOT a sugar daddy," you whisper as she mocks you. "Y'all are so aggravating."

"That smile says different.. Just remember to tell me all the nasty gritty details when you throw it back with these moves. Yo' ass got handled before," her nude nails clink against the pole judgingly. They'd lost their minds when you told them about that night in the hotel. You had to tell the story twice because they wanted to visualize it. "He did whatever he wanted to do to that kitty, beat it to high hell. Now YOU are gonna have the power to put it on him. That fatass bunda gone kill him, just wait on it."

Watching your wagon in the full length studio wall mirror you grip the pole to make it wiggle watching it move on your reflection. "I don't know, see, I can move it I just can't move it seductively. I'm kinda stiff."

"She ain't ready for all that yet, Toni, let her take it slow. She can't just jump out there, class ain't even start yet," Ava laughs. "She need the basics."

"I need to learn how to dance," you interject. "Like lap dance and all that jazz.."

"That's simple," a woman's voice cuts in demanding the focus of the room of women who seem to recognize her on entry. Casually, you spin to meet a pair of long toned legs like a gazelle building up to a slender curved shape to be envied.. covered in glowing rich brown skin..

This can't be real, you blink as your mind whisks you back to the fateful day of your meeting each other. The memory is fresh as if it were yesterday.

“What’s your name,” she murmurs, voice as addictive as Erik's. You glance at him and he shrugs leaving the decision of how to respond up to you. When you answer, she recites your name like a poem and you smile. She has a calming effect that puts you at ease and she’s so, so beautiful. She tells you you’re the beautiful one and it makes your face heat. Her fingers lightly brush the warmth of your cheek before moving to her own erect nipples tweaking the silver bars.

“You wanna touch them?” She asks while stepping closer and she reaches out for your hand to pull it to her breast. Your eyes nervously flit to Erik’s and he doesn’t intervene. Not knowing quite what to do you tweak the silver bar and she sighs in pleasure. She moves your other hand to her other breast encouraging you to do the same. Her fingers find your chin again and then she’s close, lips coming in hot. You close your eyes.

Those eyes..

Her black lined cat eyes lock onto yours echoing your shock with a thick and strange energy. She's just as shook seeing you yet she never loses the graceful glide in her step to her teaching pole, glancing evenly from you and squaring her gaze to cover the class.

"Well damn," Ava blurts reading the thoughts of the room as the instructor flips her long high pony of burgundy locs. An exhale is all you muster as your brain thinks of several ways this could end badly.

"Hello my SugarDoll Fitness family," Shay waves to the group in a motion ending with her hand perched cutely nder her chin. It gains an equal positive return from the class.

Smiling just to fit in you look around and nod politely wondering what excuse you could make to Toni and Ava if you leave, especially after Ava just invited you to 'stick with' them. Would the truth suffice or would it bring more unnecessary drama and questions?

Toni and Ava would have a field day if they knew the real nature of your relationship with Erik and Ms. Shay. Last you remember, Shay's pierced nipples were in your between your fingertips. She wanted to devour you whole according to Erik. You haven't even told them you were in the BDSM life yet. They don't even know about the submission thing between you and Erik, they're still stuck on sugar daddy.. It's not something you wanted to share.

That's not something to bring up in this setting..

The way Shay looked at you back then made you feel like she was a starved tigress and you were the live prey, but somehow you were comfortable. She was intense but not intimidating... unlike Erik who initially made you so nervous you couldn't relax. No, she wasn't like that.. It felt more like she was wise beyond her years, but very playful and mischievous.. You'd liked her energy.

Then Erik went and cut her off because of his insane jealousy which was great in the sense that it was one step closer to being his only partner, but dumb in the way that it came about. It's one of his flaws. Erik needs to put his jealousy in check before he does something too impulsive to reverse or gets his feelings hurt.

If he'd never taken you to her home, they'd still have their BDSM dynamic, which brings up the issue of blame. Was it your fault? Does she blame you? Does she even care or miss the man?They seemed to pair well despite his gripes that she was troublesome.

Funny... You'd think he'd love a troublesome woman. He say he like spice and Shay had that with the experience to match, so then why choose you? Why not her over you or her and you? He could've made it work. Something about her being too dominant seems like a copout for him, looking back..

"I see some familiar faces. Faith.. Nicki.. Lynn.. Janell.." Her ruby red lips part in a smile and there's something about the simplest of her motions. Everything is a subtle demand for power.. "I see a lot of new faces too," her eyes roll down the line to yours, lingering briefly like she wants to say much more. Her eyes lower for the briefest of moments and where you anticipated malice, there seems to be none. There's something on her mind instead. 

"You good," Ava nudges your side in question. You flinch slightly but nod. There's something Shay wants to get out but she can't with everyone else present.

"I want us to get to know each other in here as women. We all have our reasons for being here.. Let's go around the room. I'll start," Shay announces with a slow walk to her right, a natural sway to her hips. "As some of you may know, my name is Shayla Berry, Shay for short aka SugarDoll. Yes, I am an exotic dancer. Yes, I am a dominatrix," her eyes roll playfully. "I also paint by trade and teach pole fitness. I am a multifaceted business woman with a flare for the artistic," her black painted fingers flare. "I meditated on having my own successful studio and then I manifested it to reality when I rented this place a few months ago and baby when I tell you the law of attraction works, I am flourishing."

She gestures to her right and the introductions begin from the repeat students as well as the new. There's a teacher and a nurse present. Everyone's common goal seems to boil down to exploring their sensuality while having fun with dance and getting in a good workout.  Then there's Toni. She's a traveler, which you knew. She likes to shop and eat. What you didn't know was that she is also a pilot and works 100 hours a week max. As for Ava, you knew she was originally from the ATL and lived a sugar baby life, but you did not know that she was raised amongst strippers and that she's also an audiologist. She had to explain to the class what an audiologist was.

"And you?" Shay's fiery eyes focus in as she takes a half step towards you.

"Y/N," you say as if she doesn't already know. She knows more than Toni and Ava, she saw your whole coochie for the sake of giving you a biology lesson. Embarrassing.. "I'm from Cali.. born and raised. I don't travel that often, but I'd love to go to Europe.. I love movies, it's really all I do.. watch movies, sleep, and work.. I work in cybersecurity."

"You prevent hackers?" Ava's neck cranes and you nod as she gives a look of approval.

"This is probably messed up," you pause as she and Toni both look up, "But I don't know why I assumed you two were spending men's money in the mall when we met," you whisper feeling superficial. Just because they're universally gorgeous like celebrities doesn't mean they aren't successful outside of that and able to afford the finer things on their own accord. You can do both.

"..We were," Ava shrugs simply. "My money stay in my savings.. I haven't paid a bill with my own money in two years."

"Work smarter not harder babe," Toni smirks. "You oughtta know."

"That's just it, I don't know because that's not something I've experienced because Erik and I are friends with benefits..," you sigh. "A lot of benefits..."

When introductions wrap up, the lesson starts and Shay jumps right into it with terminology foreign to you.

"This is a mixed pole fitness class.. So go ahead and face your poles, we're going to start with some body rolls. Hands low on the pole like so," she demonstrates. "Roll it out." Her body waves in a fluid S motion. "Chest, abs, hips... Chest, abs, hips.. Let it roll, smoothly down to the floor and up. Y/N, get on your tiptoes, baby. Lexi, get your arms involved. Stick that ass out, don't be scared.. Perfect. I'm watching all of y'all," she says pointedly. "..Again."

You watch and try your best to duplicate, your S moreso a stiff Z and she switches her hand position to the top of her pole.

"Now we're gonna walk around and this helps loosen the joints. Think tight and tall as you stride around the pole on those toes. I don't want any flat feet. Keep on your imaginary heels, Y/N," he blinks your way. "Now stop on the side and circle those hips." Her hips rotate as though they're on a swivel.

When you look to Toni and Ava, they're already moving like pros which tells you they do this often. They travel together, shop together, share life, and take classes like this together. They're already extremely close. It's surprising they'd think to invite you into their circle..

"Outside arm and leg sweeps back, across the floor, sweep out and back."

"Like you're swimming," someone adds.

"Exactly, like you're swimming. Next move, grab that knee, pull it up and out, soft hands, open that chest, roll it back... same leg flick the toe and kick forward."

"I can't go that high," the same woman from before says."

"That's fine, go to where you're comfortable. Lunge back same leg.. and we're going to repeat the process with the other leg."

The routine goes on minutes more until she gets to a pirouette which is a more familiar term. Unfortunately, that's followed by slow pushups which, of course, doesn't happen. Toni uses her knees, but Ava does the full set of pushups. She's the only one.

"Showoff," Toni mutters.

The next moves require a lot of knee pivoting and borderline twerking in slow motion. You feel the workout in your thighs, your knees, your abs, and your back. It's only been fifteen minutes out of the hour and you're stopping for water. Some of the motions have been easy to grasp, but some have been frustrating. It's only my first time, you remind yourself.

Thirty minutes in, you've developed an idea of how to move and what to incorporate into your sex life.. when it revives. Putting the moves together into a routine is the current issue.

"I could do some of this," you say to Ava. "I just wish I could borrow some of your core strength."

"You'll get it with time, stay consistent. I'm holding you to it."

"Y/N," Shay calls out as she body rolls and raises her leg high. "What's this about you not knowing how to dance, mama?"

"Huh," I pause standing straight. She remembered. "Well I can dance. I can do the nae nae and the little tiktok dances, but this..," I gesture to the pole. "This is a different story. I guess I'm not the seductive type."

"Have you ever had sex?"

The question cuts and you feel all eyes glued on you. She must know that you and Erik have already.. on multiple occasions...

"....Of course."

"Then... you're the seductive type," she says simply. "Dance is a style of communication. It's about movement and seduction." She comes close and her finger gently snakes your collarbone as she circles you, standing directly behind, her slim hands on your waist.

"We really need to talk.. later," she whispers quietly in your ear. Her hips line up with yours, her center against your ass, and she winds. "If you can walk, you can dance, Y/N. If you can dance, the seduction is that much easier.." This time her words are addressed to the class. Her hips guide yours against the pole as she grinds against it through you. "Follow my rhythm."

You move exactly as you feel her move, in a groove, and after a few moments when you've perfected the body roll she backs up. When you do it on your own in the mirror, you have the S shape down pact.

"That's it, I'm coming back," you smile at the pole. At the end of class you're sore and tired but excited to have picked up some tricks. Meeting Shay's eye, you excuse yourself briefly from Ava and Tony with the excuse of asking about her paintings. "Shay," you whisper once you're close and she leads you out of the space.. far.. all the way outside before she looks around. There's no one standing out nearby, only well groomed trees and sidewalk with some grass and a parking lot.

"How have you been," is the first thing she asks as if she's truly concerned. Her eyes convey a lot.

"Why?.. I'm good," you stare echoing her strange expression. She's having a tough time saying what she wants to say.. she's pausing a lot, hesitating.

"Shay, what's wrong.. I get the feeling you want to tell me something but you're conflicted. I swear I won't run tell Erik.. whatever it is.."

"You're still with him," her brows rise in shock. "Okay so he was serious.. Did he ever mention.. anything about, um.. our last meeting together?"

"You guys had sex one last time, I know about it."

She takes a deep unsteady breath and instantly I know there's more to the story than what he said. She looks around again as if she's nervous.

"He didn't mention anything about.. himself?... As far as what he does...?"

"Hm? Well, yeah, he told me he does the video game thing. We just went to Texas-"

"That's-," she pauses with her mouth wide as if she's deeply confused. "Um.. you know what. Just... be careful okay? Take care of yourself."

"What?" Of all the random things to say. "What are you talking about? Wait," you grab her shoulder as she's walking off. "I feel like you're trying to tell me something about him and I wish you'd just spit it out.."

"Well look at you, definitely got bolder," her eyes flick up and down you. "Actually, it's nothing.. I just wanted to check on you.. make sure you were doing alright, that's all," she smiles, but it doesn't touch her eyes. "I'm going back inside to make sure no one has any further questions for me."

Letting her go, you watch her and something doesn't sit right. She wasn't telling you something and you don't know what that something is, but it's making your mind spin. Ava and Toni come out and walk toward you.

"She showed me one of the paintings in her car," you lie though you're not sure why, it just comes out and they accept it moving on. They have plans to get massages and you're invited there too. The three of you get the full body massage and it's relaxing after all that exercise. When you finally leave them and get to Erik's you OD on water, eat, shower, and watch TV upstairs until you pass out sleep.

The next day, they contact you on your lunch break and actually meet you for brunch, happy to see where you work. You have to apologize to Tanner for canceling lunch plans with him. He's so used to eating with you and vice versa. You've gotten used to looking into his pretty blue eyes. At least he gets to meet Toni and Ava briefly and they call him white chocolate which he eats up. You throw subliminals that maybe he and Toni should hook up but neither seem truly interested outside of surface good- natured flirting.

The following day after work is the beach. The three of you sunbathe while sharing stories about family and teen years. "This is the life," you jest laid back on your towel with your sunglasses on feeling warm and toasty. "I've been missing this. I need to meet more people to do things like this with, I get tired of sitting home alone."

"Aww. I don't wanna leave you here by yourself. I wish we didn't have to leave Cali or maybe you could come south with us," Toni says, but it's not realistic. They can afford to travel all the time but you have to work. When they do leave, you see them off.

-----

"I asked for chocolate," Erik grumbled laid out in his hospital bed six weeks into bed rest. They'd given him vanilla snack pack and he hated vanilla.

"Here you go," his nurse teased, used to his temper. "Stubborn ass.. I will personally bring you your chocolate pudding."

"Two.. and take this nasty one with you," he hudged it toward her. She laughed. 

"Baby you can eat all the chocolate pudding you want when you up outta here. You finally got the go ahead as long as you stay the fuck off that damn leg.. Don't kiss your teeth, you've been doing everything short of p90x up in here."

"I wasn't on my leg though, those were upper body workouts.."

"You still need to relax."

"Hell yeah.. soon as I get my pudding.."

She shook her head, amused. Erik knew that once he left she'd think of him still. She was pretty nice though, so maybe he'd think of her too.. just maybe. He thought of telling her the truth before leaving... Perhaps he'd be there if she ever needed someone permanently removed from her life at a discounted rate..

@soufcakmistress @itsiesha @ju5tp34chy @scrumptiouslytenaciouscrusade @blackpantherimagines @blackpinup22 @muse-of-mbaku @goddessofthundathighs @panthergoddessbast @thadelightfulone @misspooh @marvelmaree @youreadthatright @forbeautyandlife @theunsweetenedtruth @bidibidibombaclaat @myboyfriendgiriboy @dameshaemonique @hidden-treasures21 @mysidefanting @hold-me-like-a-heart-beat @syndrlla97 @winteroflife @thotyana-in-this-hoe   @texasbama @gingerylimonte @princessstevens   @magic-madness-heavensin @wawakanda-btch @wakanda-inspired @blackgirloneshots @thegucciwaffle @thiccdaddy-mbaku @purplehairgawdess @indigoxsummers @cccccx1   @dynastylnoire @iamrheaspeaks @blowmymbackout @they-call-me-le @theblulife @raysunshine78 @sheisexcellent-blog

#original #erik killmonger #killmonger #erik stevens #erik killmonger fanfiction #erik stevens au #black panther killmonger #black panther fanfiction #house rules

[refinedbuffoonery]

Broken Like Me (1)

masterlist.

THIS FIC IS NOT INTENDED FOR READERS UNDER THE AGE OF 18. Please see the masterlist for content warnings. 

Here it is, the long-awaited dark!MacRiley AU! First, I want to thank my lovely beta readers and my life-saving brainstorming/workshop buddy. You all know who you are. ❤

This fic adheres to canon through 5x05 and then goes off the fucking rails. Backstory and other important tidbits of information revealed in the latter half of season 5 may be used, but timeline-wise anything after 5x05 does not exist in this fic. Also, Jack is dead and is staying dead, so don’t get your hopes up for a happy ending. 

I will do my best to update this regularly, but hanging out in and writing such dark headspaces is HARD. I will definitely be taking breaks to write fluffier fic, because a big chunk of this story is all hurt and no comfort. 

Without further adieu, let’s get this party started. (It’s not a party. In fact, it’s like...the opposite of a party.) 

*****

They say he was a good man. 

A good soldier. 

A good father. 

A good friend. 

They say they are sorry for her loss, sorry he was taken from this world too soon. 

They say Jack would be proud of the legacy he left behind, would be proud to have gone out in a blaze of glory. 

Riley is sick of it. 

It’s like she’s a teenager, and Jack is leaving her all over again. Only this time it’s worse. This time there’s no coming back. 

The guests at the wake gaze at the folded up American flag on the fireplace mantle with deep respect, but Riley only feels anger every time she glimpses the piece of fabric the government sent back in his place. A flag and a life insurance claim feel like a mockery of the kind of man Jack Dalton was. 

Was. Past tense. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

*****

Mac has never been afraid of Riley before. 

He’s seen her angry and upset, but the rage-filled woman he stopped from killing Anya Vitez with her bare hands back in Croatia is someone he does not know. 

The frightening part is that Riley isn’t a hot-headed person. In work mode, she is cold and calculating, so for her to go after Vitez like that...something inside her snapped. 

Three weeks have passed since then, and every time he looks at Riley, Mac remembers holding her back, fingers digging sharply into her waist until she stopped fighting him. He sees the fury radiating off Riley’s body like heat waves off asphalt—sees the way she clings to it, finds purpose in it, letting it consume her so there’s no room for guilt or grief. Mac knows the feeling all too well. And he also knows there will be a very loud thud when she finally comes crashing back down. 

But he also knows that the woman is like a loaded gun, safety off and desperate to fire at something. 

Which is why he worries when Matty calls them in for an op and Riley isn’t there. She’s at Vitez’s trial, Matty informs them, but that doesn’t make Mac feel any better. Whenever there’s downtime during the mission, and Mac’s mind is free to wander, he can't stop thinking about her. This new Riley is becoming obsessively vengeful, and if someone doesn’t reel her back in soon, she might do something she can’t come back from.

The thought plagues Mac every second there aren’t bullets whizzing toward his head. 

After the op, Mac drives to Riley’s apartment. Upon arrival, his ears are assaulted by Riley’s upstairs neighbor blasting Macklemore’s greatest hits. Mac hears the lyrics clear as day, even though both his truck windows and the apartment windows are closed. 

Riley really shouldn’t have moved out of Mac’s house, not if this is her best option. He still doesn’t understand why she did. 

It doesn’t take long to notice the GTO is missing. Riley should be back from the trial by now, but Mac has a sneaking suspicion where she is. 

The drive to Jack’s apartment seems to take forever. The brick building is in an older neighborhood, one of few affordable ones with trees planted along the sidewalks—a luxury in LA. Sure enough, the GTO is parked on the curb, not far from the fire escape that connects to Jack’s living room.

Looking up, Mac spies a familiar body perched on the stairs. 

Riley sits on the fire escape, soaking in the last rays of sunlight. Her eyes are closed, head resting against the brick wall. Mac doesn’t say anything as he sits beside her on the narrow metal stairs, their hips and thighs just touching. 

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Should he hug her? Hold her hand? Leave her alone? Riley isn’t a super touchy person. Mac decides on the latter, picking at his fingernails while his gaze drifts west to study the sunset. 

Several minutes pass before Riley says, “Hey.” Her voice is low and scratchy, like she’s been crying. 

“Hey,” Mac repeats. “How long have you been here?” 

Riley shifts beside him, sitting up. “I don’t know. A while.” 

“This isn’t the first time you’ve come here, is it?” 

A sigh. “No, it’s not.” Mac figures as much. Aside from the constant clamor of the city, Jack’s apartment is relatively quiet. It’s not in the greatest neighborhood, but it’s safe enough for Riley to sit alone and think. Or not think. Whatever she feels like doing. 

Riley rests her head on Mac’s shoulder, and a wave of protectiveness floods his system. It’s new, this need to watch her back more than the others’. It came on so gradually that Mac doesn’t know when it started or what triggered it, only that he feels it all the time now. Especially after Jack’s…

He avoids examining the feeling too closely. 

Without warning, Riley says, “If you hadn’t held me back, I would’ve killed her.” 

Knowing exactly who she was talking about, Mac glances down at Riley in surprise. He knows it’s true—thinks so himself—but hearing it come out of her mouth makes his stomach turn. The last, and only, time Riley killed someone...it took her months to piece herself back together afterward. And that death was in self-defense. 

This one would’ve been murder. Intentional and vindictive. 

Mac isn’t sure Riley could come back from that, at least not as herself. The woman who would emerge from that would be a total stranger inside his best friend’s body. Mac suppresses a shiver. “I know,” he says.

“Thank you for stopping me.” Riley’s voice is quiet. So, so quiet. 

“You would’ve done the same for me.” Gingerly, Mac wraps his arm around Riley’s shoulders, ready to let go at the first sign of her discomfort. When she doesn’t react, he relaxes and holds her more surely. 

The sky is painted in vibrant oranges and reds, fading into deep blue overhead. Subtle strokes of pink outline the scattered clouds hanging above the horizon. Out of all the sunsets Mac has seen, all over the world, nothing quite compares to the ones here at home. He wishes Jack was here to see it. 

Mac spends far too long debating whether to bring it up before asking, “Why did you go to the trial?” Agents, especially secret ones, don’t go to trials, mostly to keep their identities safe. Publicly tying oneself to a case is never a good idea, for more reasons that Mac can begin to name. 

“I swore I’d be there every step of the way. I meant it.” Mac tries not to bristle at the snarling, defensive edge to Riley’s tone. “Eventually, she’ll make a mistake, and I will be there when she does. And then I’m going to rip out her entire organization from the roots up.” 

Fear wraps its ugly hand around Mac’s heart. Until every single person associated with Tiberius Kovac is behind bars, there will be a target on Riley’s back, and Riley will have put it there herself. Losing one person to Kovac is more than enough; Mac refuses to lose Riley too. 

“How can I help you?” 

Riley looks up, eyes wide like she’s expecting him to try to talk her out of it, not offer to help. “You don’t have to do that.” 

“And miss out on all the fun?” Mac almost smiles as he quotes her. Almost. 

She sits up. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’m going to hack Interpol first, to see which of her colleagues might also be dirty. So unless you secretly picked up hacking…” 

Mac huffs. “Sorry, I only hack hardware.” He expects some insane, crackhead plan, not something so…reasonable. Maybe Riley isn’t as off-the-rails as he thought. 

But only maybe. 

A seagull perches on the railing below them, honking and squawking for seemingly no reason at all. Gulls are just like that. It glares at Mac, pinning him to his spot with a beady yellow eye, challenging Mac to shoo it away. 

Go find some tourists to harass, Mac wants to snark at it. Leave us alone. 

The seagull cocks its head, as if to say, I know something you don’t. 

Mac narrows his eyes. I bet you do. 

He swears the seagull shrugs before taking off, flying low over the GTO before sailing over rooftops on its way back to the ocean. It passes a billboard advertising a new blockbuster spy thriller, the product of millions of dollars and Hollywood plot recycling. Mac saw the trailer. The movie is about a soldier who joined the CIA in a quest for retribution after his best friend came home in a box. Usually Mac likes watching spy movies—mostly to make fun of them—but this one hits a little too close to home. 

It takes a monumental effort to tear his gaze away. 

When his eyes finally meet Riley’s, Mac understands the silent ache in them—the ache that’s surely reflected in his own eyes. He and Riley are drowning, but at least they’re drowning together. 

Mac frowns. That must be the dimmest “on the bright side” thought he’s ever had. 

Riley doesn’t say anything more, so neither does Mac. They sit on the fire escape until long after the sun sets and the temperature drops, and the city's nightlife stretches its limbs as it wakes. Mac shivers, but Riley seems oddly unaffected by the cold. That or she’s too numb to notice. 

He threads his still semi-warm fingers through her icy ones, letting their joined hands rest on his knee. It seems like his last tether to the Riley he knows and loves, one who’s slowly slipping away from him and being replaced by a woman who might very well bring the world to its knees as payback for all that it’s done to her. 

Mac has no interest in ever meeting that woman. Mostly because he refuses to lose his Riley, but also because Mac knows he won’t be able to resist that other Riley. She will slash his restraint beyond repair, and Mac will follow her to the ends of the earth. 

He will find a way to keep them both afloat. He has to. 

Or else the Phoenix may very well be hunting him and Riley again, and this time, they’ll deserve it.

*****

Entering her apartment later that night, Riley realizes too late that it isn’t empty. Bozer is still there, and he’s making dinner. Locking the door behind her, she hears a rushed, “Got to go, Matty. She’s home.” 

Bozer crashed on her couch the night they got the news and never left. I don't want you to be alone, Bozer keeps saying, despite her insistence she doesn’t need a babysitter. Other than that, they don’t speak to each other much. In fact, Riley wouldn't have noticed he said anything at all if not for the way he stares at her, standing at the stove and twirling a wooden spoon between his fingers. 

"What?" she snaps. 

Carefully, Bozer asks, "How was the trial?" 

"Fine." Riley knows he cares, and that he’s hurting too, but nothing he says or does is going to help her. The sooner he figures that out the better. She drops her keys and jacket on a chair before heading for her bedroom. 

“You hungry?” he calls after her. 

Riley yanks off her boots, chucking them into the closet with too much force. “No.” 

“Have you eaten anything today?” 

Her fuse is running short these days, and she’s just about had it with his incessant smothering and questioning. Riley marches into the kitchen, rolling her shoulders back and bracing her hands on the counter. “Last I checked, I still have a mother, so if you’re just going to keep nagging me, then I think it’s time you get the fuck out of my apartment.” 

Bozer’s eyes widen and his mouth opens, but no sound comes out. 

“Get out,” Riley snarls. 

Still struggling to regain his ability to speak, Bozer stammers, “At least let me finish making you dinner first.” 

“Fine.” Cracking her knuckles, Riley retreats to her bedroom once more. “I’m taking a shower. You better be gone when I come out.” She doesn’t wait for a response. 

When Riley emerges, her dinner is cold, and Bozer is long gone. 

She doesn’t eat.

*****

On the second day of Vitez’s trial, Riley sits in the back of the room long after the trial adjourns for the day, thinking. She didn’t recognize the witnesses who testified today, and as the prosecutor called each one forward, Riley wished she had her laptop so she could look them up. Now, as she stares over the rows of empty wooden seats to the section where the jury sat, Riley can only hope that the witnesses’ testimonies are enough. 

Riley knows there’s more than enough evidence to convict Vitez—especially since she recorded the confession herself—but obsessing over the trial is easier than facing the reality waiting outside the courthouse doors. 

Her mom invited her to visit his grave today, after the trial, but Riley declined. Facing that slab of granite will make it real, make it…permanent. 

She knows what it says. Jack Dalton. Beloved. Gone too soon. Someone asked for her approval before it was made. It doesn’t say nearly enough to encapsulate all that he was, but at the time Riley couldn’t think about it—couldn’t look at it—long enough to suggest any changes. She still can’t. 

Chewing her lip, Riley anxiously toys with her rings, spinning them and moving them from finger to finger. 

At the wake, one of his old Delta buddies joked that the gravestone should read “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfuckers,” but Riley didn’t laugh. 

Riley hasn’t laughed since Matty broke the news. It’s like the part of her that knows how to feel joy died in that explosion too. 

Instead, she wants to scream at the universe until her voice gives out, cursing it for taking her dad away too soon. Because that’s what he is. Her dad. Riley doesn’t even know when she started calling him that again, but if she has to guess, it was sometime between the first “I’m proud of you, honey” and him kicking her ass at skee-ball for the millionth time.

Tears leak from Riley’s eyes without her consent. 

It feels like she failed him, in a way. By not being there. By not keeping him alive. 

Now the best she can do is make sure his death means something. 

Vitez will go to prison for the rest of her life, that Riley is sure of. But the rest of her organization is still out there, and Riley intends on putting every single member behind bars. No amount of justice will even begin to heal the Jack-shaped wound in her heart, but at least the world will be better for it. Safer. 

But she’d rather live in a more dangerous world with him still in it than a safer one without. That way they could save the world together, like they always did. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

Anger rumbles through her body, like a Texas thunderstorm in her veins. It’s the only emotion Riley feels anymore, ever since the sadness gave way to numbness. 

A woman in a security uniform pokes her head in the room. “Excuse me, ma’am. I need to lock up for the night.” When Riley doesn’t respond, the woman adds, “Are you okay?” 

Are you okay? Riley hates that question more than all the others. How are you? Have you eaten today? What can I do to help? 

She feels like she’s dying. She can’t eat. Nothing will help. 

But that isn’t what people want to hear. Even Mac asked that last question, yesterday on the fire escape, although Riley didn’t automatically despise the question like she usually did. It’s different coming from him than anyone else; his offer was genuine, not coming from pity or obligation.

She isn’t surprised Mac recognized her need to do something. After all, he had been the same way after his dad was killed. 

Coldly, Riley finally says,“I will be.” The woman doesn’t deserve her abrupt answer, but Riley can’t quite bring herself to care. She lets the anger the questions bring up fuel her, lets it hold her together. 

The anger is all she has left. 

Riley stands, her heels clicking on the floor as she exits the courthouse. 

She’s coming for all the monsters who hurt him. She’s coming for the ones who rendered him nothing more than ashes on the wind, the ones who turned her life into a nightmare she can’t wake up from. 

Because she doesn’t need to wake up to become theirs.

~

Want to be tagged in future chapters? Send me an ask.

#beth writes #dark!MacRiley #macriley #macgyver #angus macgyver #riley davis #mac x riley #macgyver fanfiction

[dana-chan-the-control-brain]

Hey, do you have anymore thoughts on Membrane's parents? I know we only got a brief glimpse of them, but they're so interesting yet there's so little fan content about them. That, or I'm looking in the wrong place haha.

Ps. If I am looking in the wrong tags or place could you please direct me to the right ones?

Ah, I talked a little bit about Membrane’s parents here during my first ramblings of the quarterly and I did talk a little about that headcanon here but I might as well repeat it again. 

Like I do find it interesting, the idea that his parents are scientists. Like Membrane tried following in his parents’ footsteps and unintentionally put that pressure onto Dib as he grew up... but for me personally, there’s just a lot of reasons this doesn’t make sense.

Like Why is adult Professor Membrane the brand and face of Membrane Labs and Membrane Enterprises when it was apparently a company he inherited from his parents? Of course, it could be that Membrane did make Membrane Labs himself and his parents were just scientists and Membrane Labs wasn’t really founded, but that makes less sense.

I always kinda viewed Membrane as someone who appreciated the value and effort of hard work ethic and built everything from the ground up with his bare hands and became the World Famous Man of Science all his own and it was his Legacy. Kinda like Scroodge McDuck and his fortune. Making Membrane inherit a company from his parents kinda loses a bit for me for him as a character. 

Why did his Parents give him socks for Christmas and claim it was from Santa? They know what Uranium238 is. I’m certain of that. It could have been a Christmas Story situation like “you’ll shoot your eye out kid” but Santa is the one who gives their kids the “cool gifts” I thought every parents knew that. It’s just one of those unspoken rules...... but like... to give him socks...

Like were they really that cruel? It’s kinda hard to say...  But it does kinda paint a bad image that they did have 100% the capabilities to give him what he wanted for Christmas... and they never bothered to explain to Membrane WHY he was given socks. 

LIKE LOOK, THESE TWO FUCKS LEAVE MEMBRANE IN THE DARK FOR YEARS ABOUT THE TRUTH OF SANTA CLAUS JUST CAUSE THEY DON’T WANT TO ADMIT THEY FUCKED UP, EVEN WHEN HE PROBABLY WENT TO FAR:

I can only assume that these two science parents are dead, just from how Membrane regards them when he holds that photoframe...(and the fact that we never see them) but honestly, they were probably still around when he was a teenager and still dedicating a portion of his life to destroying santa...

I know Membrane is as thick-headed and stubborn as Dib, so maybe they tried to explain it to him, and Membrane didn’t listen, or his parents suck at explaining things... but like.... come on...  it’s your direct responsibility for unleashing this childhood santa trauma/rage....  You owe it to Membrane to be direct with him... 

But then again, Dib never listens when his Dad tries to explain what he thinks about Aliens, Cause Membrane doesn’t Not believe in aliens. He in fact says so in the show.

So perhaps they were and he just didn’t listen... there’s that...

Why is this family so obsessed with seeking the truth, but don’t listen to anyone’s opinions who are different from their own.... sigh this family.

But in any point, they could have at least said why they can’t give him Uranium238... but if they do, it’s off-screen and no further context is provided to the audience... 

It just makes sense for me that either Membrane’s family is poor, or they didn’t know what Uranium238 is... Making his Parents be scientists as well just throws a whole bunch of questions about just.... everything about this situation. It really makes me ask:

“Did his parents not give it to him because it was dangerous?”

“Or did they give him socks cause they were that unaware of what their son wanted?”

“Did they just give him socks cause they were that cruel as Membrane didn’t want to believe?” 

“If so, why socks? Why not a rocket ship or a science playset or baking volcano kit or something?” 

It just raises a whole lot more questions.

A more simple explanation that gets rid of those questionable morale questions is that his Parents were poor from a humble upbringing and could only afford him socks for Christmas. It’s a more logical and simple explanation and it’s far more cleaner than having his parents be scientists in this. 

Another thing that bothers me is Membrane’s “childhood home” in general. Look at this place:

This huge place, with a giant rocket ship, dressed to the nines in Christmas decorations.

It also very clearly shows the interior. 

We see the living room couch, and multiple Christmas trees and this huge rocketship/missle thing front and center.

And if we compare it to Membrane’s childhood home in the Invader Zim episode this is supposed to be taking place in:

Now I know that the Invader Zim show has a darker color palate than the comics and even the Netflix movie, but I’m not talking about colors here...

A smaller tree that practically touches the ceiling, Fluorescent overhead lighting,  something that looks like a couch or a side table with noticeable stains on it... garland pinned to the walls with a lower ceiling... 

This looks NOTHING at all like how Membrane’s “childhood home” is like in the comics...

This is obviously not a wealthy home, or the home of a respected enterprise as shown in the comics. 

Now, I know this franchise has a thing for inconsistencies. Canon is basically non-canon. There is no continuity, and there is no continuous timeline of events... but to model Professor Membrane’s childhood home so vastly different from this brief flash in the show, that’s a pretty big one... 

So me and @paketdimensioncomic made a theory that can kind of coincide with our fics... 

We think that 

SUPER PERFECT SCIENTIST PARENTS.....  are what Membrane wishes his parents were probably like.

And that he lied to the press about his humble origins and upbringing. He didn’t want them to know that he grew up poor because it would be something constantly brought into question everytime he posed everything... He didn’t want his parents talked about in the media at all, especially if they were passed by the time he became successful. 

So... I think Membrane’s scientist parents are an elaborate lie. He told the press. I mean, He is a scientist, he always wanted to be a scientist, he is good at being a scientist and both of his parents were scientists...

I mean... He didn’t seem too concerned about the photo of his supposed parents.. he even threw it to the wall when his son called:

RIP parents.... he hardly knew you.

Do I think the Membrane Science Grandparents have a cool design and I want to see more fan content on them? Absolutely! Go nuts!

Do I think that Membrane’s parents being scientists makes little to no sense and was just kinda made for the sake of a dumb joke without giving too much thought about how it would lessen Membrane as a character if he were just leaching off his parent's success this whole time? And does it poke a lot of holes in the idea of why his parents gave him socks as santa at all? Absolutely.

I think it’s far more likely that Membrane built up this backstory of “I was always a scientist since birth” to the press and has more fake photoshopped photos around the house to show the press when the topic of his parents actually come up.

Basically, the fandom has been around for a long time you can do what you want with Membrane parent theories because as far as I’m concerned, I always appreciated the vibe of “Poor upbringing Membrane who learned the value of hard work and unintentionally became a workaholic because of it and really put too much value in work to the point he’s unintentionally neglectful towards his own offspring the same as his father was to him” 

Rather then.... “Science parents go brrr”

But again, just my headcanon.

And I always love people drawing the science parents. 

But @esthyradler‘s Farmer Membrane Parents are definitely my favorites. 

#Invader Zim #Invader Zim Quarterly #Professor Membrane #Membrane's Parents #danachan's rants #danachan's headcanons

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Hey! A new wlw short story is up on my Patreon. Check it out! And please consider becoming a Patron for more wlw writing and more. As a struggling artist anything helps.

Here’s a free preview:

Headlights Girl

Most humans carry the night with them. Even during daylight hours, they can shut out the sun, turn off the light, recede into themselves and into that soft secret place behind their eyes.

Did you know certain animals don’t have eyelids? Gecko’s have nothing between them and the violent sun which wishes to cook the colors of their world. They have to use their tongue. Dust and sand and rain, can you imagine? I was obsessed with lizards as a kid.

I stacked up books on snakes and lizards and skinks. I traced the way that sand snakes crested across the land, sideways and wrong. I put glue on the pads of my hand and tried to climb the walls of my room— I didn’t even get one handhold up. I went to the zoo and peered into their cages, up on my tiptoes, trying not to smudge the glass or breath too hard. I tried make out their triangle heads and slow tongue-flicks, but they shrank away from my gaze deep into their cages into the nooks and crannies. Most things do.

Most humans carry the night with them, right there behind their eyelids is an entire world of darkness and sleep. I have something else inside me, not quite, not soft, not secret. They called me “headlights girl” in the newspapers.

There have been stranger kids born in the age of spirits. I checked. Every morning of fifth grade, I scanned the papers for small articles and mentions of “oddities” growing into anomalies.

A boy with fire on his breath. A girl with leaves sprouting from her head. A kid with antennae that could taste the wind. There are stranger things than me in the age of beasts and magic. My father calls it the “Epoch of Bastards,” sons and daughters of flickering fire elementals and wind ghosts who seduced half-asleep ladies from their beds.

He doesn’t look at me much. And I know what he means. I know what he means when he calls it the Epoch of Bastards. Growing up, I played in my little puddle of carpet on the floor as he blustered in and out of rooms like gale force winds. He’d be looking for his keys or left shoe or wallet since he was going out, out, out. I think I missed him at first, in the way you miss strangers you’ve never met.

Later, still on my puddle of carpet, still on my island, I would glare at him with that sour, acid taste in the back of my throat. Acrid, smoky, I would barely blink as he passed; he’d jump when he turned too quickly and accidentally fell into my path. Later still, I would begin to wish they were both like that—blustery and calling people names.

It sometimes felt better than hearing my mom weep to herself on the couch. I wish she’d do it in her room or outside or anywhere else than that theatrical sobbing in the middle of the house, a naked heartbeat to the place. She spoke to her friends on the phone in that same watery voice, handkerchief in hand and sniffling, she spoke to them more than me.

What else am I supposed to do? This isn’t how it was supposed to be. They could barely afford to send me to That School. I didn’t want to be there either.

We weren’t the same, not really. None of us are the same age and most everyone else stayed in dorms where they bonded with secrets and whispers and hiding from matrons under flat mattresses. It wasn’t the same.

They called me The Lighthouse and Car Face and Nightlight. Sometimes they’d give me a few bucks to close my eyes so they could see my face. I did it. They’d laugh and reassure me I was as ugly as you’d think. Or beautiful. Or perfectly average-looking or have a pig-nose or blackhole for a nose. I’d never seen anything but the blinding light of my own eyes in the mirror so I could never contradict them.

A boy with antlers handed me a twenty for a kiss in the 6th grade. I closed my eyes for that too. It was chapped and dry and he runs away with a screaming laugh afterward. There are stranger kids than me, I reminded myself. So why do I feel so much stranger than the rest of them?

I’m 16 when I heel-toe my way down the stairs toward the front door. A duffel bag slung over my shoulder stuffed with a collection of loose clothes, change, a bath towel, sewing kit, a bible written in a language I don’t speak, all the tampons in the house, and a Swiss-army knife.

I hoped to stuff as many cheddar-cheese sandwiches in my sack as possible before the midnight bus came, but he’s at the kitchen table. I don’t think either of us expected it, like running into your teacher at Target and you’re both buying the same brand of toilet cleaner. There’s a beer in front of his idle hands and he glances at the bag on my shoulder.

He sighs like I cut him off in traffic.

“Gimme a moment.”

My father leafs through a wad of cash he kept in a safe in the garage. He hands me almost three hundred bucks and we nod at each other. I’m out the door before the midnight bus arrives.

I watch the headlights of the bus approach through dense summer night and think it must be like looking at like, the glow of my eyes against its eyes. Can a bus be your father? Can your father be a man after all this time? Will your mother come looking for you?

I get on the bus and kick my feet up against the seat in front of me. Scrunched into a ball, I cross my arms over my chest, and watch the trees turn into flickering bodies of shadow with each passing mile. ------------- My feet move like tides. They toss me against nameless city streets and toward empty forested slices of land. I taste the painted deserts toward the west. I dip my toes into the largest cities with lights brighter than my own. I graze my palms on neon signs and hunch my shoulders against brick walls of back alleys.

No one touches me. They don’t come close enough when I open my eyes and they see nothing but heaven or devils or an absent lightning-God father that will smite them.

I find my way to the ocean; beaches where other stragglers gather. I don’t talk much, I don’t like to, and people stare at me whether I’m speaking or screaming and clamping down on my jaw so hard it aches. Sometimes I get yelled at: Turn that off! No phone lights in here. You’re blinding me, bitch!

I’ve never seen a movie in any theatres, but I can imagine what it’s like.

I like the ocean cities best with their pale buildings built into cliffs, narrow winding white paths, and crushed seashell parking lots. I like the tang of salt in the air and the way my hair crinkles from the ocean water as it sun-dries. I camp out on beaches and bum cigarettes and hotdogs off strangers. I’m good at taking care of myself once I get in a rhythm.

Sometimes, or often, I dream of sinking to the bottom of the ocean. I dream of descending on pointed ballerina-feet to the silted black bottom. I am weighted down through the cold to where no human has ever been before. I open my eyes there, I open them all the way, lightning-bright, and in my dreams, the salt doesn’t sting. It doesn’t hurt, instead, I light up the world, the whole untouched world of whales and fish and terror and maybe I do something good then. Maybe I do something good and bring the sun to places that have forgotten it.

I meet Mags on the beach. She’s got one eye and five teeth and carries around string and scissors everywhere. She smells like seawater and roasting kelp, dank and crusted over. Her clothes are neat despite her leather-cracked skin and her arms and neck are covered with tattoos of shipwrecks. She cackles and pulls me aside the first night we meet.

“What’s your name?” Her voice is old creaking wood. I am quiet. “I could give you one.” She offers with a grin that is more empty space than anything.

I shake my head. “Nana.”

“What do you like, kid?”

I shake my head again.

Mags likes me more than I deserve. I pocket her last pair of socks when she’s not looking. She never mentions it and drags me down to the community showers to get clean with soap and shampoo. She takes me to the soup restaurant for something that isn’t burnt or freeze-dried or from a convenience store. She cackles, she spits when she talks, people glare at her as well.

I think she’s normal, not touched by the spirits, but she likes me more than most people and I don’t know why.

“You like art, kid?”

I snort. “No.”

“Why not? You broken?” Yeah. Probably.

“How am I supposed to know?” I snap.

“Lippy-wild thing. Come on, I’ll show you something worth your forked tongue.”

She heats the needle before she uses it, red hot and untouchable. She dips it into deep black inks, only black and sometimes red, she calls them the only colors that matter. She shows me how to prick the skin with color and movement. She shows me on her right foot first, all over those fine little bones that must hurt, in and out, a little bloody.

It takes her six hours to make a little shipwreck right above her big toe. It’s a schooner going under and I’m the only witness to the way she makes the waves come to life and crash against its sides. I can’t look away and I forget to blink. She didn’t seem to mind.

She washes another needle. She heats it red-hot. She dips it in ink and hands it to me.

I practice all over my thighs first, there’s enough meat there and it’s easy enough to reach: a lizard design that looks like nothing but squiggles, a wobbly stick figure on a skateboard, a tiny smudged skink with its tongue out. I practice designs in the sand. Mags takes me to the museum on Sundays. They’re free on Sundays.

Something stirs in my chest, even as the guards yell at me about how flash photography isn’t allowed in the museum. Even as I’m shooed out of exhibits for ruining the paint. Still, an ache so old it rots roars to life in my chest.

I stab in and out, gentle, a collection of stars right above my right knee. A winding sand snake next, and then finally, something good, something that gives people a reason to stare. I make it in the mirror: a ghost on my collarbone. Shadowed and intricate and simple, I put a ghost right above my collarbone and it bleeds more than the others.

I don’t want to leave the ocean city. Mags says she has to keep moving though. She gives me a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

“You're a gem, kid. You’ll knock ‘em all to the pavement.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “You’ll be back?”

She cackles. “Wouldn’t miss it. You know me.” She winks as she turns to the bus, my second father. “You think I’ll miss your great becoming, kid? I’ll be back.”

I want to make her pinky-promise like I’m a kid again and begging one of the other kids to tell me if I’m actually beautiful when I close my eyes. I can’t do that; I wave as she totters up the steps of the bus and is taken away with the tides of her own feet. ------------ I get an apprenticeship. Technically, Mags talked to them first and I just followed up when I had nothing better to do.

I didn’t think I’d like it much, but coach surfing and camping out on beaches is a tiring pastime. Penguin Davies and Bitch-Annie run a tattoo shop together. Davies walks like he’s never encountered land before, and Bitch-Annie has a throw-pillow that says “If you don’t have anything nice to say then come sit next to me.”

Davies is nothing but birds and dizzying M. C. Escher house-designs up and down his chest and arms. Bitch-Annie has topless mermaids and pinup girls across her shoulders and legs. She’s been asked to leave a number of stores before the children start staring or thinking thoughts.

Neither of them had ever met someone like me, it’s not that type of town. I rankle at most their questions, a cat meeting a steel brush. I brush off anything more personal than my favorite type of soda. Bitch-Annie calls me “Shadow” and I think it’s a joke. Davies says I must be possessed by the ghost of a dead star and now I’m nothing but a blackhole: take everything in and let nothing out.

Neither of them lets me touch a needle in those first six months. They have me practice on pig skin and stand by their shoulder as they work. I feel like a dental assistant except I’m the hanging light above shining into open mouths instead of anything with a pulse. I stand at their shoulder as they draw thick lines and thin dots and make hearts and wolves and names of dead lovers come to life.

They ask me to stop blinking and stand still. I almost walk out and find a new cliff to crash against, almost. No one had ever expected me to show up to something before. No one cared if I went to school or when I got home. And no one kept any tabs on me after I took that first bus. That’s how I liked it.

I should’ve left, it didn’t mean anything to me, not really. But Bitch-Annie stomped up to my attic-apartment one morning and threw pants at me.

“Get up, Shadow.” She was sterner than Mags, no hint of humor in her eyes. “I told you 9am so I expect 9am.”

“The fuck!?” I am eloquent in the morning.

“Pants, shirt, shoes, and bra if you don’t want the desk idiot staring at something other than your eyes all day.”

I grumble. I put on everything but the bra. No one ever expected me to be anywhere before. I tell myself I’ll just try it out, no harm in having a bit of a savings anyway. No harm in seeing what the fuss was about.

I wasn’t an artist of course. I didn’t understand what everyone else was seeing when they looked at the “old masters” paintings of water or war or lovers pulled apart. I didn’t feel anything in front of stain-glass windows in churches or mosaics on walls. Maybe there really was something wrong with my eyes. I don’t let up though. I put on pants for this, after all.

Penguin Davies hovered by my shoulder now.

“Mm.” He rumbled deep in his chest. He’d gone grey at an early age, he had tired eyes and quick hands. The desk kid said he’d been in medical school once, a surgeon. Davies muttered a lot, stared off into space too much, and laughed like it was always a surprise

“Perfectionist,” he muttered at me now as I start over on a crappy unicorn design. “The line’s barely off. You’re being a perfectionist, Nana.”

I scowled over my shoulder and let the full weight of my light hit him across the face. “Got a problem with it?” He chuckled darkly. His grin is crooked like a broken door handle. I tried to hide my work from him with my shoulder. “It’s not done yet.

“Look at you go. You know who makes the best artists, Nana?” He was always a bit of a philosopher. Maybe he used to study that before medicine.

“Yeah, yeah, shut up. I’m working on it.”

He gave my shoulder a light push. “The ones that don’t quit.”

They let me touch a needle gun before the new year. I tell myself I’ll only sign my new apartment lease as an experiment. I don’t have to actually stay. I’ll just run from the ink on paper and hope no one chases after girls with eyes that glow.

I don’t break my lease. I draw cartoon heroes in speedos on tipsy college girls who swear they’re sober and erotic vampires on the chests of men getting their first divorce. I have to give two refunds for a duck that turns out lopsided and a tattoo of someone’s dog which I swore really was that ugly to begin with.

There was one at the end of that next year though, another college girl with nothing but doors ahead of her. She asked for a stick and poke, that was what I’m best at anyway, she asked for a butterfly. Butterflies were easy, I could do the little ones in my sleep. She wanted one all across her back, she said I could make it look however I wanted. So I did. Wings like fringed shawls and straight heavy lines combined with wispy swirling ones. It’s dark, black ink with red highlights and gray shadows under each wing to give it movement and flight.

I hide my smile when she goes to my bosses and points at it while jumping up and down. The best thing she’s ever seen. She should pay us double. Where did you get this girl? I try not to blink so they can’t see the wetness under my eyes.

Sometimes I still stand by the bus stop to check who’s coming off. I don’t expect to see Mags again so soon, but sometimes I want to show her: Hey, maybe your work wasn’t all wasted. Maybe I did start to become.

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[passivenovember]

Walking Home (v)., the  Tourniquet

For you @thursday-knight. Lysm

They’re going to let Billy out of that horrible, gray padded room on Tuesday, which Steve snorts at over the phone. 

“What, you think that’s fuckin’ funny or something?”

“No, It’s just.” It’s kind of funny. Steve wraps the phone chord around his hand. Nice and tight, like a tourniquet. “Tuesday’s weird.”

“Tuesday’s...weird?”

“Yeah.”

Steve can hear something, like. The clack of a pen. It’s a common nervous tick, a way to cope, but. Steve’s never seen any one hold a bic the way Billy does. 

Barrel in his palm. Clicking the register with his pointer finger, like. He’s pressing Reagan’s Big Red Button. The one to blow up the world.

“What’s so weird about a Tuesday release, man?”

“Ruining the start of a week by spending it in the hospital and then having to use the rest of it adjusting to life outside?”  Steve shrugs, remembering that Billy can’t see him. “They could at least give you a Friday. Then you’d have the weekend, right?”

Billy’s grin is somehow manifested in the honey drip of his voice. “Been locked up for six months, Harrington, what’s two more days?”

And that could be true.

Steve doesn’t feel like so much time has passed. The rise and fall of the moon, the turn of the seasons, the way Billy has to wear fuzzy socks with those little grips on them to stay warm in beige corridors, have been lost on Steve. 

Tainted. Wrapped in paper the exact shade of survival. Surgeries and afternoons carpooling the kids to Hawkins general, paying Barry Mildred to do Billy’s algebra homework for him, and. 

Convincing everyone.

Himself, too.

That Billy would be alright. Steve had to do everything he could to get Billy ready for the world, or.

The world ready for him.

“Has it really been that long?” Steve wonders.

And Billy laughs. “Maybe not for you, King Steve. Some of us had to spend the whole of it in one room.” It doesn’t sound as painful as it usually does.

Steve just nods again. To himself.

He remembers the leaves changing around the time Billy learned to walk again. Halloween. Bringing left-over contraband to spoil Billy’s strict diet of organic bullshit while his body healed itself. Amber leaves complimenting blue eyes as they made unsteady laps around the courtyard together. 

Steve holding his arm out time and time again, and. Billy taking it. 

Christmas. Snowball fights with the kids, crystals on long blonde eyelashes while that stubborn mouth fought to return every smile Max threw his way. Those very same lashes, wet with tears, when Billy opened a vintage copy of Cider House Rules, on Christmas Eve. 

All, you really shouldn’t be spending the holiday in a psych ward, Harrington.

But they held hands for the first time that night. Steve said, where else would I want to be?

And Billy, just. Took what he could get--nothing more.

Steve remembers a lot of things. Happiness. Rocky, at first, unearned, a slide into friendship which turned into peachy cheeks that rivaled the setting sun.

Summer, Fall, Winter, and.

February.

Steve must have missed it. All of it, while he was busy being grateful that Billy was alive. 

He checks the calendar.

“You’ll be out in time for Valentines,” He says. Because that’s important, somehow. “Got any big plans?”

“Oh, for sure.” Billy clicks his pen. One-two-three. “Got a girl waiting for me on the outside, thought we could catch a movie.”

Steve knows. 

He knows it isn’t true, that Billy’s just yanking his ridiculously short chain, but. Steve’s heart beats in time with the click of a pen. Advancing and overtaking the tempo to orchestrate a symphony of worry.

Of fear.

It used to taste like copper. Black slime and dirty snow, but now it tastes like mashed potatoes served on a hospital lunch tray. Contraband sweets. Change and forced endings and--

Steve chokes on something. A laugh that falls wrong halfway through, like a sob colored to fit summer days. “What are you doing after?”

The clacking stops. “Just fucking with you, Harrington.”

“I know.”

“Was a joke, I’m not.” Billy clears his throat. “Everyone who matters came to see me while I was here.” 

Steve just nods. Frantically, because he hears words that aren’t there. Meaning that couldn’t possibly color his life in broad strokes. He thinks about what Billy’s saying, what he really means. 

Everyone who matters.

“Where are you staying? Like, when you get out,.” Steve mutters. The chord is wrapped around his hand again. He leans against the wall, wincing as the pins from his bulletin board pinch his shoulder blades. “You got a place to crash?”

Billy doesn’t say anything. 

Steve clears his throat. “You aren’t going back, right? You’re not going. Home?”

“To Neil’s?” 

And Steve gets the distinction. Feels it settle like an axe between his first three ribs. “Yeah.”

Billy sighs. “No, fuck that. Figured I’d ask around. See if there are any beds open at RCA.” Recovery Centers of America, that’s. 

“That’s in Indianapolis.”

“Yeah,” Billy says flatly. Steve thinks, distantly, that he sounds almost. Annoyed. “Owens says there’s a car. It’ll take me wherever I want, long as I stay in State.”

“You want to go away?”

“Sure,” Billy says bluntly. “Wouldn’t hurt to leave this place behind, you know. Maybe go somewhere new--”

“Stay with me.”

Steve’s heart is beating in his eyeballs.

The world falls silent. Only for a moment, for as long as it takes for Billy to drop something on the ground and then swear under his breath. His voice shakes, like strands in the wind. “What?”

“At my apartment,” Steve clarifies. He untangles the phone chord which has somehow worked its way to his elbow. “It’s small and shitty, and the couch only has three legs, but.”

Steve closes his eyes and hopes against hope, praying to every god who has ever existed since the beginning of time and everyone who will come after, that Billy can hear every meaning, every hidden word.

“You could.” Steve says softly. “If you wanted to.”

The clacking starts up again, slow and measured. Steve can hear Billy’s breath. The ragged intake of air that sounds painful, like a boy clinging to life in smoke filled memories. Holding on to his hand, saying, I don’t want to die, Steve, please.

It plants Steve’s feet in an ambulance. It tips the string of a tourniquet, bloody and wet with slime in his hands. It makes him remember. 

Pull it tighter, kid, come on.

And.

He’s losing a lot of blood.

And.

Steve, we’re losing him. 

And.

Kid, step away from the body.

Billy clears his throat. “You mean it?” He asks, and.

Steve lets go of a breath. “Of course I do.”

“You’ll get tired of me.” Billy’s voice, it sounds like shattering windows. Steve doesn’t say anything. Can’t respond, because. Nothing in life is more impossible. 

The world falls silent.

Only for a moment, as long as it takes for Steve to close his eyes. “I can’t watch you get in that car and walk away, Billy.”

It’s nothing. Only a part of how he feels. Only a drop of what he wants, but. It sets things in motion again. 

Billy clears his throat. “Alright,” He says. “Give me the address.”

--

Steve wants it to be something other than what it is.

He buys new sheets. Fern green satin, five-hundred thread count and worth a third of what he has in savings. 

They aren’t what he’d usually go for, color or texture, but. The lady at the department store says muted colors are good for preventing overstimulation after trauma and satin is gentle on the skin. Warm, too, which is always a good thing.

Billy says it feels like winter, now. All, I’m a goddamn human snow globe.

Buying sheets on Valentines, it.

Makes Steve hope that this is something else. 

That Billy will insist on putting his new sheets on Steve’s bed instead of the couch in the living room. That they’ll sleep together here, just how they always did in Billy’s hospital bed. 

Chest to chest. 

Billy’s head tucked under Steve’s chin, but.

Mostly Steve being eaten alive by the guilt.

For feeling like this is the start of their lives. That everything before now--living with his parents, fighting monsters, feeling useless in every sense of the word...

All of it was a dream. 

Preparation for the day he would open the front door and find Billy there, waiting.

Steve takes the sheets back to his apartment. He makes up the living room, rearranging the furniture so Billy can have his own space. The couch as a bed and the coffee table as a book shelf.

Billy has a lot of books.

More than anyone Steve’s ever met, more than Robin and Nancy Wheeler combined and Steve doesn’t own any books himself, or. A place to put them. His apartment is the size of a shoebox.

He’ll get rid of the stuff he doesn’t use anymore. 

He’ll make room. 

In his apartment, in his miniscule life, so that Billy has something of his own. 

And maybe after they’re settled in and the bills are paid for the month, Steve will pick up extra shifts at the video store until he can afford buy one. 

A nice, big oak bookshelf for Billy to house his favorites. 

--

He locks himself in the bathroom an hour after moving in.

Which, you know. Throws the evening for a loop. 

He seems happy when Steve opens the front door, dropping his box of books by the shoe rack and toeing his boots off with a grin. 

His body is loose, and. Open, Like he’s comfortable. Billy pokes around the apartment, making fun of the weird shit hanging up on the walls while Steve cooks dinner.

“You gotta get some real art in here, man.” Billy says. It sounds like he’s by the record player, digging through the stack of vinyl's Steve keeps in a shoe box by the T.V. “And some real music, holy shit. How have you been living like this?”

“I’ve been living just fine, fuck you very much.” 

“You have three copies of Waterloo,” Billy snorts. As if that proves something.

He’s crouched by the mosaic of finger paintings left by Holly Wheeler, studying a particularly abstract piece when Steve hands him a glass of sparkling cider.

“Everyone’s gotta have their backup copies of Waterloo, you know, extra in case you gotta dole them out to strangers.” Steve clinks their glasses together. “Cheers.”

Billy swishes the drink around with a lift of his eyebrow. “You trying to get in my pants, Harrington?”

“It’s not alcohol.”

“Why is it bubbly?” Billy accuses, lifting the glass to sniff at it suspiciously. His nose wrinkles, like a bunny rabbit. 

Steve laughs. “It’s sparkling cider. Cherry flavored.”

“Cherry?” Billy snorts, his cheeks glowing pink like little love hearts. “That’s definitely a sex flavor.” 

“It’s a celebration flavor, you dick.” Steve chuckles again. He files through the records he does have, selecting one he thinks Billy can tolerate. “What do you think of Rumours?”

Billy’s wandered to the kitchen. “Hate the activity, dig the album.” He calls.

The sound of cabinets opening and slamming shut echo through the space while Steve figures out the settings for this vinyl, fiddling with the tiny knobs until Songbird filters through at a pace that seems right.

“Ice is in the freezer,” Steve announces, and.

Billy rounds the corner with a bag of chips, happy little smirk on his face. Steve frowns.

“I’m fixing dinner--”

“I haven’t had Doritos in almost a year, Harrington.” Billy says roughly. He rips open the bag, collapsing next to Steve on the floor by the music stand. Billy takes one and licks the cheese dust off the chip, holding the bag out, like. “Want one?”

Steve face hurts from smiling so much. “Nah, I’m good.”

Billy leans back against the wall, rolling his eyes. “What, don’t eat carbs after four p.m. or something?”

And Steve filters through a million answers, all of which make it sound like he’s trying to get laid, so. He settles in next to Billy, letting his eyes fall closed with the sway of the music.

“No, just. Don’t wanna ruin my dinner.”

Billy snorts, bag crinkling loudly as he dives in for another handful. “I could eat twelve bags of this shit and still go ape on whatever rich boy thing you whipped up.” Billy asses him, head cocked to the side. “Bet the cheese makes you fart.” He concludes.

Steve blinks at him. “You’re disgusting--”

“Processed cheese makes everyone shit their pants, man, that’s like.” Billy wipes his hands on Steve’s leg. “Common knowledge.”

Steve makes a noise like a runover chicken, wiping frantically at the trousers he bought at the Goodwill, just for tonight. 

He wets his fingers with spit, wincing and scrubbing at the bright line of orange nacho cheese that stains his corduroy flares. 

The shape of Billy’s fingers is unmistakable. “I’m starting to regret asking you to move in.”

“Thought I was just crashing here until--”

“Now that you’re here I’m no letting you leave,” Steve smiles at him, the weight of it softening when Billy’s cheeks glow pink again. He knocks their shoulders together. “You’re stuck with me.”

Billy falls silent after that.

Shoveling in handful after handful of Doritos and crunching so loudly that Steve can’t get wrapped up in the bass line on the Chain. 

“Dude, you gotta chew so loud?” Steve asks, shoving Billy’s hand away when he reaches to smear nacho dust down the length of Steve’s neck. “My god, you’re a menace.”

“You love it,” Billy giggles, and.

They stare at each other for a moment. Sort of watching the brush of eyelashes against cheekbones while the music plays. 

A backdrop to the start of something Steve doesn’t have a name for.

--

Night falls and Billy doesn’t come out of the bathroom.

The food has been stored, the dishes put away, but the light which escapes like neon strips of gold to kiss the mouth of the hall carpet never flicks off. Never giving way to rest.

Steve thinks about waiting for him. 

He thinks about going to bed, jiggling the handle to make sure Billy’s okay, breaking the door down when two hours turns to three but that seems intrusive. 

If Billy wanted company he would ask. And if he wanted to come out he would, right?

Steve feels like an idiot. 

Pacing back and forth between the living room and the hallway, trying not to make it obvious that he’s right in the thick of gut-wrenching worry. Violent, intrusive images of brain splattered tile fill his mind. 

Billy could be hurt, or. Asleep in the bathtub. Maybe he slipped out the bathroom window while Steve was turning down the couch for him, making the space comfortable.

Maybe he was never here to begin with. Maybe Steve dreamt him up.

Steve paces back and forth, back and forth, wrestling with the urge to call Dr. Owens and ask what he should do, until the clock above the stove reads 11:34 pm and he has no choice but to call it a night.

His knuckles sound like a machine gun when he taps on the door. 

From behind the oak barrier, Billy makes a noise like he was startled out of sleep. Steve can hear him moving around, when he asks, “You okay? Been in there for a few hours.”

Billy opens the door.

His eyes are red and puffy, cheeks a little flushed, like.

“Have you been crying?” Steve doesn’t want him to cry. Tears and hallow feelings, they have no place in the stretch of nightfall that Steve has built for them. 

He feels himself reaching for Billy on impulse, trying to pull their bodies together, but Billy steps back. 

Away. 

To make room for Steve in the bathroom or to make a run for it, Steve isn’t sure. He knots his fingers together for safe keeping. 

“Of course not, don’t be fucking.” Billy’s voice cracks right down the middle, like. A loaf of bread that has been in the oven for far too long. His eyes are glassy when he looks up, and.

Distant.

Steve feels like an asshole. He leans against the door jam. “I can call Dr. Owens, if you want.” 

Billy stares at him. “Why would I want that?”

“You just seem--”

“I seem like what, Steve?” Billy spits. “You gonna psychoanalyze me too, huh?”

Steve grits his teeth against the urge to. Fight back. “It’s just when I started getting the couch ready, you seemed.” Steve runs a hand through his hair, choosing his next words carefully. “Nervous? Afraid, maybe, just a little. Which is alright. It can be scary sleeping alone in a new place, and--”

“I’m not five years old, Harrington, I can handle a sleepover at my friends house.” Billy snarls. He pushes against Steve’s chest until there are rivers between them. Mountains and oceans.

It’s the first time since Starcourt that Billy seems.

Like himself.

The old self, the one that used his fists to keep wandering eyes from getting too close. Figuring him out. If Steve were a younger man he’d fall for it, hook and line, but. 

He knows better.

Six months and a lifetime with Billy Hargrove have taught him a thing or two. He nods, stepping back down the hallway. 

Billy’s eyes track him. Wide and nervous and so, so blue. 

“‘M going to sleep, dude.”  Steve waves a thumb over his shoulder, taking a deep, needed breath. He calls over his shoulder to give Billy some space. “Come to bed when you’re ready. I’ll leave the light on.”

Billy’s footsteps don’t pass his bedroom door until Steve is settled under the covers.

--

He’s starting to think Billy won’t show.

The t.v. is on in the living room, tinny sounds of Yogi Bear filtering through the wall and Steve wonders if he made a mistake in assuming, that.

Look.

Just because they slept together, like, actually slept together  while Billy was in the hospital doesn’t mean anything. 

Maybe Billy is just scraping the bottom of his energy reserves. Maybe he’s getting to the end of the rope when it comes to his friendship with Steve, and didn’t want to move in but had to.

For lack of better options, and like. 

Income and shit--

“Scoot over.” Billy says.

Steve jumps, poking his head out from under the covers to glare wildly at him. “When did you--”

“Move over.” Billy insists, eyes burning like flame in the darkness.

Steve does, all, “Jesus Christ, you’re just a little ray of sunshine, aren’t ya?” But there are butterflies in his tummy. Gently flapping wings that turn into stinging wasps when Billy manhandles his way into the bed, yanking one of the extra pillows out from under Steve’s legs to punch into shape on his side of the bed.

Steve squawks. “I was using that.”

“It was under your knee caps, dork.” Billy mutters, bullying his way into Steve’s space like he did so many times on warm summer nights at Hawkins General, stiff as a board on his government issued mattress.

Steve’s bed isn’t anything like that, it’s like. A marshmallow. Swallowing the two of them whole when Billy presses his face into the length of Steve’s neck, legs coming up to pin him in place.

“I got weak ankles.” Steve pouts. 

Billy doesn’t say anything as he goes limp and heavy on top of his human pillow. Steve instantly feels like he’s over heating; the guy’s a fucking furnace, but.

Billy’s eyelashes are tickling his collar bones.

His breath fans out over Steve’s skin, like cool breezes on summer nights, and. When he starts crying Steve is there.

Like always, Steve sings him to sleep.

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