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dyns33 · 1 year

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The Surgeon

Not proud of this one but I wanted to do one last Nigel Colbie x female reader.

Maybe he's a surgeon ?

The sentence had awakened Y/N in the middle of the night.

One of her colleagues had said this several hours ago, when the entire police station brigade had gathered to talk about the new murder attributed to the serial killer whom journalists had dubbed "The Fanatic" and who eluded the police for more than ten years.

Reports had long since established that the individual was definitely a white male, between thirty and forty, educated, socially well off, smart, and well versed in human anatomy.

There had been mortgages concerning an autodidact, a medical student or a butcher, in any case someone who had never managed to obtain the career he had always dreamed of.

But the track had quickly seemed absurd, because the psychologists who had been interested in the killer had all decreed that there was neither anger nor revenge in his crimes. They couldn't really determine what drove him to kill, there was obviously a ritual they didn't understand, and probably an impulse, but it wasn't related to frustration.

As they started over from scratch, a young policeman innocently asked why it couldn't be a surgeon. Even though it was a respectable, time-consuming job that involved a series of tests to make sure the doctor was fit for the job, if the serial killer they were looking for was really smart, he could look perfectly normal, live a trouble-free life, and find time to kill.

So maybe he was a surgeon.

The phrase echoed in Y/N's mind as she opened her eyes, before looking up at Nigel, still peacefully asleep beneath her.

Nigel Colbie, her husband, a thirty-five-year-old white man, surgeon, the best in his school, coming from a wealthy family, his parents having tragically died in a boating accident and their bodies never having been found. Her husband, calm, charming, normal, except perhaps his passion for the history of the Templars and the religious rites of ancient civilizations.

They had met when Y/N had just gotten her police constable badge and Nigel was still a surgical intern. A totally unexpected encounter, on a bus, because Nigel's car was broken and Y/N didn't feel like walking to work when it was raining.

Sitting side by side, she had liked that he was reading a collection of poetry and he had found the music she was listening quite pleasant. They had talked the whole way, very unhappy when it was time to part ways.

It was Nigel who had asked her for her number. It was also Nigel who had called her first to ask if she wanted to have dinner with him. Two years later, it was he who proposed to her.

Everything had always gone perfectly between them. Normal, since Nigel was perfect. The best at his job, the best husband, the best lover. Despite all the work he had, he found time to cook for her, he was there to massage her feet asking her how her day had gone and he told her all the time that he was proud of his inspector-wife.

The only thing that might have seemed strange was the few details he gave about his past. About his parents' accident, which he spoke about without the slightest sign of sadness. There had been suspicious deaths at his school, but that didn't seem to bother him. The fact that his best friend was accused of these murders, before disappearing.

"I don't know what to tell you." Nigel replied when she asked him about it. "What happened to my parents is tragic but there is nothing I can do about it. I did not know the two students who died, and regarding Jack, even though I considered him a brother, I cannot condone what he did, so I'd rather forget about him."

"Jack ? I read in the report that his name was Alex."

"That was his nickname. My dear Jack, totally mad and clueless. But let's stop talking about him. You didn't tell me if you caught any bad guys today."

"There was another murder. The Fanatic, obviously. The victim suffered a lot... Yet it could not be seen at all on his face, he looked peaceful. The killer placed the body as a work of art, it was as beautiful as it was disturbing. Of course, no fingerprint, no witness, nothing. We will never catch him."

"Don't say that." purred her husband, kissing her. "You're the best. If anyone can catch him, it's you. Even though you sometimes seem to admire him a lot. Maybe you can't catch him because you don't really want to."

Trembling, moving slowly so as not to wake him, Y/N slipped out of bed into the kitchen, where she drank some water before splashing water on her face to try to calm herself down.

It might have been nothing. A coincidence. Her tired and wary mind. But if his parents had not had an accident. If Alex Forbes hadn't killed those two students and run away. If in addition to finding time for her, Nigel had time to walk around, meet people he didn't know, and whom he quietly killed before returning home or going to work.

He asked a lot of questions about the Fanatic case, especially since Y/N had been put on the investigation, so he knew absolutely everything the police knew. Meaning that they didn't know anything.

Besides this curiosity, Nigel seemed happy when Y/N complimented the killer. They weren't exactly compliments, but she admitted that he was gifted, very intelligent, and that there was something artistic about these murders. If it hadn't been for the murders, she might have considered him an artist.

And now she was in her kitchen, at two in the morning, wondering if she had married a serial killer. No, it was madness, a nightmare, a ridiculous idea. But then why was she staring at Nigel's phone so insistently ? Why did she text one of her co-workers asking him to check her husband's schedule and whereabouts ?

There was nothing to check. She wouldn't find anything, because there was nothing to find, because Nigel was innocent.

However, since he was innocent, there was no reason for her to be afraid to look.

"My love ?" a voice asked behind her, startling her slightly.

"I woke you up ? Excuse me."

"No, but I sensed that you weren't with me anymore. Someone called ? A case ?"

"Just a nightmare."

"My poor darling." Nigel sighed as he took her in his arms, kissing her forehead. "Come back to bed, you must be exhausted."

Y/N followed him, lay down against him again, her ear against his heart and she didn't sleep until the next day.

It was impossible to explain to her colleagues why she wanted information about her husband. When they asked her if she thought he was cheating on her, she replied that it was something like that. If she said she thought he was the Fanatic, either they'd think she'd lost her mind, or they'd go and arrest Nigel, when there was still a good chance he hadn't done anything.

It was better if she checked on her own first.

For several weeks she studied the times he had been in the hospital, with witnesses, with her, and the times when it was impossible to know what he had done.

And she had the unpleasant surprise to discover that each time there was a slight gap in his schedule, it left him enough time to kill one of the victims.

But that wasn't really proof. It could only be a coincidence. Because for the rest, there was nothing. No connection between him and the victims. No clues to the crime scene, the bodies, or their home.

Y/N wanted to believe that she was totally wrong. Because she loved Nigel, her Nigel, the best husband in the world who made her terribly happy. But her instinct was telling her to keep looking.

So she continued to track his actions, tapping his phone and being suspicious of everything.

Until the evening when he woke her up with a tender kiss, apologizing because there had been a road accident and he had to go to the hospital quickly.

After a quick check, no accident to report. No surgery scheduled for Doctor Colbie that night. Y/N therefore decided to follow him, tracking his car, in which she had placed a beacon, in case he turned off his phone.

She found him in a small cabin in the middle of the woods.

Slowly, she entered, discovering her husband who was cutting a man, while talking alone. Or rather talking to a skull.

"See, Jack ? It's really not complicated. You could have done it very easily if you had made an effort, but I was wrong about you. You were not the right one. I think I found my Malaclea, but she's not ready yet. I won't make the same mistakes as with you, I'm not going to rush. She understands my art, I see the admiration in her eyes, something that wasn't in yours, or that you were ashamed of. She just has to understand that it's not bad, and then nothing can stop us."

"Hands behind your head."

"... My love ?" he whispered without looking back.

"Nigel, put your hands behind your head." Y/N sighed, pointing her gun at him. "Please."

He first put down his scalpel before obeying her and turning to her. Nigel didn't seem angry. On the contrary, he was smiling, as if he were really proud of her.

"I knew you would find me. You don't know how long I've been waiting for this moment."

"You wanted me to arrest you ? It might help you in front of the judge. Besides the fact that you're talking to a skull."

"Jack hears me, even though he can't answer. We're linked in death. I was hoping we'd be linked in life too, but he disappointed me, he wasn't like I imagined. It saddened me so much that I wanted to die, but he didn't even have the courage to shoot me, so I took care of him, before resuming my journey, alone. I had always been alone and after him I thought I'd never find anyone else. Then I met you, my love. And I knew it would be you."

"Turn around so I can handcuff you."

"Think of how much we can accomplish together." he continued while still obeying her, letting her tie his hands without resisting. "It would be magnificent and no one could ever suspect us."

"Please shut up."

"I know you won't disappoint me, not like him. My heart, my sweet, sweet heart. In the end, I was only killing for you. To see your bright expression when you told me about the case. Do you remember when you asked me about the Templars, because you were wondering if one of the rites had something to do with them ? I thought you had guessed, that I was going to be able to tell you everything. But no, you had seen the design, not the designer. Not yet. But we're finally there !"

He looked so happy, so calm, like the whole situation was normal, that he hadn't just killed someone, that he wasn't talking with a skull, and that Y/N wasn't sobbing, realizing that her beloved husband was mad.

A cry a little louder than the others seemed to wake him up. Nigel was suddenly sad, asking her why she was crying, approaching as if he didn't see the gun, to kiss her like he did whenever his wife was sad.

Y/N let him, too confused to react, and remembering all the good times they had spent together. A hand on her cheek, and another on the hand that held her weapon brings her back to realization.

"Hush." Nigel muttered, taking the gun, hugging her. "It's okay, love. I know you're a bit lost. It's normal. But I'm going to help you. Come, you'll see, it's simple and wonderful. Jack never got it."

Too scared to refuse, Y/N watched him put the gun in his back pocket, before retrieving the scalpel, which he placed in her hand, before positioning it in front of the corpse. Slowly but firmly, he guided her to open the chest.

Y/N didn't want to look, and at the same time she was fascinated, as Nigel placed his hands in the opening, rummaging inside before pulling out the heart.

"Normally I do this well, taking the time. But I'm too excited tonight. Look, Y/N, my maraclea. Here is a heart for you, as an offering. A heart that we took together, symbol of our eternal love .Oh, you don't know how happy I am right now !"

He kissed her again, still holding the heart. Y/N let him, while twirling the scalpel between her fingers, considering the options available to her. Kill him and hide his body to avoid scandal. Hurt him and take him to the police station. Follow him in his delirium and continue to live with the man she loved, even if he was sick and he was going to want them to kill together.

A glance at the skull reminded her of the existence of Jack, Axel Forbes, whom Nigel had loved, and who had disappointed him, and whose remained were now on this table. If she didn't make the right decision, she might join him.

So Nigel continued to kiss her, whispering that he loved her, and Y/N continued to play with the scalpel, praying that the last option was that this was all just a bad dream, and that her husband was just an innocent surgeon who was sleeping peacefully next to her and who would laugh when she told him about this nightmare.

#like minds #murderous intent #nigel colbie #nigel colbie x reader #nigel colbie fanfiction #nigel colbie imagine

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ourdramaqueen · 6 months

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7, 10, 17, 29 for the writers ask! 🖤🖤

Well that was fast, @realmermaid333! Oh boy, let's see if I can answer all of these...

7. How many ideas for fics do you have right now?

That's a bit difficult to answer! So outside of The Sexual Education of Wednesday Addams series (a.k.a. PT verse), I currently have 6 fics that have rough outlines, two of which are based on Kinktober promtps I didn't have time to write, but I like the ideas a lot so I want to write them eventually. Then there's a doc where I've dumped random ideas or prompts in, but which are less likely to see the light of day. And of course then there's TSEoWA/PT verse, where I have two stories in active development (i.e. partially written and published), and I'm currently working on researching/plotting out the future of the verse, with the number of potential fics being... well, only limited by my interest and capacity to write, really. So there's a lot!

Then there's several ideas for The Boys (including the one fic that I still need to finish from when I got sidetracked by Wednesday), and for Frodo/Éomer and one for Éomer/Lothíriel (Prince Imrahil's daughter, whom Éomer married in the first year of the Fourth Age (IIRC), according to the LotR appendices) which are in various stages of writing but I got stuck on...)

10. Is there a fic that got a different response than you were expecting?

I certainly did not expect Private Tutor to blow up the way it did! I generally try not to put any expectations on my fics, because it's impossible to tell how any one of them will be received.

17. What's something you've learned about while doing research for a fic?

Oh my gosh.

So much in depth anatomy (and not just sex related) while writing Private Tutor. Like I didn't know that the space in your vagina (and other tubular structures in your body) is called a lumen.

A lot about Anglo-Saxons and their lives, Old English, and horses when I wrote (You Get Me) Closer, my longest Frodo/Éomer LotR fic.

Flower language when I wrote How do I passive-agressively say ‘fuck you’ in flower? (Butcher/Hughie, The Boys).

A bit about the porn industry and the reality of porn shoots when I wrote Kinktober Day 21: Pornography (The Boys, Butcher/Hughie, Becca/Butcher)

A lot about US high schools, International Baccalaureate schools, and various areas in Brooklyn, Queens, and Long Island, NY as well as details about public transport (or lack thereof) in those areas for Line Without a Hook (a Butcher/Hughie high school AU I cowrote, and which was my most popular fic previous to Private Tutor).

Lots about royal titles (concentrating on the British system) and how to properly address each of the nobility for How The Honourable Hughie Campbell, son of The Right Honourable The Viscount Inwood, Was Promised to His Grace the Duke of Voughtland, But Instead Became the Bondmate of The Right Honourable The Lord Flatbush (a Butcher/Hughie pseudo-historical Omegaverse AU for The Boys).

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.)

Hmm... I am never certain that I will never post a fic that's a long-term WIP, and I don't have any wholesale cut scenes really - usually they just get heavily rewritten, and I don't keep the old version. Fic idea that I don't plan on getting to... Oh I recently had this one, based on the news that Hunter will participate in the poker tournament Bryan Cranston is organizing to benefit the Entertainment Community Fund: Maybe Tyler has a secret weekly poker night with various individuals who you'd never think would hang out together. Old Mrs. Johnson who's a sweet old lady with one of those pocket sized dogs, but absolutely cutthroat when it comes to poker. Connie from Uriah's Heap. Various other odd people. He's the only teenager in the group, and it might have been his boss from the Weathervane who thought he had potential because he's by far the best at covering up his irritation with customers.

If anyone wants to adopt this plot bunny, please do! I would be useless at it because I know nothing about poker.

Oops, that ended up a little more elaborate than planned! I hope it was interesting, @realmermaid333! 😘

#my fanfiction #my writing #writing process

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muggycuphead · 2 years

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weird flex but ok i guess pt.14

War… Hold up, do we really need a warning for this one? Dunno, but however, watch out for slightly disturbing and kinda…disgusting imagery, trypophobic patterns, as well as ‘necrotic’ designs I made while having funky fever bc o h m y g o d do I get a little crazier every new quarantine day (and at this point it’s coming to be an usual thing for me, big sad). However, most are made no other than for the sole sake of satire, so y’know, no need to get your underwear in a twist

Friday Night Funkin’ BoyFriend’s Hood – AU fanconcept sketches [XIII]

1.-Sulphur

To resume this guy’s backstory: This is what happens when you push someone too much and too hard to his breaking point. Basically, he lived in a really abusive family household, and one day, he ended up killing everyone through intoxication. Plus, he has all the family members’ ashes inside that portable jar (even the dog’s ones, hence why one of spirits resembles a canine animal). Also he got his lower maw ripped off, go figure how

This guy was actually inspired in the psycho girl featured on Skrillex’s “First of the Year (Equinox)” official music video, no wonder the resemblance is there

And just FYI, the broken anatomy was on purpose

2.-Rawrnold

Grawlbert’s best buddy. He’s also a music disk collector

And before you ask, no he doesn’t give a damn about his lower body gone missing, if anything, he’s gotten used to it

3.-Skeleader II Grimson

Yeah no thank you

Remember the BoneOilers’ leader? Yea This guy’s his younger sibling, muddafucka gone mad tho

4.-Rachel and Troy

Ah yes, BF’sH second-hand core-bitch antagonist

Long story short, she’s a bitch

She killed Q-Zin’s girl

She’s an active conspirer on the blackout chaos

She kidnapped McBleep and fucked him up because her ‘boss’ told her to do so (she didn’t hesitate tho)

She almost game-ended BF for real

AND she also helped on GF’s kidnapping by keeping BF away from her and let the hippity hoppity happen afterwards

How classy

Also she was the one that killed Troy and turned him into a living weapon

The reason: He tried to leave her gang

Guess she doesn’t know how to properly take no as an answer

5.-Brandon Meiwes

Based on an old OC, don’t ask who or why thank u

Long story short, he’s a cannibal butcher that also eats zombie meat…and is considering tasting demon meat as well

Yeah, let that sink in

Ironicsincethepersonwhichhesworking-theguybehindtheblackout-isademonrelative,thatplanningschemebefuckingflawedaflol

And to make it worse, he owns a very tall warehouse full of dead corpses of whomever living creature you can think of, imagine the intensity the smell of rotten flesh must be in that place

And he still stays in there

Like-

H o w

6.-Brandon M. icon

He’s insane ok, he seriously needs to get put inside a mental asylum

Come to think of it, Lemon Demon and he could be great pals

Wait, he’s a demon

…nevermind

7.-Rachel icon

Hare whore

Rabbit Slut but worse

Playbish

Cottonass

And all that jazz

Nothing else to say, your honor

8.-Phantom bullets

Remember when I mentioned Rachel almost game-ended BF for real? Well, this was the type of the bullets she used in order to (almost) accomplish that

These things are like metallic leeches that not only drain off their victim’s vital energy, but also debilitate any super-natural abilities they might have (depending on how powerful they can be), in BF’s case being his regenerate ability, which, of course, could have taken a while to turn off

Still, these little fuckers are not to be played around with, just saying

[T.B.C.]

#fnfau #friday night funkin'#au #alt universe #alternate universe #alternative timeline #bfsh #ah spooki monstahs

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magnituderenewed-blog · 2 years

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Christianity, Sexuality and Gender: My journey

In childhood, I always thought it a dreadful bore to be a girl. In all my games I pretended to be a male character either from books or movies, or made up entirely. In movies the boys got to race around and climb trees and shoot guns and have adventures! But the girls had to wear dresses and corsets and be polite and proper and sew things. If they were rough and tumble they were most of the time an aberration. Or they were often the side kick or a minor character. Girls who wanted adventure had to dress like boys or even pretend to be boys.

I read a book when I was a kid about this woman named Deborah Sampson who lived in Massachusetts and dressed up as a man so that she could fight for the Continental Army in the Revolutionary War. I can still remember the pictures. She was lauded for being brave and fearless. I admired that she was so confident that she didn’t belong churning butter during war time that she got a uniform, and went to find battle so that she could participate and possibly die or be horribly mangled for a cause she believed in. I’d probably be all pissed off but still churning butter and milking cows on the farm.

I was homeschooled in fourth and fifth grade back when we lived out in the sticks of ______________. Homeschooling allowed us to distill the academics down so we could finish much earlier in the day than public schoolers and be outside more often.

My sisters and I, particularly Micah and I were always outside when the weather was nice and sometimes even when it wasn’t. I am the oldest, then Mic is two years younger, and Emma was two years younger than Mic. When you’re all under ten years old four years is a big difference. I never actually asked Emma, but my perception was that she didn’t like playing outside as much, but maybe she just couldn’t keep up and we didn’t slow down, I don’t know. It makes me sad that we left her behind.

My mom was really great at making sure we had opportunities to be social and interact with other kids while also participating in cool educational opportunities. I think the highlight was, one time she got the entire digestive system of a pig from a butcher, laid it out on a couple card tables on black trash bags under the shade of this big tree in the front yard and invited a few other home schooling families over to come over and dissect it with us. I wish I had been there when she had to get it all out of the bag and lay it out—to see her flopping pig organs around and getting the ass end down and sorting it out. That must have been a sight. Another time she got a pig heart for us to dissect and that was pretty cool too. Kudos to my mom.

In addition to the epic anatomy lessons, we had routine social gatherings as well and mostly they were fun. Time is all screwy to me now when I look back—I have no idea how long we were going there—but we used to go to the Lawson’s house for music and gym. They Lawson’s comprised Tim, the father, who was very tall and had a wonderful sense of humor. I loved hearing him tell stories and he was always breaking into song. Pam was his wife, she was always baking and cooking and making interesting things. Her kitchen always smelled like blueberry muffins. She was also very funny and also sang a lot. I really enjoyed watching her interact with her kids. They seemed relaxed in a way that my parents weren’t and I enjoyed being there.

Their kids were Thadryan (Thay-dree-an, emphasis on first syllabul), whose name Tim made up playing Dungeons and Dragons, Tyler, Toby and Tessa. Thadryan was my age and I thought he was really cool. He wasn’t very demonstrative or emotive and he was pretty tough. He was sporty and enjoyed baseball a lot but we played all kinds of make pretend games outside. We played a lot of Spider-man. His brothers were various degrees of whiny and fussy but they played too. Emma and Tessa were always off doing who knows what and we generally made a practice of running away from them and making them the bad guys whenever they came around. I didn’t really like sports, but Thadryan made whiffle ball fun.

Years later through snippets of conversations with my mom I gathered that my mom and Pam may not have gotten along. My mom is always very direct with her opinions up to and including politics and religion. When people disagree with her the look on her face and body language suggests surprise that people could be dumb enough to think something different. Knowing what I know now, I understand that Pam was more liberal. My mom gets this shocked tone in voice and it always puts my teeth on edge. I’m amazed we went over there as often as we did and left the two of them inside alone. I bet the topic of homeschooling and having kids to talk about made it civil, but what a trooper for her to do that every week for hours a day when she may have not enjoyed it. She said to me that we loved it and that’s why we did it. I am not that cool of a mom.

The one homeschooling extracurricular activity I dreaded was going to the McNally house for choir. They lived “in town” in Orange, Massachusetts. (Oh by the way, the Stephen King show, “Castle Rock” was filmed within walking distance of the McNally and Lawson house. Super cool. I love Stephen King.) There were houses very close on either side and behind them. Their backyard was a steep slope downwards. Their yard on both sides of their house, front yard and porch was full of appliances and boxes and forgotten broken toys, old yard equipment, and junk. Inside the house it always smelled like a combination of leftover spaghetti sauce and a musty thrift store. And everything seemed green, the outside of the house was painted pine tree green, the furniture was green. The house seemed too dark and there were always too many people there.

The McNally kids were a whole gaggle. There were eight of the ranging from fourteenths down to a baby who was just sitting up. The eldest two were girls and the rest of them were boys. From eavesdropping I learned that Mrs. McNally had all her children in their bedroom upstairs and didn’t go to the doctor for ultrasounds or anything so they never knew the gender of the babies before they were born. For the last one, the eldest had been in the house, sitting on the steps when the baby was born and when they found out he was a boy she cried.

The McNally’s were a conservative family. They were all homeschooled too and the girls had to wear dresses and skirts all the time and kept their hair really really long. I’m pretty sure the girls clothes were home made. The boys wore whatever they wanted.

This was my first time recognizing a feeling of “other.” They seemed poor and dirty and unlucky to have to be dressed like that all the time. I was always happy to leave and always dreaded to go. Their girls seemed so constrained and constricted by their situation and their dress. I felt very masculine in comparison to them and took a measure of pride in being tougher than they were.

I equate dressing “like a boy” with being comfortable and feeling at home. Since my early days dressing “like a girl” in frilly things were always for other people’s benefit. I couldn’t sit how I wanted, couldn’t play like I wanted. It was boring.

Nothing much changed as I grew into a woman’s body. Jeans and a tee shirt means relaxation, casualness, organic play and rough housing, the ability to get dirty any time for any reason and not worrying about the clothes. I don’t have to think at all about how I look. Put me in a shirt that is below the little “u” where my clavicles meet and all I can think about is not letting anyone see down my shirt or my boobs hanging out. I can’t have fun because I’m too preoccupied thinking about boobs. This isn’t even taking into account body image issues and feeling insecure, though the heavier I got the more it did. How can I think big thoughts or enjoy my rich inner life if I am distracted by boring stuff like smearing my mascara, not letting anyone see too much cleavage or sitting like a lady?

Another element in the mix was that I got this idea from my particular brand of Christian culture that as a woman my body can cause men to have certain feelings and embarrassing physical reactions. In Christian circles this is bad unless the person you are arousing is your husband. Therefore even when I did feel pretty I also felt guilty (with a dash of empowerment….a confusing feeling overall and one I didn’t really like.) My mentality was that I should protect my “brothers in Christ” by not being immodest so that they didn’t get tripped up by my foxiness and accidentally get aroused.

I had a conversation with Nan about this once when we were in our 20s and she has always been very confident in her sexuality. She said that she actually enjoyed making out with a guy and and then just walking away and leaving him in his aroused state. So typical of Nan. I always felt embarrassed about my sexuality and uncomfortable. Once I was at my ex-boyfriend’s house alone. I had come to his house dressed “nicely” to go out to dinner. We were standing in his kitchen and he was standing really close to me. I think at the time I wasn’t even kissing him yet because I told him I wasn’t allowed to and wanted to wait for marriage. (That didn’t last very long, but kissing was as far as we ever got.) He was standing as close as you can really stand next to someone with his face hovering over mine with that sultry, squinty puppy look tempting me and hoping I’d kiss him, but I felt something poking me softly in the hip and I was very weirded out….but also….empowered and flattered.

My dad was an elder at church and he liked to greet people and chat with them near the entrance of the sanctuary. My church was a very affectionate church--everyone gave hugs to everyone. I was doing what everyone else was doing and would always give hugs in greeting too. I was as proud of giving good strong hugs as I was of giving good strong handshakes. I was even complimented on my hugs once or twice. However, I was in my early teens when swift mortification befell my naive heart when my dad told me that I couldn’t hug men like that because I had breasts now. Thus the side-hug or not hugging at all. I felt like the guy in the Western who gets shot in the chest with an arrow all of a sudden and looks down quizzically before falling over. (My dad was also the one to say, while the family was eating some delicious fried chicken at the dinner table that I had to start wearing a bra.)

Once when I was at youth group I went to give my friend’s dad a hug (because everyone was doing the same exact thing) and he literally put his hands up to keep me back and said, “I only hug my wife.” I know I’ve already used the word “mortified” a million times now, but if I’m stand offish about hugs now this is fucking why. I am so tired of that. So, whatever, I was just doing what other people seemed to do because I thought we were all a big fucking family.

Another very uncomfortable thing for me was, one morning I put on my moms perfume, Beautiful by Este Laude, and my dad got into the truck to take me to school and we hadn’t even made it a half mile from the house and he said I couldn’t wear Mom’s perfume because it “did things for him.” Gross.

In general, my femininity has been a big embarrassment and come between me and my dad. I used to be really close to my dad. I love the guy, but it’s not the same. My growing up put a wedge between us. Fucking boobs. He got all formal and awkward. Don’t get me wrong he is a fantastic guy, he’s one of the most generous, helpful people you will ever meet. He genuinely loves people and he loves me. I just had more fun with dad when I wasn’t a woman.

When I was a preschool age kid I had these big huge strawberry blonde banana curls. As my hair got longer and heavier my mom started to French braid my hair so I could play without it getting all tangled and gnarly. But I played hard all day and my mom was always complaining about my hair. I sure as heck didn’t do anything to take care of it. Finally, when I was eight or so mom took me to get a “Dorothy Hamel” haircut—or a bob. I was thrilled.

In my mom’s opinion, the haircut was a disaster. She didn’t even tell me that at the time, I pieced it together later, but she was really mad at how badly it came out. I looked like the little kid from The Santa Clause and Dunstun Checks In—classic 90’s boy cut. I guess that’s what you get when your aunt who mostly cuts the hair of octogenarians tries to give you a trendy cut.

I loved it, though. On the way home, I couldn’t stop looking at my hair in the side view mirror. If only I wasn’t wearing thick prescription glasses. Not quite coke bottle but heading in that direction.

That was in the third grade and I was going to a public elementary school. I was really into X-Men and being a mutant at the time. One day soon after I got my haircut, at recess, I was playing with some action figures (Wolverine and Gambit against a Mr. Sinister who was double their size and Aladdin--he was good for collateral damage or hostage taking.) This boy came and sat down in the sand with me and said he wanted to play and I said sure. He asked me if I was a boy or a girl and what my name was. I said my name was Tom and we played until the bell rang.

I have never liked clothes shopping. It is such a waste of precious doing-anything-else-in-the-world time. Even back in the day when everything fit me I hated it. I remember school shopping with my mom in Wal-mart around this Dorothy Hamel haircut period and we were picking our way ever so slowly through the girls area of the store.

“Do you like this?” She said and it either had a flower print all over it or poofy shoulders or lace or have a neckline lower than my throat and I made this squinchy face and she pursed her lips into a thin line of impatience and disapproval and put it back on the rack. But I felt like I couldn’t say no to everything so the ones I could tolerate a little more I’d say, “I guess so.”

“Are you going to wear it? She’d say, annunciating overmuch and with her eyebrows brushing the fluorescent lighting over our heads.

“Sure.” I’d say.

And then…from across the aisle I’d see—a black tee shirt with Darth Vader on it and a Tie Fighter in the foreground that looked like it was flying right at you. It said, “Join the Dark Side.” I begged and begged and finally she conceded. I wore it all the time. It disappeared after a while and I suspect it ended up in the wood stove downstairs.

In high school especially I knew I didn’t dress like the other girls. I recognized it but it didn’t occur to me to go out and get clothes like everyone else. I knew I wouldn’t be happy in what everyone else was wearing. I registered that they looked cute and even admired them, but whenever I tried to be like them I felt like an imposter.

I did have some “fashion” influences, if you can even call it that. The first person that was an influence on my dress and sense of style was Becky Hastings. I looked up to her and admired her. I thought she was the coolest person I had ever met. She was very pretty. She wore bandanas in her hair that she stuck there with bobby pins. She had gauges in her ears and a pierced nose. She wore camouflage cargo shorts and converse sneakers and listened to Christian rock and heavy metal bands like August Burns Red, Under Oath, and Demon Hunter. I wasn’t ready for heavy metal of any kind at the time but she introduced me to Thousand Foot Krutch and Pillar and holy shit I felt so cool listening to that driving my car with my newly acquired winter-hat-but-its-cooler-when-you-call-it-a-beanie. I loved the way she talked, the way she laughed at things then said, “Right?”

One day she was driving me home from hanging out with her at her house and she was wearing her gray, black and white cargo shorts and I had my first fully formed sexual inkling about her legs and how I’d like to touch them.

Becky made it okay to not be churchy, but still be a Christian. She made me feel good embracing the styles I preferred. What I liked was very much still in development and it would take me more than a decade to begin to be comfortable with it—but that journey really began with Becky and the realization that I wasn’t the only anomaly.

The second big style influence was a little gem written by Diablo Cody and directed by Jason Reitman called Juno (2007), starring Ellen Page, Jennifer Garner, Allison Janney, Michael Cera and Jason Bateman. But all I really cared about was Ellen Page. The whole cast is great though. I’ve listened to the audio commentary at least twice and watched the movie a half dozen times. It took me a while to get to the movie because everyone was talking about it all the time and I don’t like bandwagons. In part, I might be a little bit of a snob when it comes to books and movies, but also, I think I don’t want to think about a really good experience being shared by so many people in the exact same way.

Anyways, for a few years I worked at this trash heap of a store called Videos Videos Videos back in the day when people went out to rent movies. They also sold gift baskets there and helium balloons. And pornography. The store was really dingy and dusty and smelled like what would happen if you took a whole dustpan full of dust and cobwebs and baked it in the oven for three hours at four hundred degrees. When I first started there they had VHS tapes. I worked under the table there for cash. I was pretty proud of myself. That was the longest lasting job I ever had. I loved going through all the movies and making sure they were alphabetized and facing the right way. I loved when people asked me for recommendations or if such and such was a good movie. I loved thinking about what movie I should play on the television when people came into the store and that it was a nice quiet job and I could do homework and stuff when it wasn’t busy. The best part of the job though, was employees could rent as many movies as they wanted as long as they had been older than three months.

Juno rocked my world. One, it was written by a woman who was working as a stripper at the time. How cool is that? Two, it has no equal to it’s style in writing. It was so hilarious, so fun to listen to and quote and listen to again.

Juno MacGuff wasn’t trying to sound like anyone else, she just was who she was and lived there. It encouraged me to find my own sense of self and style and own it. I also loved the wardrobe in the movie, something I had never paid attention to before. She was happy to be an oddball and probably rocked thrift stores and found cool stuff. If I could be patient and tolerate the gross smells, maybe I could find cool stuff too. Juno encouraged me to develop my own sense of humor and to not be afraid to drop references from movies, books, pop culture or history and if other people got them, cool, if not oh well, that’s not the point. The point is, this is me. Deal with it. Juno gave me a sense that I was the cool one and everyone else around me was boring. For good or ill, this revolutionized my persona and made me much less of a Timid Tina/Awkward Anna. On good days this is what I tapped into.

I bet 75% of popularity or beauty is confidence. If you’re going to get glasses or a unique hair cut and never lift your eyes up off the ground than it automatically puts a target on your back. But if you put your shoulders back and look people in the eye and think in your head, “Why the fuck aren’t YOU wearing coke bottle glasses,” it’s like an Instagram filter that makes you 10x cooler or more beautiful than if you didn’t. Juno gave me training wheels for developing that filter.

A third big style influence in my life (and that of my sisters and mom), was introduced to me by Katie the summer before we went to college, and that was the Gilmore Girls. She had the first few seasons on DVD and we went through the first season together. I think the first two seasons are the best of the whole series writing-wise. I took them home with me and my sisters and my mom and I watched it and none of us were ever the same.

We were never allowed to watch “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” growing up, if we had I suspect that what the “Gilmore Girls” did for us would have probably happened a lot earlier in the life of our female lives. The Gilmore’s (+ Suki) were very smart, well-read, well versed in movies and music and culture, were hilarious and had quick wits and a gift for banter. At the time, it too was a show where the writing set it apart. We were funny before the Gilmore’s, but it seems like after this show came out we reached a new dimension.

In the beginning of the show, Rory wasn’t boy crazy, she wasn’t on the phone constantly, she wasn’t obsessed with her nail color or plucking her eye brows. She actually genuinely enjoyed school, had clearly defined goals for her life and liked reading and studying. She was a breath of fresh air. She made me feel better about myself because that’s exactly how I was. Whenever my ninth grade teacher would put the next book we were reading on our desk it felt like he had just slapped a treasure chest down on my desk, or a holy relic of some kind.

A lesser influence in my life was Jennifer Garner’s Sydney Bristow from “Alias.” She was really smart, worked hard at school (until becoming a spy…then it got crazy) and she was beautiful and sexy. I admired her work ethic. Plus she was going to be an English Lit major like me before the SD-6 fucked up her life.

I was once obsessed with Nancy McKeon from “The Facts of Life.” I had a huge crush on Jo. The whole thing with Jo was that she was a tomboy and a foil to Blaire’s character. I loved that Jo was comfortable being Jo, that she was so tough and grungy and worked on motorcycles and stuff. She was exciting and edgy.

It occurs to me as I sit here and think of the different things in my life that have influenced my dress, my speech and my ideas that I was looking for permission to be me. I knew how I did not fit in, and I wanted to fit in somewhere. I wanted a place to be made for me, but what happened was I had to make a place for myself.

There is more to it than that, but basically the above anecdotes are a constellation of things that connect to make a picture of where and what I am now. Lesbian. Having retreated back into the closet. (I’ll get to that in another entry.) Married to a man. Four kids. Going to Church even though I’m pretty sure I don’t believe in God.

#lgbtq #deconstruction #gender dysphoria #christianity #writing #catharsis #sexuality #closeted #enneagram 4 #infj confessions #marriedlife #religion #juno #elliot page #gilmore girls

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magnusmysteries · 3 years

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Part 3: The Wheel of Fear

The Magnus Archives was a horror podcast. It is now completed. Many of the show’s mysteries were never explained on the show. I intend to explain them. Spoilers for the show, but also spoilers if you wanna solve these mysteries yourself.

In the Architecture of Fear Smirke talks about a great wheel of fear. He talks of the fourteen powers, each with their opposites and their allies. I think Smirke believed the fourteen fears could be arranged in a circle, and that two fears on opposite sides of the circle are opposites.

In Old Passages there is a circular room with fourteen corridors leading out of it and a datestone that says “Robert Smirke. 1835. Balance and Fear.” I think each corridor represents a fear, with opposing fears placed opposite each other. The building is supposed to balance and thereby neutralize the fears. I think it works to some extent. In End of the Tunnel there is a similar structure. This one was damaged by a bomb during World War 2. This ruined the balance, and the Dark got out.

In Family Business Gerard says some fears really clash with each other, while others can blend together.

I tried to work out how Smirke arranged his fears on the wheel. I looked for episodes where two fears seemed to blend together and put them next to each other. With some fears it is fairly obvious they are neighbors, if you look for the clues. Others connections are harder to spot. I tried a few versions of the wheel that didn’t feel completely right. But then I found a version where suddenly lots of things clicked. It explained why the web table could trap the Not-Then, why Robert Monthauk’s ritual banished the darkness monster and things like that. I think this is the correct wheel:

Description of image: A circle with 14 spots similar to a clock. On each spot is a number and the name of a power: 1. Corruption. 2. Desolation. 3. Hunt. 4. Slaughter. 5. End. 6. Lonely. 7. Stranger. 8. Flesh. 9. Spiral. 10. Buried. 11. Dark. 12. Vast. 13. Eye. 14. Web.

Here is how powers overlap:

Corruption and Desolation

Desolation deals with suffering and loss of loved ones, and disease can cause both of those things.

Asag is a god of both fire and disease.

John Amherst is an avatar of both powers. There is fire in every episode he appears. In Taken Ill the old folks home he managed burns. It appears it was burned by Trevor and Julia, but this is misdirection. Amherst burned it himself. In Pest Control Amherst is burned, yet survives. In the Tale of A Field Hospital Jonathan notices the statement is charred. He speculates this happened when Gertrude burned the book. But I think the book spontaneously combusted. In A Cozy Cabin we learn that Gertrude is very much against burning books in the archives, and would have been more careful and not ruined the statement. And in Rotten Core Adelard says he will sit on Amherst’s throne and burn himself and it. I think that was a very bad idea, more on that in a later post.

In Squirm the protagonist, after being infected by worms, burns his own apartment down. He is influenced by Corruption/Desolation.

Desolation and Hunt

You can run from a hunter and you can run from fire.

Vampires are Hunt, Desolation and Corruption. In Vampire Killer we learn that vampires burn very easily. Because of the Desolation.

Why do vampires have a long bloodsucking tongue? Because the Corruption deals with mosquitoes.

There is a hint about the vampire-mosquito connection in Dead Horse; “That night the mosquitos were out in force, thick with fever, and hungry for our blood. I did my best to simply ignore them, safe as I was in my net. But over in Raleigh’s tent I kept hearing a sporadic thumping, or clapping sound, as if he were killing them with his bare hands. When I asked him about it the next day, he simply told me he had inside him a strong and enduring hatred of bloodsuckers.”

And then later: “Now, he and his crew were pinning the things that looked like men to trees, with long, iron spikes. They thrashed, and struggled, and a long, bulbous tongue hung from their throats, pinned by the iron of von Toll’s men. “I cannot stand bloodsuckers,” Raleigh said approvingly, as he conversed quietly with Baron von Toll in French.”

Also in Vampire Killer, the vampire offers rotten fruit to Trevor. Her house is dusty, a book Trevor picks up is damp and moldy and the bed is musty.

Hunt and Slaughter

The similarities are obvious.

Several of the Slaughter episodes have music that makes people go violent: The Piper, Strange Music, Grifter’s Bone, Civilian Casualties, Nemesis. Total War had singing corpses. Two hunter episodes also had music connection. First Hunt has the werewolf whistling “A-hunting-we-shall go”. Thrill of the Chase had the protagonist tapping her foot as if to music right before the violence started.

Thrill of The Chase is a Hunt/Slaughter episode. The Man in the mask is like a serial killer from a movie, very Slaughter. But it is a wolf mask, very Hunt.

Slaughter and End

People die in war.

Absent Without Leave covers both fears. Slaughter obviously, but it is also about the inevitableness of death.

Many Slaughter episodes deal with the living dead. And they usually seem to have a horrible existence: The guy getting stabbed in the Smell of Blood. All the soldiers fused together that shot Melanie. The dead people in Grifter’s Bone that had to fight each other. The dead woman in Absent without a leave. The corpses in the tunnel in the same episode. This makes people fear death since they don’t wanna end up like that.

The End also has the skin book which similarly makes people live after death, and it is agony. And Oliver Banks was alive after death.

In Total War, a Slaughter episode, the statement giver says he could believe he was dead and in hell.

End And Lonely

You’re all alone when you’re dead I guess.

In the episode Alone, the statement giver is almost drawn into an empty grave. Very End.

There is also a ghost in that episode. So life after death, like with the End and the Slaughter.

The Lucas family only meet for funerals.

From Boatswain’s call, regard Peter Lukas: “His eyes only moved a fraction of an inch to focus on me, but it felt as though the movement had the weight of a heavy stone door. Like a tomb. Don’t know why that’s what popped into my head, but there you go.”

Lonely and Stranger

If everyone is a stranger to you, you are lonely.

Lost in the Crowd and Monologue are Lonely/Stranger episodes.

Stranger and Flesh

Stranger deals with objects that behave like people. Flesh deals with thinking people are just flesh, an object.

Anatomy Class is a Stranger/Flesh episode.

Flesh and Spiral

Thinking you are just meat is a kind of madness.

In Killing Floor the protagonist is lost in a slaughterhouse maze, very Flesh and Spiral. He also walks a spiral staircase at some point.

I think Jared Hopworth is both Flesh and Spiral. Many reasons for him being Spiral: First: He prays on people with mental problems, body dysmorphia, anorexia etc.

Second: In The Butcher’s Window he twists a bone into a spiral and inserts it in himself.

Third: The book The Boneturner's Tale makes nearby books bleed. I think objects that bleed, that should not have blood, is a sign of the Spiral. The door handle in a Sturdy Lock bled. The tree in Burned Out bled. I think the tree is Spiral, much more on that in another post. Books, door handles and trees that bleed are all impossible, madness. Some might object that blood also fits with the Flesh, but the Flesh is actually fairly into cleanliness. I’ll explain why below.

Fourth: when Michael Crew is tormented by the Spiral he tries to escape by using the Boneturner’s Tale. “...but when I tried to shift the bits of myself I thought might set me free, the only shapes I could form with them were laced with that horrid, hunting fractal.” You can’t escape from the Spiral by using a book of the Spiral.

Mary Keay seems to think the book that drops bones is of the Flesh “Just a bit of viscera. Poems about dying animals...” The book is part Flesh, hence the dying animals, but is also Spiral. If you see a book producing bones you’d think you’d gone mad right?

Also in Old Passages, the bone book is stored in the room corresponding to the Spiral. The floor of that room’s corridor apparently bleeds. “I put my hand onto the floor to push myself up, and it came away faintly tinged with red.” There is a mummified hand in the Spiral room, hands are often an element with the Spiral. Think of the Distortion’s hands, or the Worker-in-Clay’s weird hands, or the hands coming out of the pot in Lost and Found. After entering the room, the statement giver gets very confused. He says his memories start to blur, and he ends up apparently taking the wrong door several times. That’s the Spiral messing with his mind and making him lost.

The demon In Confession and Desecrated Host might be of Spiral/Flesh. Or it might be the two Fears working together. More on that in a later post.

Spiral and Buried

Strong claustrophobia can be irrational, a mental problem. The Spiral includes the fear of getting lost, and you can get lost in a cave.

The Distortion has a yellow door that is a portal to impossible places. The Coffin is yellow and is a portal to an impossible place.

Held in Customs is Buried/Spiral. Time behaved differently for the protagonist, typically Spiral. John says the protagonist got Alzheimer, but it is the Spiral messing with his memories.

Lost Johns’ Cave is Buried/Spiral/Dark. The protagonist's memories are all wrong, the Spiral has changed them. And the cave is a maze. Mazes are spiral. The statement giver is a big fan of darkness.

Buried and Dark

Caves are dark and cramped. The ocean is dark and choking.

Lights Out is Buried/Dark. Quote: “I was in the Sandman’s sack. (...) The darkness pressed in, and seemed to fill my mouth, my nose.” Also the Sandman spills sand from his mouth, similar to how people chocked on sand in Dust to Dust and how the man spit out mud in We All Ignore The Pit.

Submerged is Buried/Dark. The protagonist is in danger of drowning but there are lots of references to darkness: The lights at the lawyer office don't work because the lightbulb is filled with water. There is thunder but no lightning, that is there are no lights in the sky. There are no street lights or lights on in the other houses. Water is described as dark and murky. The lights of the cars come on, to show dark shapes moving in the water. Quote about the water: "It would wrap itself around me, reach down my throat and fill me with its choking darkness." The water is murky. Dark water is also in several Dark episodes: a Father Love, Nightfall, Tucked In and the Movement of the Heavens.

Dark and Vast

The ocean is dark and vast. Space is dark and vast.

High Pressure is a Dark/Vast/Buried episode. The space the protagonist enters seems too dark. The vastness of the underwater space and the size of the creature is Vast. The enormous pressure is Buried.

In Big Picture we learned that Hailey, of the Dark, helped make the diving bell for the Vast ritual.

In Old Passages the first corridor the statement giver is in, is of the Buried. He keeps thinking the corridor is getting narrower. When he gets to the circular room he looks down the other doorways. One makes him feel like he’s gonna fall into it. One is exceptionally dark. It’s the corridors of the Vast and the Dark. They would be the corridors next to the Buried, the first doorways the statement giver would look into.

Vast and Eye

From The Coming Storm, Mike Crew discussing the Vast and the Eye: “We have a lot in common, really. After all, what, what good’s the height, the terrifying draw of gravity, unless you, unless you really know the scale of what you’re facing?”

In The Architecture of Fear an enormous Eye fills the sky.

In Twice as Bright Jude says of Michael Crew “...he’s closer to your lot than mine.” Meaning the Vast is closer to the Eye than the Desolation.

Quote from Jurgen Leitner: “Imagine, you are an ant, and you have never before seen a human. Then one day, into your colony, a huge fingernail is thrust, scraping and digging. You flee to another entrance, only to be confronted by a staring eye gazing at you. You climb to the top, trying to find escape and, above you, can see the vast dark shadow of a boot falling upon you. Would that ant be able to construct these things into the form of a single human being? Or would it believe itself to be under attack by three different, equally terrible, but very distinct assailants?”

Jurgen is referencing four powers here, the eye is the Eye. The boot is the Vast and the Dark. The digging fingernail is the Buried. And these four powers are next to each other, so in a way they are the same.

When Jurgen said this he was compelled by John. John did not know that he was compelling Jurgen, but Jurgen did know. Jurgen seemed to not want to give too much information. He was perhaps worried John would learn that destroying the archives would kill John. That Leitner, indirectly, was planning to kill John. So Leitner talked in riddles. That way he could give into the compulsion without John getting wiser.

Eye and Web

Both powers can seem passive, waiting and watching. Spiders have eight eyes.

The Book A Guest for Mister Spider is part Eye. Mr. Spider has eight eyes of all shapes and sizes.

Archivists are Eye/Web. First, the way they compel people to speak is very Web.

Second, the ancient archivist in Alexandria had long spindly fingers. Like spider legs. In Web Development Annabelle Cane is also described as having long spindly fingers. In Thought For The Day Annabelle moves her fingers along the wall, “...like a spider”.

Third, In Doomed Voyage, after John takes Floyd’s statement, Floyd seems confused. John tried to soothe him. Then John says “It’s alright, Floyd. You just need a break.” Floyd says “Yeah. Sure”. I think John was mind controlling Floyd. I think there is a little static when John speaks. Static on the tape often indicates that something magic is happening.

In Heavy Goods John tells Breekon “Stop”. Breekon is upset. Then John extracts a statement from Breekon’s mind. I think John mind controlled Breekon to stand still. There’s definitely a lot of static.

In Infectious Doubts Gertrude tells Arthur that he can try to leave. It seems he tries but is unable to. I think Gertrude is mind controlling him to stay.

Web and Corruption

Insects and spiders are similar. Probably many people afraid of one of them are also afraid of the other.

In Hive Jane Prentiss talks about the song of the hive that affects her. She says webs has a song as well.

Each fear has an opposite:

The Corruption vs. The Flesh

Because rot harms meat.

The Flesh tends to be very clean. The student in Anatomy Class cleaned up all the blood they spilled. The slaughterhouse maze in killing Floor was very clean. This is to combat the Corruption.

The Man Upstairs was about a Flesh avatar being attacked by the corruption.

I think Blood Bag was also about the Corruption versus the Flesh. More on than in a later post.

The Desolation vs. The Spiral

I’ll explain why they are opposed in a later post, when I get to Hill Top Road.

The Hunt vs. The Buried

The Hunt is a lot about running from a predator. Can’t run in a cramped space.

When Daisy was in the Buried she was freed from the Hunt. It could not reach her there, because it was an opposite force.

The Slaughter vs. The Dark

I’ll explain why they are opposites in the next post.

In The Piper the Slaughter kills Jonathan Rayner of the Dark.

In A Father’s Love the father performs a ritual that involves killing many people. The ritual destroys the darkness monster that is coming for his daughter. I think this worked because it was a ritual of the Slaughter, the opposite of the Dark. The father is chanting as he stabs the human heart. The Slaughter is often associated with music.

The End vs. The Vast

From Dead Woman Walking, Georgie talking about the End: “The promise of a cold and lonely eternity in the grave would have been a mercy; at least it would be eternal. But everything ends, even the universe, even time. (...) ...the monumental realization of the scale we existed on. Not the meaningless vastness of the universe, but the… the smallness of it.” Sounds like the opposite of the Vast.

I think the Vast also deals with the fear of eternity. First: notice how Georgie said eternity would be a mercy.

Second: notice how old Simon Fairchild was.

Third: In Submerged we learn that Gertrude threw Jan Kilbride’s body into the pit to disrupt the Buried ritual. John says “But Gertrude also realized that the body need not be alive. Or in one piece. She thought it was a mercy. It wasn’t.” I think this means she chopped up the body, but Jan was still alive. Jan was touched by the Vast. I think this had made him immortal, to make him fear eternity.

Fourth: In Personal Space a door in password to the door is E109GHT8. Someone on the Magnus subreddit figured out what it means. It refers to the three fears that owned the space station, the Lonely, the Dark and the Vast. For the Lonely, the 10 should be read like lo, and the beginning of the nine as n, giving is elon, sounding like alone. For the Dark, the 9 sounds like ni, making 9GHT sound like night. For the Vast, the 8 sideways is an infinity symbol

Fifth: in Freefall, when the guy is falling through infinite sky, his watch has stopped and he doesn’t know how long he has fallen. It feels like hours or days. But when he returns it has not been that long. The spiral messes with time to make people doubt their sanity. The Vast does it to make people fear eternity.

Sixth, quote from A Matter of Perspective: “I don’t know how long I was floating for. I know it was less than a billion years, which is barely a heartbeat in the life of the universe, so how can it really be said to matter? The stars began to wink out, one by one, and I thought – perhaps for a second, perhaps for a hundred years…”

I believe the immortal gamblers from Cheating Death, Section 31 and Burial rites, were not of the End, like John thought, but of the Vast. They didn’t want to die at first, hence they gambled for life. That is the choice they made to embrace the Vast. But later they become afraid not of death, but the opposite, of not dying. The mummy in the pyramid tried to stab itself to death. The gambler in Section 31 tried to shoot himself. There is a symbol of infinity on the pyramid.

In High Pressure, the statement begins and ends with the statement giver saying she should be dead. She didn’t die because she was touched by the Vast.

The Stranger vs The Web

The Stranger makes dolls, puppets etc. into living things. The Web does the opposite, makes living people into puppets.

In Heavy Goods Breekon says of the Spider “It knows too much to truly be a stranger.” The Stranger has the Unknowing, a ritual based on not knowing things.

The Web table trapped a creature of the Stranger. Quote from Jonathan after he smashed the table: “Smash the table, kill the monster, stupid! Lazy, sloppy assumption. Of course the table was binding it. The table is webs and spiders. Spiders are something else. They don’t help each other, they oppose, they… they weaken.”

In Nightfall Officer Musterman tells John he doesn’t know who is listening to the tapes, but that he doesn’t like it. The tapes are Web and Mustermann is Stranger.

In Angler Fish, the Stranger targets smokers. Smokers, like other addicts, are weak to the Web. So the Stranger isn’t just getting victims, it is fighting the Web.

The Eye vs. The Lonely

Because if you’re watched you’re not alone.

In Personal Space, there is a camera apparently recording the lonely astronaut. But then he finds out the wires of the camera were severed from the start. So it is scary for the astronaut that no-one was watching him, the opposite of the Eye.

But if every fear has an opposite, what about the Extinction? Find out next post.

#the magnus archives #tma #magnuspod #robert smirke #jared hopworth

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squiiids · 3 years

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you know what, now that i'm talking about SCP stuff, i'm gonna write up that idea that came to me in a dream for an SCP article that i've been thinking about for way too long. so in briefest terms, its a japanese mascot that represents meat processing, but they don't stop at livestock.

Item #: SCP-#### Object Class: Euclid Special Containment Procedures: Any instances of SCP-#### is to be kept alone in a 5m x 5m x 5m chamber with no necessary amenities, and armed turrets in the outer hallways in the event of a containment breach. No instances of SCP-#### may be kept with other instances. No security staff are to be posted outside the chamber in the event they motivate SCP-#### to attempt a security breach. Once every three days, any animal commonly used for livestock should be brought into the chamber guided by a group of prepubescent and/or pubescent children under strict instruction to leave as soon as the animal is delivered. If any children refuse to return after delivering SCP-####'s meal, the chamber is to be flooded with anesthetics, and the children must be retrieved by security. If necessary, the instance of SCP-#### may be eliminated in the process. Instances of SCP-#### are observed to be much stronger than humans, but do not have any particular resistances to ballistic weaponry. Their skin is has a similar strength and thickness to leather, and they can be subdued by any normal means. They are not particularly resistant to anything, except foodborne illnesses including but not limited to Salmonella, E. Coli, various parasites, and more. Their anatomy is similar to most humans, and most traditional methods of killing are effective against them. Agricultural towns with a focus on livestock are to be monitored by the SCP foundation, and in the event of an influx of reported missing livestock, Mobile Task Force Omega Tau Beta (Codename Where's the Beef) will be engaged to explore the outskirts of the town to find and neutralize any instance of SCP-#### that may be living in the area. Description: SCP-#### is a species of 9-foot tall humanoid beings with engorged heads and thick orange-tinted skin. All members of the species display a very apt proficiency in agriculture and meat processing with any variety of livestock, being able to separate cuts of meat from bone, remove sinew, and so on with expert skill using only their bare hands. Once done so, they consume the meat, drained blood, skin, sinew, and bones whole and raw. Depending on when their last meal is, they may forego the separation process and consume the animal whole. Most concerning about the behavior of SCP-#### is their disregard for what constitutes as livestock. While they prioritize common animals such as cows, chickens, and pigs, if given the opportunity, they will attempt to consume any animal exceeding 1kg in weight, including humans, and members of their own species. As of now, all instances of two or more SCP-#### instances being kept together have resulted in them attempting to consume one-another. No reproductive organs have been observed on SCP-#### and it is currently unknown how or if SCP-#### instances can reproduce. Additionally, SCP-#### has a memetic effect on any juveniles of any species that it considers livestock. The juveniles, no matter their instincts or dispositions, will be completely calm and docile around instances of SCP-####. Human children, when asked about this phenomenon, will regard SCP-#### as familiar to them, referring it to it as Mr. Yenma. When questioned, children under SCP-####'s effect will be able to describe SCP-#### and its behavior in great detail, albeit in a child-friendly way that usually excludes the creatures' habit of violent consumption of flesh. To children under SCP-####'s memetic effects, Mr. Yenma is a very polite and friendly educator who seeks to teach children about meat processing. In all observed cases, adults of any species are not effected. When under the effect, SCP-#### raises the juvenile animal and consumes them before this memetic property no longer has any effect It refuses to eat any juveniles before it reaches what the creature considers a state of maturity. While being butchered or consumed, the juvenile is still calm through the entire process. When not captive, singular instances of SCP-#### will attempt to insert themselves into agricultural

communities as a sort of butcher-themed mascot for children. It will hide itself from adults, but very frequently show itself to children, putting on events showing them the proper way to butcher animals. Over time, the instance of SCP-#### will consume any livestock in said communities, and when the animals run out, eventually begin consuming wild animals, rodents, pets and zoo animals, and eventually humans. The first instance of SCP-#### was found in the cattle-raising village of [REDACTED] in Hokkaido, Japan. The SCP-#### instance became an unofficial mascot of the town, as billboards and murals displaying "Yenma-san" were found throughout the town. Reports of missing persons cases were brought to the attention of SCP representatives of the area, and when they went to investigate, the entire town of cow farmers had lost all their cattle, the natural ecosystem of the forests surrounding the town had been devastated by the sudden loss of life, and the population of the town itself had lost one third of its inhabitants. None of the inhabitants were aware of SCP-####'s presence outside of recounted stories from the town's children. When interviewed, the children reported that Yenma-san ran out of cows to show how to butcher, so he moved on to deer, then bears, and eventually people. Further questioning revealed that all children in the village were proficient in butchering a human body in a way that would "best preserve the meat". The instance of SCP-#### was eventually found in a meat-processing facility 8 Km outside of the town, where it was detained and brought into the SCP facility. All imagery of Yenma-San the mascot were destroyed, and inhabitants of the town were given Class-C amnestics, except for the children, who had been given Class-A amnestics to destroy the memories of any lessons Yenma-san gave them. SCP-#### is shown to have intelligence and a grasp on human language. Interviews with the creature have been attempted on multiple occasions, but all instances except one have ended in complete failure due to the uncooperative nature of the creature. In all other cases, instances of SCP-#### refused to speak or even attempted to attack and consume the interviewer. Below is the one and only successful interview log in which SCP-#### said anything.

Interview Log #####-09

Date: August ██, 20██ Interviewee: SCP-####-06 Interviewer: Dr. ██████ Notes: The prior 8 interview logs as well as the first 43 minutes of this interview have been cut from the document, as they feature nothing but silence from all interviewed instances of SCP-####

[BEGIN LOG] Dr ██████: ....Could you give us anything to work with, Dr██████: Come on, where do you come from? What's your origin? Dr ██████: And why is it that children know about you? subject remains unresponsive Dr ██████: Oh come on, I know you can hear me! The cognitive tests we've done thus far have proven you know some language! Just talk to us! subject remains quiet for some time. During which the doctor makes a signal for security to begin moving it back to its holding cell. Before they arrive, SCP-####-06 Looks up at the doctor, and opens its mouth. Without moving its lips, it says,

SCP####-06: Doctor, you should know by now. It's rude to talk to your food.

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katsubiatch · 3 years

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Hopelessly Devoted-2

Warnings: Bar Shenanigans, Alcohol consumption, descriptions of medical events

Authors Note: I'm so sorry it took me so long to get this out! I have a 11 month old and a full time job, plus we recently found out so bad news about my father in laws health so I've been taking time for family. However now this is finally out I hope everyone likes it and I've already started working on the next part which I can hopefully get out soon. Thank you to everyone who has stuck around!! Also just a note at the start of each chapter, not sure how many there will be, I am going to add in a part that will tie later into the story!

Pain. Indescribable pain soaked into each part of your body, molding into each crack and crevice. You thought you were screaming but you couldn't quite tell. When your ryes finally opened the bright white lights almost blinded you. There was a flurry of activity around you, people moving, your body parts being moved and needles poking into you. "You're alright, it's going to be okay. Just breath for me, okay Y/N?" You heard to your left, and your head felt heavy as you looked over to a familiar face of one of your coworkers. She looked like she was going to cry. Then you heard some familiar words that usually meant bad news. "Pressures are dropping, we need to get an ultrasound. She might be having internal bleeding!"

There were a few words that you wanted to get out, but your tongue felt thick and sluggish. Your brain not working as quickly as you would like but soon you were fading back into that black nothingness where there was no pain and you could rest. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One date lead to two, two to three and so on. The last thing you expected was to be exclusively dating a pro hero. Especially not such a controversial pro hero who was explosive both literally and emotionally. You hadn't really kept up with pros before but since you started dating Dynamight, or Katsuki as you were now able to call him, you noticed him in more and more interviews and managed to catch him on the news more often than you ever had before. He was... sweet and kind when he wanted to be, but he was also brash and rude at times. You were able to see past that most of the time. You took it in stride, brushed off his comments that weren't meant to be rude but came off that way. He showed his love and appreciation in strange ways, and you just had to decipher it.

Of course your relationship was kept out of the news, quiet and secret. You didn't mind too much, after all you were not about fame and wanting people to know your name. Katsuki said that it was safer that way, no villain's would come after you to get to him. You wouldn't be under constant threat of being kidnapped or killed. Besides it also kept your name out of the tabloids and gossip columns with people speculating on who you were and if you were just with Katsuki because of his fame or money. However there were a few people he wanted to let in on the secret.

You were currently sitting at the same bar you'd met at, sipping at your drink while Katsuki sat next to you and peeled the label off his beer bottle. It was hard to tell when he was anxious but this was a safe assumption that he was at least a little nervous. You were going to be meeting his friends, ones from high school that he'd managed to stay in touch with. Though you were sure that was mostly because they all pretty much worked together as pros. "Don't be so nervous. I'm sure it will be fine." You rolled your eyes, moving to place your hands around his, stilling them as you looked up at him. "I'm pretty sure I've met most of them before at the hospital. So I mean.. I already slightly know them." You shrugged and went back to your drink. The coolness from the ice a stark contrast to the warmth of Katsuki's hands. "It's not that... they're just idiots and they'll probably drive you away. I mean they're a lot to handle." That was an understatement but Y/N wasn't worried. If his friends were too much she could always excuse herself for a few minutes. Besides how bad could they be? "Don't worry about that, I'm sure there isn't anything they could say that would keep me away from you." You smiled, leaning over to place a kiss against Bakugou's lips, which caused him to become flustered and turn a shade of pink. He wasn't a huge fan of PDA so you didn't often push but he indulged you sometimes.

"Uh oh, Bakubro caught kissing in public!" A loud voice sounded to he left of you two, causing you to look over at a very energetic blond. You'd seen him quite a few times getting stitched up and flirting with nurses. "Hi, I'm..." He started but trailed off when you interrupted him.

"Denki Kaminari. I've seen you in the ER a few times, you're the one who.. gets kind of dumb when you overuse your quirk, right?" You asked, giving him a smile. "Ooohhh that's rough bro." Another tall man with bright red hair and built like a God in your opinion, and could be none other than.. "Eijiro Kirishima, nice to meet you." "Okay that's enough small talk!" Bakagou grumbled as he looked over at the three of you, causing you to laugh a touch. "Where are Pinky and Plain face?" He inquired. "On their way, got stuck at the office." Kaminari pouted from his spot at the table. Things went much better than Bakugou could have imagined. You got along with his friends almost too well and he almost regretted introducing you to them. You were tipsy with Mina and Kaminari, and he was sure that the three of you were coming up with a bad idea which you were, and ended up with the three of you absolutely butchering karaoke. But Bakugou didn't care, things felt right and he was glad you got along with his friends.

It was a year into your relationship, and the two of you had moved in together. It wasn't often that you got to spend together. With Bakugou wanting to do everything he could to become number 1 and with your crazy work schedule it just made sense. Some days you only saw each other in passing, or the rare night off you would spend being lazy and sleeping. It wasn't ideal but neither of you would ask the other to give up things. So you took your one or two nights a week that you actually got to sleep next to your boyfriend over nothing, and didn't complain. You didn't complain but things started to turn sour at one point when Bakugou caught you and your coworker standing a bit to close to one another to read a chart. His mind had gone crazy with jealousy and thoughts of you cheating on him. The lack of time spent together drove him crazy and cause a lot of insecurities in him.

"Are you kidding me? I'm cheating on you with Arata? Seriously?" You managed to get out after he finally voice his accusations aloud. You'd just gotten home from a long shift, almost twenty four hours and this was how you were greeted. Bakugou sitting at the kitchen table ready for an interrogation the second you walked in. "I don't know where you got your information or what you think is true but you're wrong." You scoffed, shaking your head and moving to pull your shoes off.

"I'm wrong? Then why is that creep always hanging around you?Every time I'm at the hospital he's standing right next to you." Bakugou was ready for any excuse, anything that you had to say. "Because he's my friend?" You voiced as a question, going about your routine for when you got home from work. Getting dinner, peeling off your scrubs and taking a hot shower. "We work together, and he's my friend. I've never even thought of him like that." You scrunched up your nose, shaking your head and moving towards the bathroom. "Just a friend?" "Yes! Just a friend! He's a doctor in the ER and we work together. Most of the time we're working on the same cases." You shrug starting to undress as you look back over at him. "I promise that we aren't running around the hospital having secret sex rendezvous. It isn't like Grey's Anatomy." You sigh and undo your hair from the bun you'd piled it in halfway through your shift. "Fine, I'll believe you." Bakugou huffed, smiling down at your naked form, his hands moving to your hips. "That's all I ask." You beam up at him, pulling at the bottom of his shirt, "Mmm now why don't you join me in the shower?" Little didn't you know that this wouldn't be the last time you had this conversation.

#bakugou x y/n #bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #bakugou katuski x reader #Hopelessly Devoted

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mercurial-muses · 2 years

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-Conquest, first night-

The knight dragged half of a leftover biscuit through what was left of her stew, letting the broth soak in deeply before taking a big bite. A smile bowed her lips as Bex did the same.

“Why’d some of those guys call you Vinnie?” Bex asked her around a mouth full of food. The nearby fire lit his features in a dance of light and shadow, making him stand out against the dark background of the night sky.

Eavyn’s smile grew. “They’ve been on campaign with me before and know me best by a nickname I picked up a long time ago.”

“Did you used to fight?”

“Oh, I still do when necessary. I brought my armor and my horse.” Eavyn gestured to a sword and shield leaning against a nearby crate. “Everyone here can fight and will if they're needed. And when we find some time between meals, I can start teaching you how to do the same.”

“With that?” Bex asked excitedly, pointing at her sword.

The knight drew a butcher’s knife from a sheath at her side. “First with this.” She guffawed at the young man’s obvious look of disappointment. “Don’t be so quick with your judgement,” she added gently. “Butchering meat for meals has taught me all I’ve needed to know to effectively disable and dismantle a foe.”

When Bex shoved a big hunk of biscuit into his mouth, Eavyn took that as a sign to continue on. “One nicked tendon drops a threat’s weapon and another keeps them from escaping. A severed artery brings a quick and merciful death.” She flourished the small, sharp blade. “All without laying hands on a sword. But when you do…”

Bex’s breath left him in a whispered “Whoooaaaa.”

Eavyn chuckled and sheathed her knife. “Right, so we’ll have you cut some back bacon in the morning and talk a bit about anatomy as we go. Then, if we get some time later in the day, I’ll hand over the practice sword I brought for you and we can start working on stance and technique with that.”

“Really?” Youthful exuberance was clear in Bex’s tone and served as a reminder of just how little he had seen of the world so far.

“Really. I intend to show you as much as I can.” Eavyn’s voice was firm as she added, “That will include meal deliveries to the medical area. Because as appealing as going to battle may seem to you now, Bex, it’s important that you see how ugly it is too," the knight explained patiently.

"The consequences of even the most honorable of fights can still be grim. It’s important that you see this campaign with a realistic view, not a romanticised one. That way you’ll be able to make an informed decision about what you want to do with your life when that time comes.”

“When did you know that you wanted to be a knight?” Bex asked after a thoughtful pause.

“My father was a knight and raised me on fanciful stories of his adventures. I honestly don’t remember ever wanting to be anything else.”

“Then why are you here cooking instead of out fighting in the field?”

“Because there are many ways I can serve and I always endeavor to choose the way that brings the greatest benefit to the most people. There are plenty of fighters here and they need food and care to help them be successful. We don’t need swords in our hands to be heroes, Bex. Not this time.”

(Now Eavyn's all caught up for RP tonight! Come find her for food and a nice chat.)

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spnfanficpond · 3 years

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Pond Diving - Katelynw93

Welcome to today’s Pond Diving Spotlight! We hope that you enjoy this little insight to our members and perhaps even find some useful tips for your own writing. Happy reading!

Want to volunteer, send us an ask! We’re looking forward to learning more about all of you! Not sure what PD is, you can learn more here.

“Don’t Be Koi About It” - All About You

Name: Katelyn, but most people call me Kate, Katie or sometimes even Kat.

Age: 27

Location: Originally from Kansas, but have been located in Upstate NY for the last six years.

URL: @katelynw93

Why did you choose your URL: It’s usually the username that I use for everything and if I’m being honest, I’m not very creative when it comes to titles or names. Lol. I’ve been meaning to change it; I just need to decide on what.

What inspired you to become a writer: Well, when I was in middle school (maybe seventh or eighth grade), my best friend and I decided to write a story together and post it on a fanfiction site (Can’t remember the site name, though.) And I just loved it. We never did finish that story. Lol. But eventually I started branching out and found some roleplay writing sites.

How long have you been writing: Started writing in middle school (2006/2007), but really got into it in 2009 with RP. However, September of this year (2020) was the first year I started really writing fics by myself and opening posting them.

What do you do when you are not writing i.e. Job/Hobbies etc? I work a lot, usually an average of 40+ hours a week; I am a manager at a popular food chain restaurant and on the weekends, a cashier at a gas station to provide a little extra cash for my family. When I’m not working, my time is spent with my two kids; Alekzander (Zander) who just turned five this past November and Lincoln (Link) who will be two in February. Outside of work and my family, I’m usually writing. Sometimes if I’m feeling extra creative or inspired, I’ll create a few crackships for couples I really enjoy. Lol.

How long have you been in the SPN Fandom? I actually found Supernatural around the same time I started writing, so back in ninth grade, so 2008/2009. It was honestly an accident too, because I was searching for Smallville episodes (I have an unhealthy addiction to Superman and DC/Marvel.) and stumbled upon an ad for Supernatural. Was instantly intrigued and fell in love. Seasons 1 - 5 (the Kripke era) are my favorite.

Are you in any other fandoms and do you write for them? Oh yea, I love TV shows and movies, and as I’ve already stated above, I love DC and Marvel. I’ve also written for Grey’s Anatomy and am willing to write for more, but SPN, DC and Grey’s are currently the only ones I’ve written for. I love The Vampire Diaries, One Tree Hill, Private Practice, Station 19, 9-1-1, Game of Thrones, The Witcher, Merlin, Dexter, Psych, and so, so many more. There are too many to list. Lol.

Do you do any writing outside of fanfiction? If so, tell us about it? Other than RPing, not really. I mean, I did try to do an original story with my friend when I was younger, but it never went anywhere. But I am willing to try someday.

Favorite published author: Other than the really big authors like; J.K. Rowling, George R.R. Martin, Jim Butcher, Nicholas Sparks, Suszanne Collins, I really like (and maybe it’s cliche) Stephenie Meyer. The Twilight Saga made me fall in love with reading and eventually, that love led me to writing. Those books hold a special place in my heart.

Have you ever read a book that made an impact on your life? Which one and why?: Well, I guess I sort of answered that one already. But there truly are so many amazing books out there and still so many more to discover.

Favorite genre of fanfic (smut, angst, fluff, crack, rpf, etc): Oh man, I’m not gonna lie, a majority of what I read is probably smut. But I am particularly fond of angst. I want you to make me cry. Really dig and stab into my emotions. Lol. And then come back in with some fluff. Haha.

Favorite piece of your own writing: Well, that would have to be Sweet Cherry Pie because it was really the first piece I’ve ever finished and published online. It was inspired by an RP that I am currently involved in and they are my favorite couple in said RP. It got so much positive feedback after I shared it that it inspired me to keep writing. I was so nervous about posting it, but I am glad I did.

Most underrated fic you have written: Oh I’m not sure. Maybe Love Bites. I am a sucker for Supernatural and The Vampire Diaries crossovers. I really loved writing this fic and am eager to write more.

Story of yours that you’d most like to see turned into a movie/tv show: Oh damn, um, it’d be cool to see any of them like that. But maybe Sweet Cherry Pie or Out of the Fire (my firefighter!Dean series).

Favorite Tumblr Writer(s): There are so many, but I usually find myself reading work from; @impala-dreamer, @katehuntington @deanwanddamons, @muchamusedaboutnothing.

Favorite Fic from another writer: This one is tough because there are so many amazing fics out there, especially ones that I adddddore; but if forced to choose, one story that will always stick with me would have to be Treacherous by @idkhaylijah OR The Sullivan Series by Kate Huntington

Favorite character to write: Dean Winchester. I adore Dean and he’s probably the easiest for me to write. I have written the most fics with him and I portray him often in the RPs that I do.

Favorite Pairing to write: Dean with anyone, but my favorite would be Dean x Caroline.

Least favorite character to write (and why): That’s a tough one, cause there’s not really any that I’m uncomfortable with or dislike writing. Maybe characters with accents, because I don’t really know how to capture that in writing yet? I’m pretty open with my writing and am willing to try mostly anything.

Do you have anyone you consider a mentor? Oh definitely. When I first started RPing, there was another girl (Jocelyn) that I used to write with and she influenced a lot of my writing. She was older than me and had more experience and gave me a lot of tips on how to get better. She is an amazing writer and had the potential of going far with it, but life happens and unfortunately, she doesn’t write anymore. But she is booming on Youtube, so that’s pretty impressive. It’s pretty cool to see how far she’s come.

Do you have any aspirations involving your writing? I used to want to be a journalist when I was younger, but other than that, not really. I just want to have fun with it and write something meaningful for someone, and always improve and get better.

How many work-in-progress stories do you have: I have a few ideas jotted down, maybe ten, but I haven’t actually started any of them. I have so many bingo cards I need to finish, but with my work schedule, it’s been pretty crazy.

What are you currently working on? My main project is Out of the Fire.

“Pond Diving” - All About The Writing

What/who has had the biggest influence on your writing? Definitely the RPing that I’ve done and am currently doing. My friend Alesha has been the longest RP partner that I’ve had and her writing is phenomenal - and it helps a lot too when your mind's work in similar ways; her and I always seem to be on the same wavelength when it comes to writing. I love it. But like me, she has a very busy schedule and writing is limited.

Best writing advice you've been given: Have fun with it, write what you want to write and always be open to helpful criticism. And don’t stress about it, either. Write in your own time. It’s meant to be fun, not stressful.

Biggest obstacle you’ve faced in your writing: Just finding the time to write and getting over being so self conscious about my writing. I don’t let anyone in my real life read what I write.

What aspects of writing do you find difficult when you write fanfiction? Just capturing the personalities of the canon characters sometimes; if it’s a character I’m not used to writing, I worry about portraying them the right way. And I have trouble individualizing the characters (separating them from myself/my own personality), like when I create an OC for an RP, sometimes when I have too many, their personalities all become the same in ways (if that makes sense?). And accents. I have trouble with accents. Oh, and fight/action scenes. They take me a bit.

Is there anything you want to write but are afraid to (and why): I am always going to be afraid, no matter what it is that I’m writing, because I worry about it succeeding. I want to write for other fandoms though, I guess, but like I said, I worry about capturing the characters right and having a decent storyline that is unique.

What inspires/motivates you to write: Honestly, positive feedback. I love hearing what people think about my writing and it motivates me to continue.

How do you deal with self-doubt: That’s a tough one. I guess I just look towards my writing friends or beta’s for reassurance or I go back and read the positive comments and likes on the fics I’ve already shared. It encourages me to continue.

How do you deal with writer's block: I usually listen to music and I’ll look up gifs of my favorite characters, create stories in my head with those gifs or I’ll create gif sets of specific scenes. If that doesn’t work, I’ll take a break and watch one of my favorite TV shows for inspiration.

Do you plan/outline your story before you start: For my RPs, I have a group chat with those I’m writing with and we usually shoot ideas back and forth, but mostly we wing it. For my fics, I normally just wing it, but with Out of the Fire, I have a rough idea of what I want from each part. With that said, my ideas or plans often change as I’m writing. These characters have a mind of their own sometimes. Lol.

Do you have any weird writing habits: I don’t know about any weird habits, but I always have music on and I guess I have to do it in spurts. I’ll write a few paragraphs or sentences, pause and scroll tumblr or facebook or gifs, and then go back, reread what I wrote and then write a few more. Rise and repeat.

Have you ever received hateful comments on your fic and how do you deal with it? So far, no I haven’t, and I hope I don’t ever have to deal with that. But I know it’s bound to happen. I guess if I were to ever encounter that, I’d like to say that I’ll take it as a learning experience but I honestly don’t know I’d feel about that.

Conversely: what’s been some of your favorite feedback on your fanfic? Oh man, I guess my favorite would have to be ellewritesfix05 reaction to the secret santa fic I wrote for her; Dean Fucking Winchester. And all the positive feedback I’ve gotten for Out of the Fire.

If you could give one piece of advice to a new and/or struggling writer, what would it be? Have fun with it. Write what you want and what you’re comfortable with. Don’t be afraid of constructive criticism and most importantly, don’t stress. Writing is fun.

#pond diving #pond diving: katelynw93 #spnfanficpond

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weeklyfangirl · 4 years

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Frat Boy Pt. 23

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7 (1), part 7 (2), part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13 , part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19 , part 20, part 21, part 22

Here’s the chappie where you get a look beyond the Mediterranean fortress Harry calls home... ;)

Timing is sometimes too perfect to be the pure product of coincidence.

Everything is connected: the earth and the seas, the moon, and all the sky’s stars.

Our bodies are made of these, fragments of their nature, tying us to this world.

Aunt Lara used to tell me that we are a part of the cosmos, the cosmos pushing and pulling people into paths they’re supposed to be on. She’d smoke her cigarette on our porch with the full moon hanging high in the sky that she’d soon be flying through, and I’d nod, thinking I was so cool just for being around her. It was our time then, just the two of us, sometime after my parents had gone asleep and I’d sneak past their room to meet her outside. She never told my parents I was staying up late on a school night. She’d take another drag, extending one to me, knowing I wouldn’t take it.

“I’ve seen seven year olds with these things,” she’d mutter, laughing to herself, and when she’d look out, I imagined she was envisioning the Roman Cafe she’d frequent beside the famed Colosseum. A hot sun, and balmy breeze, warm like the foreign friends she’d meet, or the lukewarm seas lapping around her ankles. “So much warmer and clearer than anything you’ve ever felt here. The most miraculous shades of blue...” She’d smoke, she’d smile. I’d admire.

It was a full moon that night.

Just like it was tonight.

There are some things that happen so precisely, I think there must not be any other way these things could have happened, no other explanation, other than Aunt Lisa’s: the universe and its timing are inextricably linked to create our destiny.

Our choices change our future, sure. But there’s something beyond that, in the fickle way our choices play out ironically, that makes me think some things are fated. God, the cosmos, whatever you believed in - they had bigger plans for everyone.

They certainly had bigger plans for me other than a depressing Netflix binge in my dorm room after the game.

Yellow fluorescents flickered in the dismal parking garage. Lionel Styles was waiting by the elevators with Sven, looking oddly casual in normal streetwear. They grabbed Harry from me as soon as I’d parked, carrying him in. I followed, for a brief second questioning whether or not my services were needed. Maybe this was only family now.

But Lionel hastily beckoned me towards him. “You wanted a hands on experience right?”

His words seemed crass in a moment like this, but I brushed it off as stress as I went with them in the elevator. Lionel punched in a code and it creaked to life, slower than normal. A table had already been cleared in one of the surgery rooms, a white plastic sheet like that of a serial killer lain across. Gauze, ice water, rags, forceps, and needles were atop a metal tray. It was everything I expected of a surgical room - stark, sterile, and cold without any frivolous decor. No paintings. I assumed there was never anyone awake enough in this room to enjoy them anyway. Sven lay a white medical pillow down, too thin to be comfortable, as Lionel lowered Harry. I cringed, feeling another wave of nausea wrack through me. His gauze, once pink, was now completely red and looked wet to the touch.

“He’s been bleeding this whole time,” I breathed. Albeit obvious, it was less to inform Lionel than it was to come to terms with it myself.

Lionel flicked one of the syringes, nodding solemnly. “He might need a blood transfusion.”

Blood transfusion. IV poles were behind the table, blood blags and clear IV fluid already ready. He was expecting this.

“Shouldn’t he be at a hospital?”

“Nothing we can’t do. He’s just a boy. Gets into scrapes every now and then.”

“This is more than a scrape.”

He ignored me, plunging the needle in, and less than a second later, Harry’s eyes fluttered.

“Adrenaline,” I whispered under my breath. I recognized the protocol.

Lionel looked at me, curiously. “You’ve done a good job. Did you stuff the wound?”

I shook my head. Harry was still lightly breathing thanks to the adrenaline. But he wasn’t anywhere near stabilized to warrant my work being commended.

“It’ll be enough until my friend gets here,” he said.

I looked at him, skeptically.

“The anesthesiologist,” he clarified.

And I blamed it on the shock for being so daft. Dr. Styles had been established in the medical field since he received his degree, it was no surprise if he had a “friend” for everything.

“Is Mary here?” I don’t know why I asked this question. I don’t know why I thought it was relevant. Perhaps because if my mom knew I was bleeding out on a table, she’d be right there. Right beside me. She would’ve been the one driving, bossing around all the doctors. 911 would have been called and she would’ve moved hell fire and water screaming like a banshee to get to me. “Does she know?” I questioned.

Lionel didn’t even look at me, carefully unwrapping the gauze. “She’s sleeping. I didn’t wake her.”

The separate lives of Mr. and Mrs. Styles spread further in my eyes, only their roof and rings joining them.

I unpacked new gauze, handing it to him. The butterfly bandaids hadn’t held, big shock, and blood trickled down in a steady current. How much blood could he have left? Lionel didn’t have time to be surprised, but the stoic doctor looked a shade whiter when he grabbed the gauze. The wound was exposed and he hesitated, simply applying pressure. His hands bloodied by the second.

For as renowned as he was, in facing his own son, he suddenly seemed paralyzed. I wanted to shake him.

Sven re-entered, slightly out of breath. I’d never noticed him leaving. “They’re here, sir. But they can’t get in-”

A spark was lit. Something familiar for him to grasp onto. “Elevator’s been jamming,” he cursed.

I helped apply pressure, and Dr. Styles looked at me, unsettled.

“I’ll stay here. You can let them in,” I nodded, even though there hadn’t been a question.

“It’s deep. So you have to physically stuff the wound with gauze. Have you ever dealt with a stab wound?”

My eyes narrowed. He already knew what kind of injury it was.

Then, mustering all the poise and retort of the First Lady, “With all due respect sir, I can do this.”

“I’ve seen grown men faint at the sight of needles let alone handling an open wound.”

“Thank God I’m a woman then.” I don’t know what possessed me, but my steely gaze must’ve been convincing. Lionel ran through the door, not even bothering to shut it.

Perhaps it was all the hours of being kept to dull paperwork and the maddening helplessness I’d felt for too long now.

But I couldn’t sit around anymore.

I needed to do something.

Sven watched me as I put on gloves and bunched up the gauze, holding my breath as I pushed it past the skin’s opening, ignoring his little gasps telling me this was hurting him, and ignoring the hot sensation around my hands. Tissue. That hot sensation was his tissue. I was inside Harry. I was touching… suddenly the anatomy I’d memorized in textbooks was a little too detailed. These gloves were too thin. I kept going and Sven jumped in to help elevate Harry so I could wrap the gauze around his entire abdomen, stuffing his wound until it was full.

We didn’t speak.

I sat on the only steel stool in silence. I may not want to sit around, but right now the floor could move beneath me at any moment. Sven was in the corner of the room, gaze locked to the clock. The minutes seemed to tick by slower than anything I’d ever felt. I could feel time, just like in the elevator. And maybe it was because his time was running out. He could die. Harry could very well die. If I’d chosen to go with Renny, if I’d stayed a moment longer, if I’d left a moment sooner, I would’ve passed the locker room without hearing him, without seeing him at all. What would the alternative have been? An image of Harry bleeding out, cold on the floor made me nauseous.

And still the clock ticked.

I could have screamed by the time they burst through the doors in a flury. Two men I’d never seen before entered in slacks and untucked button-downs. This hadn’t been an expected call. This wasn’t official. They ignored Sven and I, instantly getting to work, which was fine by me as long as I could stay. They inserted needles and attached wires and masks until I wasn’t sure I could untangle him if I tried. The smallest mewling noises came from him, but he didn’t stir. I don’t think he had it in him to move anymore. Only able to give one desperate lolled roll of his head.

One of the men, the anesthesiologist, fiddled with a machine. The whoosh of releasing gas sounded when Harry took his first breaths. A slow, but steady, heart rate appeared on the monitor.

Lionel looked at it briefly.

The Doctor and his helpers worked for what seemed like hours. Maybe it was. For how long time felt and despite how intently I’d been staring at the clock, I couldn’t recall when we’d arrived. I cringed as they undid my handiwork, only to excavate deeper into the wound. I know this might be my future when I pursued medical school, but on more than one occasion I had to look away.

Sven had left the room entirely, standing guard just beyond the door. At least Sven escaped the smell of metal and flesh.

They stapled Harry together like meat, a butchered boy on the operating table, like Hasbro Operation except no one was laughing when the forceps dug in, and nobody won.

Every time I cringed, I reminded myself: Harry was asleep. He couldn’t feel any of this.

He looked like a corpse under the unforgiving white light, but the heartbeat reminded me he was alive.

When Lionel Styles finally turned away, tossing his gloves in the bin, he looked whiter than the sheet beneath Harry.

It was the longest night I’d ever had.

But for him, to excavate into his son the way he just had, I imagined it was longer.

------

“I didn’t have to come,” Matt said, for the first time irritance lacing his voice. Golden Boy stood at my doorway, recoiled, after I’d practically growled upon seeing him.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It was a long night.”

And annoying after the e-mail notification I’d received about the DG Pretty Please. Time was running out, and it was the last thing I’d had on my mind recently.

“Why was it so long?”

I twirled my hair around itself in a messy bun, letting it hold itself up. I just shrugged while Matt’s concern mounted.

Lionel had asked me not to speak of it. “We’ll let you know when you can see him,” he’d said. As far as anyone else was concerned, I hadn’t been there that night. There was a reason he didn’t want Harry going to a hospital. Less questioning, less spotlight, less of an impact on their image… it still unnerved me. Such a horrific injury, and yet… it was almost expected, brushed under the rug. Had Harry really been this much of a troublemaker growing up that a stab wound was equivalent to a scrape for Dr. Styles?

Matt set the steaming Del Taco bag on the floor. “Y/N, seriously, what’s up? You couldn’t even stay the weekend on campus? She told me you’ve been gone for weeks.” He sat down at the foot of my bed when he was sure I wasn’t going to turn into a snarling monster. Which, to be fair, must have been a hard conclusion to come to. “And it’s true, I haven’t seen you around at all. You just… disappeared.”

“Okay, it was ONE week,” I clarified. “And we don’t see much of each other anymore anyways so don’t act like you’re so butt hurt that I decided to come home again.”

I wanted to take the words back as soon as I said them. They were the ones we hadn’t said. The ones we knew were true. But a mood had crept through me last night turning me sour against the world. And now each word I spoke was infected with its poison.

His brows scrunched, eyes flashing with indignation, not sure how to handle me, of all people, lashing out abuse.

“Yeah, because you quit your PT job.”

“I got a new one!”

“And that’s fine! Why are you so… defensive right now??” he laughed briefly at the absurdity. “I just don’t know why you’re trying to blame this on me. Where is this coming from?”

I remained silent. I didn’t know why I was blaming him so harshly for our friendship reaching a downward slope. I knew we had different circles of friends, and as gross of a cliche as it was, he was with the athletes and I was with… Renny. Though now I was starting to hang out with Lynn more, too. A part of me envied him for having such an instant community with his team. Isn’t that why people joined sororities? For community? I’d seriously flunked that one, though a little voice told me I just wasn’t trying hard enough.

He looked to my collaged wall, expecting to see our photo strip. But it wasn’t there. He stood up, finding it atop my mom’s arts and crafts bin.

“Haven’t been here in a while,” he said, softly.

I watched him, stood in my room like all those high school nights of old, seeming taller than before. Like in the months we’d lost touch he’d somehow gotten too big for this room, like he’d somehow outgrown me.

“It fell down,” I lied, because Harry had taken it off.

They say your high school friends won’t stay with you forever, that as you grow older, the number of friends you stay in touch with start dwindling until it’s down to one or two. I stopped speaking to most of mine after the first year of community college. People move on. People change. I changed too, even though I stayed behind. But there was always Matt. Of all people, I didn’t think it would be him and I standing apart and feeling farther, still. When these relationships change, the transition feels gradual. It’s like, in some unspoken unseen moment, your lives sync up, and you’re both busy at the same intervals. And then you make plans to see each other, but both of you don’t reach out the day you’re supposed to meet up. Neither of you follow through. Because it’s easier. It’s natural. An unspoken agreement.

“We’ve both been busy,” I said.

“The last time I saw you, you had a massive mark on your neck.”

“You can say hickey, Matt.”

His eyes fluttered, and he looked away. If I wasn’t devoid of emotion then, I’d think it funny how he got flustered just thinking or talking about anything sexual with me.

“You’re pretty close with Harry then?” he asked, ears slightly reddened.

“What makes you say that?”

“An educated guess.” A charming smile lit his face, almost shy, the hostility in the air dulling for a moment. “I’ve seen you with him before, and you were wearing his jersey at the game… I didn’t really believe it though.”

“What do you mean?”

“C’mon. Harry Styles.”

“And?”

He raised his hands as if the answer was so obvious it was floating in the air. They dropped. “He’s not really your scene, is he? I don’t mean that in a bad way, he’s not really my scene either.”

“So?”

“So, nothing. I was just trying to find something to talk about.” He was getting more irritated now, his thumb digging in between his fingers. “Really, I don’t even care to talk about him, let’s talk about you. Please. Have you drawn anything recently? Why’ve you been feeling off?”

I snorted. “Please, I haven’t drawn anything since high school. There’s nothing new.”

He crossed his arms, testing me. “I don’t buy it.”

He was smart not to.

“You know… It took a lot for my dad to ask me to stay behind instead of going off to Princeton,” he said. Every molecule seemed to still around him. “He can barely speak now. The guy who wouldn’t ask you to fetch the boogie board even if you were the one who’d let the waves take it in the first place...” his voice trailed off, a silent sadness swirling in blue eyes.

I remembered Patrick Price taking us to the beach and pushing us beneath the big waves, teaching us how to balance on those harmless foam boards we’d pick up at Rite-Aid. Just three years ago at high school graduation, Patrick was running across the grass playing football with Matt and Dad at the BBQ while Mom and Summer dished out the pasta salad and watermelon. He was diagnosed two years ago, and now instead of serving pasta salad, Summer serves him, watching him closely on his wheelchair. ALS was a nasty disease and it acted fast.

“I can’t help you if you don’t want to be helped,” he finished.

I wanted to say that I was sorry. I wanted to say that it wasn’t him, that it was me. But something else had already consumed me, not letting in the light, finding the darkest parts of me and unfurling them until some spilled past my lips. “You didn’t have to drive all the way down here just to see me.”

“I didn’t,” he said, and even though he hid his hurt well, I could still see it. He stood from the bed, making up his mind that there wasn’t any use being with someone who pushed away anything that ventured near. “I’m helping my dad move offices. The rent is too high now for landscapers.”

“They’re leaving? But you guys have been in the same spot for years.”

Matt gave a shrug, taking his turn at the silent treatment.

“I didn’t know,” I said, lamely.

The chasm between us grew bigger, and I shrunk even smaller, letting the silence and guilt consume me.

“But you wouldn’t want to talk to me about that either, right?”

I swallowed, hard. I deserved that.

And I was too ashamed to stop him from leaving.

Less than an hour later, I was cursing him again. The smell of Del Taco drove my mother away from the living room. Messy wrappers lay scattered around me when the door opened. I may have been too ashamed and prideful to apologize to Matt, but my growling stomach was stronger than both.

She saw me in the same position Matt had left me, and I avoided her gaze, checked my phone. No updates.

The room seemed cold.

“You look like you’re having the same day I’m having.” She came in with a basket of clean clothes, setting it on the floor.

“Mom, I told you I’d do that.”

“No, you needed rest.” There was a flash of pity, but it was lying beneath a thick shell of annoyance. She huffed, sitting on my bed, just like Matt hours before.

She snuggled closer. I faced her on my side, hands pressed against my cheek. She mirrored me.

I waited for her to say something, but in the silence her eyes grew wide, shaking her head. The mysterious reason for her mood like a gorged balloon floating towards a fan.

“What?” I asked.

“I think your Dad has feelings for somebody else.”

My brows scrunched. “What?”

“I don’t have any proof. But we were on a date night last night and…” -she let out a cruel laugh that made me want to hold her- “He was texting her.”

“Who?”

“A waitress.”

“A waitress?”

“Nicole the waitress.”

“How do you know it was her?”

“He denied it. But I looked at his phone when he went to the bathroom. She’s been a little… friendly with Dad.”

“Nicole?? Mom, she’s like nearly forty.” A brief memory of a friendly blonde working in the restaurant trickled up and left a sour taste on my tongue.

“Still fifteen years younger than me.”

My nose shriveled up, the thought of Father being romantic with my own mom made me cringe, but the thought of Father being romantic with somebody else? It didn’t seem… conceivable. My parents weren’t like the Styless. They kept us together. They loved each other.

“Have I met her? I’ll punch her next time I see her,” I said, the words still not connecting with my brain. With the facts laid out before me.

Mom snorted. “Not before I do.” She plucked at a hangnail, a habit I’d gotten from her, and I could practically see the insecurities already rolling around in her mind.

“You’re gorgeous, Mom.”

She gave me a look. “I’ve been stress-eating chocolates. I need to watch myself.”

“Mom.” I frowned, seeing worry behind her humor. “He needs to watch himself.”

She sighed, turning to the ceiling. “I don’t know. I just have this… feeling.”

“Women’s intuition?”

“Yeah,” she breathed, and I knew if Mother was telling me this from her vault of secrets, it must have been significant. She wasn’t one to listen to Lara’s spirituality, but intuition was something she would never refute. Momma turned back, rattling her thoughts together. “Anyway. I’ll just be... shocked. If it’s true. I mean...a waitress? Really?” Silence suspended. The afternoon sun warmed the room a little more than usual, exposing the paled filmy stars on my ceiling to be illuminescent frauds. “Or maybe I’m not,” she said, quieter. Before I could bat my eyes, she changed the subject. “Why’d you come back last night?”

But I could still see the steam rolling off her shoulders. “Do you want to talk about it more?” I offered. The Del Taco turned queasy in my stomach, and as much as I loved her, I really hoped she said no.

She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned anything.” She squeezed my hand, letting me know she meant her apology. She did a once-over at my stale big t-shirt. “Did something happen to make you want to come home?” Her fingers ran along the tops of my knuckles. “Or do you just love me.” Her smile was less than half-hearted.

“I was going to be alone at the dorm again. Renny was going to a party and I didn’t want to go with her…”

“I hate how she leaves you alone. Maybe we should get you a puppy for company?”

I gave her a look and she caved. “No, you’re right. Probably wouldn’t fit in there. You couldn’t take care of a puppy now anyways. Too needy. So, did he like the house?”

Her mind seemed scattered in a million directions. Mine struggled to keep up.

“Mom, seriously what are you talking about?”

“Oh, I didn’t know if he said anything about it afterwards or-”

“Mom, who?”

“Harry, honey.”

She was clueless of what her words did to me. My heart lurched just hearing his name, and the worry from last night washed over my exhausted frame like a crab on the shore, strong tides like a persistent weight, threatening to carry me away again.

“I’m sure he liked it,” I said.

“It’s an older home...he’s probably used to columns of marble.” Her embarrassed smile for even asking the question made my heart split further.

“Actually, he did say something! I remember now, he told me it was cute. Homey. He thinks the marble stuff is too cold anyways, he’s excited to come back,” I reassured her. The last bit was probably a stretch but it worked. Embarrassment fell away and her smile glowed.

Satisfied that she was happy, I turned to face my ceiling, closing my eyes. The problems with her and Father swum in the back of my mind, but I was too tired to take on anything else. She was an adult. She could make her own decisions. The information settled in a box in my brain, waiting for a moment when I could fully process it and I’d unlock it all again. I could feel the inklings of damage it would do to me if I truly unpacked it - anxiety, anger, confusion, fear, pity.

Family was a constant.

I couldn’t think about that changing, too. Not when I could barely keep my eyes open.

“You’re so sad, angel. What’s going on in your mind, hm?”

I shook my head, shifting to look at the ceiling. I didn’t need to feel guilty for not confiding in her. I needed to not feel anything.

Her presence was like a lighthouse, radiating heat, beckoning me to come back. All without her saying a word.

She looked as if she were going to say something else, but her hand fell back into her lap. “Okay,” she said.

She didn’t even try.

Maybe she knew the fog was too thick for me to see her light.

Then, through the fog, a vibration shook me to the core.

-----

“Y/N, I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon,” Sven stepped aside, the grand foyer to the Styles estate stretching out before me. Any other time, it would be enchanting, captivating. Now, it looked as treacherous as a hospital hall. I wasn’t sure what rendition of Harry was waiting for me on the other side of the staircase.

My feet carried me up a familiar path, my heart pounding at the unknown.

Irrationally, I had to remind myself that Harry was alive. I wasn’t going to find him, not like I’d found my Grandpa in his room.

Regardless…

“Are there people watching him? Is he alone?”

“He’s stabilized. There’s no need for nurses to keep watch.” Sven held dirty linens as he stayed in my shadow up the stairs.

I nodded, the assurances not really meaning anything, not until I could put an image in my mind as to what he looked like. Right now, all I could conjecture was a gray blur for a head sticking out above the sheets. How bruised would he be? How much stained blood would there be? I didn’t know what to fill in the gray with, so my mind envisioned the grim Harry I’d last seen, the Harry that, if it weren’t for the monitor, I wouldn’t have known still had a beating heart.

Each step carried me closer with a horrifying thought. My brain playing connect the dots as I walked.

Pale.

A clay boy.

A stitched up doll.

And everyone knew dolls didn’t breathe.

I didn’t realize I was alone until I turned around. Of course Sven wouldn’t have followed me, but for some reason I wanted him to be here.

Maybe it’s because he was with me when I’d seen Harry last.

“Y/N.” The familiar voice was weaker, but the grim tone was still so painfully bare. Of course he’d sensed me.

When I stepped out from behind the door, I didn’t find a dilapidated monster. Harry lay resting.

“Hey.” I snuck in, light as a swallow’s feather in the morning breeze, floating down beside him and resting my head atop crossed arms. The sight of him shook me. “Raggedy Harry,” I barely whispered, a horrible punch-to-the-gut feeling ballooning in my chest.

Half of his face swelled more than the other, his bottom lip completely bruised and jutted out, with a fairly deep gash that had started to scab. I fought the urge to trace over it.

“Looks worse than it is,” he said, watching my eyes carefully. Besides the pink-red swelling, his face appeared flushed. And despite his injuries, he was still miraculously beautiful.

I didn’t even blush from staring. Loose earthy curls had not been affected by time spent smooshed against the pillows. If anything, it’d pushed them forward, the floppier fringe defying gravity just there above his forehead. People could go to a stylist and ask for effortless mussy curls and not have it turn out as good as his - and this just with his genetics and days spent sleeping.

If I were him, I’d look like a grease monkey.

“Well, I can’t see the worst bits I’m sure.”

His chest was wrapped in gauze, this time not bloody to the touch. It was thick, white, and secure, and suddenly the tears that had yet to spill started pricking my eyes. I didn’t know just how badly I needed to hear the words before he said them.

“Y/N, I’m fine. I promise.”

The heaviest weight lifted from my shoulders, but my body slumped deeper into his mattress from an instantaneous realization. I’d needed Harry to be okay. I needed him here, even if I couldn’t explain why.

My hand reached out, brushing the tops of his hand.

“It would’ve been a dick move if you died,” I managed to breathe. I let out a sorry excuse for laughter, nervously sniffling.

His eyes seemed heavy, tired. The circles beneath them a cry for help from his beaten body.

“You can sleep if you want. I just wanted to check in on you.”

“I’m not sleeping when you’re here. S’all I’ve been doing,” he croaked. A flood of relief washed over me. Being apart from him was the last thing I wanted right now. The anxieties that’d been plaguing me the past 24 hours were muted to a dull simmer, drowned out by the highs of my body being close to his. Noticing his body...

A steady drip came from the IV hooked to his arm. Five pill bottles were on his nightstand, within arms reach. He noticed my staring.

“To stay hydrated.” Then, under his breath, “And numb.”

“I know,” I barked a laugh that instantly felt out of place. “I want to go into medicine, remember?”

His voice seemed lower when he rumbled, “S’right. You’re a smart girl.”

The tenderness in his voice sent an unexpected warmth straight to my chest. “You know that’s also a curse,” I noted. “I think too much.”

“I know,” he said, but he didn’t laugh like I had. It sounded like an apology. I almost jolted when his hand reached out to touch mine, not expecting him to be warm.

“You almost died,” I said, taking a breath. “I was there when you almost died.”

“I never wanted you to be there-” Before I could take offense, he weakly squeezed my hand. “I want to protect you, Y/N. I never wanted you this involved with me.”

“Well we’ve done a shit job at staying uninvolved. You can barely protect yourself. You can’t protect yourself.”

“That isn’t going to happen again.”

“The fact that it happened! Harry, I don’t think you understand how scared I was. How scared I am. I could be next, I don’t know what they want...”

A horrifying puzzle piece clicked into place. My nightmare of being stabbed could become a very real reality. It wasn’t until I saw Harry wincing that I realized his breath had quickened.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “Shit I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stress you out. We don’t need to talk right now.”

The sting of I never wanted you this involved with me pulled me to the door, but his hand pulled me back.

“No. Fuck no.” But his grip softened again, his abdomen screaming at the effort to pull me back to him. When he spoke again his voice was a murmur, quiet-quiet, so gentle I could’ve imagined it. “Stay. Please. Seeing you here is the happiest I’ve been all week.”

My heart could’ve flown out of my chest, but for the buzzing electrical phenomena his words ignited in me, I was frozen by his sober admittance of want. It seemed all we ever did was dance around each other, literally. As if we were in an old 1700s ballroom, and everyone was dispersing into pairs. We spy each other from across the room and tiptoe around, refusing to seek other partners, yet refusing to commit to a dance.

“Is that sad?” His sincerity broke my reverie.

I leant closer, and his eyes fluttered shut in expectation… But my lips pressed soft kisses to closed lids. “I’ll stay,” I promised, nose to nose. Because my answer to his question would be yes. Something told me the mess of his body finally matched the inside of his heart.

Rather than tilt his head up to kiss me, he tried scooting over in the bed. It was painful to watch. I stopped him. There was plenty of room for me to lay beside him. So I did, scared to touch him.

“I’m not going to break,” he huffed. Tough and untouchable, I imagine being tip-toed around was the exact opposite of what he was used to.

“You didn’t see yourself that night.” Bloodied gauze and feeling his hot insides against my hands was enough to make my own blood curdle. It was enough to make me question if the Harry in front of me was simply a mirage. He was okay now, I reminded myself. But after I’d seen him bleeding out in the seat next to me, I wasn’t sure I believed him to be unbreakable anymore.

“You’re right, I’m… sorry,” he looked away, as if not being able to meet his reflection in my eyes. As much as I could hear regret, I knew he felt it even more.

My hand reached out, fingertips gently touching his raised cheek. “You were the one who felt it.”

He barely leant against my touch, gaze boldly probing my tired eyes, puffy from crying. The longer he stared the guiltier he became.

“Maybe we both did,” he said. The statement seemed to confuse him, brows stitching together. “No one’s ever been there for me like you. And-” he smiled as wide as he could with the swelling- “honestly it scares the living shit out of me. I know you didn’t have much of a choice to help-”

I surprised myself again, the definitive statement flying out of my mouth faster than I could comprehend. “I’d do it again.”

But the words seemed to hurt him more. His head lulled to the side, his prominent adam’s apple moving as he swallowed, deep in thought. “You’re too good for me,” he surmised. Before I could argue, he took my hand, pressing the back of it to bruised lips. He was acting so soft, so vulnerable. Was it the drugs? Was it an act? But if it was, how could eyes lie like that?

He hummed as if we were laying on the beach on the first hot day of summer, despite all the pain he must be in. The pros and cons list I’d written and stashed in my purse was sending out a throbbing heartbeat in my body, burning a hole where my purse lay at the end of the bed. No matter if the list were true, it couldn’t encapsulate the complicated person that he was. It wasn’t a fair portrait to paint. And putting me on a pedestal wasn’t either. “That’s not true,” I mumbled, far too late.

“It is,” he said. No room for argument.

“Did they give you some love drugs in this medicine bag of yours?”

His brows quirked at love, but he didn’t seem mocking when he said, “Maybe.” Emerald eyes were a mix of admiration, torment, and want as they drank me in, and I was sure if I let him stare into my soul a moment longer, he’d discover I wasn’t perfect at all.

I looked out towards his panoramic balcony window. Little flickers of light told of a city at the bottom of the hill, the dark ocean like a blanket for the rest of the world just out of reach. I wondered how long it’d been since the sun had set. Like any night with Harry, the rest of the world slipped away.

I stole a glance back at him, the beautifully broken boy resting his eyes. As if sensing me, he stirred, mumbling something incoherent.

“Too far,” he repeated, opening up his arms.

“I’m not laying on you Harry. Your stitches could burst.”

He growled. “I don’t care.”

And I didn’t doubt it. I came as close as I dared, thankful his shoulder wasn’t bruised as I lay my head in the crook of his neck, hands blindly combing through curls.

I could feel him relax into me, hear the boyish smirk across his face. “My mum used to do that,” he whispered. “Not this mum, my other…” his voice stuttered out. “My biological.”

It grew quiet in the room. An opening to the door of his past just barely letting in light.

“Do you miss her?”

“Can’t miss what you don’t remember,” he dismissed. And just like that, the door to his past was slammed shut. It was exactly what he said about the Styles’s first child Jane. But this time it sounded rehearsed, mechanical, a river of emotion carefully masked. But not to me.

My hands stilled, not sure if I should continue. But he leant into me again, and I continued my gentle work, as if undoing his tresses could untangle messy thoughts. “Thank you,” he sighed.

In some unspoken moment, he turned his head down, his tanned beaten face leant closer to mine. And with the intimate intensity only he possessed, he saw me. Like I was the only woman in the world. The oxygen seemed pulled from the room as time suspended. He leant lower until our foreheads brushed, his brows stitching together when I instinctually drew my leg across him, careful not to hitch it up too close to his wound. Our breathing deepened, the anticipation building as my hand drew across his face, my fingers settling behind his ear. He huffed, irritated at the tangling of the IV chord when he wrapped his arm around my side.

We stayed like this for a while, cradling the other. And just like I had done before, his pillow-soft lips ghosted over my cheek, then my nose, then my chin, until they hovered just over my lips. My eyes fluttered closed, the trail he left leading to one place…

“Y/N,” he breathed. I opened my eyes. There wasn't any reluctance in his eyes, but something similarly cautious yet fervent, an unspoken sentence pushing against closed lips.

But the sound of glass shattering woke us both up. His body turned hunter, still as stone as he listened for what came next. A hysterical cry drove Harry to stand, miraculously faster than I thought possible, and it wasn’t until he limped halfway towards the door that I realized he ripped out his IV. The banshee scream turned into a chilling wail, freezing me to my core.

My mind went to the worst case scenario. I’d have to jump from the window somehow. The gang must have found us. They must be in the house-

“It’s Mary,” he cursed, stopping my spiralling mind so quickly I was left dizzy. I don’t remember following him, but he stopped me at the door, hands locked around my shoulders.

“She has… fits, sometimes,” he explained.

“I don’t care.”

“Y/N, you don’t have to see this, too,” he said, and the amount of shame that shadowed his face was like a gouge through my heart.

I barely had time to say the words before another scream ripped through the empty house. “I’d do it again.”

With a somber nod, he rushed us out, practically sprinting to the living room where Mary Styles lay cradling her shell-shocked frame on the floor.

“You were gone. You left me,” she sobbed. Her hair was ripped from its usual loose curls and mascara ran down her face like the clear snot running from her nose.

“Oh my God,” a voice mumbled.

But I realized the voice was me.

The glass mirror at the bar had shattered. Shards of glass lay scattered all over the floor. Harry trudged through it, barefoot, bits of red mixing on the marble floors.

“No one was here, no one saw.” Her eyes were crazed as Harry bent over to pick her up and she pushed him away. “No! NO!!”

Fear spiked in my body. I’d never seen someone look so disconnected from the present reality. This was raw. Unpredictable.

But Harry seemed unphased.

“No one saw her, no one saved her,” she wailed. The weight of the words caused crippling sorrow. She stopped resisting, retreating into a shell of herself with choked cries, “Jane, Jane…” as Harry let out his own shout at the effort to lift her.

“Be careful, you’re hurt,” I called out, weakly. He didn’t bat an eye.

“Go through those doors, through the living wing, there’s a closet on your right. Grab the Valium and meet me in the guest room.” He avoided my gaze, looking instead to the direction I should be running to.

“Where in the closet?”

“Black box,” he ordered. Then, whispering to Mary, “It wasn’t your fault.”

But if she heard the words, they didn’t register, her face twisting, her own little trickle of blood running from the tips of her hands.

Her sobs barely quieted as they rounded the corner down the hall, abandoning me in the wreckage.

I was careful to step around the glass, heading to the massive hidden door in the wall I remembered Harry pointing out as the “living wing.” No one was around to confirm if memory served correct, but when I finally found the latch handle and tugged it open, tropical foliage surrounded me. It smelled humid, like stale water and… musky. Like when I had a hamster in fourth grade and forgot to change out its bedding. The light from the moon shone through their giant skylight, illuminating caged birds gently calling behind bars, enclosed in a sizey aviary. A small raised indoor pool made of rock looked like a concave fossil, with a shadow swimming amongst the mossy water. A miniature crocodile skirted to the furthest edge away from me and raised for air, two eyes looking skeptically in my direction. “Toto” was etched into the rock.

There were more enclosed habitats, and at the head of the room overlooking it all, a giant wooden desk. But no closet. No closet.

Frick.

I didn’t have time to ponder the eccentricity of the Styles’s owning a freaking zoo in their mansion. Nor did I have time to try and find a friggin light switch. Not at all.

I walked the length of the wing which seemed just as expansive as their living room. Ironic, I thought. Because this was literally a living room.

Then, beneath an arching tree canopy held in a planter box, two wicker handles protruded from the wall with a crack running between them.

Bingo.

They opened easily, revealing a deep closet full of filing cabinets and old paintings. My phone light illuminated the top, where two black boxes seemed to have gone untouched for years.

My foot tapped impatiently, not sure which one to grab. I hadn’t heard any cries of bloody murder, but someone (not me, someone more athetlic) could’ve run a mile in the time I’d been gone.

I reached for the one closest to me. It was velvet, I realized, surprised even this family’s storage containers would have some element of luxury. I prayed to find pills. But instead, a wax sealed envelope holding a thick stack of documents glared back at me. I was just about to secure the lid again when the inklings of a photograph peaked through between the papers. The deep-red seal, already opened, was their insignia, a cursive “S” that looked like it’d come from the 18th century.

Since the seal was already broken…

My hands carefully leafed through the pages, and as if they knew, the animals grew louder, alarming themselves of an intruder. These documents seemed court-ordered. Various signatures adorned the pages using language I couldn’t understand. My heart dropped when I realized what I was holding. Adoption papers. Among them, a newspaper clipping about a boy separated from a violent family, and adopted by rich Americans.

Slowly, with each word I read, the oxygen felt snuffed from the room, another puzzle piece falling into place. One that changed the picture completely.

Wednesday morning at 5 am, neighbors of Sheffield awoke to gunshots at the King flat. After an attempted murder of his wife resulting in two gun shot wounds to Maisie King’s abdomen, Roger King committed suicide. Maisie is currently in recovery, and her two children have been placed in foster care while the court assesses their home situation.

More newspaper headings were clipped out, detailing the TV star rescuers of the boy, how lucky he was and how a wonderful, ritzy life in California awaited him. His entire fate had been changed - but there was no mention of Gemma. And in each photo, the child-like innocence in his eyes seemed vacant, replaced with a stoic sadness I’d only seen glimpses of when he was medicated. When he was too numb to remember to keep up the mask.

For how little the Styles’s divulged about Harry’s past to the American press, in England the story seemed to be the tragedy turned happy ending. At least, to some extent, the Styles’s were owed credit for something. They’d probably paid off the international papers.

Little Harry… My stomach suddenly flipped, the room’s darkness transferring to something physically heavy in my chest. There was a photograph, too, and I carefully wedged a finger where the worn corner of it peaked out from the paperwork, keeping its place as I tugged it out. But when I saw it, I almost dropped everything.

The familiar curly-haired child I’d known from old Housewives episodes stared back at me in a worn blue polo from discolored film. Reddened tear-stained eyes looked at whoever was behind the camera.

There were fresh bruises on baby-plump cheeks, cuts across rosy cherub lips.

I looked away as soon as I saw it, but the image had already burned in my memory. A taste for the shadows of scars I could only imagine he carried ten-fold. His cuts had buried much deeper than flesh; the most dangerous wounds afflicted his soul and stole the air straight from my lungs.

Oh, God.

Oh, Harry.

How could anyone do such a thing? He was just an innocent boy, how could anyone- how often…?

Bitter bile rose in the back of my throat. Dealing with bloody injuries was one thing, but seeing a beaten child had me sick for another reason entirely. This was something evil.

I put the photo back just as quickly. I’d gone too far this time. I’d really gone too far.

So it was almost an accident that the next photo fell out when I was putting back the first.

A man, strewn across a red puddle seeping from his head. A gun tossed at his side. The bile rose again and I refused to stare, but my mind caught the ends of wavy brown hair and a face that wasn’t really quite there.

I should’ve noticed when the animals quieted, I should’ve heard footsteps quicken in the other room, but it seemed far away, muted by the roaring secret I’d just uncovered, my mind fully fixated on the life no one could have known about Newport’s playboy hier.

If Harry hadn’t noticed the velvet top of the box not quite closed shut, he saw the guilt in my eyes when he stood square before the closet doors.

He looked irritated, almost grabbing the closed box from my fingers.

“It’s the wrong box!” I cried, horrified that even my voice reeked of pity. And something else. Fear.

He froze. A flame flashed beneath the dulled emerald, a spark of knowledge I was sure he’d like to forget. That he’d probably tried to forget, countless times. He shoved it away and grabbed the other box, stopping briefly as he walked past me again. He threw a cold glare.

“Don’t be scared of the snake,” he said. “But he doesn’t like strangers.”

As if on command, a giant boa constrictor slithered out from the overhanging tree, tightly coiled around a branch.

I felt my heart lurch in my throat.

“Harry!” I called, but he wasn’t here anymore. And if he was, he didn’t answer. He left, rushing to deal with one mess, when I feared I’d just created an even bigger one. Frozen to the spot as I figured out how to basically army-crawl out of the closet, I ran out past screaming birds and rustling waters, snake eyes burning two holes in the back of my neck as I chased Harry’s shadow.

come talk about frat boy! or if you just wanna talk... i’m getting tired of talking to my dog lmao

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hypnoticwinter · 3 years

Text

Down the Rabbit Hole part 25

“Jesus,” Erica breathes, “you weren’t kidding,” and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

I’ve managed to keep my heartrate under control all the way down to the barrows but now that we’re here I’m able to let my breath out and relax a little, ironically. The place is a graveyard, a grisly butcher’s workshop of stinking ichor and dismembered copepods. It is unearthly quiet, even down here in the middle of the Pit’s guts, with the only sound being the dripping of glutinous white phlegm-like vital fluids and occasionally a far-off groan from the Pit’s musculature.

The copepods are everywhere, strewn all over the place like ragdolls, and very few of them are intact. The majority have had their arms ripped off and a ragged hole bored straight through the middle of their armored faceplate that looks like it goes several feet deep at least. Here and there there are dead leeches, the only trace of the leechman, the only thing giving any clue as to what might have happened her. I briefly wish that I still had my camera with me.

Saying goodbye to Elena had made me acutely aware that I may not have been prepared for what I was getting myself into. I had helped her out of the cot and she had stumbled and cried out and then I caught her, prepared for the worst, already starting to panic – had I done a bad job? Had I hurt her somehow while I was tending to her wounds and only now was she able to feel the effects of it, getting up and moving around?

Elena had looked at me, lips already curling into a sheepish grin, and then she must have seen the look on my face and stopped, stood there straight without any assistance from me and then put her hands on my face and cupped me to her and kissed me so long and so hard that I felt a little faint. Erica had coughed behind us, a little uncomfortably, but when we finally broke apart I really had eyes only for Elena, I couldn’t stop staring at her, at the freckles across her cheeks, at the way one of the corners of her lips lifted slightly higher than the other when she smiled, at a dozen little things like that that I wanted to fix in my mind.

I don’t think I really knew, not consciously, at least, why I made such an effort to keep a clear image of her in my head then, to get every detail down in as complete a manner as I could. It only became apparent to me once we had walked out to the Cord and Elena had opened the door and turned around and waved to me before disappearing that I had been so concerned with her safety that I had had no concern at all for mine.

The door clanged shut and Marcus had spun the wheel to seal it tightly and then Elena was gone. Before she left we had hugged again, there in Oyster’s Shame, amid the glistening walls and the sounds of more of the tiny pearly deposits falling here and there like a soft distant rain. “You come back to me,” she had growled, right into my ear, and I could feel her leave a wet spot on my cheek from where she had begun to cry, and I wanted so badly to go with her but I didn’t see any way I could.

“Well,” I had said to Erica, forcing myself to sound brighter than I had felt, “let’s get this over with.”

So we did.

Marcus kicks one of the dead leeches and it rolls a little. It looks like it has some weight to it, some heftiness that isn’t immediately apparent from how slender it is. It’s about the length of my arm. “What the hell is this, E?” he asks, looking up at her, and Erica shakes her head, getting down on her haunches to examine it.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she says. “It’s a little bit like a gastric bristleworm but not as…I don’t know, bristly.”

I’m standing there in the back with my arms folded, waiting. Next to me is the stinking corpse of a copepod; this one has been crushed, its insides, ropy and white, flooding out in a great mass from its burst sides. Even with the helmet up I can smell it; Erica and Marcus must have cast-iron stomachs. Erica does, anyway; when we first made it down to the barrows we’d had to stop for a moment to let Marcus vomit.

The tracking PDA had lead us almost exactly the way we’d gone the day before, back before everything had gone to hell. I still don’t know exactly what had kicked it off to begin with; my best guess was that the Leechman had showed up and gone on a rampage just after we’d left with the crystal, and the copepods, they must have assumed that it was our fault, that we’d drawn it here or were somehow working with it. Did they know what it was? Did they recognize it? I wish the Big Guy were still around to ask but we had passed his desiccated, punctured corpse, recognizable only by the stump of one of its wrists, as we had made our way through the central chamber. Marcus is carrying the Sergeant’s slug rifle but he does so nervously, as though he’s afraid of it. He clearly isn’t familiar with the thing. I wonder what’ll happen if he does have to fire it, if it’ll just put him on his ass or if it’ll actually break a bone.

The two of them have been decent to me so far. Erica seems genuinely regretful about hitting me earlier; she doesn’t look at me most of the time, and if she does need me for something, mainly to use the suit computer to look at a map, she asks for me politely and in a soft voice. I thought that Marcus might curse at me or harbor some kind of ill-feeling; after all, Elena – after all, my girlfriend attacked him, and I have no doubt that if she had been able to get away with it she likely would have shot the both of them and washed her hands of it.

The thought makes me shudder very slightly, but not of fear or anger but just vague baseless exhilaration, of minor and muted joy that things are finally happening, for better or for worse, for good or ill, that great capital-letter THINGS WILL CHANGE finally rolling over and putting muscle behind its epitaph.

I had been terrified on the way down that the copepods would have torn us apart, would have eaten us. I had no confidence in Erica and Marcus’ ability to protect this little illicit expedition. They have no plan, no notion of what might be waiting for them. And I don’t know what they intend to do if they do actually manage somehow to get their hands on the crystal. Break it? But that’d be counterproductive, wouldn’t it, as if what Erica’s saying is right, that’d just give us that psychic illness.

If I don’t have it already. Was that dream a dream or the start of it? Is it –

No, stop. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s the perfectly normal sort of dream to have when you’re under this much stress, in these conditions. Once you’re out of here, once you’ve – Christ, I don’t know, gotten Elena some vacation time or sick leave or whatever the hell and spent the rest of your savings taking her to fucking Tahiti or somewhere, if you’re still having the dreams then, you can worry about it.

I could tell them, I could tell Erica and Marcus. It’d be easy. I could just say something like, ‘hey, uh, so there’s this giant fucking ogre made out of leeches wandering around down here and it’s got the crystal you’re after, and it killed all these copepods. Oh, and the crystal weighs about a ton and we had to get a robot to carry it, which I notice you guys didn’t bring with you. No, you can’t use our robot, it’s probably smashed to bits somewhere.’

They wouldn’t believe me. There’s no way in hell they’d believe me. Even if I did want to save their asses, which at the moment is not very high up on my priority list. I’m still maintaining the faint hope that they might actually find the damn Leechman and try to get into a fight with it, which would be my cue to run like hell.

“Roan,” Erica asks me, again using that mildly infuriating soft and considerate voice, “have you seen one of these before?” She’s holding the body of the leech out to me, grasping it like one might hold a snake, right behind the head. Its mouth gapes insanely wide and round and the body hangs limp. I can’t stop myself from taking a step backwards.

Goddam it, Erica.

“Leechman,” I say, and then I cough. Our eyes meet for the first time in a half hour. “The leechman’s here.”

Erica’s eyes seem to grow instantly deeper. Her mouth is open slightly, and she stares at me in silence until Marcus nudges her, his eyes flicking between her and me. “What’s the leechman?” he asks, and Erica, broken out of her reverie, licks her lips and glances over at him.

“Nothing,” she tells him, getting to her feet quickly. “A fairy tale. Like the boogeyman.”

Marcus doesn’t believe this; I can tell from the way he looks at her, but he doesn’t question it, just gets to his feet as well and follows her as she pulls out the tracking PDA, taps at the screen a few times, and then points down at one of the darkened vents. “That way,” she says, and where she points we follow.

We make our winding way through the ass-end of the barrows, the part we hadn’t gone through yesterday, and then the trail takes a corkscrewing, winding path downwards. We are very clearly in a section of the Pit that people have not been in very often. Even in the sections leading up to the barrows, where the flesh of the vents is left bare and uncovered, there are still lights strung here and there, little radio repeaters and every now and then a tiny, cramped-looking ranger station, mostly mothballed and closed-off, but still evidence that someone had come before us. In the barrows, though, this stopped entirely. There were little trails of cleat-marks here and there, but I think the majority of them were from us stomping through earlier, they looked too fresh, too new.

We only saw a couple of copepods, and these from far off, across vast chasms of flesh, scarred here and there like cliff-faces. I couldn’t divine their purpose, just – anomalies of anatomy, no meaning, no clear analogue I can draw. Just places where the flesh falls away and vague misty nothing takes its place. As I stand on the precipice looking over and down into darkness, watching the way my flashlight beam peters out depressingly soon, I swear that for a moment I can see something moving around, something large, fluttering and flapping and swooping like some kind of giant bat, but if anything was there, it vanished so quickly as to not leave an impression on me other than a brief glimpse of size and frantic motion.

I turned back to see if Marcus or Erica had seen any of it but they were huddled together, deep in conversation, hunched over the PDA. After a moment I traipsed over to join them. With each step on the way down I had felt my weariness building, both in my body and in my heart – I had shoved so much out of the way down somewhere inside of me where I didn’t have to feel it, and it was only now that it was beginning to creep back out at me.

We’d passed some things I’d recognized from the rest of the squad – there was a torn piece of a suit there, in a small knurled corner, dirty and speckled with red matter that might have been blood or bits of flesh. I didn’t look closely enough to check. A boot, cleated firmly into the ground. Nothing as definite as a body; the closest I saw was a great foaming gout of blood splashed across the floor and up part of the wall of the vent, but no indication as to whether it came from a person, from a member of the team, from Klaus or Euler or – or Peter, or whether it was just natural, some artery in the floor being clipped during the fighting and spraying everywhere until capillary action cut it off.

If I think about it I won’t be able to go on. I can’t bear to –

Alright, Roan. Easy girl. Deal with it later. Right now just focus on staying alive. Get back to Elena and then you can cry about things. God, poor Peter, though; and poor Makado, waiting for him. How would I feel if it had been me up there and Elena down here?

I think of her, alone, making her way up the Cord, no weapon, still hurting, probably, as the painkiller starts to wear off, and I bite my lip, hard. Goddam it, I’m not going to cry. Not down here. She’s fine, she’s going to be perfectly fine. She knows how to handle herself.

I focus instead on the ache in my knees, in my back, in my arms. We’ve been going for so long, it feels like; hours upon hours. I’d check the time on the wrist computer but these damn gloves - !

Erica and Marcus look tired as well, at least. Maybe they’ll want to rest soon. We’ll be able to eat, sleep perhaps…they have to have some kind of tent, or sleeping bags, or something, even if it’s not one of the fancy hexagonal ones the squad used. I think about pointing out that we’re all dog tired, we might as well take a break before we go further, but I nix that idea quickly – I don’t want to seem weak. Erica’s given the impression that she won’t push me but Marcus is still a wild card, I don’t know him, how he handles stress, how he’ll act in a couple of hours when he’s even more tired and hungry.

They gesture and lead on, and I follow, dead on my feet but still forcing myself to continue.

And then, after fifteen minutes of walking, down treacherous polyped inclines, past outcroppings of redundant, keratinous spines, we find, laying in a slump with his neck at an awkward unnatural angle, his eyes terribly bright and aware, Euler.

I cry out when I see him; my stomach makes a horrible lurch as I take in the gnawed markings dotting his once-bright ranger suit, round and puckered and blood-crusted. The leeches have been at him but left him alive for some inscrutable reason. He coughs as we shine our lights on him and shifts feebly but he is unable to move more than an inch or two – his spine is clearly broken.

I hadn’t expected to find any bodies; somehow I had guessed that one way or another, anyone lost down here would be utterly irretrievable. But there is Euler, the one person I would never have expected to survive – I guess I underestimated him.

Or perhaps his current condition isn’t really surviving in the main sense. Once I’ve gathered my senses I rush to him and kneel there beside him. I have nothing to offer him, no painkillers, no first aid, nothing besides companionship, but it’s better than standing and gawking as Erica and Marcus seem to be satisfied with. I wipe his forehead with my gloved palm lightly, the sweat shining on the rubber in the wake of my flashlight, and Euler’s eyes shift up to meet mine and he croaks out my name in a hoarse voice. He says it wrong, like it were one syllable, but hearing someone I care about even infinitesimally say it is like breathing after being underwater.

“Euler,” I tell him, and my voice breaks just a tiny bit right at the end. I lick my lips and try again. “Euler, what the hell happened to you?”

“I’m – it’s bad, Roan,” he says. Rone. Should have changed my name in that rebellious phase, added that accent mark I always longed for. There’d be less ambiguity. I smile to myself in spite of everything and he grins at me, just a little bit, but his eyes stay wide and frightened. They flick over to Erica and Marcus, and I look back at them as well, and then give an exasperated sigh.

“Don’t you two have any damn medical things? A first aid kit?” They glance at each other. “Anything?”

“I thought you might…” Euler coughs. “Might have come to rescue us.”

I frown. Us?

“Euler, are there…more people from the squad down here? Hurt somewhere?”

He shakes his head minutely, then winces. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know where to touch him without hurting him. I tear my glove off with my teeth, just lay my hand against his cheek. It feels like an awkwardly intimate gesture but I don’t know what else to do, I don’t know how else to help. If it were me I think I’d – I think I’d want human contact, something skin to skin. I think it might be a comfort.

“What happened?” I whisper.

“The Leechman,” he says, “it – it grabbed me and then it –“

He cries out, gently, and I move my hand downward and grab his. He clutches at me desperately. The last time I had seen him the leeches had been streaming into his open mouth, writhing against him, wrapping him like a hundred pythons at once. I bite my lip and glare back at Erica again. “Will you two fucking do something?”

“He’s clearly past any help we could give him,” Erica says, and Marcus nods.

For a very brief moment I am so intensely angry I feel as though I might burst into flame. Euler cries out softly again and I realize I have squeezed his hand too hard, and I jerk my hand back from his, muttering a stammered apology. He shakes his head.

“They’re right, I’m done for,” he tells me. “You should – you’re going down further?” he asks, frowning, and I nod.

“Those two want the crystal,” I tell him, lowering my voice a little.

“It went…that way,” he says, glancing to the right, further down the vent and into the Pit’s depths. We sit there in silence for a moment longer and then finally work up enough nerve to ask him the question I wanted to.

“Are you in pain?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “It feels like I should be but it’s just dull.” He breathes heavily. “I’m afraid.”

“Euler, don’t –“

“I’m going to die down here,” he says, and there is a terrible layer of finality in his voice that makes my heart fall.

“No, Euler, you’re not –“ I start, but then cut myself off. Because he’s right, isn’t he? I can’t argue with him, there’s no way in hell that we’re going to be able to get him out of here. If he has a broken neck there’s no fucking way we could stabilize him well enough to carry him out of here, and even if we could, I’d need Erica and Marcus’ help, which they don’t seem incredibly inclined to give me. I look back at them and start to get up, but Euler catches the cuff of my suit and I stop, hunkered over awkwardly.

“Roan, I saw – “

He coughs; I can see his chest heaving. I wonder about those leeches; I know I saw them flooding into his mouth, forcing their way down his throat…what would have –

“I saw inside it,” he tells me. I frown.

“Inside what?”

“The Leechman,” he says. His eyes are boring into mine with a horrible intensity, practically bulging outwards. “I saw inside it and – and it was so bright –“

“Euler, I don’t know what you –“

“Don’t leave me down here,” he says quietly, and then lets go. There is a pleading in his eyes that stops me dead. I’ve let my mouth fall open slightly, but there is no mistaking what he means, there is no ambiguity in the quiet desperation in his tone. He wants me to –

I get up quickly. My hands are shaking and my arms and legs feel like I’ve been whipped with a coil of lightning. I walk over to Erica and Marcus, and Erica nods at me. “You ready to go?” she asks, and I shake my head. I open my mouth and try to talk but I choke a little, then cough and try it again.

“Erica, Euler, he –“

“What is it?”

I shut my eyes. “Kill him,” I tell her. “He asked me to but I can’t – I can’t do that. He’s scared and he doesn’t want to have to lay down here unable to move for a couple more days before something fucking eats him or he dies of exposure. Please.”

Erica’s eyes are very dark. She glances at Marcus, then back at me, before she reaches down to her belt and unsnaps the holster there, then hands me the revolver. I nearly drop it; it’s heavier than I had expected. “Do it yourself,” she tells me. Her voice is like glass. “We’ve wasted enough time here already.”

“You – “ I start, but I choke it back. She’s trusting me giving me the revolver; this means something to her. This is a test. But what am I supposed to do? Can I –

But you already did once before, some part of me whispers at the back of my head. Remember Rey? He’s dead because of you. And before that -

Marcus is covering me with his own slim little pistol. I swallow hard and try not to feel the imprint of its muzzle, covering me from five, seven, ten feet away from me, my back itching as I half-expect to hear a report and feel a sharp shock –

But nothing happens. I make it to Euler; he’s watching me, his eyes rolled upwards in a manner that somehow distinctly reminds me of a dog, somehow, and I hate myself for thinking so, but he’s looking at me in the same way a dog will look up at you, not moving its head, its eyes wide and hopeful.

I thought the gun might feel better in my hand after I’d had it there for a while, but it’s still awkward and heavy and purposeful. It’s much heavier than the pistol they’d given me to practice with during qualifications back on the range a few days ago; that one hadn’t even felt like a gun, it hadn’t felt real. This one most certainly does.

Euler nods at me infinitesimally. “It’s…alright,” he says. He seems to be laboring a bit more now; maybe he hadn’t been expending very much energy until we came across him. I certainly didn’t hear any cries for help on the walk up. If he’d been there the whole time, for hours, listening to the Leechman and the copepods duke it out…

“Euler,” I say, “what did you mean when you said you saw inside the Leechman?”

“Roan,” he says. His eyes are fixed on the revolver. I’m stalling, I realize; I’m putting it off so that maybe somehow this responsibility will be removed from me. The inside of my mouth is very dry and I swallow hard, willing some moisture to return to it.

“Okay,” I say quietly. Okay, I think to myself. I take the revolver, hold it in two hands, one on the handle, the barrel resting in the palm of my other hand. I look at the cylinder, fumble for a moment before that trip all those years ago with my dad comes back to me and I find the catch and swing it outwards. Erica hasn’t reloaded since she shot Elena, I note, some dull part of my mind logging the information without any further comment. I can see the tiny mark of the struck primer on one of the cartridges. But I won’t find any salvation here, there are still five more shots that are perfectly serviceable.

I click it shut, remembering, as my dad told me, not to flick it closed, not to spin it. You aren’t a cowboy, he’d said to me gravely, pressing the gun into my chest. It had smelled like oil and metal, like something functional, like when you open the hood of your car. And I had trembled then as I am now, and I had looked out across the flat open expanse of grass –

Even then I couldn’t bear to think of it after I’d done it.

I’m stalling.

Goddam it, Roan, goddam you and your willingness to stick your neck out.

Euler makes a small noise beneath me and I look down at him. “Are you sure?” I ask, willing him to say no, to rethink it, to give me a reprieve. He nods.

“Just do it,” he says. “They won’t come get me, they won’t care. Just do it.”

“Okay,” I breathe, and then I hold the gun in two hands – why does it come back to me so easily? – and put it up very close to his forehead, and Euler shuts his eyes, and I shut mine as well. I inhale and then exhale.

Five minutes later I hear feet squelching up behind me and then Marcus is crouching next to me and prying the gun from my nerveless hands. “It’s okay,” he says, not unkindly, and then he is gently pushing me out of the way. I get to my feet, not knowing what else to do. I meet Euler’s eyes and I start to say something, then I stop. There is no blame in them, or maybe I don’t want to see blame. So instead I turn around and hunch myself against the wall, and when the gunshot finally sounds I flinch, and then I finally let myself cry.

When I turn back around I can’t bring myself to look at him. I instead watch Marcus hand the revolver back to Erica, watch Erica slip it back into the holster, watch Marcus shove his pistol into the waistband of his heavy-duty jeans. I blurt out the only thing that comes to my mind and tell him that he shouldn’t carry one in the chamber like that, it’s dangerous, and Marcus gives me a pitying look and says nothing. When I meet Erica’s eyes they are lighter than before and I realize, with a shudder as another wave of tears rolls soundlessly down my cheeks, that whatever test there was, whatever reason made her give me the revolver, I passed.

And then we stomp off into the darkness and leave poor Euler behind.

* * *

The next day I feel better. I slept better than I thought I might have, sandwiched between Erica and Marcus in their tent, cramped and with not enough air mattresses or sleeping bags, but I managed. They shared some of their food with me, MREs scavenged from some surplus store somewhere, which I found faintly comforting, and then the next day, when someone’s alarm blared and woke us, I was disconcertingly and surprisingly fresh-feeling. All the pain and sorrow I thought might have come boiling out of me when I let my guard down never did, and instead it was replaced with a calm, warm, faintly comforting deadness. I was, I realize now, preparing on some level to die. I had arrived at a zenlike state that had me convinced I was either dead or dreaming, a fragile state of mind that I had tried so hard to reach at that dojo in Oklahoma but which constantly eluded me.

Since Friday I am complicit now in two murders, one arguably and one less so. When I think of myself the person I am is thorny and sharp-edged and armored and I do not recognize her when I hold her in my arms. I blow out a breath and pop my eyes open as Marcus nudges me and hands me a cup of bootleg espresso made from two freeze-dried pouches, and I take it gratefully and even manage to smile at him. I feel…clean.

We’ll see how long that lasts.

More walking, more bypasses across stinking rivers of digested slurry, more crawling across meter-wide cords of banded muscle. The anatomy gets stranger and stranger, more open, more wild. Nerves like waving cilia, waggling at us like anemones, retract at lightspeed at our approach. Everything is luminescent down here, everything glows, but what glows brightest of all is the rectangular blocky backlight of Erica’s PDA, guiding us forward like a north star. She seems less certain of it, less sure; she stops and consults with Marcus every now and then and I feel fairly frequently like I have simply been forgotten, like I am an insurance policy for the return trip, a hostage kept in waiting to be revealed and used as leverage later on.

Will Makado care, I wonder, when she knows that they’ve taken me? I hope she will. I think we got close enough that she would. I think she likes me.

Does she like me enough to send a team after me? I’m sure there’s some kind of tracking device in this suit but will it even function this deep down? I don’t know.

I stub my toe on a bloated adipose swelling and it belches a gout of rank, sticky fluid on me. We pause again for Marcus to vomit.

Eventually we make it to a curled, winding passageway, a tight intestinal-feeling loop that circles in on itself over and over again, the tissue struggling against us at every turn, that we have to claw and scrape and crawl through but that the PDA swears is the right way to go, the simplified arrow logo spinning back around and directing us back in every time we think of turning around and trying someplace else. We push through and through until finally it vomits us out, breathing hard and covered in blood and strands of pale-white membrane, and then we stop, eyes wide, staring up and up and up at the space we’ve found ourselves in.

It’s enormous, the size of a stadium and at least twice or maybe three times as deep, great gnarled coils of sparking nerves weaving in and out of the fleshy, irregular walls casting macabre light in regular snaking patterns across the broad flat plate of bone that divides the space nearly in half, knotty and bulging and thick, honeycombed and dripping with thick resinous marrow.

There are things moving, I realize, on the far-off floor of the chasm, great writhing worms or – no, no, they have legs. Squat lizard-like figures, then, moving in fits and starts, their flesh a glistening pale sickly color, like milk that’s gone off. They must be simply enormous for us to be able to see them from this distance. I glance back at Erica and Marcus; their mouths are open, dumbstruck as well – they must not have known this was here. Could we be the first to find this place?

I watch a shadow, a patchy midnight cutout, detach itself from the bone plate and fall swooping to the floor of the chasm, and then it wings its way back up, one of the lizards caught in its claws, dangling beneath like a rabbit caught by a hawk. I watch, overwhelmed, as the – the thing, whatever it is, I want to call it a bird but it can’t be, it simply can’t be – flutters ungainly and graceless back to the bone and vanishes with its prey into a whorled hole in the side, ragged and uneven.

“What is this place?” I mutter to Erica, after I’ve regained enough of my senses to think to speak, and she shakes her head faintly.

“I have no idea,” she tells me, but before I can say anything else I hear a noise from above us; a subtle noise, like a whistling, drawn-out swoosh, and when I look upwards I can only see a diving, dark-furred silhouette with outstretched, foot-long claws and a hungry, slavering mouth.

I don’t have time to scream.

Continue with Part 26

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#mystery flesh pit #writing #writeblr #alt lit #Novel #original writing #mystery #thriller #disaster #caving

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ohwereusingourmadeupnames · 3 years

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Persephone Will Have Her Fill

Pairing: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter Rating: Explicit (E) Notes: Here’s part two of my little hannigram verse. You should absolutely read the first part before you take a peak at this one. Word Count: 9.4K Warnings: There be some cannibalism and talk about killing. Oh, also - Will suffers from encephalitis, so there’s that, too! Summary:

After meeting the mysterious darkness that is Will Graham, Hannibal finds himself snared by the presence he brings into his life. When a question sparks up the need to truly be seen, Hannibal sets out to do just that. Earth-rocking realizations ensue.

Read on AO3 here.

“Have I ever seen any of your work?”

Looking up from the cutting board in front of him, the chef’s knife in his hand stalled through the rough chop he was treating the cilantro to. Hannibal took a second to draw in breath, then tilted his head – a contemplative look on his face.

“I’m surprised you haven’t pieced it all together already,” Hannibal replied smoothly, his body shifting to turn in Will’s direction. For a second, Hannibal let himself soak the other man in. His hands were covered in blood from the preparation of the organ on the butcher block in the middle of Hannibal’s kitchen. The man’s latest acquisition, a heart that would make great steaks for their dinner that evening, and then a lovely addition to a stew that blew Hannibal’s mind the last time Will shared it with him.

There were so many hidden components to Will Graham that Hannibal still didn’t completely grasp, but this one, the element that brought freedom and dropped the masks – Will flourished in it. The pinch of his shoulders eased and the fluid motion of hand to knife created art; a sort of relaxed talent that Hannibal only ever knew of himself before the whirlwind of Will swept into his life.

And, while they didn’t indulge the other in shared secrets of recipes and know-how in the kitchen, they each brought their own pieces to the game and let the innate connection between them bring about the result. The last few months of collaboration were some of Hannibal’s greatest culinary triumphs.

A coy smile directed Hannibal’s way brought him from his thoughts – the killer gleam in Will’s eyes reminding him of the existence of the wild animal the other man only barely kept at bay. He watched Will drop his knife, hands still covered in blood and viscera, and make his way directly into Hannibal’s space. There was a beat of shared breath, and then Will was suddenly behind him – his arm wrapping around Hannibal’s upper arms, pulling him until they were flush together, back to chest.

A blood stain in the shape of Will’s hand on the bicep of Hannibal’s shirt contrasted the stark white of the color – Will’s mark on him tangible in that moment in more ways than one.

The slightest height difference between them made it easy for Will to hook his chin over Hannibal’s shoulder, his lips already pressed delicately against the sensitive shell of his ear.

“I’ve thought about your design since the second I met you,” Will muttered, the words kissed into the soft skin just below Hannibal’s ear. “You’ve been killing most of your life – probably started young, caught the bug and had the talent to back it up. You’re knowledgeable in anatomy, so your dissections are precise. You only take what you need and use the rest to send your message.”

Each word felt like a direct hit to the walls in Hannibal’s mind. The palace that existed there, while generally untouched by outsiders, called out to Will. From the day they met, Hannibal felt himself making expansions, rooms being added on in an attempt to fit Will Graham’s infiltration.

“What I can’t decide on, though,” Will continued, the hand not gripping Hannibal already drifting down svelte sides until it settled on the middle of a trim stomach, “is whether you make a grandiose display, or not. You already play with your food, but do you reconstruct it, too?” There was another shift, Will practically plastering himself to every part of Hannibal he could reach.

Hannibal, unable to resist the temptation of the delectable heat behind him, pressed back, his right hand reaching up to grab onto Will’s forearm. In this position, he could feel warm breaths against his neck and the gentle rise and fall of Will’s chest. Despite the topic of conversation, the rate of Will’s heart didn’t pick up – the lack of acceleration more thrilling than a flare of excitement would’ve been. Finding someone so similar to himself was disarming, and yet, Hannibal didn’t know what he might do without it now that he understood the taste. His palette was redefined, covered and shaped by his darkness and its interaction with Will’s.

“And now? After getting to know me – what do you see?” Hannibal questioned, his back pressing more firmly against Will’s chest. The thickness of Will’s erection was there against his back, heat and want adding to the odd intensity they found themselves in.

A nip to the neck tore a sigh from Hannibal’s throat, the answer to Will’s interest now smashed up against the zipper of his pants – the well-tailored suit slacks for once a nuisance, hindering his pleasure. Not usually so submissive, Hannibal fought against the urge to turn around and pin Will to the counter – these moments where Will shed the façade were few and far between. These interactions acted as gates opening to the empathetic mystery.

Will’s hand on his cheek had Hannibal turning his head, their lips joining in a warm kiss. He could feel the patches of Will’s hand that were still wet with blood – the liquid smearing wherever work-rough hands touched. The scent of copper and sweat were prominent in the space between them; an aphrodisiac if Hannibal ever knew one.

Tongues tangled in a desperate attempt to draw something from each other. When Will kissed, or touched, or even looked – the air went a little thin and every part of Hannibal was on display. Empathy or not, Will’s ability to look past the heavy walls and see within was unmatched and equal parts confusing and tranquil in its own right.

Parting for air became necessary – in their tussle to be as close as possible, Will pressed him hard against the counter. There was no space between their chests, no room to draw in a breath, even if he wanted to. Hannibal used his extra weight to lean forward, effectively cutting their kiss off. His chest heaved, and with every pulsing beat, Hannibal felt his cock throb – the timing of it eerily close to the pace of Will’s huffed out breaths.

Sure hands were quick to grab onto him again, Will used his leverage to turn Hannibal around – the two men practically nose to nose. The easy way Will stripped him down to this person that just did what was prompted, it was disarming and intoxicating all at once.

Those same hands were cupping his face then, Will’s thumb lightly running across Hannibal’s bottom lip. Will took his time looking Hannibal over, the tender brush of the man’s empathy caressing his skin. “I think you’re an artist, Hannibal. Sometimes you like the audience,” Will peppered kisses around the skin of his mouth as he spoke, “and sometimes, you keep your brutality all to yourself. I’m willing to bet that several names in the media over the last few years apply to you.”

“Such a clever boy you are, Will,” Hannibal said in reply, both hands wrapping around Will’s hips. “My most recent hunts have been underground, but one day – very soon, you’ll truly see me.” There was a soft breath shared, and then their lips were upon each other again.

It didn’t take but a few steps to get down the hall and into the study – the idea of walking up the stairs completely out of the question. In their time together, Hannibal was quick to understand that the physical urge to own and connect would come whenever and wherever it wanted. Will carried chaos with him and used it to his advantage – his impulsive, yet completely strategic actions were off putting and wild – absolutely delicious in its juxtaposition. Each of the rooms in his house now stored lube in at least one of its drawers.

There was only so much expensive olive oil Hannibal could let go to the cause.

Hands fumbled to rid bodies of clothing while trying to keep the tension of lip on lip. Hannibal made quick work of Will’s blue and green flannel; his fingers nimble on the buttons. A gasp left Will’s lips when fingers made their first touch on bare skin – an entire army of gooseflesh overtaking the sensitive flesh.

By the time they made it into the study, Will’s pants were hanging open, the belt flapping wildly with every movement. Hannibal, on the other hand, still wore his waistcoat and shirt, both of which were unbuttoned, yet hanging off his shoulders. His cock pressed ruthlessly against the seam of his dress pants, and every part of him ached to have Will in any way on offer.

Huffing out an exasperate breath, Will stepped back from their embrace. He made quick work of the clothes that still clung to him, his cock slapping his belly obscenely as the last layer fell to the ground. His eyes were ablaze, the usual blue of them completely overtaken by the lusty black that made Hannibal think of paranormal beings – beautiful little monsters with dark eyes and so many tricks under their sleeves.

“Have I told you how much I dislike all the layers you wear? While sexy, the suit takes so damn long to get off,” Will grumbled, his tongue dragging over his bottom lip. “I’m not patient enough right now, either.”

As he spoke, Will climbed onto the couch, his forearms settling against the armrest – the rest of his body a delicious temptation. Knowing how good he looked, Will glanced over his shoulder, a devilish glint in his eyes. He didn’t need to say anything, either – he simply maintained eye contact and reached behind himself, deft, coppery red fingers prying his ass cheeks apart; the cherry pink of his hole on provocative display.

“Take it off, Hannibal – or don’t. Just get over here and fuck me.”

Unable to think any further than that request, Hannibal shrugged off his waistcoat and practically dove onto the couch behind Will. He let his eyes roam over every inch of Will he could before impatient hips pressed back against him. The string between divine and desperate constantly hung in the balance – Hannibal frequently forgot the things he learned over the years; control and patience no longer existing.

Ducking between the delectable spread that was Will in that moment, Hannibal allowed himself to take in a long breath. The earthy musk sat in the back of his nose – his senses overcome with how manly and right the scent registered to be. It was a catalyst, the final notes of reign over himself falling as he tucked in and let the entire expanse of his tongue press against Will’s most intimate spot.

Like a man starving, Hannibal set about claiming his prize. He started with small licks around the rim, Will’s muscles already starting to relax under such simple ministrations. The first taste drove him mad with hunger, his tongue flattening after the first few teasing brushes to press more insistently against the still tight pucker. Pushing Will’s hands away, Hannibal took over the job of spreading supple cheeks, his longer fingers pushed into the flesh. Wanting more width, Hannibal shifted, practically yanking the globes even further apart.

The pleasure-pain of it tore a growl from Will’s lips, the man pressing his hips back against Hannibal’s face roughly in retaliation. Though he could see the redness start to overtake skin, Hannibal continued on – he felt familiar enough with Will’s interests to know that his counterpart appreciated the heat of pain just as much as delicate pleasure.

An abundance of spit both on Will’s skin and around Hannibal’s mouth and chin made the whole process easier – the point of his tongue and the tip of a rogue finger were easily admitted access. Little by little, Will loosened around him. Hannibal’s ministrations, like the rest of him, were precise – dealt with the intention of taking Will to pieces. Yet, Hannibal felt like he was the one falling apart; every rough touch and drawn out moan felt like a hit straight to the soul.

No one – not even Mischa, laid Hannibal so bare to the world. Especially with something as simple as a well-placed look or cleverly worded demand.

Only Will.

Groaning at the thought, Hannibal pulled back, a hand coming up to wipe away some of the moisture from his face. His chest was heaving, the cardiovascular system within him used to heavy lifting, not marathon tongue fucking.

The small gap in movement and Hannibal’s preoccupation was just enough for Will to once again take control of the situation. Where he was splayed against the side of the couch just moments before, Will was now facing Hannibal, his eyes alight.

Strong hands pushed against Hannibal’s shoulders until his own back was resting against the opposite arm rest, his long legs stretched across the entire length of the couch. Will settled into his lap nicely – strong thighs bracketed Hannibal’s, each clench and pulse of muscle bringing them closer, magnifying the feeling of touch and stimulus. Hannibal didn’t even have his pants off, yet, he felt just inches from the delirious cusp of that little death.

Hannibal watched with a contained awe as Will reached for the end table drawer – his brain was so strung out, he completely forgot that lube existed there. The soft slam of it being closed snapped him out of his haze. Hannibal tried to make quick work of getting his pants open – though, was quickly thwarted by Will, who merely let him get the zipper down before he was reaching in and grabbing Hannibal’s cock without any sort of finesse.

Will impatiently opened the lube and poured a decent amount directly onto Hannibal’s length – his teeth gritting against the cold of it. Fingers followed the flow. Will’s hand wrapping around the girth of him brought sharp canines down into a kiss swollen lip – Hannibal never had to fight so hard with the quick to cum trigger reflex that attempted to fail him right that instant. Fingers were tight around him for too short a time; instead, they trailed from his swollen flesh and found their way to Will’s hole, the man fingering himself open just enough to spread the slick.

Before Hannibal took his next breath, or had a second to find some control, Will lowered himself onto Hannibal’s rigid cock – their joint pants of exertion sounding around the room, overtaking the entire space. In an attempt to stop himself from finishing right that very second, Hannibal gripped Will’s hips tightly – his fingernails digging into the skin there, each one drawing up little welts of blood; Hannibal’s mark visible now, too.

“Fuck, Will – don’t move. Please,” Hannibal mumbled, his forehead resting against Will’s breastbone, his chest heaving with short, abortive breaths.

The slightest roll of hips was Hannibal’s answer – Will adjusting their position to better fit his own comfort.

While more movement did not follow, the filthiest words did, instead. With his hands gripping either side of Hannibal’s neck, Will used his leverage to tilt Hannibal’s head up until they were looking eye to eye.

“You look good like this – completely undone. Your clothes are less than immaculate, there’s wrinkles and sweat stains. Your pants are barely open and, in this moment, there’s nothing that could get you to care any less about it. I wonder what you would say if you saw yourself – splayed open like the pigs we hunt, looking at me like I’m both judge and executioner. Do you think you would like what you saw?”

Biting down hard on his lip, Hannibal fought each second to keep their eye contact – the words were delicious, and so eerily on point. Nodding his head seemed to be the best course of action – words were failing him, his brain short circuiting one neuron at a time.

How did Will get to the very core of him? With all things considered, Hannibal constructed walls that no one else came close to touching, let alone blowing apart the way Will seemed to. It felt like losing himself in a way – giving up those pieces to be cared for by this beautiful monster of a man.

Sensing Hannibal’s dilemma, Will started to move his hips in earnest. His rhythm a perfect distraction. There was a subtle roll down Hannibal’s length, then a powerful drive up until only the tip occupied space. Up and down, over and over – Will drove him closer to a new kind of insanity. This one would take everything from him; mind, body, soul – even the heart that didn’t seem to exist until the murderous temptation that Will embodied walked so easily into his life.

For a few exquisite minutes, Hannibal clenched Will’s hips tightly in his hands while the man worked him over. At one point, Hannibal wondered if Will got off more on the power, than the actual physical closeness – but, a particular hard drive into the man’s prostate made the answer obvious. Power over Hannibal drew him to madness. The power of Hannibal’s body and the pleasure he could achieve from it – that gave him strength.

“Don’t hold back anymore, Hannibal. I want you to own me,” Will whispered against raw lips.

With the permission to do so, Hannibal surged up – their barely there kisses turning into something brutal as his grip tightened on Will’s hips, his own finally breaking free of the self-induced confines to pound ruthless up and into the tightest heat ever experienced.

He felt wild and completely undone – his being only used to this adrenaline pumping feeling after the satisfaction of a hunt well done. It was crazy to be so unleashed, and yet, Hannibal let himself go, anyway; what Will wanted, he got.

When finality became something he could no longer hold back, Hannibal leaned forward and dug his teeth into Will’s shoulder – his teeth marks from previous encounters still there, getting deeper and more defined by the bite. He clenched his jaw down and with the skin still between his teeth, came harder than ever before (which was saying something, because sex with Will was always an adventure). The rhythmic pulse and flutter around his length signaled Will’s jump over the cliff edge with him.

Sticky cum in the space between their chests seemed pedestrian after such a connection. Physical representation of their joining didn’t matter – the mental connection overwhelmed it all.

The come down a few minutes later consisted of blood in his mouth, long drawn in breaths, and the feeling of Will’s palms on his cheeks. It felt like too much effort to fight anything from that point on, so he leaned back, his eyes catching Will’s. Their shared look made his stomach clench – the overwhelming feeling of being taken apart more alive in that moment than their entire coupling.

“Will – “ Hannibal tried to say, his voice so thick and scratchy from pulled out moans, new feelings, and heavy sighs.

Will’s thumbs brushed chiseled cheekbones, the flat of his fingers settling on the edge of Hannibal’s square jaw. “Shh,” he said in reply, their lips joining for a surprisingly soft kiss. “I know – me too.”

----

After that night, something shifted. For so long, Hannibal conducted himself as a solitary creature – life was simpler when his plans consisted of his own wants and desires. Even after meeting Will initially, Hannibal figured things would stay separate – work, play, and the occasional murder taking up their own sphere in his life. The sudden realization that neither he, nor Will, wanted any sort of separation, was monumental. In almost fifty years, Hannibal never saw something like this coming.

With the addition of Will in mind, Hannibal went about planning his next tableau. The Ripper hadn’t made an appearance in a while and his sounders were due. Will understood what it meant to take someone’s life – their shared desire to see the light in someone’s eyes fade was apparent. And yet, Will chose to elevate his prey by making them into meals that anyone would drool over.

In his own experience, Hannibal appreciated the consumption of his victims because of the control it gave him – they weren’t worthy of anything in life and as their flesh passed his lips, their sole source of meaning was to feed him, to nourish him – to provide the needed macro and micro nutrients that were essential to life.

Even still, The Ripper’s message took things a step further. The elevation of murder into widespread art truly spoke of Hannibal’s innermost feelings. Most people were beneath him and their only redeemable quality was their ability to be changed into priceless beauty. In his attempt to boost the lowest of low, Hannibal found himself – power of the hammer and all.

If anyone were to truly understand him and the tangible personification of his darkest and most intimate thoughts, Will Graham continuously proved he could be that person. With eyes that already saw so much, Will simply needed a nudge to truly see Hannibal – in every way.

Though completely terrifying, the thought brought about a new sort of excitement, too. To truly be seen and understood – Hannibal never even fathomed the occurrence. Living outside the confines of society came at a price, and no matter how many people graced his dinner table or laughed at his well-timed jokes, a divide between him and them existed. People turned a blind eye to what they didn’t want to see – it was easier to ignore the things in front of them than genuinely accept inferiority.

Will, though – he gripped the chains of normalcy and broke them between his fingers. Still trying to piece together the extent of his empathy, Hannibal didn’t quite know the complete depth of Will’s ability to truly see. In the same breath, Hannibal swore that he could feel the intensity of the unique gift in everything Will did. While Hannibal wore a finely tailored person suit, Will used his ability to become the things people revered and those they feared whole heartedly – so simply, with just the roll of his shoulders and a long, deep breath.

The Ripper deserved the right audience and finally, after so much time of not knowing how much he truly wanted the echoing applause, Hannibal found someone worthy of it.

Planning such a grandiose thing took time. For weeks, Hannibal went about everything as usual. On the nights that Will cooked late, Hannibal made the trip out to Wolf Trapp – his Bentley eating up the miles with relative ease. Winston, who took a liking to Hannibal immediately (he was sure the freshly made sausage had a lot to do with that), expected play time and pets before Hannibal could even think about joining Will in the kitchen.

The weekends, however, those belonged to Hannibal. Unless otherwise occupied with a last-minute client, Will spent both days in the glorious confines of Hannibal’s fancy brick and mortar. Most of that time, admittedly, was spent in the kitchen – Will’s passion for food (and not just that of the human variety) kept things interesting. There was always a new knife technique to try or a rare ingredient to add to the mundane. When they weren’t cooking away, or eating their weight in their creations, both men simply existed together.

Will let Hannibal sketch him in whatever way requested, and in return, Hannibal brushed his fingers through Will’s hair as he perused cookbooks and academic articles. A give and take existed that shouldn’t – not between two very peculiar men who took to murdering others as a hobby. And yet, Will kissed him goodbye when Hannibal mentioned something about hunting on his way out the door. Picture perfect domestic bliss.

One particular weekend a few months after falling into such a routine, Hannibal convinced Will to join him at the opera. After weeks of preparation and recognizance, he finally felt ready to reveal his most coveted persona to the man that quickly became the most important part of Hannibal’s existence. Why not make a night of it?

As usual, they made dinner together – Will’s latest victim’s kidney made for a delicious steak and kidney pie. The crust was buttery and flaky, rolled thin to perfection. When it came out of the oven, Will preened at the proud look on Hannibal’s face.

“Looks amazing, Chef,” Hannibal complimented, his fingers already twitching to scoop a fork into the molten confines of golden pastry.

Will continued to beam as the table was set and Hannibal, in all of his unselfish glory, handed over the serving spoon. Despite being the one to take the lead on most of their meals, Will gave the dishing out honor to Hannibal – even at his own table. There was a power dynamic that existed, and each man understood their role.

Will sent him a genuinely intrigued look, his eyebrow lifting. Instead of questioning, however, he simply gripped the utensil and went about portioning out their meal.

They made small talk throughout the devouring of their joint efforts – Hannibal spoke of his latest client’s swiftly developing obsession with him and watched delightedly as Will grew more menacing by the second. Franklyn never stood a chance, but the opportunity to push at Will’s boundaries wasn’t something he wanted to pass up. Jealousy, though such a base emotion, could lead a person astray very quickly. For the first time, Hannibal wanted the tenacity and rage that came with the juggling act. Someone he craved wanted him just as much and would fight tooth and nail to keep it that way.

And though not entirely thrilled to be amongst the masses in a “penguin suit”, Will cleaned up nicely – the tailored tuxedo was midnight black, enhanced with a single, dark pinstripe down the side of each pant leg. He finished the look with a stark white shirt and black bow tie – elegant and simple, yet dangerous at the same time.

Finishing up his own look, Hannibal retreated from his walk-in to find Will casually seated on the edge of the bed. Merely lounging there, he looked absolutely exquisite.

His eyes were closed and for a moment, Hannibal wondered if he were asleep sitting up. He cleared his throat in an attempt to rouse Will, his long legs carrying him until there was only a couple of inches separating them.

Blue eyes blinked open slowly, a faraway look overtaking Will’s face before finally registered Hannibal’s presence.

“Are you feeling alright?” Hannibal asked, concern heavy in his voice. He reached to press a hand to Will’s forehead and found the skin there warm, the slightest bit of moisture sitting just barely on the surface. All tell-tale signs of an oncoming fever.

Reaching up to grab Hannibal’s hand and lacing their fingers together tightly, Will attempted a smile – the man’s mask not as secure as usual.

“I’m fine – just a bit of a headache. I haven’t been sleeping very well the last few nights, so it’s probably just some fatigue.” While he spoke, Will got up from the bed, his persona shifting with a soft roll of his shoulders. Now cognizant, the process came easily. His eyes were already a little clearer and any sort of weakness that existed in seconds before, was completely gone. Will Graham, the unsuspecting chef, Hannibal’s partner, stood in front of him once more.

“Are you finally ready?” Will asked, an eyebrow quirking.

Shaking the worry off, Hannibal grinned at the cheeky question. In their time together, certain habits made themselves known. Will drooled when in deep sleep and didn’t always pick up his wet towels. And while completely put together outside of the walls of his room, Hannibal was fussy and took a lot of time to get ready – the construction of his person suit more time consuming and labor intensive than Will’s would ever be.

“Snarky thing,” Hannibal immediately remarked. He pressed forward to press a chaste kiss to Will’s forehead. “Let’s go, darling. I have something for you after the show and am suddenly impatient to gift it.”

Will’s simple nod brought a brief surge of panic to his chest, but he quickly brushed it off. Though not the reaction he thought he’d get, the line of sweat still painting Will’s brow reminded him of the blurriness he encountered just moments before.

Leaning in again, Hannibal tucked his nose into Will’s neck and took a deep breath. Apart from the normal smells of bergamot, vanilla, and the slightest bit of wet dog, Hannibal scented something warm and sweet – the rising fever in the other’s skin taking on the body of over-ripened fruit.

He was met with the same intrigued look from their time at the dinner table when he pulled back. In an instant, Hannibal suddenly realized that was Will’s way of expressing his curiousness. Will usually pieced together the situation before it happened and reacted accordingly. Most people broadcasted their thoughts and feelings unconsciously, and Will’s intelligence made it easy to fill in the blanks. Hannibal, however, kept things locked tight – meticulous thought and effort went into making sure people received the exact message he wanted them to.

Though completely disarming himself, Will found a peculiar sort of mystery in Hannibal – the appeal of the unknown one of the things Hannibal could easily tell attracted Will to him so holistically. Like the true predator he was, Will enjoyed the chase. One that they both knew would probably never dull with the lifestyle they both kept.

The realization made his heart drum rapidly; love never took on a definition before, but in that moment, Hannibal finally understood. How interesting the realization came barreling towards him so out of the blue, yet so naturally. Like companionship – love didn’t ever seem like an option.

A soft touch on his cheek brought Hannibal back to the room – he blinked quickly, smiling to cover up the absentmindedness. The same curious look was on Will’s face, eyes never leaving Hannibal’s.

“Are you okay?” Will asked, his other hand pressing against Hannibal’s chest. “We might be late if we don’t go soon.”

That was all Hannibal needed to get back into gear – they made quick work of getting into jackets and climbing into the car. Hannibal held the door open for Will and before he could sit down, pressed a kiss to his lips.

“You don’t have to butter me up – I’m already in the tux.” The words came out of his mouth, yet Will couldn’t hide the blush on his cheeks or the duck of his head.

The drive over was uneventful – there wasn’t any talking, but the soft tones of Mozart kept the atmosphere calm and serene. Will’s hand landed on Hannibal’s thigh halfway to the venue – Hannibal dragged his bottom lip between his teeth to stop the megawatt smile from overtaking his face. Instead, he wrapped Will’s hand up with his own, their fingers tangling effortlessly.

Out of all the reasons why Hannibal donated to the arts, the preferred parking had to be one of the best among them. He pulled into his designated space a while later and shot will a playful wink.

Will snorted, his head shaking – “pretentious prick.”

They arrived just in time to schmooze for a few minutes before having to take their seats – a fact that Hannibal was over the moon about. Through months of dating, he never got the opportunity to show Will off. Aside from the fact that the man shone with impressive energy, Hannibal selfishly wanted everyone to see who he managed to attract; a very special man came into his life and despite it all, chose to stand proudly by his side.

With a soft kiss to Will’s cheek, Hannibal gestured to the bar. “I’m going to grab us a drink. I’d like to introduce you to a few people, if you’re not opposed.”

“I don’t mind – you’ve been dying to show me off for ages. I’m surprised you were able to wait this long,” Will retorted, a look of absolute knowing on his face. He casually slipped his hands into his pockets, the needed mask for the occasion slipping into place. “You know where to find me.”

Turning, Hannibal glided easily to the bar, ordering the same vintage chardonnay he always did and a whiskey neat for Will. The bartender recognized him immediately, the gold membership card that sat in his breast pocket unneeded.

“I’ll put it on your tab, Doctor Lecter.”

“Thank you, Tyler. It’s a pleasure, as always.” He saluted the younger man with the drinks in his hand and set off to find Will.

Without even having to try, Will drew people to him. The ever-curious Mrs. Ellen Komeda stood proudly in front of his beau, her eyes cataloguing him sharply. In a lot of ways, the two of them were very similar. Where Ellen lacked the empathy, she made up for it in pure grit and tenacity. She could read a room because she knew just about everyone and everything in it. Someone like Will, a gorgeous outsider, more than likely called to her from the moment she saw him.

“Where have you been hiding this one, Hannibal? He’s an absolute delight,” Ellen remarked the second he was within conversing distance. She eyed him up, then nodded approvingly.

Handing Will his drink, Hannibal let his now free hand wrap around Will’s waist. A moment existed where he thought Will might tense up, but he simply leaned in closer – the doting boyfriend act both natural and highly manipulative. What a delightful boy.

“We’re both busy men. Will here is the mastermind behind that delectable pate from my last dinner party.” The pride he felt carried over in his voice – people knew how Hannibal felt about food; the compliment held a lot of weight.

From the surprise on Ellen’s face, she too understood the sentiment.

“That’s high praise indeed. When I didn’t see you still wrapped in your apron when I arrived, I should have figured something was up.” She turned to Will then, her smile challenging. “Tell me Will, how did you charm the good doctor so?”

Seemingly unable to stop himself, Will chuckled, then pressed himself closer to Hannibal. “I bumped into him in a gourmet cheese shop. My refined palette was the major selling point.”

Before anyone else could say anything, a gentleman making his way into their little group stopped the conversation in its tracks. Hannibal watched Will’s eyes flash, the other man’s arm tightening around him. It was a minute reaction but telling all the same. He pulled at the seams of his person suit, the edges tightening up imperceptibly.

Luckily, Ellen saved them all, her social graces without fail. “Mr. Bowerman, it’s been some time since I last saw you at the opera.” Her mouth quirked as she spoke, like the words were bent nails in her mouth.

“Yes, well – since my wife’s passing, getting out to these fancy shindigs isn’t nearly as fun.” He took a long sip of his drink, his eyes shifting to Hannibal, only to linger on Will a second later.

“Walter Bowerman,” the man announced. The words were spoken into the open nothingness of the air, but his eyes – they were glued to Will.

A rush of murderous rage ran down Hannibal’s spine, his nostrils flaring.

Will didn’t miss a beat though, the brilliant boy he was. Tossing back his drink, Will waved the empty glass at the newcomer, a neutral look on his face. “Walter.” The single word was dismissive, only to be aided with a subtle turn of his body. He flashed a smile at Mrs. Komeda next, his expression softening slightly. “Ellen, it was glorious to meet you. Have Hannibal pass on my information – I’d love to cook for you some time.”

Understanding without any further prompting, Hannibal bid them both an absent goodbye and let himself be led by Will. He watched blue eyes track down a waiter, where he deposited his glass before continuing towards the theater door.

There wasn’t a sound made until they were alone in Hannibal’s booth – Will’s face was sweaty again, eyes slightly hazy. “Is it common knowledge that Walter Bowerman killed his wife?” Will asked lightly, breaking the silence. He swiped at his brow, looking a little off kilter.

Thrown off by the bluntness of Will’s words, Hannibal tuned out everything but the question. A sliver of pride sat in his chest at the other’s deductive abilities – Hannibal instantly knew there was something off but wasn’t able to pinpoint exactly what. Will’s mind – it was a beautiful thing.

“Tonight happened to be the first time I’ve made his acquaintance – Ellen seemed put off, but I think the interruption to our conversation played a big part in that. You are very charming,” Hannibal admitted easily. Even he had been impressed.

“He got pleasure from mentioning his wife’s death. There was that murderous glint in his eye that just felt – wrong.” He moved to continue, but the stage lights flickered, and the heavy curtain started to pull back.

For a while, previous interactions fled from Hannibal’s mind – the mind-numbing drift a welcome gift after the stress of the evening. He let Will take his hand before the aria started, the touch the only anchor he wanted to the present. After a beat, the soprano opened her mouth and started to sing. Merely relaxing back, Hannibal let the music wash over him.

About halfway through the first act, a tightening grip on his hand brought Hannibal out of his mind space, a confused look on his face for a split second before it was quickly replaced by worry. Will’s face was covered in sweat and his chest seemed to be heaving, despite the dwindling awareness. He looked at Hannibal helplessly, mouth opening around unspoken pleas.

Finally, Will managed to grab ahold of himself for a second – his words a little slurred when he babbled out – “I think there’s something wrong.”

Acting quickly, Hannibal jumped out of his seat, suddenly glad for the privacy of his usual booth. Getting up wouldn’t disturb anyone, so there was room to get Will out however he needed. The man was cognizant enough to help Hannibal pull him out of the chair, but that only went as far as the hallway outside of their seats before Will went limp. The seizure that followed so nicely allowed Hannibal to get Will to the bathroom, the convulsions starting the second he got them pressed against the solid surface of the door.

His hands cupped Will’s cheeks, the grip of them strong to keep the back of his head from smacking against anything. Will’s eyes were open, but the pupils were completely blown – there was no focus or constriction whatsoever. Holding Will as tightly as possible, Hannibal rode out the storm.

When the shaking stopped, Hannibal counted out five minutes before Will came back around – his once slack body clenched all at once, fear and confusion flowing through him. “H-Hannibal?” Will chocked out, the syllables running together.

Bringing his face up to do a quick check of blue eyes, Hannibal let out a breath. There was finally some response in the dark pupils. He ran his thumbs softly over the apple of Will’s cheeks, maroon eyes roaming everywhere at once. “Are you with me, Will? You just had a seizure and you’re burning up. Can you hear me?”

“Hannibal?” Will questioned again, his chest heaving once more.

Unable to stop himself, Hannibal leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to Will’s cheek – the contact just as much for him as it was for the confused man in his arms; an earthshattering need for comfort overwhelming. They needed to get out of there while Will was still upright and conscious. The increased heart rate and continued confusion meant there wasn’t much time left to do that.

Instead of forcing Will to respond anymore, Hannibal got them into a position where he could take most of Will’s weight – thankfully, Will was with it enough to walk with the help. The lobby was empty – an absence of sound appropriate to the situation at hand.

Being in the heart of downtown made getting to a hospital quick and easy. Every couple of minutes, Hannibal reached across the middle console to check on Will, his heart slamming into his chest in the scant seconds between touching and feeling the rise and fall of his chest. Though the seizures didn’t return, Will’s consciousness diminished with each passing second.

The Bentley skidded to a stop outside the emergency room doors, Hannibal hopping out in a fit of adrenaline – he threw open Will’s door to pick him up bridal style. There was a second where their eyes met, a brief connection before Will slumped into him, his fight with whatever was burning him up coming to a swift end.

----

It took two days for Will to completely regain consciousness.

Throughout those two days, Hannibal worried incessantly, sat by Will’s bedside, and didn’t think once about the tableau he set up that was probably discovered by the authorities, already.

Being so thorough in his work, Hannibal didn’t use a sing brain byte to dwell on it – there wasn’t any evidence. There never was.

After carrying Will into the ER in the most dramatic fashion as possible, the hustle and bustle of brain scans and medication deployment took up all the space in Hannibal’s mind. In the bouts of time that Will got swept away, Hannibal went home to shower and change; once, he made the trip out to Wolf Trapp to get Winston and clear out the remainder of Will’s fridge. No matter what happened, a hospital stay was in Will’s future. The least Hannibal could do was take care of his dog and make the already harvested meat into delicacies to be eaten when Will felt better.

Despite trying to keep busy with arrangements and appointment reschedules, the minutes between Will’s decent into unconsciousness and his waking were long and torturous. The encephalitis diagnosis made a lot of sense after thinking about Will’s behavior over the last few weeks. The increase of headaches and nightmares, a dwindling appetite, and large periods of losing track of time were all there pointing in brain swelling’s direction.

It was pure luck that Will’s body had such a severe reaction to the neurological change. If things were different, he might’ve dived very slowly into madness; both visual and auditory hallucinations were common symptoms of Will’s particular brand of encephalitis. The spike of fever came at just the right time – the majority of his treatment would be minimally invasive and able to be given outside of the hospital.

The most confusing part of the whole situation was Hannibal’s feelings towards it all. Of course, Will couldn’t help the fact that he thwarted plans that were many months in the making. Yet, the anger he figured would sit under his skin, waiting to erupt, didn’t exist. Instead, Hannibal felt the claws of worry drag along his back.

Every second that Will didn’t wake up, Hannibal dipped a little further into unease. Going fifty years without the look in Will’s eyes was one thing, but now that he knew – now that the feeling crept under his walls, there was no going back. How did he exist without the rambunctiousness and intelligence that accompanied the experience that was Will Graham?

His earlier thoughts about love came back to him with a not so delicate slam to the chest. The world felt like it was ending without the shine of Will’s personality surrounding him because of the love he felt for the man. And what a thought – being in love with a soul so similar to his own. The match they made was perfect and for many reasons, shouldn’t exist whatsoever. Yet, Hannibal could barely remember what life felt like without Will in it.

He didn’t want to, either.

When Will eventually completely came to, Hannibal had his forehead pressed against their joined hands – his eyes closed in a desperate attempt to escape to the happier rooms in his mind palace. It was getting more difficult to filter everything out, so the halls were more cluttered than usual. The immense distraction almost made him miss the gentle squeeze to his hand – Will’s fingers tightened around his own for the first time in more than fifty hours.

Sitting up, Hannibal didn’t have a chance to stop the affectionate smile from slipping across his lips. His chest felt a little lighter – Will’s eyes were the same shade of deep blue and shining just as brightly as he remembered. The glassy nature of them was to be expected, the physiological expression of symptoms a reassurance that the body was actively fighting. After what seemed like years of waiting and worrying, Hannibal found comfort in all of Will’s disarray, bed head and sleepy smiles included.

“Hannibal?” Will questioned softly, his voice hoarse and scratchy from being unused. Upon hearing it, Hannibal reached to press the nurse’s button to get Will some water – they would want to know he was awake, anyway.

“Will – I’m so glad to see you,” Hannibal admitted easily, his body ditching the chair to sit on the edge of Will’s bed. He craved the length of Will pressed against him, any sort of familiar weight, really. Just the sign that the man was alive and with him was more than enough.

Reaching up to brush a curl from Will’s forehead, Hannibal spoke up again. “It’s been a couple of days since you last opened your eyes. How are you feeling?”

“Exhausted,” Will mumbled immediately, his brows pinching together with every move as he adjusted. “You said two days? Did this happen at the opera? Hannibal, I’m – “

“Don’t even begin to apologize, Will. Your brain was on fire – the last thing I’m worried about is a subpar rendition of Don Giovanni.” There was a beat, then a subtle move forward to press lips to Will’s still clammy skin. “I’m relieved you’re going to be okay, Will. Everything else is moot.”

There wasn’t much talking after that – the exhaustion Will complained about took him under shortly after coming around. The nurses were able to document his stats and get a doctor in to see him before fatigue won out and Will became lost to sleep once again.

To occupy himself, Hannibal let his emotions run wild across the pages of his sketchpad. Despite being exhausted himself, sleep did not come. Memories and things yet to come crept through the halls of his mind – his hand manifesting them on the smooth paper at record breaking speed. With all of his energy drained, Will made the perfect model. Hannibal found himself able to get the man’s lips right for the first time he laid pencil to paper. Drawing his partner in a much happier state of being made coping a little easier – the smile he could replicate brought a warmth that Hannibal couldn’t admit he wanted with him at all times. Though, he so desperately did.

A hand on the top of his sketchbook brought him out of his artistic stupor. Hannibal moved quickly, sliding his fingers between Will’s before the hand could retreat, or suddenly disappear like he feared. The skin there was warm, but not scalding like the days previous. When their eyes met, the blue depth of Will’s seemed much clearer – like the rest was actually doing him some good.

“She looks like you,” Will said, turning his attention back to the sketch pad he reached for initially. “Who is she?”

The feeling of being exposed washed over him for a second, Hannibal pulling in a deep breath in a desperate attempt to calm himself down. A Thursday in the middle of the night wasn’t how he figured his past would come to light – dark news needed an ideal setting. And yet, what better way to break down the last wall between them?

“This is Mischa, my sister. Even after all these years, I’ve never been able to do her true justice,” Hannibal replied, his voice just steps away from melancholic. “She was this beautiful spirit – free and intense. Kind of like you, actually.” A soft smile overtook his features, the truth of that statement ringing in his ears.

No wonder.

Will’s hand tightened slightly, the fatigue keeping him weak in his touch. “Mischa – I like that. She’s beautiful. You both have that little curl in your nose.”

A laugh escaping Hannibal’s chest broke whatever tension remained – the depths of his chest finally clear. The days of worry and not-sleeping were catching up to him, and like it was so natural to do, Will cleaned the chaos up, his words sweeping out the cobwebs Hannibal let develop. Sucking in another long breath, Hannibal let that last bit of himself in hiding step out into the light.

There was another clear shift in the air between them then, the softness in Will’s eyes something that didn’t exist before that very moment. While so wrapped up in his own masks and Will’s ability to see through them, Will was sneakily putting himself up for display, too. Breaking down walls brought about a gentleness that didn’t befit ruthless murders, and yet – Will caressed Hannibal’s hand softly, the touch for comfort’s sake alone.

Without being prompted or asked, Will moved until a spot that maybe half of Hannibal could fit into appeared. Taking the offer for what it was, Hannibal dropped his sketch pad on the table, the pencil sitting lovingly over the cupid bow of Mischa’s lip. He climbed in, the two of them rearranging limbs until Hannibal’s arms were wrapped tightly around Will. It took a second to settle – then, sleep came quickly and kept them under for the rest of the night.

Will spent another two days in the hospital before Hannibal could convince the staff of his capabilities as a doctor. They were willing to release him after all of the intravenous drug administration was finished – the rest of Will’s recovery would be based around rest and recuperation, anyway.

There wasn’t any discussion about where Will would end up – the man simply climbed into Hannibal’s car, curled up in the passenger seat with his head in Hannibal’s lap, and slept on the trip back to Baltimore from the hospital. Hannibal made a quick trip home while Will sat in the MRI machine for the last time during his stay – both Winston and the kitchen were ready for Will’s arrival.

It took Will most of his energy to get from the car to the door, but when Winston came jogging around the corner, a burst of joy sent him two steps forward until he could easily wrap the dog warmly in his arms. The whispered “I missed you” into the dog’s fur more than making up for the hair on all the surfaces of the house.

When the reunion was over, Hannibal helped Will walk upstairs, the man already dead on his feet from just a couple of short encounters. That previously unnamed warmth took up space in Hannibal’s chest again – the overwhelming feeling of being so deliriously dedicated to another human being exhausting in its own right.

“I thought maybe you’d like to take a bath,” Hannibal said, his legs already carrying him towards the bathroom to start the water.

“Will you hold me, instead? I know I probably stink like hospital and it’s killing that nose of yours, but all I really want to do is be in your arms.”

Looking over his shoulder, Hannibal stopped in his tracks. There were no masks on Will’s face, in the moment, so raw and open. The man who stood before him was stripped bare and asking for something – when he usually did nothing of the sort. The warmth bubbled a little bit more, the intensity of it growing with every passing exchange. He didn’t need to think about what to do next – instead, he kicked off his shoes and went about turning the bed down.

Hannibal climbed in, reclining back against the nest of pillows. Though he figured he wouldn’t sleep, Hannibal was more than willing to simply sit and catalogue Will a little more. The replica in his mind palace wasn’t quite what he wanted, and the perusal of finer features was exactly what he needed to make the perfect rendering.

For a while, that’s how things went – Hannibal kept Will against his chest until the call of food preparation took precedence. It usually took all of Will’s energy to get downstairs to the table, so the first few meals were taken in bed.

Little by little, Will spent more time awake than asleep, the clarity of his thoughts returning as the days past. Surprisingly, the only thing that didn’t return was the mask Will wore. Maybe it was the lack of energy, or maybe – after all was said and done, there was no need for them anymore. Seeing and being seen – it did something to a person. Especially ones like Will and Hannibal.

Then, a Saturday morning two weeks after his diagnosis, Hannibal woke to the feeling of Will’s hands running down his chest and arms, nimble fingers pressing into skin, fingertips tracing and memorizing with every touch. Hannibal kept himself still, letting Will have whatever he wanted before the realization of having an audience occurred.

The rise and fall of Will’s chest sped up a little, his body heat rising for a much better reason than the earlier fever that ravaged him. Without meaning to, Hannibal shifted back into it – giving himself away in an instant.

“I know you’re awake,” Will mumbled against his spot on Hannibal’s neck, hips pressing forward ever so lightly.

Rolling over, Hannibal used the quick movement to pull Will under him, their bodies lining up from head to toe. Will’s legs opened just enough to allow Hannibal access to gap, the length of them wrapping around Hannibal’s hips in the next instant. There was a clench of muscle, then no space between them at all.

“I see you’re awake, too,” Hannibal whispered, his hips pressing down – erections grinding together with the barest of touches. “Are you feeling better?”

Hips pressing up for a longer drag of cock on cock was his only answer. Unable to ignore the call, Hannibal moved against him, the friction building there absolutely exquisite. They shifted and moved until their lips met and the oxygen in the room steadfastly escaped. Every pull of breath in was more of Will – more of his scent, more of his presence – more.

Though neither made any move to takes thing further along, Hannibal could feel the intimacy building up between them. It wasn’t so much about the heat of the physical, this particular moment more than just a sexual connection. Where Hannibal pulled, Will pushed – their hearts beating in tandem.

A crescendo didn’t carry them away – instead, a sort of peace overtook the room. The feeling so foreign that they looked and touched just to make sure the other existed – that after everything, the other was there and the affection that zinged between them wasn’t one sided. Two psychopaths falling in love was never on the top of anyone’s love story list, yet – it happened without either of them knowing.

When Hannibal pulled back this time, the words on the tip of his tongue, he let them fall effortlessly from his lips.

Brushing his nose against Will’s, Hannibal stayed close, the words “I love you” leaving his chest and sitting in the air. It felt odd and for half a second, he thought Will might not feel that way about him after all. The two, three, four beats of his heart before any sort of response were agonizing, both too short and much too long.

Those warms hands were there, though, Will’s palms cupping his cheeks and fingers digging into the longer hair around his temples. Their eyes met, maroon holding blue – and the worry melted away. No mask, after seeing past it, could hide the devotion existing in the ceaseless pools of gorgeous blue.

“I love you too, Hannibal.”

#hannigram #murder husbands #will graham/hannibal lecter #hannigram fanfic #hannibal fanfiction #hannibal fanfic #persephone will have her fill #bobbie writes #will graham #hannibal lecter

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masked-buffoon · 3 years

Text

Chapter 3.5: No Moral nor Decency (Part 1)

Warnings: violence, murder (cold-blooded), gory details

Author notes: I’m happy to start that short story which ended up becoming a whole important part of “Seeking”! Still, it is not the fourth chapter because I was attached to its first existence as a one-shot... Please enjoy!

Last note: the song mentioned exists; its title is “Yurikago no Uta”, a japanese lullaby. I simply took its translation!

"A canary sings

A cradle song

Sleep, sleep,

Sleep, child!

Above the cradle,

The loquat fruits sway

Sleep, sleep,

Sleep, child!"

The powerful thunderstorm which soaked Yokohama in a heavy rain and covered the town with greyish clouds was a tourment for this young mother, who was struggling to make her baby sleep. Her eyes were circled — just like mine — her body was weakened — just like mine — she seemed to be exhausted, and I was sure she craved for sleep at this late hour of the night — just like me. What was the difference between this woman and the lost thing I was...? It was so simple, and yet this little something she had was an unreachable Eden in my eyes: happiness. Her tired eyes shone brightly with this peculiar light, her lips were turned upwards as she looked lovingly at her child and her moves were full of delicacy and care...

Another rumbling of thunder awoke the baby, who started to cry again. I took the small box of pills from my pocket and put a pain reliever between my teeth, before closing the container firmly. I was drenched by the rain, the result of observing that strange sight through the window of the room, on the second floor of the house, yet it did not bother me the slightest. Strangely, I was drawn to that scene and could not detach my eyes from the obvious love between that mother and that newborn.

"A squirrel rocks

The cradle by its rope

Sleep, sleep,

Sleep, child!"

I sighed. A happy family... A pure woman who had just started to discover the joys and troubles of being a mother... An innocent, immaculate baby who, I assumed, was not even three months old... Their only crime was to be the family of a traitor; a corrupt politician who had always supported us, the Port Mafia, by suppressing proof of our crimes, secretly legalising some of our activities and expanding our network within the government. Several days ago, he had declared he would not do it anymore, for he found it too risky...

The only thing he had forgotten was that betraying the Port Mafia was even more "risky", as he would say it.

"Dreams in a cradle,

With the yellow moon

Shining down

Sleep, sle-"

I broke the window thanks to a powerful kick, which sent sheds of glass everywhere in the room. The lovely lullaby was interrupted, replaced by the gasp of fear escaping the mother's throat, and even the baby stopped crying. The rain and the wind rushed through the window as I landed on the soft carpet with dexterity, right in front of the young man and her baby. The mission that had been given to me by my superior started at this very moment, and I did not have the right to fail. The floor cracked under my weight as I slowly advanced towards the people I was supposed to kill, pulling one of my guns out. The mother's eyes were no longer shining in happiness as they were looking at me, terrified yet intrigued, an odd mix of fright and questioning I did not dislike. Human beings were curious animals. Their ability to follow any white rabbit they saw would often lead them to death, and it was no different for that person. She wanted to know who I was, why I was there, a weapon in my hand, just in front of her. And at the same time, she wanted to run away. Animalistic instincts, remnants of our existence as beasts, often clashed with our overly conscious reason. That was why that woman could not move an inch when I crouched in front of her, pointing my gun to her head. She was trembling, hands gripping onto her silent baby, as tears rolled onto her cheeks abundantly. I could easily hear the plea she was addressing me.

"Please... Whoever you are..."

She was another human trying to save her own life... I had stopped expecting anything from my fellows, too disappointed in their selfishness and egotistical behaviour. Even parents were unable to love their children if money was involved. The reality of that world disgusted me greatly. I glanced at her child, wondering if she would be able to kill him if I were to suggest it would save her life. There were other people who had not hesitated to do so...

"Don't..."

"Don't kill him...!! Don't kill my child...!! I don't know who you are, or what you want, but I beg you, don't take my son's life...! Kill me if you wish, but don't take my son's life...!" She begged me, throwing herself at my feet.

My eyes widened, and I practically dropped my gun to the ground. She was not lying. Her words matched her exact thoughts. She really did want to save her child... She was able to love... And, more importantly, she was willing to sacrifice herself for her baby. I had never witnessed such sincere feelings.

I clenched my jaw. I had to regain my composure. Even the slightest failure could lead me to my own end, and I could not afford to die just yet... Why did I cling so desperately onto life, despite being cursed since my birth with an unwanted ability which had made me hated by my parents? Why did I not want to die yet, whereas I was aware the only thing which would welcome me by the end of the mission would be a cold glare and curt orders? Why did I not escape that tiring and restless life of mine, instead of struggling like a fish one would have gotten out of water? All I could do was turning, wiggling and jumping in hope to get back to the wonderful life, vainly. I was suffocating, but I was still holding onto life with all the pitiful will remaining in my heart. And if I had to kill people to achieve this purpose, surely would it not be too expensive to buy myself some sleep. I too, after all, was only interested in surviving and unable of love.

For a second, however, I hesitated. The thought of letting them run away crossed my mind, but I could not be too overwhelmed. As soon as Dazai-san had ordered me to warn the politician, they had been doomed to die by my hands.

Without emitting a word, I coldly pressed the barrel to the mother's head. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, and fear was visible in her eyes, but she kept begging for her newborn child, and I felt my hand tremble, finger unable to press the trigger. The worst was being to read her thoughts. Her maternal love slapped me, crushed me mercilessly and I was submerged by the waves of her affection, heart torn by these powerful emotions. Nevertheless... Nevertheless, far from making me back away, it angered me. I really had had the worst of luck... That newborn, were he to be left alive, would have grown surrounded by loving parents, in a warm house, with kind friends to support him through any hardships... Why had I had nothing of those? Why did I have nothing at all? I pulled the trigger, harshly. As her blood and pieces of brain splashed onto me, I found myself oddly laughing, contemplating my hands reddened by the warm liquid and feeling parts of her cognitive organ on my skin. However... It was shakily that I took another painkiller, before turning toward the baby, who was still held in his mother's caring arms. I noted, quite surprised, that the woman's grip was strong, as though trying to protect her baby, even from death. His big, terrified eyes stared at me in awe, and the thunder managed to frighten him even more. What a strange sight it should have been, a mafioso drenched in blood facing a pure and innocent child. With a slight smile, I grazed my reddened index finger against the skin of his cheek, tainting the snow-like flesh with sticky and scarlet blood. He giggled.

He suffered the same treatment as his mother; head blown off without any resistance. The main matter was not to get rid of those innocent people anymore; it was to think about a way to make this politician understand who he had provoked. The puddles of blood and stains on the wall were meaningful enough but... They did not serve the purpose of warning him. I did not want to show a massacre, but to menace the man who had dared to turn his back to the organisation. Had he not been an important pawn of our chessboard, he would already have been found, jaw broken and chest pierced by three bullets. I needed him to feel threatened.

Steadily, without even bothering to remove my shoes since the inhabitants had been killed, I made my way toward the kitchen. Surgeons preferred scalpels to cut bodies, butchers had a liking for bigger knives. Human flesh was no different from meat, so my choice of weapon was not completely wrong. I only hoped it would be sharp enough to make my job easier. I had the troubling feeling that I had already taken too much time, and I did not want to be punished by the executive for being too slow. I had to get to work quickly.

The task was complicated. I was no doctor nor was I familiar with medical matters. Human anatomy seemed like a foreign language to me, and I only had common knowledge to help me accomplish my mission. Swiftly, I cut the mother's chest, got bothered by the rib cage, then, after struggling in the blood, finally managed to locate the heart. It was still warm, nuzzled in between her lungs, but it did not beat. It would be perfect hung on the ceiling, right in front of the entrance door. The baby was too small to use, so I imagined a scenery; I would put the two in the bed, cover their face with the blanket, and leave the puddles of blood in the other room. If the traitor did not scream, shout and cry upon coming back from work, then he was even less human than I was. Hopefully, it would be enough for him to comply. Without much more consideration, I left the knife on the crime scene, not quite afraid of being arrested by the police. Not only would I not mind, but I also knew such a thing would never happen. The man would never call the authorities to denounce a crime he was aware of the author of, simply because he did not ignore he would be killed if he revealed the Port Mafia was behind this. Besides, he would also need to admit to have been a collaborator, which would earn him a few years in prison as well. That crime would remain a secret only spread in the underworld.

Since I had perfectly completed my mission, I could go back to the headquarters to make my report to my superior, the young executive Dazai Osamu-san. One last time, I glanced at the room. It was such a mess... Blood was splattered on the walls, on the carpet, on the curtains, the window had been broken and the rain had soaked the floor. I sighed slightly and picked a small plush toy up. It had been spared from the massacre... Ever since the killing of the Ogawa family, I had had that voice, whispering in my mind that I would never be able to redeem myself for the deeds I committed, and I knew it spoke the truth. With time, I believed I would get accustomed to it and face my future; I would burn in the flames of hell for eternity once that life would be over. Without looking back, I shoved the toy in my pocket and jumped out of the window.

More painkillers was a luxury I would gladly indulge in once I would be back.

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#bsd #bsd oc #bsd fanfic #bsd dazai #bsd imagines #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs oc #dazai osamu

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bazzybelle · 4 years

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Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Bat! AKA Bat-Baz II: Electric Bazaloo

Note: I feel I should explain for those new to the beauty and wonder that is Bat-Baz. It started with THIS piece of art by the talented @parijpg (give them 100000% credit for starting the whole Bat-Baz craze). I was so inspired to write that THIS happened (Original Bat-Baz Fic).

If you scroll through the reblogs of that fic, you’ll find some QUALITY ART by the lovely @subpar-selkie !

I was going to end it there, but THIS (adorable BAT) and THIS (more quality content from @subpar-selkie ) were posted this week… So, I caved and wrote ANOTHER BAT-BAZ fic!

It’s the (not very highly) anticipated sequel to Love is Blind (As A Bat). Definitely not as good as The Godfather: Part II, but hopefully better than the straight-to-VHS/DVD/Blu-Ray Disney sequels.

Thank you to @carryonsimoncarryonbaz for the beta-reading, @giishu , and @f-ing-ruthless-baz for yelling at encouraging me to post this story, and @fight-surrender for bothering me this week and cheering me up and making sure I don’t feel too alone this week.

Enjoy… and I’m so sorry.

PS: Also, posting this on AO3. If you want, you can read it HERE.

__________

SIMON

“How many times do I have to tell you!? Rowling’s spells are dodgy at best!”

Baz is yelling on the phone to his half-sister Mordelia. He looks absolutely exhausted, and I can’t say I blame him for taking it out on his little sister. He just spent the better part of the evening as a small black bat, and must be beyond mortified. Anyone who knows Baz Pitch, knows that he usually deals with his embarrassment with snark and (on occasion) misdirected anger. In this case, the anger is very well-directed. It seems Mordelia was responsible for turning him into a bat in the first place.

“I don’t care what spell you were trying to accomplish! Her spells are as problematic and preposterous as she is! She’s barely a magician herself, if we’re being honest.”

I feel like I need to calm Baz down as he’s quickly heading towards one of his famous tirades. I start to run my fingers through his hair and plant a small kiss on his shoulder. Baz’s grey eyes meet my eyes and he sighs heavily. He grabs onto my hand and gives it a small squeeze.

“I know it wasn’t done on purpose, Mordelia, but you need to be careful! You’re starting Watford in the autumn and I highly doubt your classmates will appreciate you turning them into winged mammals.”

I choke back a snort as I think about the hijinks Baz’s sister will get into once she begins her Watford education. Images of a frozen moat in January, and enchanted snowball fights (you can enchant them so they follow the intended target like a tracker – Baz had gotten me a few times that way) fill my mind. I start to lightly scratch Baz’s back and I feel his muscles beginning to relax. I just hope he ends his call soon, so I can have my boyfriend back to his calm, arrogant self.

“I shall be coming back tomorrow to collect my… belongings. If you so much as breathe on my clothes or my mobile, I will not hesitate to turn you into a tarantula!”

Baz finally hangs up and tosses my mobile back to me. He starts rubbing his eyes and groans heavily. I continue to rub his shoulders and start to nuzzle his arm. He turns to me and offers small, tired smile.

“I apologize for that, Simon. But I’d like to think you’d be the same way if you’d just spent the better part of your evening flying from Hampshire to London. I can barely feel my arms.”

“Would you like me to rub your shoulders for you, then?” I ask him. Baz raises an eyebrow and smiles coyly at me.

I place myself behind him and start to knead my fingers into the space where his neck meets his shoulders. My thumbs press deep circles into his shoulder blades. I am careful to not touch his hair, nor the base of his neck (he flinches when I get too close to where he was bitten – it’s not nearly as bad as it used to be when I first massaged him, but I’d rather not risk it).

I hear a soft sigh coming from Baz. I want to continue, but I’m noticing his head lolling forward. I stop my back rubbing and sit back down next to him. I take note of his eyelids beginning to droop. I move some hair from his face and he smiles dreamily at me.

“Did you need to feed before going to bed?” I ask him. Baz shakes his head slowly.

“I fed right before all this started.” Baz gestures towards his body. I lift myself from the bed and gather some pyjamas for him. I toss them to the bed and grab a pair for myself.

“Here. I’ll warm you up some blood, just to be safe, while you change.” Baz rolls his eyes at me, but I’m already out the door before he can protest any further.

I walk into the kitchen to see that the spell books and materials have already been cleared out. I’ll have to thank Penny properly tomorrow, for her help tonight. I suppose a breakfast of her favourite pancakes (banana-blueberry) is enough to show my gratitude. I heat up some blood we keep on hand in the fridge (several butcher’s shops carry a steady supply). I also take some time to make a few sandwiches for him (and for myself… I get hungry when I worry). Before going back into the bedroom, I quickly change into my pyjamas and wash up (Baz must be beyond exhausted if he didn’t even think to freshen up in the bathroom, which means he’ll be cranky tomorrow).

When I get back into the bedroom, Baz is already settled into the bed, eyes closed, and sheets pulled up to his chin. I can feel my heart softening for him, he’s had an impossibly long day. I kneel down beside him and run my hand through his hair. His eyes open slowly. I place the sandwiches on the night stand and hand him a mug with some blood inside.

“I’m fine, Snow” He slurs, but accepts the mug regardless. He downs it in a matter of seconds (Prat… Was probably more thirsty than he let on), and places the mug on the nightstand, next to the plate (he doesn’t touch the sandwiches, which is fine, he’ll eat when he wants to). I climb into the bed and wrap my arms around his waist. Baz settles in as well. I hold him for a little while as I feel him beginning to doze off.

I plant a few small kisses on his shoulder as I start to fall asleep as well.

BAZ

A rumbling in the pit of my stomach startles me awake. I clutch at my abdomen as I attempt to recall when I had last eaten. I rub my eyes,wondering what time it is. I glance at the window and see the dark skies of the night. I wonder how long I’ve been asleep for, as I glance at Simon still sleeping peacefully beside me. His lips are opened slightly (mouth-breather) and he has his arms pulled tight against his chest. I move to give him a small kiss, when my stomach rumbles again.

Right… should probably take care of that first. I look to the night stand and remember the sandwiches that Simon made. I stare at him as I eat slowly (I’ve been practicing controlling my fangs… the only good thing to come out of America), feeling so grateful for the beautiful disaster in my life. I would never ask him to do what he did for me tonight, but Simon does it anyway, just as I would for him. I finish off a couple of sandwiches from the plate, and bring the dishes back to the kitchen. I brush my teeth in the bathroom (exhausted as I am, I still maintain proper hygiene) before heading back into bed with Simon.

I face him and watch him for a moment as he sleeps soundly, chest slowly rising and falling. I reach over and run my fingers through his hair. I plant a small kiss on his lips (I never want to relive the experience of my boyfriend kissing me in bat-form ever again).

An all too familiar feeling begins to arise as soon as my lips leave Simon’s. The splitting headache, the light-headed feeling, and most importantly, the blinding pain shooting up my back. I leap out of bed and I shout to alert Simon, but all that comes out of my mouth is a small, garbled chirp.

Seven snakes! Not again!

I rush to wake him up, but my head suddenly feels so heavy… and I cannot keep my eyes open for much longer… And my stomach begins to lurch.

I feel myself crumple onto the bedroom floor…

At least Simon will know it’s me this time. I think as I hit the floor and become shrouded in darkness…

SIMON

I don’t feel Baz in bed with me as I wake up. I rub my hand on his side of the bed and feel it empty. My eyebrows furrow as I slowly lift myself up from bed. It’s strange for Baz to be awake before I am.

“Baz?” I call out groggily. I look over to his side of the bed once more and notice his pyjamas in a pile on the floor.

“Fuck!” I yell out as I jump out of bed. If there was something I could be sure of, it’s that my boyfriend would NEVER leave his clothing in a messy pile on the side of the bed. Something must have happened to him… again!

Panic rises in my throat as I search through the clothing. I’m hoping with everything in me that I don’t find ash or anything else that could indicate my deepest fears.

Everything seems to be normal, but I notice tiny claw marks within the fabric of the pyjamas. My eyes widen as I piece the clues together.

Bloody fucking hell! Not again!

My eyes dart around the bedroom for any sign of Baz hiding. I begin to search through the darker corners of the bedroom, each spot turning up empty. With every empty spot, I start to panic a little more. Did he get out? Did he get stuck somewhere? Merlin, are there any stray cats that could have gotten inside?

“Baz!? Stop being such a wanker! Where did you get to?!” I call out. When I don’t hear an answer, I stomp through the bedroom door and into the kitchen, where I see Penny, sitting calmly, drinking some tea and eating cereal.

“Good morning Simon.” She tries to say to me, but I ignore her as I start to desperately search the flat for any sign of Baz, or any place he could be sleeping (is he a nocturnal bat? Does it matter? Is his curse following the rules of his anatomy or that of a bat?).

Penny tries calling out to me again, but I’m currently flipping over throw pillows and searching under the sofa.

“Simon… What on Earth…”

“Baz is missing again! Except he’s also a bat again! And I can’t find him!”

I start to move the bookcase, rattling the books and objects placed carefully inside. The organization was Penny and Baz’s doing. They argued for weeks on how to organize the books (Penny wanted alphabetically; Baz by the Dewey Decimal system – which I’d have never even known about, but I’m in love with an impossibly intellectual tosser), but settled on a system that worked for both of them. I’m now mucking up that system, by moving and shifting things around. I’m wondering if Baz found his way behind on the of the books. Maybe his wing got caught somewhere.

“Simon… you should maybe…” She joins me by the bookshelf, but I avoid her and head into the kitchen. I’m thinking that maybe Baz got into one of the cupboards (were they opened last night?)

“Not now Penny!” I open every cupboard in the kitchen and look inside. Nothing. No Baz. I begin to tug the curls in my head, as I think about other places he could have gotten into.

Penny has joined me by the cupboards. I feel her grabbing my wrists. “Simon!” she shouts at me, finally forcing me to look up at her. She points to her head. Plopped calmly and looking at me like I’m impossibly thick, is Baz. Once again, he’s a bat.

“Bloody hell, Baz! You can’t scare me like that!” I reach out my hands, and he hops into them. Bat-Baz nuzzles his face between the space between my thumb and index finger. I bring him up and plant a kiss on top of his head. Penny scratches him behind his wings.

“I found him perched upside down on the lamp, fast asleep. Nearly gave me a heart attack. He woke up not too long ago and found his way to me. What happened? I know you were joking about trying new things with him… But… did you ask him to change back, Simon?!”

I stare at her, mouth open wide and eyes boring into her. Does she actually think I would put Baz through another round of transformations all for a little excitement? I look at Bat-Baz, and he’s giving her the exact same look.

“For Crowley’s sake, Penny! No! I woke up and he was gone! He must have changed again during the night!” My comments are backed up by Bat-Baz’s frantic chirping and wing-flapping. I try to sush him and start rubbing the back of his wings. It worked to calm him down yesterday, and it seems to do the trick today. Bat-Baz starts licking my hand, and while I think that’s adorable and sweet, I don’t want to think about my bat-boyfriend in this way… lest it start affecting our intimate moments.

Penny starts scratching her head and frowns down at Bat-Baz. “I’m wondering if the spell last night worked at all? Is this a side-effect of that spell? Did it mix badly with the spell that made him a bat in the first place?”

“What do you suggest we do?"

Penny stifles a small laugh, "Maybe try and figure out what bats eat? It seems we’ll be stuck here for a while.” Her comment is met with angry chirps from Bat-Baz. If I wasn’t holding onto him as tight as I was, I’m fairly sure he would be attempting to jump at Penny.

“Oh! I didn’t mean it Basil!” Penny tries to pet him, but he hisses at her. I turn my back towards her and lift Bat-Baz to my face. He is not amused at this situation, but I still frown at him.

“Baz… I know you’re pissed off, but try and calm down, yeah”. I turn to Penny, who’s stuck her tongue out at him. I shake my head at her.

“And you! Now is not the time to take the piss out of anything.” Penny looks away, ashamed and I can’t help but roll my eyes. Since when am I the responsible one out of this group? I place Bat-Baz on my shoulder and head to the kitchen. I need to make myself some breakfast before trying to tackle this mystery.

I look at Bat-Baz, who’s started nuzzling my face, and just wanting to stay as close to me as possible. Baz hates feeling vulnerable in any way, and being changed into a tiny animal, without his strength and his magic… yeah, pretty fucking vulnerable, if you ask me. I pick him up again and look into his eyes (fuck… they’re still grey…). I feel my heart break a little as I stare at them, because they look devastated.

“Hey… don’t be like that. We’re going to figure this out.” I speak in a small soft voice to him, but Bat-Baz looks away from me. I run my thumb over his little head a few times and his eyes close. A tiny, sad chirp escapes him as he leans into my touch. He starts licking me again. I bring him closer to my face.

“I promise, Baz. If anything, this proves even further that we match… y’know… ‘cause of the wings.” I give my wings a small flap as Bat-Baz rolls his eyes.

“I know you’re laughing on the inside, Baz. Come on. I’ll try to find you something to eat.” I give him a small peck on his bat lips and leave him to perch on the edge of my wing. I start to look through the refrigerator for any fruit or blood (seriously… what do bats eat? What kind of bat is he? I mean… vampire bat makes sense, but is that a little too on the nose?).

I don’t notice the bright purple glow surrounding Baz’s small form. I feel him swooping down from my wing and see him flying desperately towards the bedroom. I slam the refrigerator door shut and run after him. Penny tries to follow, but I shut the door before she gets too close. She begins to knock on the door.

“Simon! What’s going on! Is he changing back?”

“Yes Penny! He’s changing back!” I breathe a sigh of relief as Baz turns back into himself (again, completely starkers… probably the only side effect of the spell I can’t be mad about). I rush to him and wrap my arms around him. He leans his head on my shoulder and breathes heavily into me. I run my fingers through his hair and start rubbing his back. He lifts his head and his eyes meet mine.

“At least we know how to change me back.” He says. I start to laugh.

“Fat lot that’ll do, until we know what causes the transformation to happen. D’you remember what happened before you changed?” Baz leans down and presses his hands together. He starts shaking his head. Another series of knocks pounds through the room. Penny’s voice rings out, loudly.

“Is he back to his grumpy self, then?!”

Baz glares at the door. I sigh as I get up and fetch some clothes for him to wear. If we’re going to have a discussion about breaking his spell (or I suppose it’s more of a curse at this point), Penny should be a part of it.

“I’d like to see you maintain a cheery demeanor when spending most of your time as a tiny winged mammal, Bunce!” Baz barks, while slipping on one of his shirts. Now that he’s decent, I should go open the door. Before I do, I walk up to him and cup his face in my hands. I make sure he’s looking at me

“We’re going to figure this out. Trust us, okay?” Baz smiles at me and nods.

“Okay.”

I give him a small smile and softly kiss him once more. Baz reaches up and starts to caress my shoulders. I press further into him, when a pained moan escapes his lips. I quickly back, worried that I hurt him. Baz’s eyes are opened wide, and panicked. I grab his wrists and try to get him to look at me, but it won’t work.

“Baz? What’s happening?” I try to ask him.

“Simon! It-” His speech is cut short by a series of loud, hysterical chirping. He finally looks at me for a few moments, before collapsing onto the bed. I manage to catch him and lie him down, but I can already see the transformation happening. To my horror, he starts glowing and shrinking into his clothes.

“Fuck! Shit! Baz… Why’s this happening?”

Merlin, Morgana, and Methuselah! How many times has it been now? I notice a small lump moving around inside the sweater. I look inside to see a furious Bat-Baz. I cup him in my hands and walk sadly towards the door. I open the door to a Penny with her hands on her hips. She frowns at the bat-boyfriend in my hands.

“Wasn’t he just changed?”

“He was! That didn’t last very long.” I set Bat-Baz back on my wing. He calmly perches upside-down and wraps his tiny body in his wings. I think he wants to be left alone for now. I don’t blame him.

“Well, what happened now, Simon!?”

“I don’t know Penny! All I did was tell him that we’d fix things and then he changed again!” I stomp out of the bedroom and head back to the kitchen. I whip open the refrigerator and pull out some eggs and fruit. I decide to make myself some breakfast and cut up some fruit for Baz. Maybe some food will calm us both down.

Penny follows me into the kitchen and leans on the wall as I cook the eggs. “Is that all you did, Simon?” she asks me. I slam the spatula in my hand down on the counter and turn to her, hands raised above my head.

“Oh of course! I forgot to mention the secret demonic ritual I had Baz perform so that he can stay a bat at my whim!” I notice that my wings start flapping. I take a deep breath and calm myself down. The last thing I want to do is send Bat-Baz accidently hurtling across the room because I’m throwing a tantrum.

Penny places a calm hand on my shoulder. “No! But did you do anything else?”

I sigh and run my hands through my hair, trying to think of anything that could have done this to him. The only thing I can think of is the kiss I gave him. But that can’t be it. It was what changed him back to his normal vampire-self. I shrug at Penny. “I don’t know… I kissed him. But I alway-”

“AHA!” Penny shouts in my ear. Her sudden exclamation causes me to jump back and violently flap my wings, which in turn sends Bat-Baz flinging off. Thankfully, he catches himself before hitting anything and flies up. He dives towards Penny, who ducks for cover. Bat-Baz starts screeching at her, before I step in between them. He lands on my head and buries himself in my curls. I turn back to Penny, who’s wearing a small apologetic look on her face.

“Well? What is it, Penny?” Penny stands up and straightens her plaid skirt.

“The kisses Simon. We know that kisses turn him back into a human. Well what if they work both ways?” Penny grabs an apple and begins to slice it. She places a thin slice in her hand and holds it up towards my head, a small peace offering, I suppose. Bat-Baz perkes up and sniffs the apple slice in Penny’s hand. He slowly hops into her palm and starts to eat the apple slice.

Merlin… My heart melts to watch them. I snap out of it and continue my discussion.

“Both ways?”

Penny starts to scratch Bat-Baz behind the wings. He continues to eat his apple slice. “Yes. Like how we spell your wings off until a bell rings?” I nod at her, pressing her to go on. “Well maybe this is similar. Since we connected it to a Bat-Man spell.”

“What does Bat-Man have to do with this?” I finally finish cooking my eggs and place them on a plate. Penny has placed Baz on the counter and continues to slice small apple slices for him. He starts to eat them slowly. I start shoveling the eggs in my mouth. Bat-Baz looks up at me, and I didn’t think a bat could look so disgusted… but there you go. Penny’s got the same look on her face, so maybe it’s just me.

Penny heads towards the refrigerator. She opens it and starts to look for something inside. “Think about it Simon. Bat-Man is all about living your life within a duality. Maybe the spell was not literal enough. Instead of changing a bat into a man. It allowed for a more controlled dual life. Controlled by your kisses, it seems” She pulls out one of the containers of blood, we keep on hand for Baz. She hands it to me and motions towards the stove. I eat some more of my eggs and get started on heating some of the blood. I don’t suppose we need very much of it right now.

Penny grabs a small saucer from the cupboard. I spoon a tiny amount of blood into the saucer and set it in front of Bat-Baz. He gives it a look and looks up at Penny and me, with drooping ears. I sigh at him.

“Honestly, Baz. It isn’t a big deal if we see you feed. You should feed so that you feel better.” He doesn’t make a move toward the blood, instead focusing on the apple slices. I grumble to myself and grab Penny by the arm, leading her away from Bat-Baz.

“So… What, I can’t ever kiss Baz again? What sort of rubbish is that?” I hear angry chirping, signifying Baz’s agreement that our situation is in fact rubbish.

Penny lifts her glasses from her head. She grabs a small piece of cloth from her skirt pocket and begins to clean them. “Don’t be dramatic, Simon. There is a solution to this. We just have to go to the source of the spell.” I groan, because that means we have to call Mordelia and ask her what spell she used and I do not feel like talking to her. I look over towards the kitchen counter.

“Baz? You done in there?” A series of small chirps tells me that he’s done feeding. I go back to the kitchen. I clean up the saucer and plates, while Baz finishes up the apple slice he’s been eating. I pick him up and he starts licking my hand again (I’ve gotten used to it by now… seeing as we won’t be allowed to kiss until this spell is broken, we’ll have to find more creative ways of showing affection towards each other). Penny looks over at us and makes a face.

“Nicks and Slick, Basil! Maybe I need to spell a small pouch to put you in so that you allow Simon the use of his hands!”. Bat-Baz looks up at her and glares. I bring him up and kiss the top of his head.

“She isn’t serious… Right Penny?” She shrugs and walks away. I frown at her and look down at Bat-Baz who… actually has a sneer on his face. I head towards the bedroom.

“Come on… Let’s turn you back into my Baz.”

BAZ

Simon is leaning against my arm, reading a graphic novel adaptation of Interview with a Vampire (I bought it for him recently, after he would not stop asking me about Anne Rice).It’s taking everything in my willpower to not kiss him right now. All I have to do is think about how uncomfortable it is to move about as a bat and my desires to kiss him disappear (almost disappear… or rather… momentarily disappear. I am a constant disappointment to myself, after all). I have chosen to browse through The Vampire Lestat. It is the homework that Bunce has given to us. She has settled herself on the kitchen table, reading the atrocious Twilight books, while furiously writing down notes. I look down at my own neatly written notes, and the few sentences that Simon’s managed to scribble down (with my gentle coaxing).

We had been going at this all day. After our unconventional breakfast, Simon took me into the bedroom and privately changed me back into my nearly human form. We then (well, mostly me, Simon was pacing about the flat the entire time, while Bunce took extensive notes) called my irksome little sister to ask her what spell she was trying to cast.

Apparently she thought it absolutely brilliant to try and cast Expecto Patronum. According to Mordelia, she was hoping to know what her patronus was, and I just happened to show up at the wrong time. She insisted that “it would have worked had you not shown up, Basil!”. After berating her for nearly an hour on how impossible the very notion of a patronus was (the closest thing could be a familiar, but even that is rare), I once again threatened to turn her into an abhorrent arachnid before hanging up the phone.

We came to the conclusion that I was turned into a bat because, well, if patronuses did exist, it was very possible that mine would be a bat (at least that was the explanation Bunce offered, I personally think it’s bollocks).

Which brings us to our homework session. Bunce believes that in order to turn me back into my full-self, we needed to create a spell that brings forth my true nature (hence the diverse selection of vampire-related literature).

For now, I am scanning the pages of my book, while Simon lazily lies against my shoulder. I look over at him, to see him smiling up at me. I smirk back at him. Simon reaches over and gently tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. I lean towards him and touch my nose to his. He begins to caress my face and I lean into his soft touch.

I realize too late that his lips have made their way to mine.

I pull back in fear. Simon is wearing a look of shock… which soon changes into one of instant regret.

“Fuck! Bollocks! I forgot!” He yells, which gets Bunce’s attention. She runs towards the sofa, but I can already feel the transformation taking over. I give Simon an angry sneer.

“I swear to Crowley, Snow. I-” my hand clamps over my mouth as a loud chirp escapes it. My head once again feels dizzy and I feel sweat beads on my brow. I lean over and put my head down to steady the all-too-familiar sensation of sickness and lightheadedness. I can hear Simon next to me apologizing profusely. I reach for his hand and hold it tightly. I don’t have much time before I am a bat again, and although I am cross with him, I don’t wish for him to beat himself up over this.

I give a small lop-sided grin to Simon and collapse onto his shoulder as the transformation takes over (hopefully for a final time).

SIMON

And so we’re here again. Bat-Baz nestled in my curls (I think he’s having a nap, the transformations take a lot of energy out of him), Penny making tasteless bat-related jokes and puns, and me trying to keep my head on straight. It’s becoming more and more difficult to do so.

Baz hasn’t wanted to change back into a human and has been feeling extra mopey. I’ve cut up some more fruit for him, but he hasn’t been in the mood to eat anything. I’ve tried petting his head, his wings, his tiny back… no response from him.

I now reach up to my head and hope that Bat-Baz decides to climb onto my hand. I sprinkled some sugared water on my hand as a way to coax him (with that sweet-tooth he’s got). A smile spreads across my lips as I feel his tiny body clamber into my palm. I bring him down to eye-level and he begins to excitedly lick the sugar off of my hand. I start laughing and give him a kiss on one of his wings. Bat-Baz stops licking and a small blush creeps over his cheeks.

“Glad you’re feeling a little better. Can you eat something for me?” I offer him a small piece of strawberry. Bat-Baz thankfully accepts it. As he’s eating his strawberry, Penny enters the kitchen. She’s holding a notepad and a triumphant smile on her face.

“What is it, Penny?”

“I think I’ve got the spell to change Baz back.”

“Okay. What is it?”

Penny shows me the notepad. Bat-Baz looks down at it and starts to angrily chirp at Penny. I read the spell, but I’m not familiar with the quote written down.

“Where is this from, Penny? And why if Baz obviously objecting to it?” Penny’s lips curl into a sneaky smile. Whatever it is, it’s making her far too excited.

“Twilight.”

I shake my head violently and walk away from her. Absolutely not! Baz hates that entire series. He claims they are terrible books, and the very notion of dazzling in the sunlight is offensive to him as a vampire.

“You’ve got to be joking Penny! Of all books to choose, you chose Twilight? Baz will never forgive you.” I look down to see Bat-Baz giving Penny the most judgmental look I have ever seen (well for a bat, that is).

“The quote is technically from the movie, but it should still work! The entire franchise is wildly popular! I still see Normals walking around with Team Edward shirts!”

Bat-Baz covers his head in his wings. It’s going to take some convincing for him to be on board with this, but so far, it’s the best shot we’ve got (even though it’s a rather piss-poor shot).

“Alright. Let’s try it.” I sigh and follow Penny into the living room.

Penny smiles and holds out her hand. I place Bat-Baz in one of my hands and cradle him carefully. He grips onto my thumb and curls into a small ball (I think he’s begun to lose hope at this point… also, bloody Twilight? As if he wasn’t mortified enough). I give Penny my other hand. She lifts the notepad to my eye level and I read off the first line of quote.

“I know what you are” I say to my tiny bat-boyfriend. Penny places her hand gently over Bat-Baz’s head, making sure the ring finger touches him directly. She squeezes my hand tightly and looks into my eyes.

“Say it. Out loud… SIMON SNOW say it!” She yells. I can feel her magic in the air, stong, comforting, with the distinct smell of sage in the air. I feel it wash over me and vibrate over Bat-Baz’s tiny body. He beginning to chirp wildly and I begin to worry that we’re hurting him. I want to get this spell done with. I speak in a loud clear voice:

“Baz Pitch… Vampire-Mage”

A bright, white light explodes from Penny’s ring and causes us to fall backwards. In the commotion that occurs, I let go of Bat-Baz and he slips from my grasp. The white light envelopes him completely and I need to shield my eyes. A strong force pushes Penny and me back a little more. I try to look for where Baz landed, but all I can see if the piercing white light. I have to hope that he’s somewhere in there, turning back into himself. Eventually, the white light starts to dim and the pulsing magical force starts to die down.

Merlin please let this be it. Please let Baz be himself again. I don’t think he can handle another series of intense changes.

I hear Penny screaming before my eyes get the chance to adjust to the scene in front of me. But, there he is, on the ground and fully human again. And… naked. And unconscious! Fuck!

I yell at Penny to get me some water for him. I grab a nearby blanket and scramble to him. I drape the blanket over his body and gently lift his head from the floor.

My anxious mind winds down as I hear his slow steady breaths. He’s alive, but probably completely drained. I lift him a little more and position my legs beneath him, so that I can better support him. Penny comes back with a glass of water and a small wet towel. She bends down and places her hand on his arm.

“Is he alright?” She asks, concern washing over her brown eyes.

I nod at her. Penny sighs with relief and places the glass on the floor, beside me. I ask her to go find some clothes for him, for when he wakes up. I grab the towel from her and start to dab his brow and his face. As I work, I hear a soft groan coming from his lips. His eyelids start squinting and he stirs a little. I give him a small delicate shake.

“Baz? It’s okay. I’m here. You’re okay.”

He starts to mumble something, but it’s hard for me to understand him. I lean in closer to him. “What was that?”

“That was wholly unpleasant.” He opens his eyes and smiles at me. “Hello, Snow.” he drawls.

“Hi.” I laugh at him. I help him sit up and offer the glass of water to him. He smiles as he takes a sip.

Baz’s little smile quickly turns into a slight frown. He looks down at the blanket covering him and his eyes bulge.

“Snow… am I, naked?”

“Um… y-yes?”

“Crowleyyyyy! Just set me on fire now!” Baz smacks his hand over his eyes in complete humiliation. I wrap one of my arms over his shoulders and gently hold him close. Baz buries his face into my shoulder and wraps one of his arms around my neck. I kiss the side of his head and rub small circles on his back. Penny creeps back into the room and quietly places some clothes beside me. I turn to her and mouth a “thank you”. Penny smiles and squeezes my wing. She heads to her room and closes the door, allowing us some much-needed privacy.

I give Baz a small shake and he lifts his head from my shoulder. I grab the clothes and hand them to him. He accepts them and starts putting them on. I get up from the floor and give him a few moments to collect himself and regain his dignity.

I’m putting some water to boil for tea when I feel a set of strong cool arms wrapping around me. Baz leans his head on my shoulder and gives me a small kiss on my cheek.

“Thank you. For everything today.” He whispers to me.

I smile in return. He doesn’t need to thank me. For him, I’d do it all.

“D’you think it worked this time?”

Baz sighs, “There’s only one way to find out.”

I turn to face him and study his deep-grey eyes. They’re tired, mostly. He draws a shaky breath, worried that the spell didn’t work.

“It had to have worked. I know it did.” I whisper to him. Baz closes his eyes and lowers his head.

I comb his hair back with my fingers and trail my hand down his face. We both take a deep breath and lean into a tiny, almost-chaste kiss. I see Baz squeezing his eyes shut, anticipating the transformation to begin.

But… nothing happens.

I shake Baz happily. “Baz! It worked! You’re you again!”

Baz begins to laugh and touches his forehead to mine. He grips my face in his hands and pulls me into a deep kiss. I lean into him and respond with a small happy sigh.

Baz pulls away and cocks an eyebrow at me. “I think I’m going to take a break from visiting my parents. I’ve had enough excitement to last me quite a while.”

I roll my eyes and him and flick his chin. “Baz… I don’t want to hear about your family right after you’ve snogged me.”

Baz laughs and pulls away again. He grabs my hand and leads me slowly into the bedroom. Once we’re inside, and with a coy smile, he grabs his wand from the nightstand and closes the door.

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