Blinking against the beams of light that filtered through the blinds did little to discourage the dawn. Tim did not appreciate that. He was uncomfortable. Rightfully so, the man had fallen asleep in his stomach, now he felt congested. On top of that, sleep dust had crystallised on his eyelids last night, forming small cruel stones he’d brushed away groggily. His shoulders ached, knees popped, rolling out of bed to face the morning. Not that he wanted to.
In moments like this, Tim has nothing else to think about other than himself. Namely, his chest, and the cored out feeling that had haunted him since late adolescence. A chronic emptiness that loomed in the background of every joy, every polite conversation, loss or success. When he knows exactly how he should be feeling, but his body is existing separate from himself, never quite reaching the same page.
It was just another problem, another flaw, something disturbed and wrong inside that cut so deeply into his core the chasm could never be filled. Never sated.
The light made it obvious this room had not been dusted or vacuumed in at least a decade, there was dark brown blood spotting over the yellowed pillow, undoubtedly stained from the sweat of countless patrons. Small bugs crawled under Tim’s skin, forcing a shiver to lick up his spine. Glass shards had been trodden into the carpet from the break in last night, leading to his eyes falling on the blockage to the bathroom. Brian. He still hadn’t moved.
Concern strangely bloomed then. For a moment. It was short and sweet, fleeting.
He was heavy. The hoodie made it difficult to get a good grip on Brian’s shoulder, pulling him over onto his back. The nose was crooked, crispy blood already dried under it. Hovering an ear over the mouth allowed Tim to determine that the quiet whistling from the man’s nose meant he was still alive. Taking two limp hands in his, with forced waves of tugging after tugging, slowly the body is dragged to the bathroom.
Undoubtedly leaving Brian with a carpet burn.
A flooded bog was more sanitary. Tim feared what could be revealed in there with a blacklight. Limescale, rust dripping down the tiles. Someone had taken a chunk out of the corner of the sink, the jagged ceramic having been taped over as a permanent fix. There was a window, a stupid design Tim thought. The blinds had been drawn, meaning that the blackened mould that smothered its surface could thrive in the humidity. Overall, it smelt like a bathroom. Like urine. The owners had tried to fix it with bleach, but that was simply a smell that existed alongside the ammonia, rather than replacing it.
One leg after the other, Brian was folded into the bath, head closest to the shower head. He was peering at the man above him through swollen eyes, at his mercy. Tim sits on the rim, holding the back of his neck, not allowing the injury to touch anything. Then he turns on the shower, the head tucked in so the water just misses Brian’s face. Tim cups a hand under the stream and watches a shallow pool form. He then lets the warm water run over the hair. In an instant the bath is stained with brown ruddy water, large chunks depart and fall off in heavy scabs.
Brian's voice cuts off the gentle hiss of the shower, a mild yelp, then some kind of forced humming that lapped over itself to build words, failing. Tim wrapped a hand over his mouth, pressing down harshly. Wincing himself as splintering nails dig into his arms, latching on and hooking into his flesh.
Brian tries to stand, yet his legs simply bend at the knee, kicking down in a pitiful fit that soon lets up as his energy dissipates once again. His eyes were wrenched open, they watered, he blinked in tight lengths. Holding them from falling down his cheeks as tears. The back of his head was on fire. The nerves burned, screamed, and wailed for mercy. He considered preying, but only managed to recall the lyrics of ‘I think we’re alone how’ by Madonna. “No, that's not it. Mum likes Tiffany, not Madonna. It was Tiffany. She had the CD.” Brian thought quietly to himself.
They were in the car, she was driving. She was blonde, in the sun it would turn to ribbons of gold. The windows were down so it spread over the headrest of the carseat wildly with the wind. The radio was so loud he could barely make out her own singing through it. Brian told himself he remembered what her voice sounded like, catching himself in a half lie. He didn’t. But the voices melded together into a single sound, whether it was Tiffany or her, it didn’t matter. The lie brought him peace through pain.
Though it had just reminded him of what he was trying to distract himself from. In some areas he felt nothing at all, simply static in small spotty blotches. From yesterday it had spread. In others it was agony, as if his skin had slowly been ground away with sandpaper until red raw and throbbing, blistering while the action of scraping continued relentlessly until the person inflicting it had grown tired of the tedious process so much so they had resorted to using their own fingers. Dry and rough against the open squidgy meat.
Tim picked out the more stubborn pieces, using his fingers as a comb. Having dismounted the showerhead now to bring it closer to clean the wound. Brian had stilled moments before, belly up, not quite limp as he was still holding Tim. It wasn’t hard to decide what his eyes were saying, so Tim chose to avoid them, keeping his gaze just off the hairline.
There was a sharp ridge that ran down the curve of Brian’s scalp, Tim followed it, the skin was still leaking. It was frustrating, after all the effort he went into cleaning this man’s hair. Which is why he left just before moving him, down to reception. It was empty, in similar condition to their room, if not worse. There was a mug of random pens, a holepunch, outdated computer and disconnected phone. The drawer had something more interesting.
A stapler.
Tim’s grandmother had fallen once, the doctor had used a medical stapler. How could one used for stationary purposes be so different? Either way they could be removed easily and he didn’t know how to sew actual stitches.
Tim held it in his hand now, tightly. His wet hands made it difficult to hold carefully without slipping. He turned inwards to the bath, supporting brian’s back with his leg and using one hand to pinch the walls of the crevasse together. The body beneath squirmed, face twisting in crude mystery. Hair stuck to his face with water, some escaped tears and undignified snot. His clothes were soaked, stained and sponging up the grime.
The steel wire was cold, it hurt. Brian flinched with each click of the stapler, one after the other. Tim saw the damp patch on the back of the hoodie, taking hold of the bottom he started to lift it up, catching a glimpse of an angry green and purple bruise. No clear skin in sight.
From his fall no doubt.
Tim hears a small wheeze, then a whined snort. “Perr–vt.” Brian’s lips were barely moving, words caught between them. Tim frowns, leaning closer, “What?” having pulled off the hoodie and tossed it into the sink. “Perrrv.” Brian coughed weakly, using up the little breath he had left to laugh in Tim’s face. It was bitter, glittered with mild entertainment for his own voice. Teeth stained from biting a chunk out of his own tongue, as if his gums were bleeding.
He was smiling, Tim was less amused.
He’d managed to get Brian on a bed this time, feeding what pain killers he’d stuffed in his pocket before they’d left the car. Heading down to reception for the second time in an hour, this time there was a small woman occupying the rickety chair tucked into the front desk. She was older, much older, than himself. A person you would expect to find living in a dirt burrow feeding wanderers a poison stew, or more plausibly, a pensioner that scowled at every rosey freckle-faced kid that dared pass her yard. A level below a recluse, yet chained to customer service.
“Hello.” Tim greeted her curtly, tucking his hands into his jean pockets. Knowing otherwise they might reveal his deceit. She stared back at him boredly, grinding her teeth down on some loose leaf chewing tobacco. Teeth rotten. She soon spat it out in one big clot, Tim hoped there was a bin at her feet he’d missed in his snooping earlier. But given the look of this establishment, the chances were slim.
“I need a replacement key.”
All lies were better swallowed with a hint of truth, Tim had just never been given a key in the first place. A medical student would have a field day trying to decipher how a human heart could beat at the rate Tim’s was now. It was so heavy he believed it was sinking, so aggressive in its pace one would think he’d just battled medusa or had to correct his order at a fast food joint. It didn’t simply disappear once the woman had slid the new keys over to him. Unlike most places, there was no tag to show which door it opened, no label or sticker. No indication of any kind.
She’d revoked what little attention she’d spared for Tim, returning to her magazine that had clearly not been published after the century began with a nineteen. “Don’t you need the room number?” Any question would seem stupid when the immediate response provided is a cutting “No.” This was because she could have given him any key and it would have opened that door. It was the same lock for each room. That’s what Tim assumed at least, while he pondered ways he could return her attitude tenfold. Later deciding the broken window, stealing and inevitable stains were punishment enough for being a bad host.
Returning to the room, Tim passed Brian, he was yet again unconscious. Arms folded and sleeping on his side, legs tucked up and body facing away from the light in the window. He begins searching the bathroom, accidentally tugging the shower curtain off its pole with his haste. They needed somewhere to stay, but it’s not like he could buy a flat here without any ID or even use his bank account. They were connected to too much back in Rosswood, he’d not dared turn on the news, in fear of seeing their faces on every channel with locals organising a state-wide manhunt.
Somewhere safely tucked away in nowhere, yet not a place that showed the intent to remain hidden. It had to look natural, antisocial rather than a criminal hideout.
This was Tim’s mission for today.
The only thing of use to be found was the thick leather bible with about twenty dollars worth of loose notes tucked between its pages. There was a note but Tim didn’t read it, just returning it to the drawer and thanking himself for not going through with the idea of using it as kindling if they ended up sleeping outside tonight.
Leaving Brian a message and locking the door behind himself, Tim heads back to the Chevrolet C/K. He doesn’t stray too far down the main road, pulling into a small dirt lane that tugs him deeper into the forest. Continuing on foot, the trees are so densely packed it’s all too easy to lose sight of his car.
The pointless wandering was soon directed by a narrow stream, following against the current, Tim found himself losing sight of the sky and with it any real sense of time. He kept his mind trapped in the present, where he was and what he could see.
It kept his attention off of himself. Off of being alone, or worse, the implications if he wasn’t.
He liked the sound of his boots against the ground. It was soft, soggy, no satisfying crunch or crackle that should come with a dry summer. It was getting more difficult to keep his breath as the imaginary path began to climb into a small incline. Tim cringed when he had to grab a mossy root to pull himself up a steep bank.
From there he spotted salvation. A house. It was obvious there had been no one living here for some time, the outside was a mess. It took up most of the clearing, there was no car but evident there had been as no grass grew in two wide knobbily stripes that disappeared around a corner. It was a log cabin, with one floor and a roof overtaken by plants growing out the gutters. The porch was rotted, nothing Tim wasn’t convinced he couldn’t fix with a single trip to a department store. It groaned under his weight, already having a few holes in places the wood had given up.
Looking through the front window didn’t offer anything useful, although it was dark inside. Circling round the back, Tim notices a faint humming, the sound a fan makes. There's another door. Digging his shoulder into its side, he shoves once, twice. Nothing. The middle only gives slightly so it must have had more than one lock. Stepping back, Tim forces his way through, foot first. Expecting the door to simply slam open. It doesn’t. Actually, only his foot made it past, forming a splintered hole in one of the lower panels.
There was a wave of something foul, an odor that stuffed itself into Tim’s senses so that his eyes watered and the stench could be tasted on his tongue.
It was serrated and rotten, like green eggs and raw sewage, as if he’d just opened the hatch to a septic tank. It was sour milk and a savouring mouthful of vomit. It was worse than any strong whiff of BO and bad breath, the source was unknown but completely recognisable.
Crouching down, he reaches up to feel for the other doorknob. On the way he finds three latches, each with their own padlock, and a small chain hooked into the wall. Adding this to the original lock in the door, Tim determined he was better off making use of the vulnerability he’d created and enlarge it enough to fit through. If there were any squatters, or even the original owner still home, they would have definitely vacated or called the police by now.
But there were no sirens or pleas for him to leave, so Tim pressed on. Picking out small needles from his palms as he roamed, the scent only grew more offensive. It had a single hallway right through to the main door, which was next to this kitchenette area with half walls openly connecting it to the living room.
Tim checked the other rooms first before going any deeper. The one on the left was the Master bedroom. The ceilings were lower than expected, with yellowed tobacco stains having spread up the wall just above the double bed. Notably on only one side. The other was untouched by the filth in the room, respectfully spared, Tim’s eyes didn’t get such mercy.
The sheets had not been washed, folded, or dried. Tim could tell from the scent of damp still lingering. However, just because Tim smelled the damp didn’t mean the sheets had been washed. It was simply impossible. The corner of the mattress, the bare mattress, was a grey eggshell colour. The side below the stain had the sheets kicked down, exposing the print of a body made from dirt, the original colour had been lost completely but that corner told him it was very unlikely the owner purchased a mattress in the shade ‘faecal brown’.
The frame seemed solid at least, a polished wood that managed to stay standing despite the evident abuse the rest of the house had been dealt. Garbage took up most of the floor space. From the small windows that suspiciously lead to the door like stepping stones, Tim could tell the owner had been living like this for some time.
The side table was only swamped by more dust and junk, empty pill bottles and letters stacked thickly into coverless books. It was the other side of the bed that intrigued him. The pillows had been fluffed and everything was tucked in neatly, slippers waited for a person who would never rise from this bed again.
The bedding itself was a dull floral pink, the kind one would expect on a grandmother’s tea set. A double bed meant married, the decrepit condition of it all meant old or perhaps dead. The house could have been abandoned, then others might have come and left it in the state it was now, but then how come Tim was the first to break through the doors? It wasn’t so obvious from the outside but none of the windows had been so much as cracked, let alone showed signs of a break in.
The possibilities circled for some time as he looked around.
There were no pictures up on any walls, peeking back through the hallway confirmed this. Tim wondered what decaying creature was making that smell, it was dampened in the master bedroom and grew stronger in the hall. He followed his nose. Every step was a push deeper inside the belly of the source.
Turning the corner to the open sitting room, Tim couldn’t help but stare. At first it looked like spilt rice, upon closer inspection it was really thousands of thick ropey maggots, digging their way into the shag carpet.
Their buffet was something Tim could only assume was the owner.
The corpse was on its back, stomach bloated and bulging like a beached whale ready to pop, all purple and sagging. Skin was pulled tight and paper thin over its face, wrinkled like a sun dried fruit. His fingers were black, the blood had pooled there. His eyes had been hollowed into deep baths, bugs digging into the back, sucking the bone dry of its ripened flesh. Overflowing and spilling out, down his cheeks. Some abandoned the overcrowded buffet and made their way to the mouth. The lips had been gnawed away, revealing bare teeth and a jelly tongue.
Tim caught himself staring, like one would for a car crash. Something so terrible you couldn’t quite bear to look away. But he did. Uncomfortable with himself for allowing it.
The decision had already been made when he saw the bed. This was the place. Using a breadknife stuffed into the back of one of the kitchen drawers, Tim begins to chop through the carpet around the man. Lifting up the edges and shaking it lightly to discourage the maggots from escaping. He was pleased to find the original hardwood underneath. Folding in the corners, Tim creates a burrito of sorts, gagging at the gurgled sloshing that escaped when he’d finally managed to flip the body and shimmy it out the back door. Resting up the steps.
Tim fell back onto the leather recliner, pressed into the corner of the sitting room. Then pulled out a crumpled cigarette from his back pocket and lit it. Taking a long breath and holding it there for a moment, before leaning back and letting the smoke escape his lips slowly. His mind drifted elsewhere, silenced by the dull buzzing in his ears. Eyes remained on the seam where strips of wallpaper met one another on the wall behind the box TV.
Faint questions drifted by.
What was he doing? Why was he here? Where was here?
What was the point in hiding when he deserved to be caught? He was scared. That's why. That’s why he was running. Tim knew that. He considered stuffing that man in the trunk and driving through town until he found the police station.
What would be the point in that now?
He hadn’t had any headaches since leaving. Delusions, perhaps and some well deserved paranoia. But acknowledging these things didn’t scrub them from his mind, they persisted into his truth. Into valid concerns. People were watching them, they had cameras. Everyone did. It wouldn’t be hard to send someone after them, to kill them or drag them back. Both Brian and himself.
In the treelines he could imagine them hiding, never sure which face to choose and intent to match. Windows had eyes peeking over the ledges and perfectly average looking people had been following them in their perfectly normal cars the whole ride here. When they went down a different junction it was surely to avoid detection, but Tim knew. He knew, and agonised over it.
Ash flaked off the end of the cigarette and landed on the arm of the chair in a light dusting.
In the facility, a place Tim hoped equally to never forget or remember, the creature’s presence had become a constant. A weighted sheet over the world. Now that sheet was gone everything was lighter, and yet it became that weight that grounded him. Tim feared what could replace it, that it might someday return. It was ignorant to think a few hundred miles was beyond such a thing's capability.
Putting out the cigarette against his boot, Tim looks around one final time, bracing himself for the long trek back to the car. If he could even find it. “This is it,” he thought. This could be home.
hi if your requests are open/ your will to, would you be able to write a part 2 to the Nathan and wife reader taking in Abbadon? It’s completely fine if not.
Absolutely, I’m planning on writing plenty more chapters, the next one being chapter 4. :))
hey diva im a huge fan of your work, i was just curious if you’re finished writing mr and mrs frankenstein or if you have plans to keep writing for it- no pressure to keep writing for it if you aren’t planning to just wondering!
thank you so much for your work mwah
Thank you so much, I’m so happy you like it. Sadly it is finished and probably one of my favourites I’ve written so far :)
In this new place, the earth was bitter. Grass speckling leaf litter on the forest floor smelt sour, slouching over itself in long wiry strands as if repelled by its own odor. Knotting roots arched up from dirt in thick ropes, looking for those unfortunate enough to trap their feet. And the canopy above separated light from darkness. Anything that wished to grow would sooner find itself rotting than sprouting a single leaf.
It was hostile, but not in the way one would expect.
It was quiet.
That might not sound so concerning without a second thought. Naturally, this deep into the ‘Great Smoky Mountains’ it was unlikely to hear the frustrated cries of a car horn, or the rattling of its exhaust when surrounded by a few hundred thousand other poor souls trapped on a Washington interstate on its godforsaken gridlocked bottleneck that chokes out two or three waves of traffic before constipating itself into a standstill so that the hellish cycle may repeat itself ad infinitum.
But here, there wasn’t so much as a breeze. A light flutter from a bird's wings. The breath from an exhausted deer outruning a starved beast it knows is unlikely to relent and turn to weaker prey.
Here, the world is quiet.
Tim hadn’t known that before they arrived, he simply kept driving until the trees blended into one another and any signs of civilization grew few and far between. Where, didn’t really matter at the time, it was how far he was from Rosswood. He doubted any distance could satisfy the need to run and hide.
The instinct was too strong and Brian needed the bathroom. So, Elkmont it was.
The town was condensed for a place surrounded by endless forest. The cafe was next to the main road, connected from the back to a greasy looking motel Tim was sure he could turn to if he ever wanted to find a free baggie of cocaine under the mattress or a botched kidney removal. The lady that owned it was pleasant enough. Brian still wasn’t in a good way, neither of them were, but that wasn’t an appropriate excuse to stare at the hairs sprouting up on the woman’s chin either.
Tim was sure she believed them to be some eloped lovers, or worse, homeless. Technically he had a home, he’d just left without informing the landlord. Not that he could, even so it would more than likely have ended in an eviction lawsuit. Murder seemed to be just grounds for ending his contract.
It was hard not to think about, impossible even, how everything ended back in Alabama.
Brian had survived the fall.
The sound of bone meeting concrete is something Tim would never forget. How it felt in that moment to be above, looking down. Peace first came to mind, it had held hands with the heated desperation of survival for so long the emotions had melded together, it felt as if he could not experience one without the other. Twisting and turning only to find more all consuming danger, not here but soon. Soon. Tim could feel it, the anticipation of anxiety that bred the feeling itself. His mind circled and festered in that loop while speeding, glancing through the rearview mirror at the gaping dome in the back of his enemy’s head as its contents sprayed over the passenger seats.
His friend, his cruel abuser. A stalker, a killer, dying in the back of his nineteen eighty eight Chevrolet C/K. Not ‘his’ of course, an acquired vehicle, being followed was not an option. By who, he was not sure. Mania left no room for rational thought, not one single sane idea during those last seventy two hours in Alabama. Tim was hardly convinced that this act of theft could possibly outweigh his other sins, especially after Alex. If he clenched his fists around the wheel too tightly the leather underneath his clammy palms felt too similar to the grip of the knife he had used.
Thinking of Alex did not stir regret, or sadness. It was plain satisfaction, gratification. As if some chapter had been concluded, knowing the man was dead. Truly dead.
It intimidated Tim, it always had. Now that he was in remission it’s like the person he was mere hours ago was a phantom, a projection of the ugliness shallowly hidden as the shame of his consciousness. It was a part of him, not a symptom of his illness. No amount of medication could smother the glee after Alex’s blood had stained and dried on his face, in his hair, crusting off in small flakes the longer it took to find Brian.
He’d gone back for him, Tim thought he did at least.
How else could they have both ended up here otherwise?
Tim is taken out of thought by the soft clink of two mugs together as they were placed on the booth’s table. Brian was, again, staring. Tim didn’t bother apologising, just turning back to the window that faced the road. The man opposite him had his yellow hood up, to hide the obvious dent. It was filthy, and despite the short bathroom trip to wring out the excess blood and lighten the stains, the damp fabric still clung to the back of his skill. Soaking up the leaking to form another splotch.
It was a wonder how he was still alive. He hadn’t spoken yet so Tim wasn’t quite convinced the man was actually there. Maybe just a memory of a memory, like when they went to go get lunch after auditioning. He was happy then, he was trying to be at least.
Brian couldn’t go to hospital, he’d been missing, he’d killed people. Tim couldn’t judge, many of those deaths were his fault, most of it was his fault. He couldn’t risk a hospital, if someone had recognised them or the police got involved it would be over, they would be forced to go back. Tim was never going back. Brian was fine. He was breathing, he was sitting up by himself. It could just be a concussion. Could also be a skull fracture, a nice clean skull fracture that heals nicely without the need of a medical professional.
Tim knew CPR, they would be fine.
Taking another sip of his coffee, he watches the tree line. Uncertain.
He hoped, he hoped they would be fine.
They would break into one of the rooms after dark, stay the night and leave before morning. Then find some abandoned place far away from everything, buy sometime and sort themselves out. It seemed strange to seek refuge in the woods after all this time and torment, but he had to be sure. He had to know that thing had let them go and not just extended the leash.
His sickness had calmed, the only sign it had ever been there was the raw scratchyness that sanded the back of his throat. Though he hadn’t spoken in some time, not until ordering their drinks.
Street lights illuminated patches of pavement in a damp golden glow. Moths and other bugs swarmed them, adding a low buzzing to the occasional car passing as the pair waited for the owner to leave. Tucked around the corner of the building, sharing a cigarette from Tim’s dwindling supply. He’d stopped at a gas station on the way, picking up the strongest pain killers he could find, and two packets of Chesterfields.
Climbing up the stairs to the open hall of rooms, they check for a resident through any window with open blinds and no lights. Tim digs his shoulder into the door, attempting to bust it open in one quick shove. The lock doesn’t give. He tries again, but Brian is faster. Taking a large rock from the car park and launching it through the glass. Reaching around and opening it from the inside.
Tim didn’t have it in him, on any other day he would have complained about the noise alerting someone, maybe raised his voice himself. But the air escaped him in a long sigh. Sinking into the infested mattress was the greatest comfort he’d experienced in a long while. With only four hours of real sleep each night, the man was exhausted.
Brian didn’t walk in.
He stood in the doorway, watching the wall opposite him. Knees locked, before stiffly falling forward like a rotten plank. The thud rattled the walls, and the naked lightbulb loosely connected to the ceiling swung back and forth, agitated by the collapse. From the bed, Tim peered down to find flowing dribbles of red falling from the jammy clotted mess behind Brian’s head down to his cheeks. The small mark on his hood was now a large saturated pool.
Tim had read somewhere that head injuries could appear more dramatic than they were, and the brain needed lots of blood to function properly, so Brian could wait until morning.
Hear me out dawg; Vergil x reader right? BUT Have Vergil and Reader be messy post break up or divorce or whatever then have reader basically fall completely in love with V before V becomes Vergil again then drama ensues. Forgive me, I just started playing Dmc 5 and I'm feelin frisky as the kids say.
This took a ridiculously long time, but I hope you enjoy <3 This was so fun to write.
Kiss With a Fist
Vergil x reader / V x reader (he needs more love)
Word count: 3.5k
Warnings: Blood + flirting Violence
masterlist
Freelancing as a mercenary could never hope to fund a single weekend of your single life. Thankfully you weren’t Dante. You weren’t messy. You set your own prices, and generally speaking, overcharged. But that was the joy of such a career, the scum that sought you out could never hope to do what you did. Providing the contractual liberty to push your own income into the six digits.
Dante just couldn’t sell himself, understandably so.
You’d been to Devil May Cry.
Future psychologists would weep with the opportunity to study such a specimen.
Regardless, today was your day off and you were going to make the most of it. Starting with the mall. Making a clear dive for the closest jewellery store, they treated you like royalty, complimentary this and that practically falling into your pockets. The doorman knew you by name, he was sweet, and had a daughter that took ballet classes. Bleeding his wallet dry. He loved her enough to put in the extra shifts. The woman you requested had your drink of choice memorised, she would hold up precious stones and match them to your eyes. Showering you in polite smiles and compliments that warmed your skin.
You paid in cash every time, convinced they either believed you to be a hooker or a sugar baby. It didn’t matter. It didn’t cure the hunger for something new, something you didn’t have.
Heels clicked on the marble floors as your bags swayed lightly in your hands, stalking your next victim. ARMANI, or VERSACE…No, you needed something stronger. Fur. Something with fur. Yes, the summer was rapidly approaching but you could stay inside with the air conditioning, why should the weather dictate the survival of a good outfit?
In such a determined pursuit, the floor went unnoticed. That was until it erupted with Empusas. They’d tunnelled under the building, breaking through two levels to reach you. Not that they were targeting you in particular, but it sure felt that way when their bloodied claw ruined your branded bag with three droplets of human secretions. Namely, blood. On your white DIOR bag.
Fifty dollars of your hard earned money, for nothing. Wasted. There was no way you could use that lipstick now. Finger itching for a trigger, you scratch that itch. Reaching over your shoulder, for your baby. Vendetta. A little last minute birthday present Dante regrets forking over. You loved it more than anything in the world. Currently, that feeling was extended to the demon realm as you used it to sever the two hemispheres of an Empusas' brain.
She was long and thick, just how you liked them. A rectangular blade with thorned ends, perfect in every way. Twirling the sword within a devil’s intestines, it was in the midst of battle you realised the second level had begun to collapse. Throwing up your bags, they catch on the steel bars within the exposed foundations as you fall. The world slowed while watching them from below, haloed by the sun streaming in from the glass ceiling. At least you could save something.
You didn’t scream, landing on your feet. Luckily avoiding the rubble, but not the dust. Reaching out an open palm to your side, the bag falls from above. Returning safely to its rightful owner. Vendetta was resting at your feet, as you made sure to brush off the dirt from your shoulders and hair.
A sigh escaped you at the sound steps. More steps meant more demons, that meant more of your time. Unpaid. Time. “Love seeketh not itself to please, nor for itself hath any care, but for another gives its ease, and builds a Heaven in Hell's despair.” A voice announces from within the aftermath of your battle, a spectator. The first thing you noticed was that he appeared human, not as an intelligent demon. He was young and tall, frightfully pale to an anaemic degree, also rather handsome.
Familiar. Startlingly so. As if the air itself had your heart aching and knees shaking. Your eyes fell to his cane, circling around a collapsed fountain to shorten the distance between you two. He could feel your sharp eyes latching onto his figure, he found that he liked that attention all too much. “William Blake?” You asked, knowing the answer. He smiled back at you, dipping his head down so that his hair curtained such a sight. A shame, you would have liked to admire it a little longer. “That’s right,” his voice soothed, despite the chaos around him.
He was scared, you could tell. Not from the demons, but of you.
Understandable, you couldn’t find it in you to be offended. However, most people would have escaped by now. Especially with the mess, one you happened to have caused. So he must have known you, he must have been looking. With every step you took forward, he took back. Widening the gap. You made sure to keep him in sight, not allowing the mountain of crumbled stone to block your view. It was like he was trying to hide. You wouldn’t let him.
He must be shy.
“It’s been a while since anyone’s read poetry to me.”
That wasn’t meant to sound so sad, it was just the truth. The man stopped, letting you get close for a change. “Maybe ‘someone’ should,” you couldn’t help but feel like this conversation was meant for another. Tightly gripping his book in one hand, cane in the other, he continues. “There’s a job.”
There was always a job.
Sitting on the edge of the drained fountain, you lean forward, fiddling with the straps of your bags. You don’t give an answer just yet, still curious. “You should introduce yourself before getting all professional like that.” He chuckled, sinking unexpectedly into a deep bow that didn't quite reach the floor. The words, “Forgive me,” are spoken almost intimately in a whisper.
Here of all places, amongst evaporating corpses and infrastructural damage. Dusted lightly in blood and grime. It was there he took your hand, not to shake it, but to press a blushing kiss into its spoiled skin.
“You can call me V.”
Red Grave City had been looking worse for wear these last few days, it’s surprising what a demon invasion could do to the local military. The place was a free for all, never short on combat practice. Nico’s gas budget had doubled by the end of the week at least. You’d stuck close to the rug rats, checking in regularly after scraping the city clean, especially since Nero tended to overestimate his own ability. Only as soon as you left that van everything had seemingly sprouted back up from the roots, as if you’d never left to begin with.
It was getting out of hand.
V would often separate himself from the others, granted they were not the most sociable people themselves, but you liked to think of him as a friend. ‘Colleague’ could not explain that relationship, far from it, what was expressed was nothing short of a medieval courtship.
He had gotten himself into trouble again, doing his best to get in between Nero and Goliath, which was about as effective as offering the boy a paper shield. Luckily, the sound of buildings collapsing was hard to ignore. Before the beast could use V to floss his ‘tummy teeth’, as Nero had called them. You’d taken him in your arms like a princess, and put a few yards between him and the demon.
“Dying all by yourself, handsome?”
He does his best to hide a smile, “an end I will inevitably face, evaded once more thanks to you.” You release him back to the ground, but his touch lingers for a moment. Long enough for Griffon to get jealous at least. “Oh yeah! Sure, like the rest of us did nothin’.” The overgrown bird lands weightlessly on the man's arm, you approach with a gentle hand, offering your gratitude. “Thank you for taking such good care of him, you know I think V would be really lost without you.” You grin, stroking down the bird's fluffed chest, inflated with pride.
“She gets it”
Griffon falls forward into the petting, forfeiting over your muttered praises, “such a pretty bird.” V is leaning heavily into his cane, sighing out “You mean high maintenance?” Not expecting it to tug a laugh out of your chest, collecting heat in his neck that travelled up to his ears and cheeks.
“Let’s get you back to the others.”
Kicking open the van door, Nico yelps, almost falling out the driver's seat. Cigarette loosely caught between her lips. “God damn, V. What chewed you up for dinner? Nero’s been lookin’ all day.” She takes an arm and helps lower him down onto the sofa, he hisses, joins popping loudly. “He’ll be fine, just don’t let him off the couch.” You were running on borrowed time, every moment you spent here was another second you could have spent looking for Dante, or Lady, or Trish.
Moving back, V catches your arm, using it as a tether to pull himself back up. Unsuccessfully. “Evil lurks, it is imperative my mission is complete.”
“Where do you think I'm going?”
Slamming the door tight, the van is left feeling empty. Nero returns soon after, only to find V hogging his spot, book open and resting on his chest. He retreats to the passenger seat, boots dirtying the dash. Nico is up again, having microwaved some mac n’ cheese for their sleeping comrade. Only, curiosity got the better of her. Unable to resist sneaking a peak at whatever poetry could possibly interest V that much.
It wasn’t the words her eyes landed on first, it was you. Lots and lots of you. Drawings, sketches. Detailed and scribbled. “Woah! Is that…?” Her mouth hangs open, muffling a huffed laughter that catches Nero’s attention from the front of the van. V is awake in an instant, glairing and reaching forward with intent to snatch his property back. “Release it at once.” He didn’t have the strength to yell just yet. Sighing, the younger Sparda boy makes his way over, leaning over her shoulder. “Nico stop being – No way.”
“Yes way. Our own dark and brooding prince charming.”
They share a look, chuckling. Flipping through the pages in rapid succession. Griffon chips in helpfully, “Princess charming.” Nico shoves the book into Nero’s arms, moving to defend V, like the honourable knight she was. “Shut it, little chickin. I’ll get the skillet. I will!” Nero was simply taken aback, he’d known as long as Dante, never once had he ever seen you express any interest in anyone. Man or woman. “V how have you had time to do all these? It’s practically every page, and I thought Nico could obsess.”
“It’s called art, you’d know that if you had any sense of style.” She used her hand to flip her hair in his face, basically whipping him. “I still don’t know what Kyrie sees in you-” V cut in smoothly, head throbbing with voices and aches. Mostly light taunting from faceless figures.
“Enough. Please, your squabbling is not appreciated.”
“Awww, Nero. Look how red he is. Like a lil’ freshly fed vampire.”
“I am not-”
“Oh yeah, that is a lot.”
You arrived deep into the night, careful not to alert those inside. V was exactly where you’d left him, staring over dazedly from his pseudo bed. The front seats were empty, so Nero and Nico must be out together. If they weren’t back by the time you woke you’d go looking, but exhaustion was inevitably catching up. “I dream of you,” sleep smoothed over his words like polished stone, softer in darkness. The only light left was from the dulled streetlights streaming in through the windows, you were beautiful. Sight felt like a gift for the torment his own mind put him through.
Kneeling beside the bed, you move the dark hair blocking his face. “What kind of dreams?”
“Happy ones.”
“Good, your happiness is well earned.” Fighting was a sacrifice you all had to make, and V was getting weaker, so he fought the hardest. Naturally, you expected it to be the other way around, but he was a stubborn one. You’d abandoned the idea of getting a fair wage. A forgivable sin since your employer was actively decaying. V hadn’t told you why, still holding onto his secrets. You didn’t pry, enjoying him while you still could. It was stupid, you knew that.
It was unavoidable. Love. Not that you resisted completely. The tides were too strong, it was nice, letting him pull you in like that. All that was left now was the consequences.
“You took the body of an angel, and within, found heaven.”
“Did you join me?”
“Pardon?”
“In heaven. I’m sure you wear the skin of an angel, even now.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
He groans, spine crackling as he stretches. Sitting up soon after, faces meeting closely as he did because you didn’t dare move away. V didn’t mind. “Tired?” Taking up the space next to him, you sank into the cushions. He nods and you open yourself to him, using a hand to pat your lap as an invitation. As one would a small dog or cat.
“What are you doing?”
A good question.
“Welcoming you to heaven.”
The man chuckles under his breath, face stained with a steaming blush that melted his sleeplessness completely. Especially once his face was cushioned by your thighs. “Softer than I imagined.” V believed this to be better than his dream, something he’d been craving for a long time, perhaps even before his birth. With your hands in his hair, it was only a matter of time before he slipped into unconsciousness. Hand slipping under the limp to take hold of the squidgy flesh on the other side and pull it closer, like a pillow, with the space between your thighs also doubling as a handwarmer.
Nico and Nero return a little later, regrettably walking in on the scene. “The hell?” Nero almost gags, not before the southern girl has her elbow in his ribs. Whisper-yelling a giddy, “pay up asshole.” He scoffs, pulling out a scruffy wallet, flicking through the bills tediously. “They couldn’t wait another two days.” She’s all smiles, holding out a hand expectantly. “I’ll be taking that, thank you.” He slams the bet money down into Nico’s palm, sulking off to the front of the van, knowing she’d join him eventually.
The next few days are nothing short of hell on earth, with the Qliphoth and demons raining down on the city, V continues to weaken. Trish and Lady are freed and Dante goes off on his own, followed closely by Nero, yourself, and then V. His familiars beat you all there, combining with Urizen at the last moment, delivering him fractions of V’s soul and returning Vergil to his human form.
You didn’t like the way he was looking at you.
“Vegil.”
He remained silent, glancing over as Dante placed a hand on Nero’s chest and took a deep step back. “How was hell?” Asking put a bitter taste in your mouth, not refreshing, but sickly and thick. “Pleasant. It was warmer without you there.” He was smiling. Why was he smiling? Your feelings towards him were made clear during your last battle, sending a clear message.
Or so you thought.
“I’m going to feed you your own small intestine now.”
“So be it.”
He took his stance, hand reaching for the Yamato. Still watching you, with a giddy amusement. As ‘giddy’ as the man was able to express through his eyes at least. The flashing of teeth behind his grin told you he was hungry to disrupt the peace you’d made in his absence. Nothing had changed.
The personified human half of your husband had arrived too late, the battle had already begun. Dante turned on his heel, “Hay, you’re still kicking around.” Nero showed his concern more clearly, “V?” There was a thunderous clap in the sky as you were buried into the vined floor, quickly digging yourself out of the crater it had made and meeting Vergil in the middle. Swords connect and he moves behind. Too close to swing Vendetta, so instead of steel, his jaw is displaced with the weight of your fist.
V falls to the ground and Nero tries to follow the fight but everything is moving too fast. Blue flashes of light blocked out most movement, any longer and he was sure you’d be ripped apart. “Dante, he’s going to kill her!” The younger brother was clapping, whistling like the proud audience member he was. “Actually, I think he’s losing. I wouldn’t worry about it, they always go easy on each other.”
Planting your hands on the ground you kick up, lodging a sharp heel into the older brother’s neck. His spine bends back, Vergil grabs your ankle and doesn’t let go. Kicking down, the rest of him follows. Still attached. Utilising his own foot to push back, using your stomach, blood covers his front and the cavity created soon heals. The hardest part of his skill meets your teeth, separated only by a now gushing lip. A motion he inflicts repeatedly, until you move to the side and pull out Vendetta.
He moves to feel the area around his collar, fingers brushing over the disrupted skin underneath. You pant, bent over and dripping from the face. He tugs off his cravat, sighing. You hoped it was to disguise his own breathlessness, rather than disappointment.
“Why do you insist on failing?”
“I’m not the one with a stain.”
You’d made sure never to spill any of your bodily messes on yourself, the plant could take a small sip of your blood if it meant keeping clothes clean. Though that goal seemed pointless given how many times your back had been close to broken against the floor. The dirty floor. The plant that would leave grass stains on your knees like an aggressive rugby match.
“It’s already healed, can’t say the same for your lip.”
“Were you always such a prick or do I just have terrible taste?”
“You were Dante's friend before my beloved, so I can only assume so.”
Huffing, your attention is recaptured by V. He’d collapsed next to Nero, and was in the worst state you’d ever seen. Skin flaking off into dust, covered almost completely in cracks. He couldn’t hold on much longer. You also couldn’t let him go without saying goodbye.
“Vergil, time-out.”
The man laughs bitterly, sword sheathed, arms crossed. “Why would I respect the rules of such childish folly?” His glare was stern, not unloving. “Vergil.” You pretend you didn’t see the eyeroll directed your way. He mulls it over for less than a minute, strangely malleable, in comparison to his usual contrarian pig-headedness. “How long is time-out?”
“Until I time-in again?”
“You have five minutes.”
Taking a step closer, you stare into his eyes and offer a honeyed smile. Vergil does not move. He watches as you reach to hold one cheek and press a kiss on the other. It was the stillest he’d been since the fight began.
He seemed frozen.
Taking an arm, when you threw him to the side, the man hadn’t realised how close to the edge of the Qliphoth platform he was. He doesn’t cheat, not activating his devil trigger.
That would be punching down.
So when he catches himself on the braided vines a few hundred feet down, the man begins his ascent.
Dante was leaning over the edge, shouting words of patronising encouragement, mixed in with genuine taunting, down to his brother. Nero was watching over V, using his folded jacket to make the dying man somewhat comfortable. You were kneeling, holding hands tightly. Muttering, unable to hold back the weepy tone in your voice, “can’t you stay?” Shaking his head, he whispers “If a thing loves, it is infinite.”
Vergil returns to your side abruptly, addressing V directly, “I see you made yourself at home.” V winces, arm shaking as he reaches for the devil above.
“Cruelty has a human heart, and jealously a human face.”
“You will know neither.” They embrace, and you are alone again. He picks up on your silence, not enough to wipe away your tears. “It was not cruel, he is a part of me and has returned to his rightful place.”
“I did not say it was cruel. I miss him.”
“Me”
“Yes, I missed you.”
He stops breathing when you look at him again, offering a hand, you take it. Unable to let go a second time.
“You threw me off the Qliphoth”
“I’m not going to apologise."
“I was impressed.”
“...thanks.”
Dante lingers behind you both, “Is it safe to enter the lovers quarrel yet?”
“Silence!”
“Shut up, Dante!”
The red leather wearing doofus backs off, hands held high as he retreats. Then Vergil does something unexpected. Hands still linked. He takes a knee. “I would like to apologise for the pain that I have caused you.” You shy away from verbal confrontation, having taken out a sufficient amount of your grievances through violence. “I would like to hit you some more.”
Vergil smiles, offering helpfully, “the time-out is over.” Shrugging, you drag him back up, choking his ribs in a python-like embrace. One he returns with equal force.
You were all a family here, the gang. When you joined all that time ago you hadn’t realised that meant babysitting duty. Abigail was getting better, slowly. Seeing and hearing about John getting the life beat out of him like an old rug certainly helped. The woman had gifted you with the responsibility of her son, all so she could have a day out for the first time since the birth. Your sister-in-law deserved it… however. This baby was currently the only thing preventing you from going on the train job today, a train job Javier just so happened to be invited to.
Your solution?
Arthur. A saving grace.
He had, reluctantly, been paired with Sean. Something about some bonds they heard an old man had stashed away. It was a break in. You didn’t need him to play Mister Robber though, you needed Arthur to play nanny. Getting him to consider the concept in itself would be a feat, not that the man didn’t like the baby, Arthur was incredibly fond of Jack. It just reminded him too much of Issac and Eliza.
“Arthur?”
The man wasn’t far, just getting ready to head out by the horses, Sean filling up the back of a stolen wagon behind him. You approached with grace, diplomatically. He had something you wanted, two free arms. The man was grinning as soon as he heard you, a cigarette between his fingers, glancing down at the drooling infant. “Well, wasn’ tha fast. Is this Javier junior?” Jack was staring up at the cowboy, wide eyed, unable to be soothed into a nap. No doubt preparing to be fussy later. Uncle suggested whisky on his lips, given the state of Uncle that didn’t sound like very credible advice. “Shut up you old coot. Here, take him. Arms are sore.”
“No.”
“Arthur, what if I drop him? My arms are jus’ sooo tired.” It was too late, he’d already sniffed out the plot. It wasn’t a new trick, Hosea had worn it out many years ago. First, Arthur would be asked to do something until the person with said original responsibility could return to the task. Only, that never happened. It took a good long while for younger Arthur to notice the pattern. Much to your dismay.
“No.”
Huffing, the baby coos, reaching up to grab at your shirt collar. Breath tickling his face. Unaware of the mental battle taking place before him. “Abigail said you had to take him.” A bold lie. A long shot. Arthur raises a brow, putting out his cigarette on the hitching post then flicking it off into the grass. Flatly asking you, “When.” You answer earnestly, “this morn-”, only to be interrupted by his sass. “-did Abigail become your excuse to hock off Jack.”
“I ain’t hocking him off!”
“Yeah, you are. Right now. To me.”
Tapping your foot on the floor, you grasp at the final straw. Hurriedly blurting out, “One. Two. Three.” Then placing the baby in Arthur’s arms, ducking behind the wagon and shuffling out of sight. Your friend is left holding the bag, or rather, baby.
“Shit.”
His accent always shone through in his cussing. The Irishman above leans over the side of the driver's seat, asking with a toothy grin, “Is the little man comin’ with us too Arthur?” From across the camp Bill is amusing himself with the sight, announcing all too loudly, “looks more like you than Marston, Morgan.”
“Shut up, Bill.”
Strutting over to Dutch’s tent, head held high with victory, you smile brightly. “Told you I could do it Dutch, Arthur’s getting soft in his old age.” The man looks up from his Evelyn Miller, reflecting your face back to you as always. Matching even the tone. “Well well, look at you. A free woman, ready for a cultured afternoon of thevin’ and robbin’. We gentlemen are truly fortunate for your company, right Mister Escuella?” The man pops up by your side, giving you a small fright that is soon mellowed by warmed cheeks. Javier simply nods, practically fleeing over to Boaz. Dutch chuckles, waving over Bill and Uncle. “Be a dear, go round up the twins, drag them if need be. We’re heading out.”
“Mac.”
He was sitting by the fire, reading the paper. A rare sight in camp. Not because of the price of a paper, but the general lack of literacy. He needed a good wash, dirty blonde locks almost mangled with the grease that came with warm summers. Grimshaw would take care of that soon enough. “Miss,” the southern drawl stretched out your name smoothly. Even though he was the rougher of the two, everyone knew that the avid brawler that was Mac Callander, had a toffee centre. He cared, you knew he did. Davey was the flight risk, never seeming to invest in the idea’s of community within the gang.
“Where’s the drunkard?”
Davey was notoriously fond of spirits, and a keen gambler. Trelawney almost had a superstition around the twins after the man won a fixed game, though it was Pearson that raved on about how dangerous it was to have them hanging around camp. Not because of the fighting; the drinking; the money, or even the loyalty. It was a bad omen. He says it’s against nature, only animals give litter. More than one baby is subhuman, pinning this to their more violent temperament. The cook is sure to avoid them, to an almost comedic degree. Carrying silver coins and wren feathers, nailing horseshoes to every beam he could find.
You had no such fear, all of that destruction took place outside of camp. If they trailed any back on their shoes, Hosea made them clean it up themselves. Davey was still in bed, spooning an empty bottle. You hovered with an evil smile, muttering wistfully “Sleeping beauty,” before turning back to Mac.
“Fetch me a water pail.”
You could hear the small squeaks of Davey’s soggy drawers against his saddle as you rode out to the tracks, sharing a bright smile with Mac.
The morning was treating you all nicely. It was hard not to stare at Javier during the ride over, he knew how to dress himself. Part of that was your own doing, like his hair, but the freedom to control how he appeared seemed very important to the man. Whether it was for others or himself was yet to be discovered. Javier told you before, he didn’t care, if someone hated him because of where he’d come from that was their own fault. Everyone was from somewhere, there was no point in choosing ones to hate or not hate when you yourself would be different in another’s home.
He had a point.
You all stop atop a shallow hill, one that cushioned a curve in the rails. Peering over the side of your horse, you notice the sun had been drying up the ground. Ideal weather for some explosives. “When’s the train gettin’ here, Dutch?” He wasn’t smiling anymore, hand resting on his holster. “You’ll hear it soon enough. Faces covered everyone.”
Moving next to Mister Escuella, you poke his side, asking quietly. “Excited?” His horse shifts to the side anxiously, ears back. “To fall off the train?” Enthusiasm was not present in his tone. You muffled a laugh, doing little to convince him that you were being serious. “No, you’re not gonna fall off the train, Javi. Getting off is the hard part.” It was true, there was a higher chance at getting gnawed by the wheels when going down. If you missed your saddle, the ground could be equally unforgiving when paired with gravity. Uncle was an example of this. Though, despite being shaped like an apple he didn’t bruise easily like one. “What you two whispering ‘bout over there?” He had a third ear reserved for other people's conversations. It was hidden on the back of his head, beneath all the grey.
“Nothin’, Mister Escuella is just scared of heights.”
“No-”
“Yes, you-”
The coupled bickering was cut off abruptly by the howling erupting from the locomotive’s boiler. Chasing the train down left a trail of dust behind you all. Davey had already made a leap for the open platform, occupied mostly by large shipping crates. His brother followed soon after. You were pushing it, you could hear the strained breaths in every stride from the horse below you. They would follow behind long after you jumped, loyal. Weapons secured tight, breath was taken away from you in an instant, landing heavily on wood.
The easy part was over, for everyone but Javier. Even Uncle had made it on without much fuss. Dutch simply grabbed the bars on the side of a passenger cart and used the steps. But, your handsome fellow gang member was facing a small problem. His back cinch had snapped. It was old, one of Hosea’s so it must have been, and it broke. The back half of the saddle slid down to the left, forcing him to grab onto the railing that lined the platform you were on. His right foot slid down past the stirrup, catching it around his ankle.
He was stuck.
There was a startled yelp then a long string of incoherent babble, maybe preying.
Almost tripping in your scramble to close the distance between you two, you lean over the side. Boaz was calm, if they got spooked and stopped Javier would certainly break his teeth on the floor, snapping an arm or leg in the process. He was shaking his leg, but the struggle was tugging the front cinch down with the back, making it sit diagonally on the horse's ribs. Javier’s left leg was hanging loose between Boaz and the train, using his other leg on the horse's back to plank between the two. You lean over the railing, calling Boaz closer and closer so you could drag the man beneath you to safety by the collar of his jacket. Cutting smoothly through the fender with your knife.
Javier had stopped preying.
“Jesus! Scared me half to death.” Taking his hand, you help him up. He was panting, wiping his face of sweat and dirt. “Bueno, am okay. Good.” People surely would have heard him yell, guards. There had to be someone. “Let’s get goin’. Dutch is headed for the conductor, the others are already in the passenger carts.” He nods, but Javier’s eyes drift past you to the opening of the cart, and yours do the same over his shoulder. Guards. They looked like guards, dressed and yelled like guards. Had guns like a guard would if they had a gun.
You hardly need to aim. Javier pulls out his revolver and you both fire. With it being so close, there was a ringing after. Javier moves to cover your ear nearest his weapon with a big warm hand. It wasn’t as dry and scratchy as you’d thought, with a thumb running over your cheek. It didn’t help with the temporary tinnitus, but for a moment your mission was forgotten. He apologises and you brush it off with a smile, “I’m alright. Now, let's go stick up some ritch folk.”
Aside from the small hiccup of near death, the mission goes successfully. Each one of you gets a staggering three hundred and thirty six dollars, to be exact. With a large portion going towards the camp's own funds. Instead of leaving with the rest of them back to camp, you choose a quick detour through town. Avoiding the local law in a less than dignified way by crouching in the shrubbery, all to pick up a gift for your favourite outlaw.
“Mister Escuela.”
“Am I in trouble?”
The Mexican man was nursing a half empty beer by his bed. Tidying himself up for the evening with a quick shave. You could tell he’d already had a wash, hair laying flat against his head instead of the usual subtle waves he had contained in a tight knot. “Not at all, just wanted to give you a little somethin’ I thought you might like.” Interest peaked, he set down the razor, taking another sip from his bottle. Eying at whatever you had to hide behind your back with both hands. “What would that be, Señorita?”
“No ‘hermosa’ this time? Maybe I’m the one in trouble, especially after Hosea finds out what I spent my cut on this time.” He was smiling up at you sweetly. Gently, you set the guitar in his lap as one would a new puppy or gold watch on a satin pillow. He stares down at it widely, not quite sure if he was allowed to touch it. Leaning down, you press a kiss to the window in shaving cream he’d created. The skin was smooth and tasted soapy on your lips, but his face made it so worth it. Shaken. Disturbed, pleasantly, you’d hoped. Maybe a tad bit scared.
“You are a good shot.” You spoke softly, so intimately close the words burnt his ears.
Eyes follow when you walk away.
John was sitting at the fire pit closest to your tent, cackling to himself like a congested bagpipe. A small baby being bounced on his knee idly. “When’s the weddin’? Didn’t realise how close you was with Javier.” Circling round, you take the opportunity to clip him upside the head with your hand. Gently. Just because he had Jack. “That’s ‘cause you can’t tell ass from elbow, and Mister Escuella is a gentleman. Unlike you. An unwashed marsh creature. A Marsh-ton.” He rolls his eyes, bringing the baby up to his chest. He was a father when he wanted to be, it was sweet but meant he was fully capable of the responsibility he’d done his utmost to avoid since the start.
“Ha. Hilarious.”
“I think so.”
Jack, your new favorite (Sorry, Javi), decides his father’s shirt is the perfect rag to spit up his dinner on. Your laugh echoes through the trees, no doubt waking a few grouchy camp members. “Oh. Tha’ is amazin’. Jack thinks so too, don’t you Jacky?” The baby giggles, sneezing like a kitten, drooling down his chin. “God. Damn it all to hell. It’s down my shirt!” He has Jack at arms length, you rescue the babe from his prison. Praising and cooing at him, rocking back and forth with the biggest grin your cheeks could manage without growing sore. “Come here little man, let auntie take you away from the stinky swamp monster.” John stomps off, a moment after you hear the holy chime of Abigail's laughter coming from their tent.
See, when you politely asked Arthur to watch Jack, he couldn’t just take him on the road with Sean. It wasn’t safe. So who better to pass the hot potato to than Hosea, the man who had raised more streetrats than his own children. He then must have gotten bored or busy, and unloaded the true responsibility to Jack's actual father. John. A reluctant participant. One quickly silenced by his kid reaching for him.
That afternoon Javier breaks in his guitar. Treating the camp to Ángel De Amor, people dance, not yet able to sing along. You liked it, only hearing his voice. Only, you couldn’t help but feel left out. Dutch and Grimshaw. Strangely enough, Sean and Karen. It was a sight that could rot your teeth, especially with how nervous the Irishman was. Hosea had offered Abigail a hand and she was smiling brighter than the setting sun. John must have been off sulking somewhere. You watch them, wishing Javier could play and sway with you at the same time. Eventually, your gaze falls on him. The man was looking back, admiring from across the fire.
Summary: Another crewmate survived the induced coma, Grace can't help but gravitate towards the only other human within reach.
Masterlist
When Grace had first awoken on the ship, two of his crew had been labelled as deceased. When he went to investigate the sleeping pod above Commander Yáo it had been labelled as ‘quarantine’ with a thin plastic barrier having been raised, preventing him from taking a peek inside. Armando strongly advised against waking you, practically prying the man away from the seal. You were in a delicate state, or at least the ship believed you to be, continuing to maintain the induced coma until well after Ryland had become acquainted with extra-terrestrial life. He still talked to you though, out of habit. He couldn’t remember you at first, nosing through your stuff helped, but it was still scrambled eggs up there.
He was attached in a way, you might not be awake but you were a warm body that held the possibility of soothing his isolation. Rocky was great but tip-toeing around certain words or phrases in exchange for understanding one another was exhausting. You even had a photo of him in your luggage, it was a group photo, he wasn't next to you and there were about twenty other people featured within the frame. But, at least you were familiar with him. Grace hoped so anyways.
He needed a hug, a real one.
“Eye movement detected.”
Brightness blinded you from above as you blinked away a glacier of at least a decade's worth of sleep dust. Everything was so heavy, like a lead blanket cementing you to the mattress. You could hear the same sterile voice repeat itself over and over, not satisfied with your dazed silence as it slowly pulls out the feeding tube from your stomach. “What is one plus one?” The thing clogging up your throat is removed also, followed by more noise, more questions. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth, swiping at the claw above, it dodges the attack. So you’re forced to roll over, half a body limp off the side of a bed, ejecting its sustenance to splatter on the ground. Some drools from your nose, all you can taste is the vomit as another wave of nausea hits you.
“Incorrect. Contaminant detected.”
The arm takes you by the hood of the sleeping bag, momentarily choking you in its pursuit of getting you back onto the table. It is then you realise the plastic body suit underneath that is against your bare skin. You are in your underwear, in a plastic bag, in a sleeping bag. Looking up, you find your crew’s beds empty. Still waking and confused, mouth too numb to focus on words just yet, you try to say something. Only resulting in uninterpretable babble, the frustrated tears do little to help the situation. After all, shouldn't people be here, helping?
“GRACE. HUMAN. Human awake, awake!”
You hear an echoing tumble towards you from the other end of the ship, the voice was unfamiliar, giddy. “Grace! Come. Come. Come.” You were relieved, happy to be heard and have someone answer. They were safe, so others survived with them. What you weren’t expecting when they turned the corner was a large angular hamster ball barrelling towards you. Speaking too. “Hello, my name is Rocky. Rocky is my name. Statement”
You parroted the word back best you could, tongue still feeling limp, “state-men. Tuh.” You tried at least, continuing to attempt a pencil roll to freedom and proper clothes, determined to peel off the damp plastic bodysuit. “Human slow, brain damaged in sleep. Sleep damage brain, question?” Your eyes had trouble focusing on what you were looking at, the lights reflected off the ball’s surface, spreading out like a star across your vision.
Ryland followed soon after, sprinting into his now co-surviving crew member, mid lean. “I’m here, what - Woah. WOAH, hey.” He was panting, hands on his knees, catching his breath for a moment. Wiping his nose he takes a step forward, you shimmy back, forgetting about the limited width of the table. “Nope, maybe don’t do - yeah, that. Okay.”
You fell.
“Umm, Mary.” Grace hadn’t get taken in the fact that he was no longer alone, unable to really look at you, choosing to pace back and forth the room instead. “Please return to the table, Doctor. Body is not yet fully functional.” Rocky approached the liquid, melting across the floor. Poking at it with his claw through the permeable window. “Squidgy secretions, humans much disgust even after eat.”
“No, Rocky!”
The ship wasn’t as you remember. In the most polite terms, Grace lived like a pig in a pigsty, somehow Rocky was the clean freak roommate for having standards. Though Grace did try to keep you confined to the med bay to buy himself time for a quick clean up, more so just shoving everything in random drawers and various containers. He was praying for any space God to strike him down when you found a pair of his boxers on the floor of the lab. It’s not like Rocky even knew what they were.
“So you remember everything?” Grace had brought you your storage bag, with some folded clothes on top. You were eternally grateful, it only slightly disturbed you that Rocky could see through walls while you were sleeping or changing. “Don’t you?” Your crew mates were waiting on the other side of the room for you to finish changing in the sleeping bay. “No?” Ryland had explained his situation to you, but you could only offer so much information, you were familiar with each other but not close enough for you to know much about his personal life. Rocky had taken a liking to Grace’s friend.
“Doctor is smart, Grace is stupid. Stupid. Stuuupid.”
“I’m a Doctor too.”
“Doctor isn’t actually my name, Rocky.”
You were the Flight Engineer, so when you saw the primary command centre you were not pleased. “What the hell did you do to my ship?” Climbing into the pilot seat, you move forward, then back again. Reaching to the left and then the right. Scowl planted heavily in your features with enough definition Rocky could see it. “Did you - You fucked with my seat settings? Come on, man.”
“Pilot detected.”
You adjust the ship's rotation with ease, scrolling through the map to figure out where in the journey you were. “New human good pilot, Grace bad. Bad. Bad.” Smiling down at the ball pressed up against the side of your chair, your mood shifts completely, “thank you, Rocky.” Despite the lack of face or eyes, you could feel how intensely the alien was watching your movements. Grace was busy pouting. “You can’t have a favourite, that's not fair, I steered this thing with minimal training.” Huffing out a laugh, you dismiss his fears of you stealing his hat bro.
“It’s not favouritism.”
“Then why does he want you sleeping closer to the dome?”
“I’m the better view.”
That was also a new development, sleeping together. Not together together, obviously. Grace would probably collapse in on himself if you ever even joked about it, so you saved him the embarrassment. But it was nice just being close to someone, especially after learning about your passed comrades. He was the only human within reach, a part of you wanted to believe you’d still find him this attractive on earth as well, instead of a massive doofus. Cuddling took your mind off it, having created a tangled nest of sorts next to Rocky’s enclosure you and Ryland shared every night.
It was just routine now.
“Ry?”
You’d cornered him in the observation lounge, It was set to the beach loop again. “Are you done bullying me now?” Grace was only half joking, you joined him, placing the coffee mug next to his knee. “It wasn’t bullying, and I've got an apology.” You added four sugars, just how he liked it. “Accepted.” On your way up from standing you stop by his ear, mumbling, “you’re a nice view too.” The man sets down his cup, looking at the cream as it mixes in with the steaming brown drink. Stalling.
“What.”
“Bye.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Rocky.”
Making a quick exit, you almost trip over the alien in the hallway. He was making small dolls, two of them. Holding hands. Like how Grace does when you sleep, arms wrapped around you from behind and resting over your stomach to feel you breathing. “Rocky was sleeping, eyes closed. Statement. Deep unconscious, not listening.”
Can we please please please please please please please please please please please please have historical lesbians part 8, please im begging you, my heart it aches for more
(you're an amazing writer btw)
Your wish has been granted, and your heart can rest easy, part 8 has just been uploaded here: Also, thank you <3
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · Historical Lesbians · Can we please have historical lesbians part 8 (or 9 i forgot how many parts there are already x<) you
Can we please have historical lesbians part 8 (or 9 i forgot how many parts there are already x<) your fics are beautiful btw ♥️♥️♥️
Historical Lesbians (8)
Mizu x fem!reader
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word count: 2500
Note: Thank you <3 this encouraged me to finally post this chapter
The next morning was filled with a consuming warmth, the mixing heat sourced from two bodies practically fused your skins together, not that either party minded. If anything this still wasn’t close enough. Mizu was on her stomach, draped over you heavily, still sleeping peacefully. She was snoring slightly and you could feel a small pool of drool slowly collecting on your collar. Trying to ignore the shiver as it ran down your shoulder by admiring her naked comfort, hands threaded through the long strands of hair that covered most of her back, the rest of her exposed body was cut off with a blanket.
“You should have your hair like this more often, let that scalp breathe” Your voice cushioned her slumber, in return she offered a deep humming sound that lacked the effort to develop into words. Her hair had always been left uncut, even when you still believed her disguise as a man you thought it long, Mizu hadn’t explained why even now. You braided the dark locks idly, waiting for consciousness to wash over her. Actually, thinking back on it Mizu hadn’t really bothered taking much care in their appearance until after you’d gotten closer. You weren’t convinced at first ‘he’ even knew how. She used to go weeks without washing her clothes, then after making camp she would just disappear for about an hour, which you now know was to bathe and conceal her chest from you.
In one of the many instances Mizu had faced death, your wife was simply not strong enough to take care of herself, yet not exhausted enough to passively accept your help. Hence bathing together. After she was healed the habit simply stuck, though both of you had tried to convince the other it was purely out of necessity. Mizu could watch out for anyone who wandered too close and for you it felt like one of the only ways her efforts in providing for you could be repaid. In retrospect you knew it was a lie, to Mizu and yourself.
“I could get Ringo to find us something?” Mizu shot that thought down immediately, slipping slender hands around your sides to anchor herself to you, rasping, “don’t move.” You gasped, back arching to avoid her frozen paws, “Mizu!” The woman on top of you pouts, huffing against you softly. “Minutes, five more. Just us.”
“Just us?” Asking felt slightly redundant, with Mizu being barely awake. “I’ve missed this.” Laughing, you raised a brow, “We do this almost every night.” Not even ‘Almost’, despite not having confessed until last night this position wasn’t unfamiliar to you, the only difference was how many clothes were involved. Speaking of which, you hadn’t realised how smooth her legs were until now, though every so often you felt the uneven stretch of a scar. She appreciated your touch, closeness, in whatever form you were willing to give. “The other people.”
“You want me all to yourself? Greedy.”
You felt her smile against you.
“Something like that.”
Your wife was never one for people, possibly being one of the most paranoid individuals you’d even encountered. To be fair most men had never given you much reason to look forward to their company either, in a way this piece of her personality has rubbed off on you. But, you liked Ringo. He was a good man, a friend. He brought you food. That was an ally worth keeping close. Mizu understood this, for now she’d at least held back her efforts in abandoning the guy, accepting that he had some use.
Eyes flickered open, Mizu reached for her glasses and held herself over you, waiting like a deer in the fields for something. You too waited, admiring the shape of her arms while they blocked you in from moving, blanket forming a tent of damp air between you. Then there it was. A scream. Shrill and piercing through the paper screens. Gazes meet and minds silently question for a moment, before you can stand a hand presses you back down.
“Stay. I’ll look, just go find Ringo.”
She leaves without another word, almost forgetting to dress herself on the way out, sword hanging by her side as she fiddles with the obi. You follow soon after. The lanterns still lit the halls, though the ceiling felt lower than before, like the walls were hugging you close for protection. From what, you still weren’t sure. A rowdy customer seemed most likely, though you would hate to consider the many more sinister possibilities a man could conjure to disturb your morning.
Shoes abandoned, you are agile in padding room to room. The customers have cleared out, followed closely by the workers. Ringo was nowhere to be found. Ideally, he would have been in the room next door, only that too was empty. Your ears buzzed to fill the gaps of eerie silence, every shadow built themselves into a fresh figure to be spooked by, and yet none you recognised.
“Get off me!”
The woman gasped, outraged but noticeably scared beneath her stern command. Your arm had brushed Akemi’s back, a result of reversing into one another from opposite ends of a particularly poorly lit corridor. Hissing out a shush, you drag the princess into a small closet, knees knocking against each other. A hand pushes you back, facing some resistance from the wall behind you.
She was alone too, though you struggled to understand why she was still here. Yes, Taigen would be searching for Mizu. But, if she had any real faith in his devotion she could simply go back home to a cushy palace and wait. There was hardly any need for her to infiltrate this brothel. If she wanted, the girl could just command Mizu to stay put, or command others to restrain Mizu. Perhaps continuing to travel up the chain of command, until her own father is forced to hold down your wife.
Although, a father is a good reason to run away. That could explain why Akemi is so desperate to find a husband in Taigen, even if he is rather insignificant as a person. The girl’s father could make some good coin from marrying her off like that, not with Taigen but a prettied Lord with a flashy title. You understood. Mizu was right, Women in this world don’t have a single good option, but Akemi was no exception.
She had the illusions of choices, like everyone else.
You were about to give her some.
A warm glow washes over the bottom gap in the door, revealing the floors, followed by weighted steps. The door opens and a clawed fist takes hold of an arm, like it was grabbing a fish from a very small barrel. You had your own blade ready, pushing up and moving behind. His hands moved to his neck as he fell forward. You push to aid in his slow descent. Akemi is freed before she can scream. You silently thanked her for trying. Puffing heavily from her nose as she glared down at her hands, then felt around her face for the wetness now splattered over her face. You use a sleeve and carefully wipe the stubborn blood away, catching a few tears and half a face of make up with it.
Taking her hand, you shut the door and move, painfully unfamiliar with the layout of the building. She stumbles a few times but learns to pick up her feet, following upstairs until you take a hard left to the entrance of the main balcony. From above you could see at least fifty men, all armed like the one before, matching uniform and all.
They must be here on behalf of Boss Hamata.
“How many were inside?” You ask, eyes unable to land on a familiar face in the streets. The others must still be inside, or far away from here. “I’m not sure. A dozen, maybe more.” Akemi was more determined to live than before, that was nice.
“Do you have that knife?”
“Yes.”
Turning to the princess, her choices are offered simply. “You can either stay here and die, or come with me, or go down to the basement and die later.” Beginning your descent of the stairs she trails behind closely, hair beginning to shift loose and out of place. She didn’t seem to mind, though kept sweeping it back only for it to return to its previous place a moment later.
“Are we going to find Mizu?”
“No, the last thing he needs is to worry about hitting us while fighting, it’s better we stay separated for now and lighten the load.”
You stop unnoticed, allowing two claws to pass by. Akemi holds her breath, sighing out another question once she’d deemed it safe, “what about Ringo?” You had nothing to offer her in terms of information, only hopes you’d kept close to chest until now. “Alive, but I couldn’t find him.” He was smart when he needed to be, and the knife Mizu gave him should buy time, long enough to leave this place together. Added bonus if your wife is intact at the end of all this and agrees to let you keep the princess. If she's tired it won’t take long. Only if Akemi wanted to stay of course, the downgrade from palace to brothel to technically homeless was not a glamorous one. You would understand if she decided to stay.
“He’s down in the cellar with the women.”
“We can meet him on the way to the front”
“It’s too far.”
“It’s dangerous, but we’re safer like this. We need to grab a lot of hanazake.”
Akemi begins to guide you, managing to avoid the majority of patrolling armoured men with ease, having only encountered another two. From across the building you heard unsteady thuds, the floor was humming every time a new body dropped. Peeking around a corner, you can make out a fallen pile of soldiers, leaking onto the tatami mats. The closer you got to the main entrance, the more lanterns had been extinguished. In the reception area under the desk are two smaller barrels, taking one each as you begin to make your way upstairs.
In the darkness you almost trip over a leg.
Mizu’s leg.
She was not fully unconscious yet, bleeding and still breathing. With a nudge, the swordsman was lucid enough to say, “you’re alive.” Kneeling, you asked in return, only half kidding, “aren’t you?” Mizu doesn’t answer, eyelids feeling heavier than before. “Akemi and I are going to take these back upstairs and help with the men still outside…Mizu?” She could probably hear the uncertainty in your voice, now using her blade to hoist herself off the floor.
“I’ll be down here.”
Crouching low on the balcony and using your knife, you place the barrel on the floor and carve out a long slit in the side, going with the grain of the wood. Akemi copies, though ends up borrowing yours as hers couldn't slice deep enough. Then, standing without concern for being noticed, you throw. The alcohol gushes out, its container rotating slowly to coat as many men as possible, inevitably breaking after making contact with one of their faces. Securing at least one broken nose after this attack. The princess hands you one of the lanterns, taking off the decorative paper shade. The angry claws all begin to swarm, just as you drop the flame.
Hanazake is a highly concentrated variation of awamori, its high alcohol content means that the liquid is extremely flammable. The same goes for those covered in it. (Vodka typically only has a forty percent ABV, however hanazake has closer to sixty percent ABV). Sweels are heard from below as you watch the alight soldiers wildly roll around in the dirt, attempting to extinguish themselves. But you notice, the others do little to aid their colleges. They step back and, like yourselves, watch on. Something about the smell of burnt hair allows it to overpower everything else polluting the air, though you still have ears to listen to these men perish so terribly. Skin blistering and nerves dying, as they slowly expire into the ground.
Those who attempt to climb fall, Akemi stabs at their fingers once they curl around the banister, squashing those underneath like beetles. Only their armour isn’t so tough. What you didn’t realise was that Mizu was already outside, she was just trapped under a door, now with at least three limp men on top of it. She is dragged out, the hand that does so is soon severed. You are given a spectacle. Your wife killed at least twenty and dragged the boss out from under its rock, to serve him on a platter for Madame Kaji.
“Ringo?”
As soon as you stepped outside the doorway that once had a door attached to it you were ambushed into a very tight embrace, ears filled with words and much too many at once. “Master said to come find you, actually that was before, he is sleeping now. On the floor. I tried to get him up but Master didn’t like that. Not one bit. He’s hurt. Are you hurt?” Ringo waved his wrist over to Akemi over your shoulder, who waved back politely. You, however, were restrained with no chance of escape. Of course you could ask, the boy would let you go in an instant, but the security after this whole ordeal felt very rewarding. Allowing your brain to climb out of the dark place it had fallen into.
Mizu was exactly how you’d imagined.
On the floor, bleeding, caked in filth.
“Mizu?” Two blue eyes stared back at you. “I’m done with today.” Her throat sounded sore. You joined her on the snow covered steps, brushing some of the crusting muck from her cheeks, “tomorrow is still quite far away.” You noticed the glossy look she was giving you now, tears pooling in her lashes. She wasn’t sad, just tired for now, and sore. Exhausted. “I wanted five minutes, why can’t we have that?” It wasn’t a real question, not one for you or one you knew the answer to. “We will, another time.”
