Fuck it im ranking all the animated movies I've seen
Made a faintly insane list of of every animated movie I have good enough memories of to feel confident ranking, although some of them I would probably move around if I saw them more recently....
Summary - Your head against his desk and your legs elevated to wrap around his shoulders, Dr. Victor Gideon puts his more unnatural talents to good use. (1.7k)
This fic lives down a vague timeline from my other Gideon fic which can be found linked HERE
Oddly enough, it isn't the great hulking mass of Victor's body which most often sparks that primal part of you which understands you are little more than a prey animal being actively cornered and courted by a dangerous predator. It isn't even the serpentine eyes which are so often hidden away behind his analytic visor, the slitted pupils flexing and narrowing as they take in the world around him with keen focus.
No.
It is his mouth.
That calm, soft tone of his voice which easily fills whatever space he's claiming is enough to send wicked shivers of delicious dread through your entire body. The certainty of his words terrifying in how they slither through the air to wrap around your mind and pull you into his grasp until you can't help but believe whatever idea he’s selling. With clinical precision, he wields his speech with as much danger as a blade and you hate it as much as you adore it.
Hands which could snap your bones as though they were little more than brittle twigs wrap around your outer thighs. The fingers so thick and palms so wide that they cover your skin effortlessly, the roughened pads of each fingertip dig into the flesh with enough pressure that you can already feel the bruises beginning to form. He liked to mark you, liked to see the results of his attention standing against your skin like a twisted brand of ownership.
Inhumane strength which intuitively moulds you into whatever shape he desires controls both your positioning and every slight movement in your limbs. Your head is raised by a stack of books which lie behind it, your shoulders gravitationally pinned to the hard wood of the desk as your back and lower half are gracefully lifted, suspended in the air by his hands to allow Victor unfettered access to his desired prize.
But still, regardless of all that, it's his mouth which proves to be your undoing.
His tongue is thin and rougher than that of a typical person, more feline in texture than anything. Its unnatural abrasion is pleasant in a very tickling, teasing way as he glides his mouth across your inner thigh, lazily tasting you through the use of tongue alone. Lips only just skimming the skin as he allows his tongue to lead his way, Victor pulls away after licking some unseen shape into the flesh and you can hear the excitement in his tone as he praises you with familiar twisted adoration.
"So soft. Like an untouched peach, ripening away in the Georgia sun.” Victor inhales deeply, his tongue flickering against his lips, “Perfect."
His praise forces fresh heat across your cheeks, the blush staining the skin prettily as you gaze up at him, heart pounding as it struggles to pump the blood through your elevated body.
Victor continues his speech, pressing his mouth down more roughly to your thigh as he speaks the words into your skin to the point where they are practically muffled, “I can feel the blood rushing through your veins. Pure, untainted, I can almost taste it, pet. I need to taste it.” His teeth joint he fray to sink into your thigh without warning, angled in such a way that only one of his sharper canines truly puncture the skin to draw blood.
The sudden pain catches your breath in your chest as he immediately soothes the momentary hurt by stroking his long tongue across the fresh wound, collecting the few droplets of blood which leak free with a full-bodied shudder that you can feel trembling through his arms and mouth. His body moves without thought, grinding into the air as though unable to resist seeking out some kind of stimulation.
His fascination with your blood was something which took some getting used to. Generally preferring to keep it within your body, as any rational person does, it had taken a surprisingly little amount of gentle persuasion from Victor for him to convince you to let him at it when his more insatiable desires arose.
Eyes flicking down to your exposed chest, you can see that the delicately thin lines of his latest work are healing nicely, his skill with a scalpel such that he proved capable of drawing blood without leaving any truly nasty scarring in its wake. Nothing like the gnarled skin which decorated his own throat and chest, a story which he declined to share with you when asked. He wanted to keep you perfect.
However, while the scalpel is his favourite toy to play with when opportunity arises, it pales in comparison to the love he possesses for using his mouth for a more intimate analysis of your internal workings.
His teeth, so sharp and uneven as they sit behind his lips, are a weapon which he wields with limitless skill. Every bite, every gaze across puckered skin, is measured in a way which never fails to leave you breathless as they drag you to the point where the line between discomfort and pleasure is so blurred that it may as well not exist.
Like now.
Pushing your thigh harder into his mouth as he greedily licks at the puncture wound which he so gleefully delivered, you can’t help but beg him in a stuttering voice.
“Victor, please? Quit teasing, I want you-”
“Shh.” He silences you with a soft hushing noise as his mouth pulls free of your thigh, “You are impatient today. No manners.” You can feel something wet on the skin, the cool air ghosting over it, but from this position it is impossible to tell if it’s his desperate saliva or your own dripping blood.
“You’re being a bastard.” You accuse, the words surge with a playful heat as you dig the heels of your elevated legs roughly into the available flesh on the wide heft of his back – knowing that he can take the pressure due to his dulled skin and the leather snakeskin coat which covers him.
“Language.” His mouth forms quickly into a line as he issues a disapproving tut, the golden hue of his serpentine eyes flashing in open warning as he digs the sharpened tips of his nails into your outer thigh in kind. “Watch your tongue, or I’ll stop here and put that mouth to better use.”
The image of your positions reversed, his huge body lounging in his office chair as you kneel between his legs with your jaw aching as it struggled to keep open wide enough to accept his wildly thick cock, flashes through your mind. If you weren’t so painfully turned on by the promise of the pleasure to come then you would happily push him further to fulfil the fantasy, however, selfishness wins out and you smile sweetly up at him as you apologise.
“Sorry, Doctor Gideon. I just get so flustered sometimes because you work hard to make me feel so good.” You throw in the additional praise as a boon, your cunt throbbing due to the neglect as Victor continues to pin you in place with his heavy gaze.
“Hmm,” he hums dismissively, “your insincerity is galling, pet.”
Regardless, he returns his head to the job at hand, dipping down to press his mouth harshly to the soaked folds of your cunt as a sound almost like a deflating balloon hisses free of your chest at the sudden onslaught of sensation. From nothing to having those cool lips greedily pushing to devour you was a headspin in itself and you grip the edge of the desk with a sudden desperation as his tongue lazily traces the outline of your hole.
“Oh my god, Victor.” You groan, biting at your cheek as you watch him with hooded eyes.
He remains silent, his focus solely on his prize. As always, he eats like a starving man – his lips, teeth and tongue an assault of sensation as he licks, bites, suckles, and nibbles at your cunt until the noises which slip free of your lips are barely comprehensible.
“Mine.”
The word is so unexpected, laced with a darkly possessive growl which sparks fresh heat in your groin, that you gasp as you hump your hips into his mouth with the little give your body has.
“Yours.” You manage, confirming his ownership – your soul long since sold to the devil and no longer retaining any real moral value outside of the delicious hell of your new reality.
Victor rewards the confirmation with a desperate noise as he pushes his tongue higher, the forked ends slipping up beneath the hood of your clit to almost wrap around the sensitive nub as it stimulates both sides with a shocking pressure.
The sensation is like lightning striking through your body as the ultra-sensitive nerves spasm at the unnatural touch, your body going rigid in his grip as it thrusts you past the point of no return. With the blood rushing to your head and your cunt clenching around his mouth, your lips refuse to make any kind of coherent noise - instead dissolving into whining keens and incomprehensible pleas which alter between begging for him to stop and demanding he keep going.
You know he can taste your release when a satisfactory hum rumbles through his chest, your lower back feeling the vibrations as you buck wildly in place. With only your head supported by the stack of books which lay beneath it, your raised body feels both weightless and leaden as the waves of pleasure force your limbs to contract and spasm until Victor finally takes mercy and pulls his head away enough to fix you with his terrifying gaze.
“You taste sweeter than usual.” Victor tilts his head down at you, his discoloured lips and chin glistening with your arousal as his dark tongue flicks out and swipes across the mess to confirm his own words. “Curious. Perhaps something to be monitored…something hormonal…or diet related…”
Body utterly boneless as you breathe shakily through the aftershocks of your orgasm, you allow his strength to support you fully as you go fully loose within his grip.
“If it means more of this,” you manage with a deep, settling sigh, “then sign me up for the human trials right fucking now.”
Victor laughs at that, the vibrations of his chuckle passing through into your own body once more as you share a small moment of humour with the monster.
Marcus stood in the doorway, his shoulder bag cutting into his collarbone, and tried not to breathe too deeply, but it was impossible. The odor was everywhere - thick and territorial, a fog of sweat and disinfectant and something underneath that was purely animal. The mats underfoot were scuffed and stained, patched in places with gray duct tape. Trophies lined the far wall, their gold plating tarnished. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that particular institutional greenish pallor that spoke of decades of bad coffee and bureaucratic neglect.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
Marcus Chen was twenty-four years old, a third-year graduate student in Art History, and his entire existence was confined to the opposite end of campus. His kingdom was the library's rare book room, where he spent his days cataloging 18th-century botanical illustrations and trying not to make eye contact with anyone. He wore cardigans. He owned a tea infuser shaped like a tiny dragon. His muscle mass was, as someone had once diplomatically put it, "optimized for desk work."
But his advisor had sent him here, to the athletic complex, to retrieve a projector that some Physical Education professor had borrowed three months ago and never returned. "Just go get it, Marcus. It's fine. You're not trespassing." Dr. Albright had waved her hand dismissively, already turning back to her laptop. "Walk in, ask for the equipment, walk out. Easy."
But of course, as is usually the case with these things, nothing about this was easy.
The wrestling room was at the end of a long corridor that had seemed to grow warmer and more oppressive with every step. Marcus had passed the weight room first, where men were making sounds he'd only ever heard in nature documentaries. Then the locker room, which he'd averted his eyes from entirely. And now this: the inner sanctum, the heart of the beast.
He couldn't see any projector. He couldn't see anything except mats and trophies and a bulletin board covered in faded tournament brackets. His loafers - sensible brown leather, recently resoled - squeaked against the vinyl flooring.
This was a mistake. He should leave. He could tell Dr. Albright the projector was gone, or broken, or that he'd contracted some kind of athletic-adjacent illness just from standing here. He turned to go.
His foot caught on something.
Marcus stumbled, caught himself on a wall-mounted trophy case, and looked down to see what had tripped him. It was a bag - a dusty athletic duffel, its zipper partially open, shoved carelessly into the corner behind the door. The fabric was faded navy blue, the shoulder strap frayed. Something inside caught the fluorescent light: a glint of pale material, almost flesh-toned.
He should have left it alone. He should have walked out, reported the duffel as lost property, and never thought about it again. But his curiosity got the better of him. He crouched down.
The zipper pulled back easily, and Marcus found himself looking at a face.
His breath caught. His heart executed a strange, arrhythmic stumble. For one surreal moment, he thought the bag contained a severed head - the features were so detailed, so eerily human. But then his rational mind reasserted itself and he saw it for what it was: a mask. A really, really disturbingly realistic mask.
He lifted it out carefully, reverently almost. The material was some kind of silicone or latex, warm to the touch despite having been abandoned. It was modeled after a man's face, and it was beautiful. High cheekbones. A strong jaw with the suggestion of stubble molded into the surface. A nose that had clearly been broken at least once, the bridge slightly offset. The lips were parted slightly, as if mid-sentence, or mid-breath. The eyes were closed.
The craftsmanship was extraordinary. Marcus turned the mask over in his hands, his academic mind already racing through possible attributions. The detailing was hyperrealistic—pores, faint laugh lines at the corners of the mouth, a small scar through the left eyebrow. He touched it with his fingertip. The silicone gave slightly, like real skin.
He brought it closer to his face to examine the interior, and the smell hit him.
It was not unpleasant. It was, in fact, the most compelling odor Marcus had ever encountered. Sweat, yes - but not the stale, sour sweat of yesterday's workout. This was fresh, potent, radiating heat even though the mask had been sitting in a cold locker room for who knew how long. Beneath the sweat was something muskier, saltier, deeply animal. It smelled like exertion. It smelled like victory. It smelled like a body that had been pushed to its absolute limit and had screamed through it, demanding more. And the strangest part? It didn’t smell bad. Marcus liked, no, loved the smell.
His mouth went dry. His pulse, which had just begun to settle, kicked up again.
He looked around. The wrestling room was empty. The corridor beyond was silent. He was alone with the mask and its scent and the strange, thrumming energy that seemed to be passing from the silicone into his fingers.
He brought it closer.
The smell intensified, wrapping around him like steam. Marcus inhaled deeply, deliberately, and something in his chest unlocked. His shoulders, which had been hunched practically up to his earlobes, began to lower. His jaw unclenched. The constant low-level anxiety that lived in his stomach - the whisper that said you don't belong here, you're not good enough, everyone can see - quieted for the first time in as long as he could remember.
He exhaled. He inhaled again. The scent filled him.
The mask's interior was lined with some kind of soft fabric, darkened in places from years of use. Marcus ran his thumb along the jawline, feeling the molded stubble catch on his skin. The lips. The nose. The closed eyelids, serene and patient.
He didn't decide to put it on. His hands simply moved.
The mask slid over his face like water.
The fit was immediate, perfect. The interior lining settled against his skin and it was warm, so warm, like stepping into a bath that was exactly the right temperature. The molded features aligned with his own - his nose finding the broken nose, his lips finding the parted lips, his jaw fitting into that strong, square jawline. The eye holes, which he hadn't noticed from the outside, opened just as the mask settled into place, and suddenly he could see.
Everything looked different.
The fluorescent lights no longer seemed harsh; they were bright, energizing. The wrestling mats beneath his feet were not stained and pathetic; they were battlefields, hallowed ground. The trophies on the wall were not tarnished; they were earned, each one representing blood and sweat and the willingness to get slammed into the ground and get back up again.
Marcus stood up.
His body felt strange. Not wrong - not painful - but like it was remembering something it had forgotten. His spine straightened. His shoulders rolled back. His pelvis tilted forward, finding a new center of gravity. His feet, inside his sensible loafers, spread wider apart, bracing for impact.
The warmth from the mask was spreading down his neck, into his shoulders, his chest. It moved through him like liquid, like mercury, filling spaces he hadn't known were empty. His heart pumped it through his veins. His lungs breathed it into his blood.
His arms.
Marcus looked down at his arms and watched them change. The soft, academic's curve of his biceps began to tighten, to harden. New muscle fibers appeared, laying themselves down in dense, efficient bands. His forearms thickened. Veins rose to the surface, not bulging and grotesque but prominent, purposeful. His hands, which had always been a little too delicate, a little too refined, broadened. His fingers grew thicker. His knuckles scarred.
His chest. The mild concavity of his sternum pushed outward. His pectorals swelled, filling the fabric of his sweater, then straining against it. The sweater, which had always hung loose on his slender frame, now pulled tight across his expanding torso. Marcus reached up and tugged at the collar, suddenly aware that he was hot - not feverish, but hot in the way of a furnace that had just been lit.
His stomach. The softness that had accumulated over years of library work and takeout began to melt away. Beneath it, ridges emerged - not the chiseled eight-pack of fitness magazines, but the functional, dense core of an athlete who didn't work out for aesthetics. His waist narrowed. His hips squared.
His legs. His thighs, previously notable only for how easily they chafed in humid weather, began to swell with power. Quadriceps. Hamstrings. Adductors. Each muscle group announced itself with a pleasant ache, like the feeling after a good stretch. His calves curved and hardened. Even his feet seemed to change, broadening, flattening slightly, becoming more rooted to the earth.
His skin. The pale, indoor complexion that had served him well in poorly-lit archives began to deepen. A golden undertone emerged, then a warmth, then the faint suggestion of a tan that had faded but never quite disappeared. The few scattered hairs on his chest multiplied, thickened, spread across his newly-defined pectorals in a sparse but masculine pattern.
His face. He couldn't see it, but he could feel it - the way his jaw seemed to hinge differently, his brow becoming more prominent, his nose shifting slightly to match the broken-bridged perfection of the mask. And the mask itself was no longer separate; he couldn't feel its edges anymore. It had become his face, or his face had become it.
His scent.
It rose from him in waves, that same potent musk that had drawn him into the mask in the first place. But now it was his. His sweat, his exertion, his heat. He lifted his arm and inhaled deeply at the pit of his sweater, and a sound escaped him - low, rough, satisfied.
"Fuck," he said.
The voice was not his. It was lower, rougher, with a lazy confidence that curled around the edges of each word. It was the voice of someone who didn't apologize for taking up space.
Marcus - no, not Marcus anymore, that name was too soft, too careful, too nerdy - ran his hands over his new body. His palms slid across his chest, down his stomach, over his thighs. Everything was hard where it used to be soft, defined where it used to be vague. He grabbed a handful of his own pectoral and squeezed, feeling the dense muscle beneath, and grinned.
The grin was different too. Wider. Showing more teeth. It felt like it belonged on his face.
He looked down at his clothes. The sweater was ruined - stretched and misshapen, the fabric pulled so tight across his shoulders that the seams were audibly complaining. His chinos, which had fit comfortably this morning, now hugged his thighs like a second skin and were dangerously snug in the seat. His loafers, poor sensible loafers, were being stretched beyond their intended capacity by his newly broadened feet.
He stripped.
The sweater came off first, peeling away from his torso with a sound of tearing fabric. He didn't care. He threw it aside and stood bare-chested in the wrestling room, his skin prickling in the cool air. His chinos followed, then his boxer briefs, then his socks. His loafers he kicked off with particular satisfaction, watching them bounce off the wrestling mats and come to rest against the wall.
He stood naked in the center of the room, his new body gleaming under the fluorescent lights. He was a head taller than he'd been - or at least he felt that way, his posture so radically changed that his actual height seemed irrelevant. His cock hung heavy between his thighs, half-hard and getting harder by the second.
"Fuck," he said again. Then, because it felt so good: "Fuuuuuck."
He needed clothes. He needed clothes that fit this body, that honored it, that didn't pinch and bind and apologize. He knew where to find them.
The locker room was just down the hall.
He walked out of the wrestling room naked, and it was the most natural thing in the world. His bare feet slapped against the vinyl flooring. His shoulders brushed both sides of the doorway. The air was cooler here, but his body radiated so much heat that he barely noticed.
The locker room smelled like victory. Like chlorine and soap and steam and the thousand men who had passed through here before him. He walked past the rows of metal lockers, running his fingers across their dented surfaces, and stopped at one that was slightly ajar.
He knew this locker. He didn't know how he knew it, but he did. The combination lock was old, its dial worn smooth, and his fingers spun it without conscious thought: 32-18-07. The latch clicked open.
Inside hung a wrestling singlet. Navy blue with gold trim, the school colors. Beneath it, a pair of athletic shorts and a t-shirt, both faded from countless washes. On the top shelf, a pair of wrestling shoes, their soles worn smooth at the balls of the feet.
He dressed slowly, reverently. The compression shorts first, hugging his newly muscular thighs. The singlet next, sliding up his legs, over his hips, across his chest. The fabric was tight - it was supposed to be tight - and it compressed his torso into a single solid mass of potential energy. He looked down at himself, at the navy blue stretching across his pectorals, the gold stripe running down his sides, and felt a surge of pride so intense it made his eyes sting.
The t-shirt went over it, loose and soft from years of washing. The shorts followed, their elastic waistband settling comfortably below his navel. And finally the shoes: he sat on the bench and pulled them on, lacing them tight, feeling the familiar compression around his arches.
He was ready.
He stood up and looked at himself in the mirror that ran the length of the lockers. The man who looked back was not Marcus Chen. This man had a broken nose and a scar through his eyebrow. This man had shoulders like boulders and a chest like a wall. This man stood with his weight distributed evenly, his hands loose at his sides, his gaze steady and unafraid.
This man was a wrestler.
"What's your name?" he asked his reflection.
The reflection tilted its head. Its lips moved, forming a word that Marcus - that this new man - felt in his throat before he heard it.
"Danny."
The name settled into him like a key turning in a lock. Danny. He was Danny. He had always been Danny. The years of Marcus, of cardigans and tea infusers and library silence, were a dream he was finally waking up from.
Danny grinned at himself in the mirror, groping his groin. "Hey, handsome."
The locker room door swung open.
Danny turned, loose and easy, and found himself facing a wall of muscle. The man in the doorway was huge - not tall, but dense, packed into a frame that seemed barely capable of containing him. His head was shaved, his neck virtually nonexistent, his arms covered in tattoos that climbed all the way to his trapezius.
He stared at Danny. His face cycled through several expressions: confusion, disbelief, and finally something that looked almost like awe.
"Holy shit," he said. "Danny?"
Danny didn't recognize him. He should have - the recognition was there, somewhere deep, like a word on the tip of his tongue - but he couldn't pull it forward. So he did what felt natural. He grinned wider.
"Hey, man."
"Where the fuck have you been?" The man crossed the distance between them in two strides and grabbed Danny by the shoulders. His grip was strong enough to bruise. "You disappeared. Like, fucking vanished. Coach said you transferred. Kelsey said you joined the Marines. We thought you were dead."
Danny looked down at the hands on his shoulders. They were familiar - the knuckles scarred, the fingers slightly crooked from multiple breaks. He knew these hands. He'd wrestled against them, wrestled with them, celebrated and commiserated with them.
"Mark," he said, and the name surfaced from the depths. "Mark the Shark. Still grinding people into the mat?"
Mark's face split into a grin so wide it seemed to crack his stern features. "Jesus Christ. It is you." He pulled Danny into a bear hug, crushing him against that massive chest. "Where did you go? What happened?"
Danny's mind was a fog bank. He remembered... what did he remember? He remembered the weight room. He remembered practice, endless practice, the mat burning his knees. He remembered tournaments, the roar of crowds, the split-second of weightlessness before a takedown. He remembered winning. He remembered losing. He remembered getting back up.
He didn't remember leaving.
"I dunno brah," he said. It was the truth. "But I'm back now."
Mark released him, holding him at arm's length. His eyes scanned Danny's face - the broken nose, the scarred eyebrow, the strong jaw. "You look good, man. Different. Good different." He sniffed. "You smell different too."
Danny lifted his own arm and sniffed his pit. His scent, that deep musk, rose to meet him. It was stronger now, activated by the exertion of dressing, of standing, of simply existing in this body. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Mark's voice had dropped slightly. His pupils were dilated. "It's... fuck, I don't know. It's good."
They stood there for a moment, too close, breathing each other's air. Danny could smell Mark now - sweat and deodorant and something underneath that was purely him, purely wrestler. His cock stirred in his compression shorts.
Then Mark stepped back, clearing his throat. "Practice starts in twenty. Coach is gonna lose his shit when he sees you."
Practice. Danny's body responded to the word before his mind could process it: his knees bent slightly, his hands came up, his weight shifted to the balls of his feet. Muscle memory. Deeper than memory. He was ready.
"Good," he said. "Let's go."
The wrestling room was transformed. The fluorescent lights no longer seemed harsh; they were stadium lights, arena lights, illuminating a stage. The mats were not stained and pathetic; they were pristine, infinite, full of possibility. And the men - there were dozens of them now, in singlets and shorts and bare feet, stretching and drilling and laughing.
They noticed Danny immediately.
It was like a wave. One man looked up and froze. Another followed his gaze. Another. Within thirty seconds, the entire room had gone silent, every pair of eyes fixed on the man in the navy blue singlet standing in the doorway.
A voice cut through the silence: "Well, well, well."
The man who spoke was older, maybe fifty, with a gut that strained his polo shirt and a whistle hanging from a lanyard around his neck. His hair was gray and thinning, but his eyes were sharp and his forearms, exposed by rolled-up sleeves, were still dense with muscle.
Coach.
Danny walked toward him. His footsteps were silent on the mats. The other wrestlers parted to let him pass, and he felt their gazes on him like physical pressure, like hands.
He stopped in front of Coach. Looked him in the eye.
"Sir."
Coach studied him for a long time. His expression was unreadable—not hostile, not welcoming. Just... assessing. Weighing. His eyes traveled from Danny's face to his shoulders to his chest to his thighs, cataloging every change.
"You look different," Coach said finally.
"I feel different."
"Different good, or different stupid?"
Danny considered the question. "Different. Just different."
Coach nodded slowly. His gaze dropped to Danny's feet, then rose again. "You planning to practice in those?"
Danny looked down. He was still wearing the wrestling shoes—the old ones, the worn ones, the ones that had waited for him in that locker for however long he'd been gone.
"Yes, sir."
Another long pause. Then Coach's face cracked into something that was almost a smile.
"Then get your ass on the mat. You're late."
The next hour was a baptism.
Danny drilled with Mark first - shots and sprawls, the endless repetition of takedown defense that was the foundation of everything else. His body remembered. His hips knew how to drop, his hands knew where to grip, his legs knew how to drive. The mat burned his knees and he didn't care.
Then live wrestling. Coach paired him with a freshman, a wiry kid with a shaved head and too much aggression. Danny took him down in three seconds flat. The kid's eyes went wide. Danny helped him up.
"Keep your head up," he said. "You're looking at my feet. Look at my chest."
The kid nodded, shook out his arms, reset. Danny took him down again.
After practice, the locker room filled with steam and conversation. Danny stood under the hottest shower he could find, letting the water pound against his shoulders, his back, the knotted muscles of his neck. The mask—his face—was slick with water and soap, and for a moment he thought about what lay beneath it. Marcus. The cardigans. The tea infuser. The life that felt now like a half-remembered dream.
He touched his cheek. The skin was warm, smooth, real. There was no seam, no edge, no indication that this face had ever been anything other than his own.
"Hey." Mark appeared at the next shower, water streaming down his massive torso. "Some of the guys are heading to Sig House after. You should come."
Sig House. Sigma Chi. The name surfaced from the fog, bringing with it a cascade of associations: beer pong, loud music, the particular smell of cheap cologne and spilled liquor. Danny hadn't thought about frat parties in years. Marcus hadn't thought about them at all.
"Yeah," he said. "Maybe."
Mark grinned. "Awesome. It's gonna be good having you back, man."
Danny turned off the water and stood there, dripping, watching Mark towel off. His body was still humming from practice, his skin flushed, his muscles pleasantly fatigued. His cock, which had been quiet during the workout, was beginning to stir again.
He looked at Mark's back. The tattoos. The dense curves of his deltoids. The way the towel moved across his skin.
"Hey," Danny said.
Mark turned. "Yeah?"
Danny didn't have words for what he wanted. His body had its own language, though—he stepped closer, into Mark's space, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. Mark didn't step back. His pupils dilated again. His breath caught.
"Danny- "
"I don't remember," Danny said. "I don't remember leaving. I don't remember where I went. I don't remember anything except…" He touched his face. "This. The mat. You."
Mark's expression softened. "It's been two years, man. We thought you were gone for good."
Two years. Marcus had been cataloging botanical illustrations for two years. The timing overlapped. The realization settled into Danny like concrete.
"I'm here now," he said.
"Yeah." Mark's voice was rough. "You are."
They stood there in the steam, too close, breathing each other's air. Mark's towel hung loose around his neck. Water droplets clung to his chest hair. Danny could smell him - soap and sweat and something deeper, something that had been waiting for two years.
Then Mark reached out and gripped the back of Danny's neck. His palm was callused, warm. He pulled Danny forward until their foreheads touched.
"Don't disappear again," he said.
"I won't."
They didn't kiss. They didn't need to. The promise was in the pressure of Mark's hand, the heat between their bodies, the scent of steam and skin and something ancient.
Later, at Sig House, Danny stood on a balcony overlooking the crowded living room. Beer in hand. Music thrumming through the floorboards. Bodies pressed together in rhythmic motion.
He was the king here too. He hadn't earned it - not tonight, not yet - but the recognition was in every glance thrown his way, every nod from the brothers, every whispered "is that Danny Reyes?" that followed him through the crowd.
Reyes. His last name. It had surfaced from the fog along with everything else, settling into place like it had never been gone.
Danny Reyes. Wrestler. Brother. King.
A girl approached him on the balcony, her smile bright and her dress short. She said something - he didn't catch it, didn't need to - and leaned in close. Her perfume was floral, delicate, completely different from the musk that clung to his skin.
He could have her. He knew that with absolute certainty. His body, this body, was made for taking what it wanted.
But he was thinking about Mark's hand on his neck. Mark's forehead against his. Mark's voice, rough and tender: Don't disappear again.
"Sorry," he said. "I'm not..."
The girl's smile faltered. "Oh. Okay." She retreated, confused but not offended, swallowed by the crowd inside.
Danny turned back to the night. The campus stretched out below him, all dark trees and lit windows and paths connecting lives that barely intersected. Somewhere, on the other side of all that, was a library. A rare book room. A tea infuser shaped like a tiny dragon.
He raised his beer to the darkness. "Goodbye, Marcus," he said.
Then he went inside to find his team.
The semester ended. The semester began again. Danny wrestled. He won. He lost. He got back up. His body, remade and claimed, carried him through each practice, each match, each night in the frat house with his brothers. The mask was his face now, his true face, and the man he'd been before was a ghost that visited him only in dreams.
Sometimes, late at night, he would touch his cheek and feel for the seam that wasn't there. He would remember the weight of the mask in his hands, the scent that had drawn him in, the warmth that had spread through his body like mercury. He would wonder if Marcus was still in there somewhere, buried beneath the muscle and the confidence and the easy grin.
But then morning would come, and Mark would bang on his door, and practice would call to him with its siren song of sweat and struggle and victory. He would lace up his worn wrestling shoes and step onto the mat, and the ghost would retreat.
He was Danny. He had always been Danny. The rest was just a dream.
One afternoon, Coach called him into his office. Danny stood at attention in front of the desk, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture military-straight.
Coach studied him for a long moment. Then he opened a drawer and pulled out a worn navy duffel bag.
"This was in the lost and found," he said. "They were gonna throw it out. Figured you might want it."
Danny took the bag. He knew what was inside before he opened it: the mask. His mask. The one that had found him in a dusty corner of the wrestling room and pulled him into this new life.
But when he unzipped the bag, it was empty.
He looked up at Coach, confused. Coach's expression was unreadable.
"Maybe I was wrong," Coach said. "Maybe it wasn't yours after all."
Danny looked back down at the empty bag. His reflection stared up from the dark fabric - broken nose, scarred eyebrow, strong jaw. His face. His true face.
"No," he said. "It's mine."
He closed the bag, tucked it under his arm, and walked out.
That night, he sat on the edge of his bed in the frat house and opened the duffel bag again. Still empty. He ran his fingers along the interior lining, feeling the familiar texture of worn nylon, and thought about the man he had been.
Marcus Chen. Age twenty-four. Art History grad student. Owner of one tea infuser and one cat named Schrödinger. Collector of cardigans. Seeker of quiet.
Danny wondered if Marcus had been happy. He thought maybe not. Happiness, real happiness, didn't live in quiet. It lived in motion—in the burn of muscles, the roar of crowds, the weight of a teammate's hand on the back of your neck.
He set the empty bag aside and lay back on his bed. His body, dense and powerful, sank into the mattress. His scent rose around him, that deep musk that was now as natural as breathing.
Somewhere, in another life, a tea infuser sat unused in a cabinet. A cat waited by an empty food bowl. A pair of sensible loafers gathered dust in a closet.
Danny closed his eyes.
He had practice in the morning.
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I have a nerd in my neighborhood that wont stop complaining about my frat party's bruh, I want him to join the frat but bro wont!
So can you solve that problem for me bruh?
Sure! I'll even throw in a bonus. Matching Biker Helmets for your whole frat, on the house. Be sure to give it to them...
"I'm... g-glad you decided to call a truce..." The nerd shakily said. His voice shaky and unstable in awe of your gorgeous stature.
"But... what is this helmet?" He asked, furrowing a brow.
"Think of it like a gift for putting up with us, brah." You respond.
He shakily responds with a simple "O-okay..." before deciding to put his new gift on his head. He's a little disoriented at first, due the visor obscuring all sight. Then, a hot flush washes all across his body, starting from the top of his head to the bottom of his heels.
"H-hey...! What's g-going... on!?" He cries.
"Just relax, brah." You assure him.
You can smell his newly emerging musk right away. Its raw, potent. The fruits from rarely showering and frequent physical activity. He's confused, and gags at first, but soon lets the funk invade his nostrils and his fogging brain with a simple, dumb moan as he begins to strip his clothes off, one by one.
He starts to sweat. Beads of swear pour down his face and onto his... muscles? The last vestiges of intelligent thought inside his smoothing brain cause his mouth to cry out: "The fuck... brah?" His tone much more douchey and frat-like.
Back to the muscles, his body was now lean and muscular. His flat stomach, smoothed out to form a slick six pack, his bone-like arms are now beefy biceps. His chest is now two mounds of flesh commonly called 'pecs'. His legs thick, dick hard as a rock and his ass fat. He mindlessly flexes his biceps and groans: "Fffuck.... brah..."
You're getting aroused just by looking at him "Damn.... you're really sexy, brah." You coo lazily as you gaze upon this sexy biker boy.
His member begins to tent in his pants as his brain begins to undergo a major shift. His academics, his smarts, his knowledge... Were beginning to fade away. Higher maths vanished, counting on more than 1 hand became a much more strenuous task, his vast vocabulary significantly shortened, the words that would come out of his dumb mouth from now on would be much MUCH simpler.
"Fuck... I'm so dumb, brah..." He chuckled as he begins to strip again, until he's completely naked gripping his naked member.
"I just wanna fuck, brah.... gimme a nice hole...." He begs as he grabs a nearby adult toy and begins to thrust and grunt like a dumb animal.
He's so desperate at this point. He's such a dog, a dumb horny dog... and so are your mates downstairs. You leave the newly reformed "Bro" to his own devices as you go back downstairs.
The Bro apparently left some of his nerd books when he first came here. And of course, your other bros were too stupid to read now with their new helmets, so they all stood there confused and babbling at the confusing words on the pages.
You smirk, dick hard. You look around at your harem and filthy, dumb biker boys. Boys who would gladly spread their beefy legs and debase themselves just for a chance to have their fat juicy asses plowed by their mighty frat leader.
"WHO WANTS TO TAKE THIS DICK, BROS!!!" You holler, pointing at your 10 inch member. Your boys drop their books in unison and began to hound you like a pack of horny dogs. You chuckle, picking your first bro to breed tonight...
summery: animal blood and blood bags aren't satisfying Ellie so she goes to you.
paring vampire!Ellie x fem!reader
cw: fingering, squirting, biting, it think that's it please tell me if I missed anything
I lowkey hate this 😭✌️
You were laying in your bed reading a book, waiting for Ellie to get home from hunting, she was having a hard time finding blood bags to satisfy her, so this last week she's been trying to live off animal blood but they aren't doing a good job satisfying her thirst either.
It's almost midnight and you are getting tired so you put down your book and get out of bed to brush your teeth and change into your pjs.
You were in the middle of taking off your shirt when ellie comes into the bathroom you gasp in surprise cause you didn’t hear her get home
You look at her and you immediately see the hunger and lust in her eyes.
She walks toward you and wraps her arms around your waist and hides her face in the crook of your neck and inhales deeply and whines
“Ellie-”
“Baby I'm so thirsty… Please let me have just one drink, I need you.” Ellie whines again and starts to lick your neck
She pulls back and gives you the biggest puppy eyes she can muster. You couldn't deny that face. You tuck a loose hair behind her ear and kiss her gently.
She melts into the kiss and starts to walk back until the back of her legs hit the bed. She let herself fall back on the bed, breaking the kiss with you straddling her, Your clothed cunt rubbing against her belt buckle.
You start to slowly roll your hips and moan at the pressure on your clit. Your head tilts back slightly, revealing your neck.
Ellie snaps and grabs your hips and flips you around so she's straddling you.
You gasp at the sudden change of positions. Ellie leans her head down and lets her fangs scrape at the tender spot on your neck.
You whimper and hold the back of her neck and pull her closer. ‘Ellie please..” you beg
Ellie hums then lets her fangs sink into your flesh. You cry out and hold onto her shoulders your nails digging into her skin making her moan into your neck. When she starts taking tiny gulps of your blood she removes one of her hands from your hips and starts to make her way up to your bra.
Her hand slides beneath the fabric and cups your breast. You flinched at the coldness in her hand. Your hips buck slightly trying to relieve some of the pressure that is building just from her sucking your blood
Your moans and whines fill her ears as she pinches and gropes your breast. Soon enough she pushed her knee in between your legs. You whine at the pressure but roll your hips seeking more.
She pulls back from your neck and kisses the wound shut. Her hands roam your body until she reaches the strap of your bra.
She pulled back and looked in your eyes silently asking for permission. You nod eagerly and help her take off your bra. When your bra is off and thrown across the room she takes the opportunity to take your boob in her mouth.
You yelp when her fangs sink into your boob. Her eager sucking and your whimpers fill the room. You start to feel dizzy from how much blood she was taking. You grab her hair
“Too much ellie” you say as you pull her hair. She pulls back and licks away the blood on your breast and her lips then looks up at you
“You alright?” she says her tone breathy with lust as she kisses up your body until she gets to your face which she presses kisses all over.
You chuckle softly and push her lightly, not actually trying to make her stop. She smiles then pressed a soft kiss to your lips and pulls back to reach over to her nightstand drawer and pulls out a snack she always keeps in there for situations like these.
She hands you a granola bar and gets up to get you some water. When she comes back with the water in her hand she helps you sit up like you're made of glass but you weren't complaining. You liked Ellie taking care of you like you were worth everything. And to her you were.
She nuzzled her face into your neck pressing light kisses there as you drank the water. After you were done she took your face in her hands and kissed you softly whispering about how good you did.
As you two kissed you felt your panties get increasingly wetter. You rub your thighs together, desperate for some sort of release. She noticed and pulled back from the kiss to spread your legs and see the wet spot she made on your underwear.
“God.. you're so wet.” she almost moaned. She runs a finger over your clothed clit and lightly presses down making you buck your hips and whine. She smiled and began to circle over your clothed clit as slow as she possibly can while kissing your hip bone.
You whine and roll your hips trying to get more. But she holds your hips down. “Ellie please..!” you beg. She pressed a kiss to your jaw then whispered in your ear “lift your hips up for me..” you lift your hips eagerly which earns a chuckle from her.
As she slid your panties down she pressed kisses down your legs, smiling when you squirm. She didn't waste any more time and threw your panties across the room and pushed two fingers in your cunt stretching you deliciously.
You cry out and hold onto the sheets as her fingers pump in and out of you. Your back arches as her thumb rubs tight circles on your clit. Ellie kisses your neck and whispers praise in your ear as she starts to add a third finger.
You cry out her name and grab onto her hair as she starts leaving hickeys on your neck. You are embarrassingly close already. Ellie knows you're close. She rubs your clit faster. You feel the pressure in your belly growing but it feels different. y
“Els.. i- feel weird..” you gasp. She kisses your jaw before whispering “just let go baby i got you.” she encouraged, her voice raspy with lust. She pulls back to look at you. Your eyes shut tightly, your eyebrows raised and your jaw is slacked.
The pressure built and built until it almost hurt. Ellie pressed against your g-spot then the pressure snaps.
Your vision went white for a few seconds as the orgasm crashes over you with force you never felt before and you feel a rush of wetness exit your body.
you cry out in shock and pleasure as you squirt all over Ellie's hand and stomach.
Your eyes snap open to see Ellie's pupils blown wide as she looks at your cunt and her dripping hand. Your face flushes with embarrassment as you open your mouth to speak.
“Im- im so sorry! I never did that before-" Ellie looks up at you and pulls you in for a kiss. She whispers against your lips. “Dont you dare apologize. That was so hot.” she moans as she nips your lip.
She pulls back and just stares at you like you hung the moon.
Final picture for @creatingblackcharacters Melanin Beam Challenge! This is Jenny from the Hanna-Barbera animated adaptation of The Halloween Tree (originally a book by Ray Bradbury). This is one that is very near and dear to me (one of those slightly obscure movies you only see when you visit your cousins who live far away... but I finally found it on DVD a few years back~). I'd love to see this story have a modern re-telling, kids love a good Halloween story! Jenny is also a special character, because she was created for the movie; in the book, it is a group of boys who go on a journey through time and across the world to save their friend, while also learning about the origins of certain traditions and the meanings behind their various costumes. The number of kids in the movie was reduced slightly (for time, which I get), and somebody had the idea to add at least ONE girl in here... appreciated, but for a story that is about diversity (though it doesn't always handle it very well), it was still very. white. I know a lot of people who love seeing more Black witch characters (and some who are Black witches~), so here is an often forgotten character who deserves the spot-light! Oh, also; Mr Moundshroud is here (I re-designed him a tiny bit as well, for the heck of it)
I re-designed Jenny with a dark skin-tone, a broad nose done in kind of a little bump-style (to match what this movie and other Hanna-Barbera titles sometimes had going on), color and shape definition to her mouth, and hair styled in braided twists that end in little ties with small curls. I changed her outfit slightly, adding a cuffed collar to each sleeve in a peachy color that matches the sparkles of her dress, and instead of a cape (that looked too much like what Mr Moundshroud had already), she has a wrapped-shawl that works as a cloak. I also gave Jenny a more chubby body-type, she's a main character who gets to fly through the air on a broom, not just a funny side-character or a jealous villain. Jenny is a girl who is athletic and brave... except when it comes to HEIGHTS. On more than one occasion, a friend has had to talk her into going up/getting down from an apple tree. In her segment of the story, when she realizing riding a broom is a little like riding her bike, she gains the confidence to soar through the skies!
Mr Moundshroud is voiced by Leonard Nimoy, and he plays the delightfully wicked character so good! In the original design, his skin is tinted slightly green, and he has a long exaggerated nose... I thought that needed some adjusting. So instead, he is a pale cream color, with a nose that instead looks somewhat "flat" (think of him like a skeleton made of flesh. no, not a skeleton covered in muscle and skin, but the actual skeleton being the muscle with skin... only, not totally gross and creepy). He can be intimidating and mysterious, sometimes sounding harsh and menacing, but I don't think he's truly "evil". He's a... GOOD villain. We all love a good villain!
The core plot of the Halloween Tree is; a group of friends gather on Halloween night to go trick-or-treating, but notice somebody is missing... Pipkin, who is known for being the best at just about anything he does. Worried about why he's late, they go to his house and discover he's been taken to the hospital for appendicitis... but, strangely, they think they see him running through the woods? The group follows, discovering a mysterious old house, a strange man named Mr Moundshroud, and a huge tree with Jack-o-Lanterns growing on every branch! Pipkin has climbed to the time, trying to take a pumpkin that almost seems to have his face, and then he VANISHES. Mr Moundshroud is upset that "his property has been stolen", but the kids just want to rescue their friend! The glowing light in the pumpkin he took is not only his life but "time", and now Pipkin is lost somewhere in the past. Mr Moundshroud is also appalled at the evidently poor knowledge each child has about Halloween traditions and their own costume choices. So, they go on a journey together, to many different places, in many different time periods, discovering things about the world, themselves, and how to finally save Pipkin.
I'd love to see this done as an animated series (maybe 30 episodes, with a movie special as a finale, so you get 31 for all of October), up the number of kids to 9 (Pip is the 10th of the group), give everybody time to shine! Importantly, get some REAL insight about the different cultures and traditions that are explored (because while well-meaning, the book and movie can kinda fall into "turning a culture into a costume" territory. not done to be intentionally harmful, but incorrect information should at least be amended). It would be amazing to see writers/artists with these actual backgrounds sharing things that are meant to be celebrated by everyone, and explaining aspects that are more personal/not to be appropriated (also, define that while some holidays have similarities, it isn't all just "combined into Halloween. if done with some tact and sensitivity, it is also worth bringing up that uh... sometimes over here we will "absorb" a holiday, call it ours, and claim it is "secular", but that can be a backwards way of treating one religion as an acceptable default like it is "for everybody"). Some of the characters could have these backgrounds themselves, so the magical adventure would also be a personal journey. I'd like to see the art style to be kinda like the classic Hanna-Barbera style (think vintage Scooby-Doo), with the vibe of Over the Garden Wall (perhaps having input from different creators who have written different spooky stories)
simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | in limbo au | masterlist
Part (3/3): poetry
tw: smut, angst, anxiety, big emotions, alcohol, lots of healing, lots of comfort
Now that you have something worth holding on to, you’re terrified of ever letting go—you can’t leave Simon Riley.
At any given moment, you are at his side. Glued to his flank as if God had forgotten to fully separate Adam’s rib from his body before creating Eve. Curled up on the couch to watch TV as he dozes off to numb the pain of his concussion, huddled in bed together, wounded arm resting on his chest, watching it rise and fall with each breath he takes as if to still confirm that he is alive—that Marco has not stolen yet another thing from your impecunious life.
Simon does not fade; rather, he grows. Each day you watch the scabs on the side of his jaw mend marred flesh before falling off, leaving a bright salmon scar in its trail. Indigo bruises fade into chartreuse, before blending completely into his pallid complexion as if it had never existed in the first place. The bump on his nose doesn’t quite recede. It lingers, crooked and faint like the sharp edge of a cliff before plummeting off a steep palisade. Sometimes, when he sleeps, you find yourself tracing the curve with the tip of your index finger until you have the topography memorized.
He pretends to not feel your touch, and you pretend to not see his smile.
Though your roles don’t quite reverse, they blend. Oil paints now fusing until they’re indecipherable, a new color born from this union, you do not trot throughout this house with hunched shoulders, waiting for Simon to take care of you or give you something to do. Now, he hums about how good your cooking is—a chore you’ve taken over while his hand is stuck in a cast—and he thanks you for every glass of water you bring him while gently reminding him to stay on top of his medicine before the pain grows too insatious.
Warm weather cools into algid air that seeps through every pore in the house. In the day, you shiver so viciously you fear your bones might freeze and shatter within your body, leaving behind nothing but stray splinters. You always find yourself with a blanket around your shoulders, pulled tight around your body by Simon’s hands as he watches a movie with you. One day, he comes home from the store with an electric blanket. He doesn’t say a word about it, or the way it has you melting into his side during a rewatch of Cloverfield.
During the night, you sap his warmth from him. Arm over his chest, legs tangled with his, breathing in the faint tobacco and cinnamon spice that clings to his clothes—he pulls you closer. Tells himself that he’d sooner become an ice cube than ever let you shiver like that again.
But he’s also here for the harder battles. The ones that asphyxiate you with fractured fingers and green eyes. The ones that lurk in the depths of your mind, rousing you from your sleep with sweat slick skin and trembling hands. Earth giving way beneath your feet, dirt swallowing you whole, leaving behind nothing but a quivering heart that fades in the darkness. Simon grounds you with wide hands on your shoulders, a warm cup of tea in your palms, lips murmuring against your ear.
“He’s dead, baby,” he says, tone so soft for words so brutal. “Dead and gone. He’s not gonna hurt you anymore.”
Once Simon’s hand is healed up enough to get his cast taken off, he goes back to work. You go stir crazy without him. Powdery frost builds up on the windows as you hunker in for another movie, shifty eyes hardly able to stay away from the door, ears perked and ready to hear the familiar jingle of keys that announce his return.
He starts bringing you things. Tokens, as if you’re a bored animal. Coloring books and pencils. Yarn and crochet hooks. Journals to write in. Paint that stains the tips of your fingers.
In another life—you think—you’d like to be a poet.
You want to write about the sun in winter, and how the apricity leaves your skin tingling. You want to write about the doves that shake the frost from the branches in Simon’s front yard, and how it glistens like the glitter that used to stain your skin. If you could take all the beauty and gore of your life and crush it into some terrible amalgamation of words and prose, you think it could all be worth it. That something other than shame could ooze from your wounds.
I want to write a poem about the way ichor soaked up lilies gifted in bereavement, or how the last thing my mother held was not her kid, but herself. That she was born a child, and died a child; a little girl wanting to be held for her whole life.
I want to write a poem about the way it feels to be cut open. How skin cleaves from bone not because of iron or saw, but because of hardened flesh. Of keratin slicing through epidermis, of opening maw around tender shoulder. How it feels to be spread so far that you’re see through; paper thin, lithe, yet holding together because tearing is not an option.
I want to write a poem about the way men are cruel. Ink soaking into skin and meat, fingers pressing until flesh gives, spreads open, red, and red, and nothing more. How their love is worse than their bites; how it lingers longer, scars deeper, stains darker.
But I am this poem. I have been this poem my whole life. I cannot write this poem without making my muscle naked, exposing tendon and tissue. I cannot write this poem without ridding myself of it.
And oh, is that in itself not poetry?
“Written your novel yet?”
Simon’s voice is different these days. Less cautious, like he’s no longer afraid to break you with soundwaves alone. Eyes tearing from your paper and pen, you look up at him and the plate of food he holds out for you. Your smile is small—though it is growing. You close your journal and set it to the side before settling into the couch for your meal.
“Not quite yet,” you humor.
“Keep workin’ at it, you’ll be a best seller in no time,” he teases
Simon has made something big. Packed with protein and fats, a meal fit to feed the body for war. For torture. For blood letting. It melts on your tongue and grinds between your molars all the same, but he scarfs it down like it’s a necessity. As if he’ll pay for it if he doesn’t.
“I’ve got an appointment here soon. Gonna be gone a couple’a hours,” he mentions between bites.
Rancid familiarity claws at the base of your skull before carving a warning into your cranium. His tone, the way he keeps his head down as he eats—it sets off alarms. The same alarms that sprung up the night he took you to Termins’s rooftop and told you he was settling your debt with Marco.
You swallow.
“What kind of appointment?”
His jaw tenses. A gauche veil settles over him as he carefully makes eye contact with you. “One with my tattoo artist,” he finally reveals. He lifts his arm, and you see it—your one lasting mark on him. The healed flesh that was once sliced open through inky skin. “Gonna see if she can fix up this one. Shouldn’t be too hard,” he quickly adds.
“Oh.” Short. Sweet. Curious. “Can I come?”
Simon blinks, tongue coming out to wet his lips. “You sure?”
Now the reason for his secrecy comes to light. It blossoms in the depths of his eyes, concern rooting and sprouting wide along his irises until they’re budding in the scleras. Static settles in the tips of your fingers, buzzing for the skin at the back of your neck, but you bite back the sensation as you nod.
“Yeah. It sounds fun.”
His artist’s name is Claire—a woman. You don’t know why, but that makes you breathe easier.
It’s difficult to tell where her body ends and her parlor begins. The black lace on the curtains match the ink that swirls along her arms, dotting her shoulders and wrists with floral embellishments and skulls. It stretches as far as over her clavicles, up her throat, and down her breastbone; every inch of her is a well used canvas. Her love for the art grows along the walls with framed drawings you’re assuming she’s sketched, and enough mood lighting to lull you to sleep.
Simon tells you to make yourself comfortable while he settles in with Claire. You find it impossible to stay still in a place like this—full to the brim with knick knacks and oddities. You find jarred brains (which you can’t tell if they’re real or not), porcelain dolls with powdery cheeks, dried butterflies with pinned wings, postcards from around the world, black and white photography of old architecture—you’re in a museum.
Arms curled around your torso, fingers pressing into your shoulders, you smile at a miniature fox. Composed of needled felt, you fight back the urge to reach out and pet her. Proudly sitting, eyes glistening, red fur searing into your vision; she’s beautiful.
“Christ, Riley.” Claire’s fussing over his arm, poking at the scar that bisects her hard work with a frown. “Why’re you always fucking up my pieces?”
“Got in a scrap with a cat,” Simon deadpans.
“Big fucking cat,” she murmurs. Then, she begins to pinch the skin. Contorts it until the scar seems to vanish, sliced edges properly lining up with one another. “Well, I could pretty easily connect this, but it’s probably gonna take several sessions. Scar tissue doesn’t want to hold ink as well, and this seems pretty fresh. It’s probably gonna look fucked for the rest of your life, but we could make it less noticeable.”
“Yeah…”
But Simon doesn’t hear a word she says. He’s too busy looking at you. Head craned back, eyes focusing on everything, a simper full of whimsy on your face. Excusing himself, he leaves the chair and quietly tip-toes over to you.
A large frame full of fairy drawings stare down at you. They’re waifish things with skeletal wings and exposed ribs, half rotting, eyes glowing with pale moonlight as they stare right through you, lips as red as dried cruor. Some sit on graves, others sit on skulls or toadstools, combining the magical with the macabre.
“Do you want one?”
Simon’s question puzzles you. It has you looking away from the artwork and over to him. Though you swear his question is posed in jest, you find no jovial manner in his gaze.
“What?”
“A tattoo,” he clarifies.
Blinking, your eyes narrow as you shake your head. “I don’t understand, I… I thought we were here for you? I wouldn’t like… even know what to get.”
“Nothin’ big, or too special,” he shrugs. “Maybe somethin’ that’s enough to cover the one on your neck.”
Ice shards form in your veins, freezing your body solid as all the blood in your brain drains to your feet. You mull the idea over—slow, and steady. You remember the sting of the needle in your skin, barbed and pulling at you with each penetration. It’s been your greatest shame. This mark that’s degraded you, that’s controlled you. The idea of it vanishing has always felt too far out of your reach.
Swallowing, you glance at Claire, who sits in her chair with her fingers tapping her thighs, bored eyes piercing through Simon. Her foot wiggles, impatient and annoyed.
“She can do that? Like, it’s not, it won’t be too much trouble?” you ask.
Simon nods. “It’ll be like he never even touched you.”
Those words push you to agree—to leap and try not to worry about the fall. Simon informs Claire of the change of plans, and quickly silences her grumbling by telling her he’ll pay double what he was going to for his fix up. Then, it’s on to the planning. The sketching. The changing. The exposing the worst, most vulnerable part of yourself. The dodging of questions. The sizing, stenciling, placing, confirmation—her fingers move fast. Trained and knowledgeable, your new tattoo is within arms reach.
“Alright, love, hop up on the table for me,” Claire says. “Put your face in here. It’s like a massage table.”
The faux leather is cold against what little exposed skin you have, but you grit your teeth and bear it as you settle in. She moves your hair, once again uncovering your biggest source of shame—Marco’s brand.
Marco’s Girl.
Claire shaves the back of your neck, and suddenly things grow warm. Superheated. Sweat heavy on your face, pooling in your throat, wetting your eyes. You’re rigid. Tough as dried meat, hands curling into fists, frayed nails digging into your palms—she pokes at your skin with a gloved finger as she mentions something. You hum in confirmation but you don’t know what you’re claiming to understand. What you’re agreeing to.
Then, it begins. Needle into flesh, machine buzzing—you can almost smell the alcohol in the air. Honeyed mead on hot breath, fanning over your face, sticking to your cheeks as it soaks into every tear you weep. Muffled music falls on your eardrums but it’s not enough to drown out your screaming, or the thudding of your feet on a plush rug, or the bitter chuckle that seeps from Marco’s throat.
It’s everything at once. Terror and relief. Reprieve hidden in a basket full of teeth. Claire says something. You’re trembling. Table shaking beneath you. Earth splitting open to swallow you whole.
You don’t realize you’re moving until you’ve pushed yourself off of the table, knees digging into the padding, resting on your haunches as you press the heels of your hands into your eyes. The tattoo machine quiets, and now there’s nothing to smother your quickened breaths or pathetic sniffing.
“Baby… c’mon, where’s your head at?” Simon’s weight sinks into the cushioning next to you. Heavy fingers wrap around your wrists, gently prying your hands from your eyes, coaxing you to look at him. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”
“I wanna do it,” you say, breath catching in your throat. “I just—it’s so hard. He ruins everything, Simon. I want it gone so bad b-but all I can think of is him a-and what he did.”
“I know, baby, I know,” he coos. You’re falling into his chest, head cradled by tender hand, cheek pressed against his sternum, heart thudding heavily against your skull. “I’m right here.” He kisses the top of your head and your eyes squeeze so tightly you fear you may never see again. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”
It takes too long to put yourself back together again. To clean up the blood you’ve spilled in front of a stranger. When Simon eventually brings you back into your own body, you realize Claire’s eyes are softer. Whatever frustration she had harbored before has vanished—she sees you, now. Truly sees you.
“Do you wanna try again?” she asks.
This time, you are sitting in a chair. Legs spread open as you wrap them around the back, your face fits in another rest while your hands are placed in Simon’s. His thumbs rub over your knuckles as Claire works, needle dancing across your neck, paper towels wiping at the excess ink that stains your skin. Your body is more pliable, less rigid, like a peach waiting to be torn open with eager fingers.
“It… doesn’t even hurt,” you note quietly.
Simon scoots closer, knees knocking against yours. “Yeah. Claire’s got a soft touch.”
“It’s nice. I could fall asleep like this.”
And you do. Consciousness drifting off someplace warmer, your eyes flutter shut as your body goes limp, still propped up by Simon’s gentle embrace. He keeps talking—fills in the silence and the gaps so that your mind does not wander too far into the dark. Inch by inch, your past is overwritten. Marco’s Girl fades.
She dies in the rigid maw of a fox.
“Do you like it?”
Simon watches you, arms crossed over his chest and shoulder leaning against the wall as you inspect your new tattoo. The smile painted on your lips is the biggest one he’s ever seen you wear, eyes focused on the gentle fox now burrowed into the back of your neck. She lays, happy and sprawled, thick fur well groomed as her tail wraps around herself, nose nuzzled into her shoulder. When you go to touch it, Claire gently slaps your hand away, and you giggle.
He smiles.
Marco’s Girl is just as dead as her owner.
“Thanks for doin’ this,” Simon murmurs quietly.
Claire is cleaning up her station, wiping everything down while disposing of used needles and bloodied towels. She looks up at Simon and eyes the handful of quid he has rolled up between his fingers, then scoffs at it before returning to her work.
“I can’t take that. Not for this,” she says. “Keep it. Spend it on her. She deserves it.”
So he does. Not that he would ever need someone instructing him to ever do such a thing, but he realizes today is a good day to do it. Endorphins heavy in your blood, thickening the liquid with joy and ridding you of the malaise that’s tainted you for years, he takes you to dinner. Not a homemade meal in his home, but a quiet restaurant with comfortable booths and food more extravagant than you’ve ever seen in your life.
Something ineffable swells within Simon’s chest when you mention this is the first time you’ve been to a restaurant in well over a decade. The last time had been on your sixteenth birthday when your parents had taken you. Your father had spent three months saving up for presents and cake.
It was the last birthday you had ever celebrated.
Simon lets you indulge to your heart’s content. Appetizers of artichoke dip and sliced bread, a main course of soup warm enough to melt you from the inside out, fresh pie for dessert—when you talk, you do not stutter as often. Your voice is less warbly. You smile easier and frequently.
When he takes you home, he can see the weight that pulls at your eyes, how your lids thicken, how your body weakens. He takes you to bed and watches the way your muscles melt into the mattress while he settles beside you, arm around your shoulders as your head rests on his chest. The scar on his forearm sings louder than it usually does—a white line through dark ink, like a torch cutting through the thick numbra of a cave—but he does not mind it; this mark you’ve left on him.
He’ll bear as many more as you need him to.
“Thank you for today.” Your voice sails through the air like wisps of smoke from a cigarette after a long day. Swirling, and comforting. Enough to take the edge of anxiety off of his frayed nerves. “It was… a lot of fun. The best day I’ve ever had.”
It’s impossible to hold back the smile that pulls at his lips. Arm tightening around you, he lifts his head, mouth pressing to the top of your skull, a gentle kiss that leaves bubbles tingling in waves throughout the rest of your body. “I’m glad, sweetheart.”
You move. Body rising away from him, leaving his touch. Your elbow digs into the mattress, propping yourself up as you stare down at him through the gloom of night, and still he can see how bright you shine. You blink several times at him, eyes roaming over his face before settling on his lips, pressed tightly together.
Then, you move. Forward. Slowly, like a fawn wandering on lubberly legs. You kiss him softly like warm cotton fresh from the dryer, or melted honey dribbling into tea. He’s robust like smoking wood, smoldering within a husk, seeping deep into the threads of your clothes and never letting go. It’s quick. Fast enough that you don’t burn, but when you pull away and his hand reaches up for the side of your face, you know you can’t settle for one bite.
You dive back in, several quick pecks in succession, Simon’s thumb pressing into the apple of your cheek, fingers curling behind your ear. When you retreat, he lets you without complaint. Just continues to look up at you, dazed eyes widening as your smile flickers into a grin before you collapse back on the bed, body nestled against his, a tired fox hunkering in her warm hibernaculum.
For the next few weeks, Simon helps you through the healing process. Plasma and ink seeps from the tattoo in copious amounts for the first day, leaving your second skin full of the most unappetizing mush you’ve ever seen. Head bent over the sink, he assists in washing it and patting it clean. Every morning and night he rubs your neck with lotion, though his thumbs usually end up wandering down over your spine, massaging long growing knots out of your shoulders and taut muscles, rendering you a sleepy mess.
Every moment you can get, you’re looking at it. Craning your neck in the mirror, tracing your fingers along the pattern once the scabbing has subsided—you can’t give up that bad habit of pawing at that old claim, but now you smile instead of fret. Instead of hiding.
The only nuisance is your hair. How long it is. How long it’s been. Ever growing, well past your shoulders, trailing down your back, hiding your neck from view. Too big. Too much. A source of annoyance and yet used to be a tool—something to cover yourself with.
You’ve just finished with your shower when you decide that you’re sick of it; these long locks that Marco used to coo over and yank. The strands he forced you to keep like the sweet school girl he always wanted you to be. With a towel wrapped around your still moist body, you rummage through every drawer in the master bathroom until you find a pair of shears.
Thick handfuls of hair begin to flutter to the floor, blanketing the tile in a haphazard mess. You start small, cutting only a few inches at a time until you grow more brave. It moves up along your spine, above your shoulders—you cut it off until it feels good, until you feel like yourself.
When Simon knocks on the door, you don’t even think twice about chirping for him to come in. The door swings open, sending stray hair flying across the floor as you attempt to even out the sides of your hair. Stunned, he stands in the doorway, hand still on the knob, lips slightly parted as he looks at the mess.
“Doin’ alright, sweetheart?” he asks.
“I can’t fucking… this looks like a mess,” you murmur, eyes meeting his in the mirror. It’s better than it was before—long and unlike you—but you’re ready to shave it all off with Simon’s clippers.
“Want some help?”
Defeated, you turn to give him the scissors before huffing. He wastes no time getting to work, evening out your choppy layers and ridding you of the odd tail that had formed near your neck. As he works, you can’t take your eyes off of him. How he catches your hair between thick fingers before cutting them, teasing them to see if they blend with the rest of the cut, moving your head in different angles to ensure nothing looks wrong.
“I think you’d make a good barber,” you say, hands toying with the knot in your towel.
“Just wait until you see how bad I’ve fucked up the back of your hair,” Simon deadpans. “Probably won’t be sayin’ that again.”
Your giggle is sharp and sonorous, and enough to draw a smirk from his lips as he wipes the scissors clean and places them on the counter next to you. Your fingers pull at the strands, surprised with how healthy they feel, before you turn your back to the mirror. Short hair perfectly reveals your tattoo, and you turn your head side to side, eager to see it from every angle.
“You can actually see her now. My little fox,” you beam. “She’s not hiding anymore.”
When you straighten your head, you realize how close Simon is to you. Broad shoulders fill your vision, making it impossible to look anywhere else but him. He nods in agreement, murky eyes on you. “Yeah, ‘n neither are you.”
“Guess not.” Your hands pull tight to your chest, palms resting on the edge of your towel—neither of you move. Your incisors pick at the inside of your lips, pulling wet flesh between them and yanking until it gives way. You’ve never had a man look at you the way Simon Riley does; all pity is gone from his gaze, and there is no sour satyriasis lurking in the depths. “Thank you. For everything. I don’t… I don’t know what I would’ve done if it wasn’t for you. I’d still be trapped there with Marco, too scared to end up like… well… I’m not very good with words…”
“Don’t mention it,” Simon casually dismisses. His fingers carefully rise to your shoulder where he wipes a few stray hairs from your collarbone, plucking them free from your skin. “Before you know it, we’ll get you a good job, a nice flat of your own; a good life.”
It’s what you’ve always dreamed of, isn’t it? Working someplace quiet where the aroma that surrounds you is void of sour liquor and cheap cologne—a library, maybe. You could spend your time among bookshelves, getting lost in a good story, or reading to children. If you had a flat of your own—one that isn’t tainted by Marco—you’d decorate it with posters and imitation artwork. Maybe you’d even add some of your own up there on the walls. Something to keep you company while you sit with a warm cup of tea.
But now, as you stand naked in that bathroom, hair chopped to pieces, a fox on the back of your neck, and Simon before you—yes; you realize that you want that good life.
“Would I have to?” you ask, words fragile.
Eyes narrowing, Simon shakes his head in confusion. “Have to what?”
“Leave?” you clarify. “Here? Leave… you?”
“You wanna stay?”
You nod. “I-If that’s—like—okay…”
He’s close enough to melt you now—dripping until you’re nothing but a puddle on the floor at his feet. And right there, among old bloodstains that still etch into the tile and the faint echoed hauntings of cries, he smooths a hand over your cheek.
“Anythin’ for you, sweetheart.”
It’s all simple after that, and it does not hurt like you’re accustomed to. His lips on yours, a tender treat you’ve become quite fond of chasing after like a fox bouncing through snow, and then, your hips against the counter. Simon holds your cheeks in his palms like you’re fine china just as your arms wrap around his neck. The towel falls free from your body, joining your hair on the floor, leaving your bare chest to press against his, t-shirt soft against your nipples.
The two of you partake in a dance of shuffling feet, and bodies colliding against a soft mattress as he gently leads you out of the bathroom, lips never leaving yours. Despite the cushioning, he still cradles your head as if wary of breaking you. Delicate, soft creature. One with too many cracks to count. One who needs a good loving—something to glue her back together.
Simon Riley touches you in a way no other man ever has—with love. Kisses trailing down your body, shoulders beneath your legs, head between your thighs, mouth on your cunt; he has you gasping in pleasure instead of pain. Bearing your teeth in smiles instead of sobs. Nails curling into the duvet in excitement instead of fear.
You aren’t afraid to feel him, to run your fingers through his hair and rock your hips against the movement of his tongue along your clit, or groan at the way his fingers fill you, softly spreading you open, waiting for you to swallow him whole rather than spear you open. You claw at his shirt until he’s ripping it off, tossing it aside, showing you every inch of his flushed chest as he settles his hips between your legs.
Every nip against your neck is gentle—not claiming, or marking. Just enough to get your body to jolt as you gasp and giggle, arms curling around him, tightening, pulling him closer until you think he might crush you. The moment you begin to paw at his pants, he helps you. Belt unbuckled, fly undone; he’s just as bare as you are, both equals, power dynamic equitable. Your hips roll, looking for something, looking for more until—
—he flips.
Laying on his back, he brings you with him and you follow until your knees are digging into the mattress, thighs spread wide enough to accommodate his hips. Stunned, you stare down at him as your palms rest flat on his chest; his heart pounds hard enough for you to feel every pulse.
Placing his hands over yours, Simon taps your skin with his thumbs. “We’ll go at your pace, baby.”
Dazed and unsure where to begin, you start by looking at him; soaking in the view enough to have him memorized. You trace the sparse hair on his chest that swirls along his pecs, down the line towards his bellybutton, and every scar that lies in between. Then, there’s him—the erection that sits between your legs, lying flat beneath his navel, jumping as you take it into your hand.
Warm metal bleeds into your skin, and you realize Simon’s pierced. Several rungs of a Jacob’s Ladder decorates the underside of his cock, bright silver glinting in the creamy light of the dying morning. They’re the cleanest ones you’ve ever seen—something sincerely palatable; appetizing.
Tongue darting out to wet your lips, your hips inch forward, rubbing his cock between your folds, piercings grazing along your clit. Fluttering eyes shut and roll into the back of your head as you add more pressure, euphoria bleeding through your pores, seeping through you until it drips all over Simon’s thighs and stomach. His breath is hitched in his throat as he chokes back a growl, hips twitching beneath you.
You grind on his cock until neither of you can take it anymore—until superheated metal expands in your body, pulling at your skin until it’s moist and glistening. He slips inside, notching at your entrance with ease; your hips roll down until you’ve taken all of him in. It’s a perfect fit. The right size to fill the void that’s decayed inside of you. Enough to build up what’s been long broken and decrepit.
Simon laces his fingers through yours as you begin to move, body bouncing, hips swaying, mouth singing. He looks up at you and sees nothing but stars, constellations he could gaze at for hours, dying suns he could cup in his palms until they burn out. The widening of his eyes only makes you quicken your pace, rump slamming into his thighs, wet skin echoing through the air of his bedroom, winter breeze slowly warming into spring; this is—you realize—the first time you have made love rather than been fucked. Rather than have been torn to shreds, scraps waiting for lazy, fat dogs.
Your Simon Riley might be a dog, but he is loyal in the way moss tickles stone. Where one is to be found, he is bound to follow, a shadow lurking in the shape of yours with teeth sharp enough to kill and a heart soft enough to wish the necessity never arises.
Neither of you last long. Bodies morphing together, you throw your head back and squeeze Simon’s fingers between yours as he spills into you. Neurons fuzzy, epidermis tingling, you smile when it’s over as you cherish the weight of him beneath you. He holds you close, keeping your head tucked to his chest as you listen to his dwindling pulse soften from a raging war drum into a low hum, and once you’ve caught your breaths, he brings you to the shower and rinses you clean all over again.
It does not feel dirty with him. There is no blood between your legs or pressure on your throat—no brand to taint your neck. Still, he kisses everywhere he’s touched, worshipping the smallest parts of you, dog tongue on old scars that he won’t stop lapping at until they fade.
You think that—maybe—things were always meant to end up this way.
Here, in his arms. Next to him on the couch. Across from a table for two beneath dimmed sconces in a greasy pub. On his chest in bed. Alone on the loveseat, curled up with your journal, pen jotting away all the things you cannot say out loud.
xi.
i revel in this acrimony
because it is all you have ever fed me.
i do not know
how to kiss someone
and not expect the taste of
iron to follow.
cv.
it hurts to look at you.
bright halo
holy light
blinding;
i cannot see the rot festering in your chest
but the stench of it follows me
everywhere i go.
touch me.
taint me.
bloody me until you can finally stand to look at me.
tilt your head,
smile at god with my flesh in your teeth;
he will forgive you because you ask for it;
he will laugh at me because i deserve it.
disciple and lamb;
Slaughter me like you always wished you could.
vi.
you’re finger painting again;
brilliant shades of violet
red
and yellow across
the canvas of my throat.
decaying blood seeps so deep
i can taste it on my tongue;
squeeze until i see stars.
squeeze until you can breathe easy again.
drink up the brine before it dries because
i will not cry when you kill me.
suck the life from my marrow
and tell me you love me
through the fireworks of
popping bone and cartilage.
ask me if i love you back.
let my death rattle be your answer.
Simon sets a cup of tea on the table in front of you, pulling you out of your anamneses. Steam swirls from the surface in warning, but you pull it into your lap anyway, palms cupped around the china, soaking up the radiant heat that would otherwise be lost. Simon’s weight settles next to you like a stone sinking into a pond—you fall into him, head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed as chamomile wafts beneath your nose.
“Can’t fall asleep yet, sweetheart,” he teases. His hand rests on your thigh and squeezes gently, urging your body into consciousness. “Gotta make it to midnight tonight.”
“It’ll still be the new year in the morning. We can celebrate then,” you hum, fingers tapping against your cup.
“Maybe.” Simon traces swirls around your leg as if following the pathing of your DNA. Unraveling it until he can read the code—the very makeup that your being consists of. “Gotta head to Terminus tonight.”
Eyes peeling open, you bring your tea up to your lips and sip. It scorches you, leaving the tip of your tongue numb. “Need more security for the holiday?”
“Usually, but not tonight. Price has decided to host a party.”
Party. Packed bodies, suffocating heat, pulsing flesh and shifting eyes—the idea makes your stomach twist. High heels on tables, trembling fingers wrapped around an algid bar, twirling, dancing right into arms to be caged forever.
“What kind of party?” Tone even; you’re getting better at forgetting. At overwriting bad memories.
“The usual, I reckon. Shitty music, free beer. It’s in the VIP section, so it’ll be smaller, at least.” Squeezing the space just above your knee, Simon prompts you to look at him. “Do you wanna come with me?”
Prying eyes, passed cards, hush money; you push it out of your brain, and before you know it, you’re nodding. “Yeah. Okay.”
You don’t wear makeup anymore, but you wish you had for tonight.
Powdery foundation to cover your skin, mascara to hide the weight that lurks behind your gaze; you feel naked. Nothing but raw muscle with nothing to cover it, quivering and ready to be picked at. You cling to Simon’s arm as he cuts a path through the crowded club, elbows and shoulders knocking into you with muttered apologies and the heavy sillage of alcohol.
It’s easier to breathe when you make it to the private room Simon told you about, but the veil is still there. Tickling your upper lip, just beneath your nose, ready to cover your face and pull until you’re gasping for what little air is allowed through the sieve.
Simon leads you through the crowd, but your eyes can’t leave the decor. Every inch of the room is soaked in eminence, from the glistening chandelier glowing with cream yellow bulbs, to the polished leather seats that line the conversation pit you’re brought to. Expensive. Cash beneath your skin as you trace the stitching.
A familiar face greets you after you’re settled—John Price. He’s a different man now than he was the first time you met him, glaring at you from across a desk, eyes ready to rip you to pieces in order to pull any and all pieces of Marco out of your skin. Now, he’s soft around the edges, and pulling your hand into his, greeting you like an old friend.
“It’s good to see you again. You look better, now,” he comments.
Caught off guard by his bluntness, you expel a shaky laugh. “I… I feel better now.”
John smiles. “Good.”
A woman trails behind him with wine red nails wrapped around the neck of a champagne glass. A flowy, damask skirt curls around her legs as she greets Simon, witty words slicing through the air leaving herself chuckling at her own joke. John introduces her as Aelin, his wife.
It’s hard to miss the way her eyes settle on you. Aqua blue like a Greek seaport, refreshing like sunbeams on your skin during the height of summer—her smile is softer towards you. Golden tresses sway along her back as she asks for your name, a request you fill with soft words that nearly drown in the commotion of the party around you.
She sits next to you for some time while John and Simon speak with one another. Her eloquent words flow over your skin like silk sheets on freshly washed skin—she is radiant. Glistening enough to capture your attention and make everything else around you melt away. Brittle like seashells but still sharp enough to cut as she crosses her legs, skirt swishing, rosewater spilling over your senses.
Aelin is the one that convinces you to have a drink despite your initial promise to yourself not to. Just one to get your muscles to melt, she says. Enough to make you remember that you are very far away from Makarov and Marco—so far removed from that dead existence that’s now pushing up the daisies for your new life. Pale, auric liquid spills across your tongue, carbonation cutting through the roof of your mouth, leaving your teeth tingling. She smiles, knocking back her own sip, before her eyes narrow.
“Hold on a minute,” she says, long fingers wrapping around your glass, she plucks it from her hand. Twirling the stem as if it were a flower, she inspects the rim, lips pressed tightly together. “It’s broken. See here, along the edge? That just won’t do, now will it, Chip?”
The nickname flows off of her tongue as if she’s rehearsed it a million times over; like it’s been yours for your entire life. “Yeah. I guess not,” you concur with a smile.
You think Aelin is the first friend you’ve made that you don’t fear losing to the old, gnarled fingers of depraved men of a bitter life. It’s a bond made without fear or the desire for comfort hot on your heels—something that weaves through you as naturally as roots through the tilled earth.
She sticks by your side until the liquor expands in her blood and you lose her to the crowd. Sharp giggles cut through the air, the ghost of her still remaining by your side as she greets patrons and friends. You stand, arms crossed over your chest, surprisingly content with a scene that would have you panicking eight months ago.
Warm hands slide over your waist, snaking slowly towards your front, large chest curving to the shape of your back. Your eyes flutter shut—you know who it is, his touch alone already ingrained in your skin, washing away all traces of anything sordid. “Not gettin’ tired on me yet, are you?”
“Well, I am now that you’re holding me like this,” you tease back.
Simon chuckles, hands tightening on your hips as he dips his face into the crook of your neck. Swaying to the music, his nose prods just behind your ear. “Wanna get some fresh air?”
You know exactly what he’s thinking of before you exit the room. Dark corridors, sketchy stairs—unforgiving wind slices through you as the two of you make it to the rooftop. A fine layer of frost glistens in the darkness on the cracked brick beneath your feet, crunching like shards of glass of a fractured window as you’re led to the edge.
Both you and Simon sit next to the ashy scar that’s grown over the years he’s worked here, feet hanging over the ledge. The thought of falling is so far removed from your mind as he lights a cigarette and nurses on the filter.
“I’ve been thinking,” Simon begins on the first exhale.
“Uh oh,” you hum.
“I think we should move.”
Your mind spins—I think we should move—and he has your head snapping towards him, eyes focused on the curve of his nose as he flicks stray ash to flutter down to the streets below.
“Move where?” you ask.
“Not far,” he shrugs. “Someplace quieter.”
“Oh. Do you have something in mind?”
He nods, and you’re not surprised. “Been lookin’ at a property. Right across from a park with a nice walkin’ path. Backyard’s got a good place for a garden and patio. Big bedroom on the second floor with a balcony that overlooks it all. Garage isn’t half bad, either.”
Laughing, you lean your head against his shoulder, toes wiggling in your shoes. “Right. Out in the suburbs where it’s nice and quiet so the roar of your motorcycle wakes up the whole neighborhood.”
“I’ll only take it out when it rains so they think it’s thunder.”
“I’m sure that’ll fool them.”
Embers glow bright, cherry red as Simon inhales. He holds the smoke on his tongue, lets it seep into every pore before it spills out of his crooked nose. “I wanna build you a library there.”
Blinking, you freeze. “At the house?”
“At the one I’m lookin’ at, yeah,” he confirms. “One of the rooms has a nice big window that looks out into the yard. The wallpaper’s shit, but nothin’ a couple of shelves wouldn’t solve. Got plenty of space for a nice big chair. Those annoying, fluffy kinds. Could see you curlin’ up to write in one of ‘em.”
As he speaks, you see it all before you, sprawled out with welcoming arms. Hardwood floors and an open window, curtains tickled by the zephyr, ink stains on your hands, lavender bushes in the yard. Not an ounce of glitter in sight.
“You’d really do that?” you ask, voice breathy, disbelief curling around each syllable.
Simon’s eyes find yours. Tracing your face. Caressing where he thinks about touching, and then does. Knuckles against your chin, trailing up to your cheek; his nod is short. “Anythin’ for you, sweetheart.”
His cigarette slips between his fingers and twirls down to the streets below, sparks flying in its wake just as your lips meet his. Tobacco is hot on his breath as you wrap your arms around his neck, legs snaking between his for stability as the ledge beneath you seems to fall away, leaving nothing else but just you and him.
Then, the explosions start.
Goosebumps flickering over your body, you and Simon tear away from one another just in time to watch the sky ignite. Whistling echoes through the crowded streets as loud cheers roar in the distance, fireworks bursting in golden streaks and multicolored showers. Tilting your head, you watch with wide eyes and mouth agape while Simon slips his hand into yours.
Silently, you two enjoy the moment of chiming clocks and howling screams as the new year dons on another chilly day in London. Your lungs expand, breathing in the sharp air, and you smile.
How wonderful it is to know that—though it feels like it won’t—some things really do last forever.
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It doesn't happen again but that doesn't mean the man is doing better. He lost most of his progress. Grace is more and more panicked by the day. He needs him to get better but he doesn't know how to help. Hours of research turn into days, then weeks. Only to arrive at one conclusion. All the roads lead to Rome. He's not a psychiatrist or doctor. He doesn't have the right degrees. He can't help him as much as he wants. To think that he managed, with Rocky, to save the Sun and Erid's star. Saving both the Humans and Eridians. But he can't even save one man. The last human he'll ever see. What a joke. How pathetic. Utterly useless. He hasn't been able to look at his own reflection in the mirror in days.
And even if he does get better. What if it happens again? His stomach hurts just thinking about it. Grace barely sleeps and when he does, it's on the chair next to the man's bed. He can't leave him alone. What if it really happens again? What if he needs him and he's not there? He can't bear to hear him cry like that ever again. He won't let that happen. He has to be there. What if he’s not enough this time to calm him down? What if he hurts himself? What if whatever haunts him breaks him for good? Fear is eating him up constantly. His brain is consumed with all the variables. He keeps watch for the man at night. According to Rocky, Grace has been gritting his teeth in his sleep.
He noticed that when the man sleeps, it is deep but not restful. The exhaustion from that night seems bone-deep. It may even transcend flesh. The eye bags won't go away no matter how many hours he sleeps. And that's how the man has spent most of his days since that night. He stopped talking, barely eats and doesn't even want to sit up anymore.
But he won't give up. Grace is all he has. He's counting on him to get him back on his feet. He keeps talking to him even if the man’s eyes seem to look through him. He has to force the light-hearted tone of his voice most days but he makes it work. The man is slowly showing signs of listening to him again. What changes everything happens later.
He made a projector with Rocky to show the man some landscapes and animals in the hope that it would help stimulate his mind. To Grace's utter relief, he really likes these. He sits up and could look at them for hours if Grace let him. In complete silence, an unsure hand is slightly raised as if he wanted to touch the pictures formed by the lights. His eyes look alive during these projections. Grace gets it. So many times, the projection room is what kept him sane during his mission. Before Rocky, it was all he had. The awe and focus in his eyes are promising. There's always hope.
One day, he suddenly remembers Rocky's puppets. He runs to his bedroom and goes through his closet for them. He brings back to the man Puppet Grace, Puppet Mary and more. Maybe if he uses them to tell his story, it will be easier for him to understand. Like how picture books help kids learn how to read. He doesn’t like to think of the man as a child but, as a middle school teacher, he knows more about children than adults. He wouldn't have only his ears as a support. It will make it less taxing and less straining for the man to try and understand. It would also be more fun.
He is enthusiastically puppeteering his story to the man to the best of his abilities. How he and Rocky saved the stars. The really rough-looking Rocky Puppet he made got him an offended comment from Rocky, asking him if that's how he sees him. Which he doesn't, he's just not really good at these things. Rocky is the engineer here.
Every time he looks up at the man during the story to check if he's still following, he is taken aback by the laser focus. He's drinking every single one of his words. His eyebrows raise at each turn in the story or frown when things get tense. His hands grip the comforters in apprehension and release when things are looking up. It's working. It's beyond his expectations. The man has never been so reactive before. In a healthy and positive way, at least. They are communicating. He's alert and present. Hope is thrumming in his veins.
It's the end of the story. Despite all odds, Grace and Rocky saved the stars and made their way together to Erid. Grave looks down at the puppets in his hands, and he's filled with an overwhelming sense of bittersweet pride. They both lost their crew, Rocky almost died because of the astrophage, Grace was betrayed by people he trusted and was supposed to die after accomplishing his mission. But they did it. They saved their respective species. They found each other. They survived. Rocky made it home and Grace loves the life he lives here.
"... G r a c e... " a raw voice says.
When he looks up, his breath gets caught in his throat. Backlit, the man's figure is being embraced by Erid's sunlight from the window. His palms are open in his lap and his shoulders are lax. On his face is sincere and profound relief. His eyebrows are knit up together and his eyes, so painfully alive, are filled to the brim with passionate peace. He looks moved down to his soul. But more importantly, he's smiling. It's a small and soft thing but it's there, like a wildflower. His undereyes are curved with it.
He's happy. He's smiling at Grace. He finally feels something other than pain or confusion. Grace did this. He can help him. The relief Grace feels is overwhelming. Weeks of stress wash off him. He wanted to stay positive but he was so afraid for the man for so long. But here, right here, is all the proof he needs. Gr ace can finally say for sure now. The man will get better. He'll get his happy ending.
" T h a n k y o u..." the man raps out.
The words pierce his heart. The utter sincerity in his voice is almost painful. Grace knows what he accomplished with Rocky is big and that the people who know about him are grateful. But, so many light-years away from Earth, he never heard a thank-you from another human for his sacrifice. The Eridians, yes, but never from another human. So, hearing it from him fills a void within him; he didn't even realise what was there. He feels something in him being appeased. It’s like he was given a sense of closure.
“Thank you,” Grace whispers back with a meaningful smile.
Stress was the only thing keeping him on his feet this whole time, since he's so sleep-deprived. He feels all his strength leave him and almost kneels over. Thankfully, his chair was right behind him. Rocky orders him to go to bed and he will in just a minute. He talks to the man more. He wants to keep that smile on his face for as long as he can. This small blessing. Truthfully, he also wants to look at it longer. The last time he saw something so stunning was when he saw the landscape of his biome for the first time. He can't look away. He doesn't want to.
He decides to sleep in his bed tonight. Today ended on an amazing note! He also needs real rest if he wants to help the man more. He collapses on the bed the moment he's in his pyjama pants and falls asleep the moment he hits the mattress, with a smile on his face and another on his mind.
Waking up feels like a losing fight. He was deep in the type of sleep that feels like you died and came back to life. His body doesn't want to wake up but his brain picked up on something and requires wakefulness. He struggles to open his eyes and, lit by the moonlight of the living room window, is a figure standing in the doorway. He panics for half a second, his muscles twitching to life as sleep is chased from his body and replaced by alertness, only to remember there's only one other human here. He immediately completely relaxes into the mattress. He won't hurt him. He gets up and sits at the edge of his bed, waiting for the man.
"Hey, bud. Come in. You're alright," he reassures automatically, drowsy.
The unsure figure standing in the doorway slowly makes his way to Grace. It’s too dark in the room to see him correctly and he only gets a good look at him once he’s sitting next to him on the bed.
“Hey, this is new. What’s wrong? Are you okay?” he asks softly.
“... y e s … I … just … I …” the man answers and trails off.
He falls silent and stares down with furrowed brows. His mouth opens then closes, as if he wants to speak but doesn’t know what to say or how. He looks frustrated with himself. Grace waits for him until he meets his pleading eyes. He’s unfairly good at playing on his heartstrings. The trust the man has in him feels overwhelming and he wonders if he deserves it. He hopes he will eventually live up to it. He remembers the night he cried in his sleep and the one when he woke up screaming. Unsure, Grace opens his arms. Hoping to be right. He watches as his face turns to relief.
He leans down and buries his face in the crook of Grace's neck. It’s slow and a little shy. Something in Grace's chest flutters. He’s so careful and timid. The deep need to protect him with his whole body and soul flares up in Grace's chest. He pulls him closer, closes his arms around him and presses him against his heart. He’ll give him all the reassurance and affection he needs. Grace will live the rest of his live with him in his arms if needed. He doesn’t care. He’ll do anything for him.
“Come on, you must be tired. Let’s sleep,” Grace coos and the man tightens the hug.
“I’m not asking you to let go. Don’t worry. Come on,” he promises.
The man relaxes his hold and Grace smiles. They lie down on their sides and situate themselves until they are comfortable. He lets out a soft laugh when the man throws a leg over his, getting as close to him as humanly possible. His need for affection is so absurdly sweet, it hurts. Grace breathes him in and melts into the mattress. His mind starts to wander. He can’t recall the last time he shared a bed with someone. He forgot how nice it was.
Slowly, he isn't lying on his side anymore but on his stomach. The mattress turns into grass and he isn't lying down but pressed against it. His lungs are burning from the chase and his screams. His chest is constricted with anxiety and from the pressure of being held down. He can't breathe. Countless hands are crushing him down. He's being betrayed in the worst way possible. His begging is ignored. So are his threats. He's going to die for the greater good. This isn't fair. He doesn't want this. He's scared. He's never been this scared before and there's nothing he can do to stop this. No amount of thrashing will free him from their grasp. His life isn't his anymore. It probably stopped being his the moment he got involved in the Project Hail Mary. He just wants to live. He cries out even though he knows it won't change a thing. He only does it because that's the sole thing he can do. He's dying and no one is going to save him. He will not be missed. So is the fate of an expendable.
Slowly, the hands let him go one by one and air fills his lungs once more. Without all the chaos, his head goes silent. The grass under him and the wind in his hair soothe him. The sun warms his skin, which had turned cold from fear. The singing birds lull him and his heart rate settles down. He's unrestrained. He could get up, leave and nothing would stop him. He can feel it. He's not okay but he will be.
The ground shifts and undulates and, at the back of his mind, he registers that he is starting to wake up. Eyes open just a slit, he takes in what he can see in the room's darkness. Right, his bedroom. He is lying on his stomach but it doesn't feel like a mattress. He feels... encapsulated? No... He's being held. It's warm, gentle and soothing beyond belief. He... He can't remember the last time he was held like this by another human... Even before the Project Hail Mary, he can't recall... He never realised until now that he missed this like a limb. He has hugged the man before but it was to help him, not for his own enjoyment. This is different. This embrace is for Grace. To help him. Just for him.
The man is curled up around him, swaying him slowly from side to side. His hand alternates between rubbing circles on his back and running through his hair, consoling. He's singing to him. The low register of his voice. The deep rumble in his chest. The soft humming. Grace doesn’t understand the lyrics but it's beautiful yet in some way sad. It reminds him of the first time he saw the Petrova Line up close. Melancholic, he thinks. It's only interrupted by him whispering soft words of reassurance to him.
" 't's okay... You're okay... 'm here..." the man whispers slowly, voice a little sore.
The words are spoken in his hair, the man's face buried in the crown of his head. He then presses a kiss there and continues the song. Grace tears up at the love he's being treated with. He realises that his cheeks are wet. He must have been crying in his sleep. The man heard him and didn't hesitate to console him. Even though he is in the worst shape of the two, he chose to help Grace. Even though he barely has the energy to function, he is putting it into this, calming Grace down. He melts into the embrace, the sounds of his regular heartbeat against his ear. He doesn't know him but he can already tell that he is a good man. Only a good person would treat someone with so much love and care. A good man who should never have ended up as he did. Grace will make sure that he’s never hurt again. He'll give him everything, like he's giving Grace all the love and attention he can, even when he is so broken.
“Sleep,” he whispers sweetly into Grace’s hair.
He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want this to stop. But his eyelids are heavy. He can’t keep his eyes open. He’s so tired. Will he even remember this tomorrow? He desperately wants to. This isn’t a dream. He is loved. He falls asleep.
He wakes up disoriented. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to tell that he overslept but he doesn’t care. He has not felt so rested in so long. He basks in this peace inside him for a moment. When he opens his eyes, deep brown instantly meets light blue and his breathing stutters. How long has he been awake? The eyes are soft and attentive as they trace Grace's features. They are lying on their sides, curled towards each other, close but not touching, not anymore. There’s a pang of disappointment in Grace's chest at that. He misses his touch. As if he had read his mind, the man raises his hand and cups the side of Grace's face with it. He looks at him carefully.
“Are you okay?” the man asks, worried.
“Huh? Um, yeah. Thanks for uh…helping me,” Grace says, entranced by him.
“Good,” he says
“Are you? I mean, how are you feeling? You’re um, talking a lot- well, more than usual,” he splutters.
“Yeah,” he says sadly, not really answering his question.
Grace puts his hand over his and leans his face into his hand.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he comforts, without knowing what is wrong, and the tense lines on the man’s face disappear as he relaxes.
“Why are you so nice? I don’t get it. You don’t even know my name,” he asks, confused. Talking still seems strenuous.
Right. A while ago, when he tried to ask for his name during one of his most lucid moments, it was as if the question had struck him. He had looked away, distraught as if he had just remembered something he wished to forget. Grace has not asked for his name again.
“Will you tell me your name then?” he asks. The man hesitates.
“...Simon,” Simon finally says.
“Simon… What a nice name,” Grace swoons before he can even realise what he’s saying. Surprise flashes across Simon's face at the compliment.
“...Uhm… Thanks…” he breathes, looking away, embarrassed.
“I’m Ryland Grace!”
“I know,” he says with a soft smile.
“Nice to meet you,” he says. He can feel his cheeks straining from how hard he is smiling.
“You too,” Simon whispers with a slow blink.
Hey, so sorry for the delay. To be honest, I struggled with this one lol. I rewrote it multiple times, so I hope it came out okay. I was getting so frustrated that I kinda stopped going on Tumblr over it. Dramatic much? I feel like something still feels a little off with it but I don't think I can do better unfortunately.
Also, I barely used Simon's name in this one because him telling Grace his name is a big deal, so it felt weird using it during the whole story. I had originally used it in the 1st part only to make it more practical to understand. I hope it didn't make the entire post confusing. Tell me if it is and I'll change it.
I'm already working on part 3! It will be shorter and I don't think there will be a part 4. It probably will be left open-ended. Sorry if that's not what you wanted but it is what it is.
