I am here to primarily express my deep love for Jack O'Connell and his many wonderful characters. Thus, here is the masterlist to facilitate my (and your) categorization.
Please, enjoy!
Eric Love (Starred Up)
Sunlight Through Bars Masterlist
Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal (28 Years Later / The Bone Temple)
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Summary: The Volunteer has sunk, the voyage is doomed, and its survivors are starving in their frozen camp. When they come across a pod of Arctic seals, they can't believe their luck. All of a sudden, they have meat and skins to trade for passage back to civilization.
While he cannot argue the logic, or their dire need, Patrick Sumner wants no part in it. He retreats in his tent... only to find you cowering there, your sealskin shed and your new, human body a mystery.
Your eyes are those of a seal, big and scared. For the life of him, he can't deliver you to the others. Instead, Patrick hides you, teaches you how to speak, and helps you reclaim your skin.
In doing so, he shows you that no all humans are the monsters from your people's stories.
In fact, some of them may even be worth loving.
Part One is here.
Warnings: Contains the hunting of seals, blood, gore, angst, emotional trauma, building trust, learning to speak, eventual emotional intimacy, drug use, smut, interspecies romance, and soft ending.
It was surprisingly easy to hide a woman from ten men.
After the remains of the crew had filled their bellies and begun to skin their trophies, exhaustion had finally gotten the better of them. It was hardly midmorning before everyone save Patrick and you were asleep.
Patrick tried to take the opportunity to clean you up. He brought you several bowls of hot water, along with a couple of rags and a bit of soap he'd managed to save. For the longest time, you just stared at his offerings and scratched your head. But once Patrick pantomimed splashing water in his face, you understood.
You didn't use the water he'd brought you, though. Oh, no. You simply stepped out of the tent, as naked as can be, and dove into the first pool of water you found. Patrick scurried after you, a blanket in his hands and blood in his cheeks. He watched as you scrubbed yourself clean, dipping in and out of the crystal water as though you'd been born in it. You either didn't realize you were freezing, or you didn't care.
When Patrick saw your blue-tinged lips, he called it. Knelt by the pool's edge and held out his hand. You eyed him. For a moment, he thought you'd plunge beneath the surface and never return. Instead, with a resigned look, you accepted his hand.
The moment you were out, goose-pimply and shivering but undeniably clean, Patrick bundled you up, rubbing your biceps and back in an attempt to warm you up. "Better?"
You made a noise at him. He guessed it to be affirmation.
But then, your nose detected the coppery stench of blood. You turned towards it... and cried out. A raw, animal noise barely muffled by the men.
You bolted out of Patrick's arms and ran for the site that the men had picked for the skinning. The organs of about five seals had been tossed haphazardly into a pile, a thin layer of frost already forming over them, while the meat had been wrapped up in whatever fabric the men had found. The bones had been picked clean and were being kept aside, presumably to be boiled for broth.
The rest of the dead seals had been laid out in neat little rows.
You fell to your knees before the scene, weeping as though your very heart were breaking.
If the men awoke, if they found you here...
... If Drax found you here...
Patrick knelt beside you, hushing you urgently. "Please, you must keep quiet," he begged over your wails. "Please, they'll hear you, please..."
A loud snore emanated from one of the tents. Otto's, Patrick immediately surmised. The man snored like thunder.
Your grief instantly calcified into rage. You sprung towards the tent, fingers curled like claws. Teeth bared.
Without thinking, Patrick tackled you. You screeched, fighting him like a wildcat, as you both rolled on the slippery ice.
"No!" he clung on. "No, please!"
You squirmed under him, releasing all sorts of angry animal noises.
"What do you mean to do?!" Patrick demanded. "Kill him?!"
"Kill!" you latched onto the word like a baby latching onto its mother's breast. "Kill! Kill!" You pointed, wildly, first at the sealskins and then at the tent. "Kill!"
Patrick slapped a hand over your mouth. You cried out, still wriggling under him like a worm on a hook. But Patrick was bigger, stronger, and more at home in his body than you were in yours. Keeping his hand pressed over your lips, he bundled you up and carried you back to his tent.
The cold brightness of an Arctic morning gave way to the warm brown shadows of his tent. He carefully placed you on the blankets, but didn't remove his hand. Not yet. Instead, he leaned forward. Meeting your dark eyes with his blue ones. "Please stop shouting," he pleaded. "Most of these men are decent enough, but one among them, Drax, is a monster. And if they find you here, it will be a terrible mess." He sighed through his nose. "I don't want you to get hurt. Please."
Your eyes searched his face. Somehow, Patrick sensed that you understood him. If not his words, then his intent.
Without thinking, he brushed some wet hair from your face. His fingers lingered on your cheek. "If I remove my hand," he inquired, "will you be calm? Quiet?"
You kept watching him, the gears visibly moving in your head. Then, finally, you bobbed your head as best you could.
Patrick's body slackened with relief. "All right." Slowly, he lifted his hand from your lips. Watched you with a mixture of awe and caution. You stayed quiet as a church mouse.
He allowed himself a smile. "There's a good lass."
You blinked. "Good... lass."
Patrick laughed a little. "Yes, you are." He backed away, allowing you to sit up.
The blanket fell away from you, revealing your bare chest. You continued to be entirely unbothered by your immodesty.
Patrick glanced away, his cheeks turning cherry-red, and fumbled in his open valise. Finding a baggy shirt, he handed it to you. "Please."
You stared at it, then at him. For a moment. he feared he might have to dress you—just where on Earth were you from?!—but then, you gingerly took the shirt. Pinched it between two fingers. Stared at it. Then, hesitantly, you pulled it on. Incorrectly, at first; you wrapped it around yourself like a shawl. Then, sensing that wasn't quite right, you studied the garment like it was a puzzle you had yet to crack.
You found the hole for the head. Stuck your own head through it.
In the end, you were wearing it. Inside out, but good enough.
One of the men left his tent, whistling as he went off to the designated latrine.
You whipped your head towards the noise. Growled low in your throat.
Patrick placed a hand over yours. When you snapped back towards him, he placed a finger over his lips.
Slowly, reluctantly, you wiped the snarl from your face. Your shoulders slumped, your head dropping, as you began to sniffle again.
Patrick felt your hand tremble beneath his. He held it tenderly, his thumb tracing slow circles along your knuckles. "What's the matter?" he asked, though he knew you couldn't answer. "What ails you?"
You shook your head, not looking up, as you kept sniffling. You clung to his hand like a lifeline. Then, shocking him yet again, you crawled to him and rested your head on his lap, hiding your face in his stomach. Your free arm curled around his middle, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. Propriety dictated that this was heinously inappropriate behavior, but for the life of him, Patrick couldn't push you off. Instead, feeling like he was handling a wounded animal, he placed a hand on your back. Right between your shoulder blades.
"I wish I could help you," he stated softly.
You didn't reply. You just lay there, your legs drawn up tight and your face buried in his shirt.
Patrick let you stay there, holding your hand and rubbing your back. Letting you feel, through touch, that he was there. That you weren't alone.
If only it didn't feel so paltry. So much less than what you needed.
What would his parents have done? His mentor?
An idea came to him then. Still holding your hand, Patrick let go of your back and stretched his arm towards his valise. Fumbled around until he found what he was looking for. The moment his fingers found the cool glass, he was soothed. It had that effect on him.
He extracted a framed sketch. The glass was cloudy with his fingerprints, and the frame was more glue than wood at this point, but he'd carried it across oceans and continents. It'd been in his uniform's breast pocket in India. And one day, he wanted whoever was burdened with burying him to make sure this sketch was in his coffin.
"Here," he tapped your shoulder gently, "look."
Slowly, you pulled back. Looked up at him, then at what he was offering you. You tilted your head, your brow furrowing. Hesitantly, you tapped the glass.
Patrick reluctantly let go of your hand to point at the man in the sketch. "This is my father," he told you softly. "He was a good man. Strong, fair, hardworking. And this," he pointed to the woman, "is my mother. The only soft and gentle thing in my world. I remember how she could always see the light, no matter how dark the shadows grew. She had the sweetest voice, and she sang me songs all the time." He listened to himself, wishing he could remember more about his parents than that. "And this little tot," he pointed to the chubby toddler in his mother's arms, "is me."
Your large eyes grew even larger. Your thumb traced Patrick's former self. "P... pup."
Patrick blinked, then chortled. "Yes, I suppose I... I was a pup, yes." He swallowed the lump in his throat before it could choke him, as it always threatened to do. Remembering his ma and da was consistently the most beautiful agony of his life. "This is my family."
"F... fa... family," you echoed softly. Speaking the word as though it were precious. As though it were magic.
You looked up at him, no better than a child. "What is?"
Even at his hungriest and most exhausted, Patrick could unerringly name every single bone in the human body from head to toe. From the time he'd been a boy still trying to grow a beard, he'd been able to explain the main function of the tricuspid valve. Even if he took a little too much laudanum, he could recite entire passages of medical texts from memory. But your question left him stumped.
"Family is a group of people that you share blood with," Patrick explained, annoyed at how barren the answer was. "Usually, at any rate. But it could also be those who care for you when you have no one else. They are those without whom your entire life would be bleaker and unhappier." His beloved mentor's face sailed before his mind's eye. "Family is..." he rolled his shoulders helplessly. "Family is, well, love." Surely, you knew what love was, didn't you?
Slowly, you nodded, your gaze pensive. A tear ran down your cheek. "I... had... family."
Patrick stared down at you, his amazement at hearing you speak a full sentence giving way to grief as he processed it. "What happened?"
You looked up at him with big, gleaming eyes. Anger and grief made your facial muscles twitch. Mute, you pointed towards the tent flap.
Somehow, Patrick understood what you were pointing at. But it didn't make any sense. Those were seals, not people.
Though you'd certainly cried as though they'd been.
And... and when you'd heard Otto snore...
Oh.
Oh.
Again, it made no sense.
But it made sense to you, and that was what mattered.
Patrick felt the faintest outlines of a theory beginning to etch themselves in his mind. You must've been a castaway, just like him and the rest of the men. Maybe whatever you'd endured had cost you your sanity. Now, you believed that a pod of seals were your family. That would explain your limited speech and peculiar behavior: You thought you were one of them.
Patrick wasn't trained for this sort of thing. He'd studied to heal the body, not the mind.
And he knew that your body was in danger. As much as he didn't want to believe it, Patrick knew what months or even weeks at sea with no woman in sight could do to a man. That, paired with the colossal stress of the situation, didn't convince Patrick that his fellow castaways would treat you respectfully.
And then, there was Drax. Who, Patrick sensed, couldn't be trusted with a woman even if he'd been fed, bathed, warm, and as comfortable as any man could ever be.
Besides, you could barely speak English. If they saw you, they'd demand to know where you'd come from. And if you insisted on this story of being a seal, or at least having seals for family, Patrick doubted they'd take kindly to it. They'd probably think you were taking the piss at first, only to realize the truth of your mental state. What would they do then? They couldn't very well take care of you, nor would they want to.
Patrick didn't want to consider it, but had no choice: The men might get so angry at your inability to remedy this ordeal, it might very well be the straw that broke the camel's back. To endure such horror, such misfortune, to become well acquainted with frostbite and starvation and despair... to be then given a glimmer of hope, only to find that it'd been false, a mirage, a gun without bullets, would push most men over the edge. Even decent ones.
And men pushed over the edge might do things left unuttered. Out here, who would ever find out?
Patrick placed a hand on your shoulder, silently asking you to meet his eyes again. When you did, he spoke gently but firmly. "Listen to me: There's ten men here, and one of them is... Well." He cleared his throat. "I... understand your loss," at least, he understood what you thought your loss was, "but these men are desperate, they outnumber you, and this experience has left them unhinged. If you try to attack them, you will die."
You shook your head. "They kill my f-f-family." You held up the framed sketch, desperate to make him understand what this meant to you.
"I sympathize," Patrick promised, "but I don't want them to kill you, too."
Your stare was so nakedly emotional, so raw, it was almost frightening to behold. Your law clenched, your nose flaring with frustrated breaths, but in your eyes was the grief hiding behind the anger. You rested your head against his chest, nuzzling the fabric of his shirt. Still breathing hard.
Patrick had never been touched this much. Not since, perhaps, he'd been an innocent child with two living parents. It was a lot to get accustomed to after such a prolonged deprivation, like a starving man being stuffed with food all at once. And yet, it nourished him.
Patrick rested his cheek on the crown of your head. Closed his eyes. Wondered what the hell he was going to do.
***
You kept wanting to go out, but Patrick wouldn't hear of it. Not during the day. Not when anyone could see you. It was only sheer luck that nobody came snooping around his tent... Then again, he'd overheard one of the men talking about finding gin in one of the last crates, so maybe that was more of a factor than luck.
You begged him, then, for a favor. For a sealskin. Your sealskin, you claimed. If you couldn't get it yourself, then he could fetch it for you. "Need," you kept saying, hugging yourself. "Need. Please. Skin."
"My dear, I'm afraid there are quite a few skins out there at the moment," Patrick informed you. "Which is, er, yours?"
"Gray," you replied. "Black and white, uh.." You paused, digging for the right word like a dog digging for a bone. Finally giving up, you wet your fingers with water from Patrick's canteen, and then proceeded to press your damp fingertips upon a blanket. Creating an array of spots.
"Oh!" Patrick nodded. "I see what you mean." He wasn't sure how much good he was doing you by encouraging your delusion, but despair oozed from your every pore. You looked like he did after missing a couple of laudanum doses. Besides, as he himself had pointed out, there were many sealskins. Would one truly be missed?
Patrick gave your shoulder a comforting squeeze. "I will get it for you."
Your lower lip wobbled. You didn't thank him, perhaps because you didn't know the words. But it didn't matter. He saw the gratitude in your eyes.
Patrick stepped out in the cold, bright day. The sunlight, utterly devoid of heat, made the ice almost too glaring to behold. Instead, Patrick looked up at the sky. As blue as a robin's egg, with feathery white clouds drifting about. Just beyond the blinding, icy terrain, the water was only a few shades darker than the sky, small waves capped with froth as fine as wedding lace.
It was truly remarkable. Beautiful. If only he weren't trapped here.
As Patrick made his way to the designated butchery, where the sealskins were laid out to dry, he saw that his hypothesis proved correct. Walking, he accidentally kicked a couple of empty bottles. One had been thrown in the fire, its label burned to a crisp. Aside from Otto, who was lying on his back and singing 'Leave Her, Johnny' in a key that made Patrick wish he'd been born deaf, all of the men were asleep in their tents, the flaps as open as their snoring mouths.
Well, that wasn't true. Drax was out. And he didn't look any drunker than Patrick did.
"I thought I heard the old man say
'Leave her, Johnny, leave her
Tomorrow you will get your pay
And it's time for us to leave her.'"
Indeed, he was wearing a seal's skull like a grotesque helmet, bits of flesh and sinew still clinging to the bone. A particularly large skin, gray and stamped with leopard-like spots, was draped over his shoulders like a cloak and trailed down to his worn boots.
In such a getup, sharpening his knife, Drax could've stepped out of prehistory.
"Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her
For the voyage is done and the winds don't blow
And it's time for us to leave her!"
His eyes found Patrick, black and large and fiendishly intelligent. "Well, look who came outta his hidey hole." Drax smiled at Patrick. Bared hunger, unwashed teeth. "Hello, doctor. How're you doing?"
Patrick swallowed. "Hello, Drax. Just fine, thank you. And yourself?"
"Oh, the wind was foul and the sea ran high
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
She shipped it green and none went by
And it's time for us to leave her."
"Oh, I'm swell." Drax's smile widened. "Better than I've been in ages, if I'm honest." He tilted his head, his face a pantomime of concern. "Are you sure you're all right, though? I've been hearing ya talk to yourself in your tent all day. You should do theater, sir. There were times where I could've sworn there was another voice in there with you."
"Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her
For the voyage is done and the winds don't blow
And it's time for us to leave her!"
Patrick's spit soured. Swallowing it down, he replied, "Oh, you know. One amuses oneself however possible. The hours are long, and I didn't bring any penny dreadfuls with which to whittle them away."
"We'd be better off in a nice clean jail
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
With all night in and plenty of ale
And it's time for us to leave her."
Drax nodded, as though giving Patrick's response a lot of careful thought. "Maybe it's just you brainy sorts that need ways to kill time. Me, I always have something to keep me busy." He smirked, stroking his cloak as one would a beloved pet. "This one here, for example. He was a mighty big bull. A real alpha type. Tackled me last night, he did. Tried to bite my face off. I whipped out my knife and stuck it in his throat, twisting it until his blood showered on my face." Drax sighed contently. "It was wonderful. Warm, salty, life."
"Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her
For the voyage is done and the winds don't blow
And it's time for us to leave her!"
Patrick thought of you. Of your delusion. If you'd seen Drax now, if you'd understood enough English to comprehend his story... Well. Patrick simultaneously wanted to see you attack this madman and shield you from him at all costs. You were fierce and brave, but Drax was much bigger and stronger.
His time in the military, however, had taught him the art of maintaining a neutral facial expression. Nodding impassively, he remarked, "And now you honor him by donning his skin."
"Of course," Drax made it sound obvious. "If he'd won that fight, I'd have been honored to be worn by him, if the beasts wore cloaks. If you can fight, if you can survive, good. But if you can't? Die, and get out of the way of those who can."
"Remarkable philosophy, that," Patrick replied drily.
Drax shrugged. "It's served me well so far."
"Indeed."
Drax held up his knife. Pierced his fingertip on it, testing the blade's sharpness. A drop of blood welled up, as big as a citrus seed. A dark, precious red, stark against his pale skin.
It was easier for Patrick to imagine the male seal's blood on that blade. Or his own. Or even yours.
"Next time, you should join us," Drax purred. He tucked his blade away. "It'll help you feel like a man, I think." He snorted. "Something resembling a man, at least."
Patrick's eyes narrowed. "May I ask what you mean by that?"
"Yes, you may." Drax got up, pulled the seal skull over his face, and his next words were muffled. "But right now, I can't answer you. I'm going to see if I can find us some fish. If these big dumb beasts could find food in these waters, I'm sure I can, too."
Then, as relaxed as a man in Kensington Gardens, he strolled towards the shoreline. His new cloak flapped in the cold, salt-laced breeze like a thing trying to take flight. Patrick watched him go, his innards a nettled mess of fear and loathing.
Then, he returned to the task at hand: Another skin, for another person.
Patrick perused the display. So many skins. Some big enough to be used as bedspreads, others barely fit to be made into gloves. Ranging in color from pure white to midnight-black. Spots. Rings. Patches of white and black, akin to American cowhides. Some had been peeled off cleanly, with patience and diligence. But most had been done in a rush, the results ragged and uneven and crusty dried bloodstains. One even had stringy bits of flesh sticking to the underside.
But one skin stood out. It was just as you'd described: As gray as cold ashes, dappled with black and white spots no bigger than Patrick's pinky nail.
That wasn't the detail that grabbed Patrick's attention and refused to let go. No. It was that the skin was still bleeding, the snow beneath it reduced to a crimson sludge.
No. No, that simply wasn't possible. It shouldn't have been bleeding, not at this point, and not with this cold. He must've been hallucinating, right? The cold and hunger and stress were conspiring with what you'd told him, trying to trick his eyes. There was no way...
He reached out. Touched the scarlet muck. Queasily, he noticed that it was warm, the heat of the blood coalescing with the iciness of the snow. And while it was more watery than normal blood, courtesy of the snow it'd mixed with, some of it still stuck to his fingers. Bringing his hand to his face, he could see where the blood had already sunk in deep. Where it had stained the delicate, runic grooves of his finger-pads.
Patrick could smell the rust of the blood. Could feel his fingers' new tackiness. He'd seen things before, but nothing as vivid as this.
Either he was truly going mad... or this was real.
Swallowing hard, Patrick rolled up the skin like a carpet and tucked it under his arm. Like the blood oozing from its underside, the hide was warm. Like it'd been sitting in front of the fire... except the fire was eight feet away, and not nearly large enough to provide heat to anything over here.
Patrick beat a hasty retreat to his tent, where he found you biting on the stem of his pipe. Slowly, curiously, like you were testing how it felt on your molars.
In a blink, his spirits lifted. "I'll take that," he plucked the pipe out of your hands, "and give you this instead." He held up the skin, letting it unfurl and grimacing as it splattered blood onto the blankets.
It was a grisly offering indeed, but from the way you lit up, one would've thought he'd just given you all the gold in El Dorado.
You all but threw yourself at the skin, wrapping it around yourself and rubbing your cheek against the soft fur. Blood stained your borrowed clothes and dirtied your face once more, but you either didn't notice or didn't care.
Neither did Patrick, really. Because it was the first time he'd seen you truly happy, and it was a radiant sight to behold.
Still bundled in the skin, you tackled him in a hug, nuzzling his neck. Clicking sounds emerged from your own throat, as strange as they were joyous. Chuckling, he returned your embrace.
"Will use," you told him. "But not now. Want to stay. With Patrick."
Patrick tightened his grip on you. Just a little.
The rest of the day passed in almost domestic comfort.
When your stomach growled, you wanted to go eat. "Fish," you kept saying like a mantra. "Fish, fish!" But since Drax was probably still out there, Patrick compromised with some hardtack from the day before. He soaked it in drinking water and offered you the softened results. You took one bite, grimaced, but ate it anyway.
But not before making a simple request: "Name it."
Patrick did.
You repeated it perfectly.
And so, Patrick taught you another word. And another. And another. And another. Links in a chain.
You were the quickest study he'd ever met, taking to the language like, well, a seal to water. It fed his theory that you'd been marooned here, endured trauma that'd birthed the strange new reality you inhabited, but that your true self was just behind the curtain. Ready to break through the thin skin of delusion.
Now that you had the tools, you described the delusion to him in full, peculiar detail. You told him that you were in fact a seal capable of shedding its skin and becoming human. That the skin you refused to remove was the one you'd been born in, and that you'd emerged from it the night before like a butterfly from its cocoon. That your entire pod, and others like it, had that gift. That you'd been brought here, alongside other dying seals, by the men who'd slaughtered your family. The very same ones that were outside right now.
Patrick watched you as you spoke, scanning everything from your face to your body language to your tone of voice. Everything pointed to you being honest. To you giving him the only truth you had, the only one you believed.
You couldn't remember your name, though. When Patrick asked you for it, you emitted a tonal honk that would've alerted the men if they'd been within shouting distance of sobriety.
Patrick blinked. "That's... your name?"
You nodded eagerly.
Patrick blinked again. "Uh... All right." He laughed a bit. "Would it be all right if I... called you something else?"
You tilted your head, curious.
Patrick suggested a few, rattling off the names of women in plays and books he'd read. Names he vaguely recalled from the places he'd been. Every female name he'd ever heard or could think of.
Finally, you lit up. Nodded excitedly.
"(Y/n)?" Patrick repeated, perking up.
You nodded again, taking his hands in yours.
Patrick laughed, if only to hide the way his stomach somersaulted. "Well, all right then. (Y/n)."
You could've lit all of Hull with the smile you gave him.
Patrick didn't realize he'd forgotten his daily laudanum dose until his hands began to shake within yours.
You noticed. Tightened your hold. Tried to offer comfort, heat, whatever he needed. He could've kissed you for your sweetness.
Instead, he made for the bottle he was currently working through. It was one of the two that remained, and it was less than half-full.
Somehow, you watching him drink made it worse. Made him truly see how wretched he'd become.
He, Patrick Sumner, disgraced and cashiered surgeon, was slave to a bottle of liquified opium poppy. An addict. A weakling.
If his parents could see him now, or his mentor, they'd be ashamed and disgusted. Rightfully so.
You inched closer, sniffing the bottle like a curious puppy.
"No, no," Patrick hugged the bottle to his chest, twisting his body away from you. "Don't... You shouldn't."
You made a questioning noise, more animal than human.
Patrick licked his lips. "This... this is... medicine." It sort of was, anyway. "I know I shouldn't, but... I need it."
You blinked. "Patrick... hurt?"
"Sort of," he conceded. Not in a physical way, certainly. Not in a way that could be readily mended. But he hurt. Everybody did.
You crooned sympathetically. Leaned in to nuzzle his face once again, no different than a housecat.
Patrick leaned into it. Accepted it despite knowing how improper it was.
Without thinking, he turned his head and pecked your cheek. It was quick. Chaste. But it still made you freeze just the same. Back away to stare at him.
Patrick felt his face catch fire. "I-I apologize," he lowered his head, "I meant no disrespect. That was... I apologize. Again."
You blinked. "What was it?" You touched the spot where his lips had brushed.
Patrick stared at you. Could you really not know?
Seals don't kiss, a small voice whispered in his ear. Not like humans do. Maybe her story about being a seal isn't so absurd after all.
Patrick stifled the voice before it could spout any more idiocies. "It was a kiss, (y/n)."
"Kiss." You tasted the word. Decided you liked it, if your shining eyes were any indication. "I give you kiss?"
Patrick went hot all over. Then, cold. Then, hot again. "I... er..." He swallowed. "It wouldn't be appropriate."
Your face was the very definition of 'confusion'.
"You shouldn't," Patrick clarified.
"Oh." You didn't bother to hide your disappointment. "Still. Nice. Kiss."
"Yes," Patrick agreed, "I suppose it would be."
It was teatime before either of you know it. Drax proved himself once more in the eyes of the men by bringing back a quarry of silver scales and snapping pincers. Not very much, especially once it was divided amongst the entire crew, but enough to make some fish stew.
That night, as everyone ate around the fire, Drax got round after round of applause. He basked in it like a lizard in the sun, still donning his new seal skull helmet and cloak. Patrick clapped as little as courtesy allowed him before eating his fill. Then, under the pretense of going for seconds, he refilled the bowl and brought it to his tent. "Here," he whispered, handing it to you. "Much better than hardtack, I promise."
You smiled at him. Gave his hand a quick squeeze. "Thank you."
Patrick returned your simper.
He returned to his spot by the fire. Warmed his hands. Tried to avoid anyone's eyes. If they looked into his long enough, he sensed, they'd somehow see you there as though through a spyglass.
"Do you think we're gonna die here?" One of the men asked. "I mean, the food's good, but..." he trailed off, though everyone heard the rest of his question: What if we can't find more?
"Oh, don't be daft," Cavendish chided, though his voice trembled along the edges. "Our luck's sure to change soon."
"Let's just hope it changes before a snowstorm hits us," Otto remarked. "And make no mistake, lads: A storm will pass through here, sooner or later. It'll flatten these tents, and bury us alive while it's at it."
McKendrick brightened. "What if we went out scouting?"
Silence fell. Looks were traded. All eyes turned to McKendrick.
It was Cavendish who finally voiced everyone's thoughts: "Scouting for what?"
"Anything manmade," McKendrick replied. "A camp, a ship, something. We can't be the only ones, can we?"
"Yes, we can," Patrick rebutted. "We can very much be the only ones." Unless one counted the magical seals who could turn into people. But even if they'd been real, the only seals within five kilometers of here were dead, their meat preserved in small holes carved into the ice and their skins laid out like flowers.
And you, of course. There was you.
Now that Patrick thought about it, a pod of magic, intelligent seals very well might've been this crew's salvation. The creatures could've led them to the nearest human outpost. Shared shelter and food. Maybe even given them a ride in the water.
But that was a foolish fantasy, nothing more. Nearly as foolish as McKendrick's idea. "Have you seen anything out there that's given you reason to hope?"
McKendrick scoffed. "You're even glummer than usual, Sumner."
"Mayhaps," Patrick conceded, "but I'm also a man of science, and I believe that a hypothesis should have some basis of observable fact, even if it later turns out to be wrong. What is yours? Have you seen smoke, or perhaps a distant ship? Have you heard any human voices besides ours? Have you come across items washed up ashore, objects that aren't ours?"
"No," McKendrick answered tersely, "but what will we accomplish by sitting here? We were lucky with the seals and fish, and those skins will buy our passage home, but what good are they if we have no one to sell them to? The fact is, we're starving and we're trapped. We've had that fire burning since we got here, and nobody's come. Either they can't, or they're too far to see it. At least, if we go out searching, we could find someone!"
"I agree!" the man sitting next to him chimed in.
"And me!" another spoke up.
"And me!"
"And me!"
Patrick watched, horrified, as all but himself, Drax, Cavendish, and Otto joined their voices to this doomed cause. Six men in total. More than half.
"We'll go in the morning," one of them insisted, "at first light. And we'll bring some sealskins to bribe whomever we find to bring us all back home."
"You're not taking mine," Drax growled, tightening his sealskin around his shoulders.
Patrick shook his head at the fools. "If you go, you will die."
One of said fools scoffed. "At least we're risking something. What have you done, doctor, besides whine and moan and hide away? First in your quarters on the ship, then in your tent? You didn't help with the seals or the fish. So, really, why should you get a say?"
Patrick's jaw set. "Yes, I am solitary by nature. And yes, I didn't contribute to the food supply. But I've been in dangerous situations before, and I've learned this much: Risking one's life for a worthy cause and throwing it away on despair disguised as hope are two very different things."
But the men were already dismissing his words. Were already going over details for their trip. Feral in their excitement.
Patrick looked to Cavendish, desperate for him to speak up. To decry this plan for the idiocy that it was.
But Cavendish could only shake his head desperately.
Patrick closed his eyes. Rose. Returned to his tent. He didn't bother bidding the men goodnight, or wishing them safe travels. They didn't want his words. And anyway, he knew they wouldn't sleep and that their travels would be anything but safe.
Patrick could see their epitaphs already: And none of them were ever seen or heard from again.
You were sucking the last bits of meat out of the crabs' pincers when he entered. The moment you saw his face, your own puckered. "You are unwell?"
Patrick didn't answer. He simply collapsed onto the nest of blankets, sighed, and closed his eyes.
His eyes opened again, however, when he felt you lie behind him, your chest pressed firmly against his back. Your arm draped over his waist. You nosed the back of his neck, emitting a series of coos and clicks that he'd never heard before but immediately recognized.
A lullaby.
Patrick sighed. Settled against you. You encompassed him. Soft. Warm. Gentle. And when he sought your hand, you wove your fingers together.
Your strange song followed him all the way to his dreams, flowering like dandelions. He wouldn't have had it any other way.
***
The next few days passed as slowly and as coolly as an ice floe. With half the camp gone and the other half knowing all too well what'd befallen them, there was little to break the silence save the wind and sea.
There was more food to go around, even as it kept dwindling. And there were far fewer sealskins. Nobody mentioned either.
Patrick stayed in his tent, with you, as much as he could get away with. He drank his laudanum and tried not to think about what would happen when it ran out. He read his books. He smoked his pipe. He taught you more words. He told you his story. He fed you what he could. And at night, when you curled your body around his, he slept better than he ever had. In the darkness, wrapped in your arms, there was nothing to fear.
He had it easy because he had you. The other men were unspooling like threadbare sweaters.
Cavendish made, and then unmade, a dozen solutions. He talked to himself. Cursed himself, Baxter, Brownlee, the insurance fraud, the weather, God, and everything else that'd brought him here. More than once, Patrick saw Cavendish fondling his knife. Looking at it with the tender longing one would give a lover.
Drax prowled the ice in his seal cloak and skull helmet. He went out all day with an old harpoon that'd washed up ashore, eager to find anything to kill. Every dusk saw him come back empty-handed and ever angrier. At night, as everyone consumed their evening meal—the seafood soup, growing thinner each night, and some seal meat—with ever lessening enthusiasm, he looked upon them as though he'd have loved to kill them and stick them in a pot.
Patrick made it a point never to sit next to Drax. Especially with the strange ganders Drax kept shooting him. Like he was a puzzle piece he kept spinning, desperately trying to make it fit into place.
Otto cooked, if only to have something to do, and sang sea shanties. Even when Drax struck him, Otto kept singing.
And, as the cold winds rose, Otto sang louder.
The men had been wrong to leave, but they hadn't been wrong about the weather. Sunshine and blue skies became a thing of the past. Huge, thick clouds—lilac at night, flint-gray during the day—traversed the heavens almost as slowly as the glaciers below them. Patrick both loved and hated to behold those clouds. They were as grand as castles and just as large, their bellies pregnant with blizzards that never came.
Not yet, anyway.
But they would. You confirmed it.
"Soon," you kept saying. "Soon. Must sleep in pile, all of us. Keep warm that way."
Like seals. Patrick shook his head. "Seals have blubber and insulated fur. They were made for this climate. We were not." Something occurred to him then. A small hole in your story. "You could make it," he pointed out. "You could put your skin on, become a seal again, leave, and survive. You know what to do, and you can do it well, I'm sure. So, why not go and save yourself?"
You looked at him as though he'd lost his reason. Your hands found his unshaved cheeks, caressing the windswept skin there with all the gentleness in the world. "Can't leave you," you replied. "Won't."
Patrick stared at you, unable to comprehend.
You smiled at him. "You are family."
The word landed between you like something sacred. Patrick could only stare at you for the longest time, feeling his insides turn to mush, before he came to a startling realization: The feeling was mutual. Who else did he have? Yes, the crew outside, but circumstance forced their proximity, not choice. If they ever returned to civilization alive, Patrick knew that they'd all be eager to part ways, to avoid looking upon each other and remembering all that they'd endured.
But you? He'd remember the Arctic every time he looked at you, but he'd also remember you chewing on his pipe, cuddling him at night, and sharing your strange story with him. He'd remember teaching you words, watching you struggle to get dressed, and enjoying your many and generous nuzzles. He'd remember these stolen moments of happiness, of contentment, of warmth, that'd made this entire ordeal just a little more bearable.
Patrick cupped your face, mirroring you, and kissed your forehead. Then, unable to stop himself, he kissed your eyelids. Your temples. Your cheeks. Your nose.
He stopped at your lips. Hesitating. Still clinging to some notion of propriety. Not to mention the fact that, even if by some miracle you made it back to the real world, he'd have precious little to offer you.
But Patrick was a man of science, of fact, and he knew that your chances of surviving next week were deficient, never mind returning to warmer, kinder lands.
There was no future. There was only now. This very moment.
And him. And you.
Patrick looked into your eyes, his own holding a question.
You answered, closing the distance between your mouths. You kissed him slow, grounding, your thumbs tracing little circles in his cheeks. He kissed you back, unhurried but hungry. Like neither of you had known how much you'd wanted this until it'd finally happened.
Patrick kissed you like had no intention of wasting it. Like he meant every instant of contact. And you kissed him back like this was the best new experience you could've ever dreamed of.
When your lips broke, Patrick pressed your foreheads together. The two of you were slightly out of breath, your hearts beating a staccato rhythm in your chests, and you were shaking. Clinging to one another for support.
The moment was scary and wonderful and permanently seared in both your minds.
You smiled at him then. "I like kisses."
Patrick laughed, his nose brushing against yours. But before he could confirm that he very much liked them, too—with you—the tent flap was ripped open.
Drax was there, his face as white and gaunt as a skull. "So, it's true."
Patrick instinctively shielded you with his body. Drax punched him in the ear, sending him sprawling on his side. You cried out, hurrying to see if he was all right.
Drax grabbed you by the hair and hauled you outside. You hissed and snarled, scratching at his hand with your nails, but he ignored the cuts.
He threw you before the campfire like a sack of oats. "Look what we have here!"
You scrambled to your feet, clutching your sealskin close.
Otto dropped the spoonful of watery soup he'd been tasting. "Who the Devil is that?!"
Cavendish's jaw dropped. "A... a woman? How...?"
"Ask the doctor!" Drax snarled. "I found her in his tent."
You growled at Drax. Recognizing him as the bigger threat.
Patrick was before you in a heartbeat, his ear still ringing but his shoulders squared. "Please!" he shouted. "Please, don't hurt her!"
"Sumner," Cavendish demanded, "what is the meaning of this? Who is this woman? Where did she come from?"
Patrick didn't really know how to answer any of those questions. Instead, he gave the only reply that he knew to be true. "She is very precious to me. Please."
"Who are you?" Otto asked you, bypassing Patrick. "Where are you from? Do you come from a town, a village? Is it nearby?"
"You know it isn't," Patrick rebutted, keeping you behind him even as you kept snarling. "We would've seen evidence of it by now if there was. Smoke, people on boats, voices, anything. And our fellow crewmates didn't come back, which further shows that we are alone. By this point, if there'd been anything to find, they'd have found it."
Drax eyed you like you were a present he couldn't wait to tear into. "Maybe God took pity on us and sent us a bit of pleasure before we die."
"No." Patrick's voice was stone. "You will not lay a hand on her."
"Oh?" Drax asked. "And what are you going to do about it? Lecture me to death?"
Behind Patrick, you stopped growling. He dared a glance over your shoulder. You were staring at Drax, your face slack with shock and white as a fish's belly.
"(Y/n)?" he ventured.
"F... F..." You swallowed, your throat clicking. "Father. Skin."
Patrick reverted his gaze to Drax. To the long sealskin he never took off anymore.
Before Patrick could even think the words 'oh, no', you'd pushed past him and tackled Drax to the ground. You were a blur of motion, roaring as you ripped the skull off his face and threw it aside. Drax was bigger and stronger than you, but just for a moment, he was too shocked to move. You used that moment to your advantage.
With your teeth.
There was a wet ripping sound. A flash of red. A scream of pure agony.
Patrick caught a flash of steel in Drax's hand.
He acted, sliding to his knees and grasping Drax's wrist. Just above it, the blade in Drax's fist gleamed even in the frozen gloom.
Patrick saw what you'd done to Drax's face, and a mixture of pride and horror overcame him.
You'd bitten his cheek right off, exposing his teeth and bloody flesh to the elements.
And you weren't satisfied. Lips bloody, eyes wild, you tried to go for his nose next.
But before you'd gotten it off, Drax will have overpowered you both. Put that knife to good use.
"Go!" Patrick shouted at you.
You looked at him with your enormous eyes. "Patrick—"
"Go!" He yelled the word, if only to drown out his heart crying, Stay!
Your face crumpling, you obeyed. In a blink, you were off Drax and running... for the shoreline?
Drax shoved Patrick off and ran after you, bellowing like a beast. Blood streaked his neck and stained his beard, the only bit of color in this monochrome hell.
As you raced towards the water, you undressed. Undid the rope keeping Patrick's trousers on you. Peeled off his socks. Yanked his sweater over your head.
You wrapped yourself in the skin instead.
All the while, Drax was gaining on you.
He was ten feet away from you.
Eight.
Five.
Two.
Patrick screamed your name.
The skin closed around you, knitting itself together like magic.
For a second, you were second cousin to an Egyptian mummy. Bound in flesh instead of bandages.
Then, your body shrank. Plumped up. Flippers materialized where your feet should've been. Muscle and flesh rippled beneath the fur.
You were gone. A gray seal adorned with black and white spots had taken your place.
But when it turned back, just for a second, Patrick saw your eyes staring back at him.
The seal dove. Drax grabbed the air it—you—had occupied only a heartbeat prior.
There was a splash.
There were Drax's screamed curses.
There was the shock rooting everyone else to the spot.
Summary: The Volunteer has sunk, the voyage is doomed, and its survivors are starving in their frozen camp. When they come across a pod of Arctic seals, they can't believe their luck. All of a sudden, they have meat and skins to trade for passage back to civilization.
While he cannot argue the logic, or their dire need, Patrick Sumner wants no part in it. He retreats in his tent... only to find you cowering there, your sealskin shed and your new, human body a mystery.
Your eyes are those of a seal, big and scared. For the life of him, he can't deliver you to the others. Instead, Patrick hides you, teaches you how to speak, and helps you reclaim your skin.
In doing so, he shows you that no all humans are the monsters from your people's stories.
In fact, some of them may even be worth loving.
Part Two is here.
Warnings: Contains the hunting of seals, blood, gore, angst, emotional trauma, building trust, learning to speak, eventual emotional intimacy, drug use, smut, interspecies romance, and soft ending.
The few times he'd considered it before boarding that cursed ship, Patrick Sumner had always thought that the Arctic would be white. White snow, white skies, white polar bears, and white icebergs as far as the eye could see. A place of colorless frost and whipping winds, akin to Helheim in Norse mythology.
How wrong he'd been.
Now that he and the rest of the damned were surrounded by it, Patrick got to see the Arctic's colorful spectrum for the first—and, given their dwindling chances of survival, last—time.
The sky changed shades of blue every hour of the day, like it couldn't decide what color to wear.
At the bookmark of each day, the horizon was periwinkle striped with thin pink bands. Right before the sun showed its face, the eastern sky burned orange.
The water, too, was different each day. Some days, it was the dark gray of gunmetal. Other days, it was liquid sapphire. Just as often, it was the exact shade of absinthe.
Even the ice was remade with every dawn. Painted rosy by dawn, weeping at midday, hardening again come nightfall.
Ah, nightfall. The heavens were more navy than black, with enough starlight to read by.
It was beautiful. Stunning. Breathtaking.
As good a show as any to witness before he died.
Patrick sipped some of his laudanum, glad that he'd had some on him when the ship sank. He didn't have much left, which was why he'd been doing his best to ration his meager supply. Already, he was weak with starvation and exhausted by the cold, no different from the rest of the survivors. But unlike them, he had another vulnerability: If he ran out of this precious poison, he'd grow sick. Become a burden. And if that happened, he didn't trust his crew to take care of him.
Best case scenario: They dumped him somewhere away from camp to die out of sight.
Worst case? They decided to eat him. Maybe have Drax butcher his body and then convince themselves the meat they were eating was pork.
Patrick needed another drink. Instead, he stoppered the bottle and returned it to its hiding spot under his blankets.
In the next tent over, angry voices were beginning to rise with the fanged wind. Patrick didn't need to listen to know what they were arguing about. It was one of three topics, really: Stay or go, whether or not they should start eating one another (Drax's sublime idea), or whether they should forgo another meal in order to make their supplies last that much longer.
"We should get out of here while we still can!" McKendrick stated. "Before we're too weak to move!"
"And go where?!" Otto argued. "There's nothin' but snow and ice and water in every direction!"
"There's got to be something! Anything!" another man shouted.
"But what if there ain't?" Cavendish wailed. "What if we'd be leaving what little shelter we got?! Why not just leave well enough alone?!"
"You call this 'well enough'?" McKendrick challenged.
Patrick stopped listening after that. Instead, he turned to his tomes. Lost himself in their yellowing pages. Tried to forget his cold and his hunger.
For a while, he was indeed far from the Arctic. Instead, he was somewhere warm. Hot, even. Burning. Blasting.
India.
He saw the bleeding sun.
He heard the sounds of war, louder than any thunderclap.
He felt his leg scream.
He saw the little Indian boy.
It was realer than anything that'd come after it. Realer than this voyage, by far.
So real it was that, when he jerked awake, Patrick required a moment to remember where he was. About the time his gritty eyes needed to adjust to the gloom.
Just outside the feeble shelter of his tent, the sky was bleeding and the men were whooping. Cheering. Whipping themselves up into a frenzy. Their shadows writhed on the pink-hued ice.
Patrick climbed out of his tent, pulling his topmost coat closer to his body. He was wearing virtually every raiment he'd ever owned, but it barely did a thing against the northern winds.
What he saw, he could barely comprehend.
His fellow survivors of the Volunteer were handing out makeshift clubs and sharpening their knives, their excited gabber rising up in silvery plumes above their heads. Their eyes twinkled like the first stars appearing overhead. Patrick hadn't seen them this happy since their first few nights aboard.
Happiness was supposed to be infectious. But all he could feel was dread.
Drax being free of his chains, wielding not one club but two, didn't help Patrick's stomach settle.
Bypassing the brute, Patrick tapped Cavendish on the shoulder. "What is happening?"
Cavendish grinned at Patrick. Wide and toothy and wild. "A pod, Sumner. Pod o' seals, barely a league away from here! Two of our boys reported back when I sent them lookin' for... well, anythin', really. And this is better than we could've hoped for!"
Patrick's eyebrows nearly brushed his hairline. "Seals?"
"Yeah! Blubber, meat, and sealskins!" Cavendish gave a delirious laugh. "We can trade with the Inuit for passage. Maybe, if we get enough, we can make it all the way back to Hull. It ain't the same as whale oil, to be sure, but it's valuable just the same!"
"We could use an extra hand!" McKendrick offered Patrick a club that might've once been a plank from one of the supply boxes they'd salvaged. Nails poked through the end, as sharp as porcupine quills.
Patrick could see himself grabbing the club. Helping his fellow survivors ensure they made it back to the real world. But it was like something had snipped the connection from his brain to his arms.
The fact was, he'd tried to prepare for the expedition by reading whatever books he could find on the Arctic. Never mind what a waste that'd turned out to be. Among his tomes, he'd found sketches of seals. Big eyes, fat bodies, almost cat-like faces. Adorable, and surprisingly tenacious.
Of course, Patrick had known long beforehand that sealskins were valuable, and that the Inuit used every part of the animal they relied so heavily on for survival. He'd known that sealskin made for excellent tents and boots, and that the blubber could be made into an oil for lamps. He'd known all this, yet it hadn't triggered much in him by the way of sentiment. Man held dominion over beasts, after all.
And yet, seeing those sweet faces, those large eyes... Patrick had felt a twinge of grief. Of sorrow. Knowing that he couldn't change the way of the world, and lamenting his own powerlessness.
Patrick swallowed. Hard. "I... We..."
"What're you waiting for, dawn?!" The club was forced into his hands. "There should be at least twenty! More than enough to buy us passage to the nearest port town, and get us some proper food."
Patrick blinked. Behind his eyelids, he saw fractured bone. Mangled bodies. Snow turned to crimson sludge.
Man held dominion over beasts.
And these men in particular would die if they didn't seize this chance.
Patrick couldn't deny it. Every day, he could feel himself growing weaker. Could see his future fading like a departing ship on a foggy morn.
He could also see what the other men would think if he backed out due to sentiment. Drax in particular thought him a weakling. Worse, an intelligent weakling. If Patrick fueled that fire, then it'd spell trouble for him later.
In times like these, men's lives were on the line, they became shockingly adept at deciding who among them wasn't worth saving.
"And who will keep the fire lit?" Patrick tried to sound sure of himself. "It was difficult enough to keep it burning so far. If it putters out, we are lost. No," he shook his head, "let me remain behind to keep the fire high and hot. It'll act as beacon for your return."
Cavendish looked uncertain, but as he opened his mouth to protest, Brownlee spoke up. "Ah, let him stay." As he passed by, wielding his club like it'd fused to his palm, he glowered at Patrick. "Last I checked, hunting was something that men did."
Not for the first time, Patrick asked whatever deity he figured was running the cosmos why the sweet cabin boy, Joseph Hannah, had died while this bitter little man had survived so far.
The men were already hurrying out of the campsite, more shades than living people in the encroaching dark. The campfire's feeble flames cast their shadows against the ice, long and jagged.
Drax was leading the charge, howling like he'd been doing this all his life.
The sound blooming from his throat was obscene. Utterly devoid of anything resembling civilized.
"I am a man like any other, give or take," he'd stated.
A wolf in sheep's clothing.
Or, in this case, perhaps a seal's.
Cavendish sighed. "Someone's gotta keep that bugger in check." He handed Patrick his pistol. "Just in case a bear or a wolf show up."
Patrick pocketed the weapon. "Much obliged."
And with that, he was alone.
Not a terribly novel state of affairs for Patrick Sumner. But now, out here, on the very edge of the world, it was reshaped into something new. Twisted. Alien.
Patrick had spent his life feeling out of place. The odd one out. He'd lost both his parents at a young age, to the point that recalling their faces was like summoning a distant dream. Years later, when he'd still been far too young, his mentor, his surrogate father, the reason he'd gotten into medical practice to begin with, had died as well.
After that, Patrick had always felt like a rock in a river. A presence that the rest of the world, namely people, moved around without truly touching.
He'd been alone. Alone in a crowded room. Alone on a busy street. Alone in the middle of a war.
But now, he truly felt like the last man on Earth. A microscopic, insignificant specimen in a vast world of ice and snow. A thing that not only didn't belong here, but would leave no footprints if it departed... in one way or another.
Somewhere in the distance, wolves began to howl. Their voices, so eerily beautiful, climbed into the starry night. Hungry. Wild. Belonging.
Was the wind blowing his scent away from them, or towards them?
Patrick hurried back to the hearth. Fed it more firewood, courtesy of the crates they'd smashed. Added a few, precious drops of whale oil. Another miraculous recovery, now worth a thousand times its asking price.
The flames rose, reaching for the constellations with luminescent fingers. Growling like some beast in his den. Making the shadows darken as they danced.
For the first time all day, Patrick was warm. Almost comfortable. And yet, it brought him no solace.
He sat before the blaze. Tucked his knees against his chest. Stared into the ever-rippling tapestry of gold, white, and crimson.
After a while, he could see shapes within it.
He must've been in a worse state than he'd thought. Starvation, fear, exhaustion, and the occasional mouthful of laudanum... it was all finally getting to him.
Besides, fire could be hypnotic. Misleading. Stare into it long enough, and you'll see just about anything.
Even so, Patrick couldn't deny what he was seeing.
Seals, as graceful as swallows, swimming within the sparks. And sometimes, just for a heartbeat, they became people.
***
You were supposed to wake from nightmares, back into peacefulness.
That was how it was supposed to work.
Instead, you were woken from peaceful slumber and thrust into a nightmare.
You looked around with wild eyes, barely comprehending what you were witnessing.
Creatures with burning sticks whooping and hollering as they descended upon you.
The sickening cracks of skulls being caved in.
The first whiff of blood, thick and coppery, thickening in an instant.
Your family members trying to defend themselves, employing their sharp claws and powerful mandibles, but dying all the same. Oldest to youngest falling all around you, dying in puddles of their own blood. Of their own brains.
Your uncles and aunts.
Your siblings.
Your parents.
For too long, you were too shocked to do anything but cower. Trying to understand what was this horror you found yourself in, and what were these animals wringing it upon you.
They seemed familiar, you'd seen them from time to time from the safety of the water, but—
Finally, you snapped out of it. You lunged, teeth flashing and claws swinging.
You bit. You scratched. You fought. You desperately tried to protect those still alive even as the blood of the slain marred your coat.
You fought mindlessly, desperately, even though your foes were so much bigger and stronger than you.
Distantly, you heard splashes. Felt relief. Good. You'd bought some members of your pod time to escape. Not much. Probably a minute or two, if that. But more than they might've otherwise had.
But it wasn't enough. Too many had died. You couldn't look at them. Not yet.
You managed to somehow tackle one of the creatures. Crawled up his—you sensed it was a male—chest and found his neck. The rest of this thing's body was foreign to you, but you knew a throat when you saw one.
You bit. Hard. Felt flesh yield before your strong teeth, your powerful jaw. Hot blood flooded your senses. Not like fish or squid. But you kept biting. Chewing. Burrowing your muzzle until your nose bumped against bone.
Appendages grabbed your tail. Pulled you off your victim with far, far too much strength.
Then, a sharp pain to your skull.
White-hot, an echoing crack.
Then, nothing.
***
When you came to, the first thing to hit you was the ropes digging into your skin. Tight. Rough. Wet. Gummy with blood.
Your heart throwing itself against your ribs, you twisted around in your confined space. Trying to understand where you were.
When you did, your stomach plummeted to your tail.
A net. You were in a net. Being dragged by the things that had killed your pod.
And you weren't alone. Pressed up against you were more members of your family. Wounded, like you. Bleeding, like you. But not dead, like... you nearly wailed... the corpses slung over so many of the creatures' shoulders, barely recognizable as your kin. Some of them had had their heads smashed in so severely, they'd practically been decapitated.
What did these beings want? Did they want to eat you, like polar bears and orcas and foxes? If so, why hadn't they dug in already? Were they bringing back whatever they hadn't consumed to their... den? Hovel? Wherever they lived?
And why were you and the others still living?
You observed your captors. Tried to figure out what they were. Since you couldn't move, couldn't fight, couldn't do anything, you had little alternative.
They were unnatural. Walked on two legs. No fangs. No claws. Multicolored skins that hung off them. Made strange noises when they communicated.
You'd never seen their sort here before. Not so close. And yet...
Finally, your poor frazzled brain recognized them. You'd never seen a real one; just the shape your kind could take for reasons none of you understood. To step into that new shape was a rite of passage, an experience, like your first hunt and your first swim and your first mating season.
These things were humans.
You began to panic, and if it hadn't been for the bleeding and dying bodies of your fellow seals pressed up against you like packed snow, you'd have started thrashing. That probably would've doomed you. A part of you hoped one would notice and kill you. At least you'd be spared what might come next. What the stories of your people, as old as the tides and the ice, had always warned of.
Your surviving kin, sensing your distress, nuzzled up to you as best they could. Pressed their noses into your skin. Coiled their tails around your body. Rubbed their whiskers against you. You basked in their love. Their comfort.
And when they succumbed to their lacerations, one by one, you mourned them silently. Waited for your turn. It never came. That, perhaps, was cruelest above all.
You dozed off. Awoke. Grieved. Dozed off again. Until time lost all meaning.
Until something changed.
Brightness in the distance. Dawn? No. The eastern horizon was still too dark, the stars still gleaming.
It was... more human work. Like the distant pinpricks of luminescence your pod had spotted from time to time. As pups, you were told to keep your distance. Now, you were being hauled towards it.
What was the word for it? Your nana had named it. F... f... fire, yes. Sunlight in a pit, fed by wood.
Weird things surrounded the fire. Rocks? No. Squarish. Unnatural.
And sitting by the fire, another human. He looked up. Rose. You couldn't read his face, so alien it was to you. Yes, all your kind changed into humans once, just to learn about that part of your biological heritage, but you never stayed in that odd shape. Just once or twice.
It wasn't a handy shape in the wild. It couldn't holds its breath for long. Swam too slowly. Was too poor at hunting. Didn't have any blubber to keep warm. Couldn't see or smell as well. So, why keep it?
The human's face may have been alien, but you recognized his tone well enough. He was horrified, and quickly growing angry. Soon, he and the others were making loud noises at each other, not unlike the bulls in your pod arguing over things like food and females.
The net you were in was hauled away. Brought near one of the strange things. Dropped. Forgotten. The one who'd dragged your net here returned to the fire, where the others were still barking at each other.
A couple had no interest in the fight. They sat by the blaze with your dead brethren in tow. Summoned sharp things from their inner skins. Began to peel. Blood flowed like melting ice.
Nobody looked towards your net. They didn't even send somebody to guard it, like a member of your pod might've been assigned to watch your stash of food.
Nobody was paying attention.
You didn't want to leave your dead kin. But you didn't want to join them, either. Not when you had a chance to live.
In the water, you were fast and agile. But on land, you were slow. Toddling. It was part of the reason why pods were always in groups on land. Alone, on the ice, you'd make a tasty find for a fox or a bear. But even a starving bear would hesitate before attacking a pod.
But... as weak as it was, as strange as it was... your human shape was quicker on land. It was a land animal, made to run and climb and crawl and walk.
For a moment, you weren't sure how to do it. You'd only done it once, and had changed back quickly. Eager to be yourself again. What if you couldn't...?
Suddenly, you felt... overburdened. Restricted in a way that the dead weren't to blame for. Like that time you dove into a seaweed forest and emerged tangled in several tendrils of the stuff.
Eventually, with the patient aid of your mother and sisters, the greenery had slid off.
Something else was sliding off you now. Something warm and soft and comfortable.
Leaving you cold. Wet. Exposed.
You twisted you tail, trying to get more comfortable. But you had two now, split down the middle.
Your flippers, no longer flippers, reached out. So much longer than they used to be.
Covered in your own blood. Like you'd been dipped in it from head to tail.
No, not tail... Legs.
Found the net's hem.
With appendixes so much more dexterous than you were used to, you pulled.
Gave yourself an opening.
You slid under it. Bigger than you remembered being, but with more ease than you expected.
Skinless, raw, no better than a newborn cub, you crawled out. Made it back under the open sky.
Instantly, the wind—a mere nuisance on the average day, even when it picked up—bit you with frosted fangs. The blood coating your new form, adhering your... your hair to your head... instantly froze. Burning you with a cold you'd never known.
You instinctively hunched over, wrapped your... arms... around yourself. It was no use. You felt like you'd freeze to death right then and there.
Instinct kicked in.
You didn't know what the things around the fire were, but they were shelter. Crude shelter, but shelter nonetheless. You ducked into the one the net was closest to.
The cold relented, if a bit. The wind stopped chewing on you.
You found things that looked like skins but weren't. Not caring, you burrowed under them. Oh, softness! Oh, sweet relief! You didn't care if you smothered yourself to death. At least you'd die warm.
Eventually, the worst of the shakes left your body. Leaving your brain just enough room to think.
You knew this area like your own body. Well, your real body. You knew that there was nothing but water and ice for kilometers, far enough from human settlements that your pod—and others—had never worried too much about them showing up.
So, why were these ones here?!
You decided you didn't care. You'd rest. Reclaim your skin. Dive into the water and get as far away as possible. Maybe find another pod and beg them to take you in. It was unusual, but surely, it could be done, couldn't it? You were young and healthy. You could be bred, and help the other mothers watch over the young. You could hunt. You could help keep an eye out for predators. You could earn your keep.
A dark thought seeped into your mind.
Yes, you could reclaim your skin. Swim away. Survive.
But you could kill these humans first.
It was one thing to be eaten. It was the natural order of things. To be flesh was to eat and be eaten. To either kill to live, or die so something else might.
But even a hungry orca didn't decimate an entire pod. These humans had. They'd killed every seal they'd found. Far more than they'd needed.
And for that, they'd pay.
You'd never killed in this form before, but you doubted it'd be too hard.
Soothed by thoughts of death, of blood paying for blood, you dozed off.
***
It was for survival, they all said. The more meat, the better. The more skins, the more paved their road home would be. The more blubber, the more light after dark.
But for the life of him, all Patrick could see was barbarism.
Fifteen seals, some still barely more than pups, butchered. Two of them had been pregnant, their half-formed litters spilling out when their bellies were cut open.
Blood soaking into the ice. Bones sticky with viscera. Organs gleaming in the new dawn like wet jewels. Skins being crudely peeled by short tempers and fingers gone clumsy with cold.
He couldn't even eat the meat Cavendish gave him. "You need it," his leader coaxed. "And with Brownlee gone, there's more for the rest of us."
A practical way of seeing things. Less people meant more food for those that remained. Patrick still disliked it.
He couldn't say he was too upset at Brownlee dying. He'd been as mean as a bear with a wasp in its ear, and twice as vulgar.
If only Drax could've joined him, too. But no. Drax was in his element out here. He'd been bitten, like the rest, but not nearly as much. Certainly better than McKendrick, who'd lost two fingers.
Drax boasted the highest kill count at eight seals. The other men looked at him with something approaching reverence now. Among them was a true hunter. A provider.
Patrick, meanwhile, was the one who'd stayed behind. The coward. The only one who hadn't lifted a finger to earn his meat.
Within minutes of him refuting his meal, Otto came sniffing about. Patrick gave it to him without a word.
He wanted his laudanum. But he'd already had his daily allowance. Perhaps he could smoke his pipe instead. Or at least chew on the stem. It beat gritting his teeth, at any rate.
He wouldn't be missed, either. After a long night's hunt and the first filling meal they'd had since before the ship sank, the men were hunkering down. Retreating into their tents. No doubt feeling more optimistic than they had in a while.
Patrick couldn't say he hated them. But he couldn't ignore the blood, either.
The surgeon retreated into his tent just in time to see the pile of blankets moving.
He froze. Stared.
The blankets kept shifting. Slowly. Lethargically.
A flap of fabric fell away, revealing a woman's face coated in dried blood. Hair glued into place by gore.
Transfixed, he watched you sit up and rub your eyes. The cloth slipped down your shoulders, barely preserving your modesty.
Your eyes opened. Found his.
You froze.
Patrick held up his hands. "Easy."
You hissed at him, baring your teeth and bobbing your head.
Patrick stumbled back, nearly exiting the tent entirely. "It's all right," he spoke as softly as he could. "I'm not going to harm you."
You kept hissing at him. Kept bobbing your head.
All the while, he puzzled over your very presence. What in the world was a woman doing here? Why were you naked and covered in dried blood? How had you gotten here?
You snapped your jaws at him. Animal. Furious.
Not knowing what else to do, Patrick lowered himself to the ground until he was practically lying on his belly. Trying to make himself as small as possible.
Your bobbing slowed, your snarl softening by a fraction.
A wild idea came to him then. He rolled on his back and, even though he knew he'd hate it, got to work unbuttoning and untying his many layers.
All too soon, his belly was exposed to the elements. To you.
The cold carved right into his organs. Froze his blood. Licked at his spine. But he didn't move. Just lay there. Sensing, on some strange, primal level, that this was the way.
Your snarl slowly faded from your blood-painted lips, leaving only confusion.
You beheld him. He beheld you.
Took in how strangely you carried yourself, how uncomfortable you seemed. How big your eyes were—the biggest he'd ever seen, in fact, and almost completely round. The way you leaned in, nose first, and sniffed the air while keeping your gaze on him. Like you were trying to catalogue his scent.
Slowly, clumsily, you made your way towards him. You kept falling onto the blankets, no different from a newborn horse. You dragged your legs behind you even though Patrick could see nothing wrong with them.
At last, you leaned over him. He could smell you: Coppery blood and seawater.
You studied his belly, your eyes following every freckle, scar, goose-bump, and hair.
Patrick, in turn, examined your face. Watched the way confusion slowly gave way to curiosity, which in turn finally turned to understanding. To some degree, anyway.
You raised your gaze from his belly to his gaze. Tilting your head.
Patrick swallowed. Hard. Otherwise, he didn't move a muscle.
"I'm not going to harm you," he repeated, his voice as soft as new snow.
You may not have comprehended his words, but you seemed to finally sense the meaning behind them.
You crooned. Reminded him of a puppy still learning how to make noise. Then, you returned to the blankets. Slipped under the topmost one and settled there.
Patrick dared to sit up. You did nothing. He buttoned himself back up. Still nothing.
He found his pipe. Chewed on it. You watched him with those enormous eyes. He watched you back. A peculiar silence fell over you both.
Finally, he placed a hand on his chest. "Patrick."
You blinked.
He tried again. "Pat. Trick."
You stared at his lips. Patrick would've been flustered if he hadn't seen you then moving your own lips. Trying to mimic him.
Patrick repeated his name. Slowly.
What came out of your mouth wasn't an echo. But it wasn't a croon, either. Something between human and animal.
Patrick couldn't help but smile. "You're an odd little thing, aren't you?"
You made something like a bark, though it was too soft to truly count as one. "Yorp."
Patrick huffed with laughter.
You blinked. Tried to huff with laughter, just as he had. It didn't sound convincing even to your own ears, given your frown. You tried again. Not much better.
Patrick chuckled, then stopped.
When was the last time he'd laughed? He couldn't rightly recall.
Patrick looked at you once more. In awe of what you'd brought out of him.
You looked back at him with those strange eyes of yours. Large. Curious. Seal-like.
Summary: You and Walter have been together for nine months, and while you are both happy, Walter can't help but see the financial imbalance between you. You have a good job, a house you inherited from your parents, and the ability to support both yourself and him. He's spent a good chunk of his life squatting in foreclosed houses, living off cheap diner food, and fighting in barely-legal boxing matches for about two hundred dollars per victory.
Your birthday is almost here, and he sees you eyeing a pearl necklace . It would make the perfect gift. Something that'd make you happy. Something that'd prove that he can provide for you just as you've provided for him.
But there's only one way he could pay for it.
Warnings: Fighting, blood, injuries, fluff, financial destitution, emotional angst, smut, p in v sex, praise, emotional sex, and crying during sex.
You planned it as well as you could, armed with the knowledge of Walter's schedule, his internal clock, and how low Stan's price was.
Whether Walter spent the night at your house or in whatever foreclosed property he and Stan were squatting in, Stan always woke him up just before dawn. Always gave him some chalk-flavored protein sludge, his 'champion's breakfast', and gave him ten minutes to be ready for their inevitable jog towards the dilapidated gym. That gym would be Walter's world until sundown, with Stan hovering over him the entire time. Pushing him. Encouraging him. Correcting his moves, his posture, anything. Telling him how important this next match was and how much money they were going to make.
Not today. You wouldn't allow it. And all it'd taken to keep Stan away was a hundred bucks. Hopefully, he'd spend it on something a bit more productive than lap dances and poker. Hell, you'd have been happy if he bought one nice shirt. One. The guy's aesthetic could be best described as 'bowler chic'.
But Stan wasn't the Kaminski on your mind this morning. Or any morning, for that matter.
No. That honor belonged to Walter. The younger Kaminski. As sweet and strong as rum.
You hated leaving his slumbering embrace. But you knew he'd love what came next. Gently kissing the corner of his lips, right on a yellowish bruise, you slipped out of bed. Ash raised her head, tail wagging gently. You quietly patted your thigh, inviting her along. That was all she needed to become your furry shadow.
You fed Ash first. Stroked her back as she chowed down on the mixture of dog food and leftover meat she was so fond of. For such a thin animal, she ate like a black hole. In this, she and her owner were two peas in a pod. As she ate, you began to take things out and place them on the counter.
Whenever he wasn't with you, Walter ate whatever came cheapest. Whatever could stretch his winnings—well, whatever Stan let him keep of said winnings, since the elder Kaminski was in debt more often than not. Diner food. Nearly-expired products that the supermarket was eager to get rid of. Snacks bought at the local gas station.
But after nine months together, you knew what he liked when money wasn't an issue. And you knew how much he could eat.
No surprise. Never mind his relentless days at the gym. He'd known the indignity of Dumpster diving and government meals. Before that, he'd spent most of his adolescence haunting recently-vacated tables in greasy spoons, pocketing other patrons' leftovers before the waitresses could throw them away.
You couldn't erase those difficult years. But you wanted him to know that they were behind him.
With your Bluetooth earbuds playing some of your favorite tunes, you scrambled eggs, toasted and buttered some sourdough, squeezed orange juice with your own hands, friend bacon, filled a bowl with yogurt and berries, and flipped a couple of chocolate chip pancakes. You left the coffee for last. Black, the way he liked it.
At last, two candles piercing the top pancake's fluffy surface. '26'.
You lit them both. Lit your own heart on fire.
Walter had told you that he hadn't celebrated his birthday in years. That in his eyes, there hadn't been much to celebrate. That Stan had forgotten more often than not, so focused was he on the next match, the next cash prize, the next get-rich-quick scheme. That there'd hardly been any money anyway. Barely enough for food, never mind a party.
That was what you sought to remedy today.
You took the present from its hiding place behind the fridge. Stuffed it in your pajama shorts' pocket.
Then, you took the tray and carefully returned to the bedroom that was now Walter's as much as yours. His clothes occupied half the closet. The nightstand on his side of the bed was stuffed with medication for his arthritis; gels and creams and patches that your health insurance had allowed him to afford. A Rocky poster was tacked to the wall right next to your bookshelf. Stacked neatly against the wall were Walter's weights, his gym mat, and his jumping rope.
You took a moment to stare at Walter. To see how perfect he looked under the covers, his bare chest rising and falling with each serene breath.
He looked like he belonged here. In your room. In your house. In your heart.
Careful not to make any noise, you set the tray on the bed, tiptoed over to his side, and began to pepper his face with gentle little kisses.
Walter hummed as he awoke, his eyes blinking open to find yours. Instantly, his lips stretched into a soft little smile. "Hi." That single word, gruff from sleep, warmed you from head to toe.
You nuzzled him, and he wholeheartedly reciprocated. You refused to call him by his boxing name like Stan did. Refused to force him to play that role outside the ring. But you did have to admit how catlike he could be sometimes. "Hi, sweetheart." Pulling away, just a bit, you grinned at him. "Happy birthday."
His eyes bugged out, all tiredness bleeding out of him. He sat up. "You... remembered?"
"Of course I did." You gestured to the tray. "Made you a little something to celebrate."
Walter simply stared at the display for a few seconds. The scrambled eggs. The crispy bacon. The fresh orange juice, squeezed by your loving hands. The yogurt. The pancakes. The candles on top of them.
"... Holy shit."
You giggled. "Do you like it?"
"Like it? I..." Walter took your hand. He brought it to his lips, tenderly kissing the knuckles, as his eyes locked with yours. "You didn't have to do this."
"I know." You winked at him. "I wanted to."
Walter let out a shaky breath. Looking at you with wide, awestruck eyes. "I'm actually here. With you. On my fuckin' birthday. With a breakfast like this. I... Thanks. I mean... thanks." He chewed the inside of his cheek, clearly unsatisfied with himself. "Nobody's ever... I..." Walter took a deep breath, giving you a wobbly smile. "You're amazin'."
You smiled back. Caressed his face with your free hand. "Takes one to know one."
Walter blinked. Hard. Rubbed his face against your hand.
You kept it there a few beats longer. Let him know, through touch, that you were there. That you were together. That he was safe and loved and cherished.
Then, you pushed the tray closer to him. "Make a wish, baby."
Walter chuckled. "What could I possibly wish for?"
You placed a hand to the side of your mouth in a stage-whisper. "Just don't be like Bear from freaking Obsession and we'll be fine."
Walter laughed out loud. "Damn. What a movie, eh?"
"Fuck yeah."
Walter nodded thoughtfully. "Okay. Don't be like Bear. Got it." He closed his eyes, was still for a second, and then blew the candles out.
You clapped, making him duck his head as his ears turned pink. Then, removing the candles, he took his fork and knife... and stopped. Pushed the plate towards you. "Here," he urged. "You take the first one."
"Oh, no," you shook your head. "That's all you."
"No, really!" Walter insisted. "Have some."
"It's your birthday breakfast!" you protested.
"Yeah, it's mine," Walter persisted, as stubborn as a barnacle. "Which means I can do whatever I want with it... includin' sharin' it with my girl."
You blushed. A slow smile stretched across your face.
Walter's expression softened. "Please? I... I want us to eat together."
You let out a breathy chuckle. "Okay, sweetie." You took the uppermost pancake, folded it like a letter, and brought it to your lap. You could feel the gooey chocolate chips staining your skin. Despite yourself, your stomach rumbled. "Happy birthday, honey."
"Thanks, babe." Walter began to cut his pancakes with some difficulty, his poor fingers struggling to bend. You watched him, wanting to help but knowing how embarrassed he'd get if you offered to cut his food for him.
It was already better than it used to be. Ever since you got together, with you happily sharing what you had with Walter, there'd simply been no need for him to fight as often as before. So, he could rest more. Give his body more time to recover. And the meds helped, too.
With both those things, as well as your feeding him proper meals, Walter's arthritis had improved a bit. His hands didn't swell as much, nor did the pain have him scrambling for the over-the-counter stuff nearly as often as before. But the sad fact was, his hands would never be what they'd been before he'd started fighting.
You didn't care, though. You loved him. And if you could help him even a little bit, then you were glad to do it.
Because he was worth it. Every last bit of it.
The two of you ate in comfortable silence, with you both secretly feeding extra bits to Ash when she came whimpering. She settled on your lap, tail thumping, and licked Walter's stiff fingers when he stroked her head.
Once the plates were empty and Walter was patting his belly, you reached into your pocket and placed it on the tray. A little box, small enough to fit into your hand, encased in pumpkin-orange wrapping paper and topped with a small bow. Orange was his favorite color, you knew, though he rarely wore it because he thought it looked bad on him.
Walter stared at the gift, then at you. "What's this?"
You gave him an impish smile. "One last little surprise."
A funny look fell over Walter's face. One that blemished your enthusiasm. He didn't look excited or happy as he beheld the small parcel. He looked... vexed. Almost scared.
You could only sit there, bewildered, as Walter picked at the tape until the wrapping paper fell away.
He opened the small jewelry box, looked inside... and blinked.
Inside was a pendant shaped like a pair of boxing gloves. Both gloves, intricately detailed, were the size of quail's eggs. The new gold they'd been made from was smooth and shiny even in the dusky bedroom. Instead of the matching gold chain it'd come with, you'd threaded the pendant with a simple corduroy string.
You waited for him to react.
And waited.
And waited.
Finally, Walter murmured, "I don't wanna imagine how much this cost."
You waved your hand. "Nothing major, I promise." In large part because you'd saved your Christmas bonus specifically for this part.
Walter turned his eyes towards you. In those beautiful blue eyes, you saw longing and shame fighting for dominance. "I... I can't pay ya back." The very words seemed to cause him pain. "Not if it's over, like, twenty bucks."
You shook your head. "I don't want a reimbursement, Walter. I got it because I saw it in a store once and thought it may as well have had your name on it."
Walter looked back at the pendant like it was some beautiful, poisonous flower. Something he wanted to pick, but didn't dare touch.
This wasn't what you'd hoped for. Stan had ruined Walter's up-and-coming career as a boxer by bribing a ref. Promptly knocking his brother's rising star out of the night sky before it could get within shouting distance of its zenith. Seeing that necklace had made you want to compensate, somehow, for that injustice. Comfort Walter. Let him know, through it, that he was a champion to you.
Instead, Walter seemed as uncomfortable a kid forced to bundle up against waist-high snow.
Tucking your emotions somewhere they couldn't show, you stated, "If you want, I can send it back." You hoped you could, at least. God knows where the hell you'd left the receipt.
Walter looked relieved for a second, then guilty. "No, I..." His jaw twitched. "It's beautiful, hon. I love it. Thank you."
He meant it, too. You could tell. That wasn't the issue. As he finally lifted the necklace out of its box, letting the early morning light dance on its polished surface, you saw how wrecked he was to behold it.
How unworthy he felt to even hold it between his fingers.
Reverently, he put the pendant on. Tied the corduroy until the two little boxing gloves rested against his collarbone. He cradled them between his index finger and thumb, as though confirming to himself that they were real.
Walter raised his gaze to you again, as though seeking the same affirmation.
You gave him a small smile. "You look gorgeous, sweetie."
A quiet, almost wounded noise escaped his lips. Without breaking eye contact, he took the tray and placed it on his nightstand. Ash, as though understanding what was happening, got up and strolled out of the bedroom.
Walter took your hand, still holding your stare like it was something precious. "C'mere."
You did. Climbed into his lap, coiling your arms around his neck, and let his hands on your hips anchor you. His grip was tight, but his fingers were shaking.
Walter began to press light but eager little kisses all over your neck. Your jawline. The delicate shells of your ears. You closed your eyes, tilting your head back, and let the tender caress of his lips overwhelm you.
When he whispered your name like it was holy, you shivered.
"Can I...?" Walter pulled back a bit, looking into your eyes. "Can we... make love?"
You hesitated. Did he just want to be close to you, like he so often did? Was this just a lifetime of denied tenderness rearing its head, like usual? Or did he want to recompense you for the necklace the only way he felt he could?
The thought made you want to retch. Did Walter think he owed you, if only subconsciously? Did he want to repay your gift with his body?
You swallowed. "Do you want to, baby? Really want to?"
Walter nodded. Quick. Eager. "Want to. Need to. I..." He pressed his forehead against yours. "... Love you."
You smiled despite your inner shell of concern. Kissed him softly. "I love you, too."
Walter sighed against your lips, one hand cupping the base of your skull. "Can I move you?"
"Of course."
Walter lay you on your back, treating you like a sacred relic even as the front of his boxers began to tent. You helped each other undress, kissing each inch of revealed skin. Your thighs. His shoulders. Your breasts. His erection, red and aching and glossy at the tip.
As Walter ravished your lips with his, you wrapped your fingers around his length. He groaned deep in his chest. Broke the kiss to whisper, "Fuck, you play me like a damn fiddle."
You chuckled, raking his hair away from his face with your free hand. "And you make the sweetest music when I do."
With a keen, Walter proved your point. He rested his forehead against yours, hips rolling to meet your strokes. You squeezed him just so, gliding your thumb over the weeping head, while your free hand cupped his balls. You kissed him all the while, swallowing his whines like they nourished you.
You kept going, losing yourself in giving him pleasure just as he lost himself in succumbing to it. Letting your hands move, your body undulate against his, while your mind went blissfully blank.
Walter's thrusts shortened. Lost their rhythm. The noises he poured down your throat grew ragged. You kept going. Encouraged. Excited.
Walter suddenly drew back. "Wait," he whispered. "Babe, wait, please."
You froze. "Are you okay?" A cold shiver ran down your spine. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" It was a tricky balance, sometimes: Treating Walter with care, wary of wounds sustained in the ring, while not wanting him to feel like he was made of glass.
"Oh, no," Walter's voice was rough with something deeper than lust. "Don't worry, honey. It feels good. It feels so fuckin' good, but... I want more." He breathed shakily. "I wanna be inside you. Wanna feel you come around me. Wanna fill my world with nothin' but you."
Walter's words ignited you from within like an oven. "Anything for the birthday boy." But really, you would've done this for him any day of the week.
You lay down, and Walter followed you. Seemingly reluctant to add any space between you.
His cock nudged your folds, but he went no further. He looked into your eyes, his own warm with love and trust. "Can I?"
You nodded. Cupped his cheeks, your thumbs gently tracing his cheekbones. "Go ahead, sweetheart. I'm ready for you."
Walter smiled, turning his head to kiss both your palms, before pressing forward.
He inched forward slowly. Even though your body knew him by now, he was always mindful to never cause you pain. Like it never occurred to him to be anything else.
"So good," Walter whispered, kissing every inch of your face. "Y'always feel so good, honey..."
"So do you." Your hands migrated to his shoulder blades, your fingertips tracing the delicate, bird-like bones. "I love how gentle you always are."
Walter stared down at you for a single, loaded heartbeat.
Gentle.
You knew that Walter didn't really associate that word with himself. Thanks to Stan, Walter saw himself as a fighter first and foremost. "You got one talent," you'd heard the older Kaminski tell your boyfriend more than once, "and that's your fists." Fists that cracked bone and bruised flesh and dislocated jaws.
And yet, looking into your eyes for that singular heartbeat, Walter saw that that was your word for him. That to you, it fit him like a tailored glove. That it always would.
Swallowing hard, Walter pressed his forehead against yours as he slowly drew back. Then, he pushed back inside you. Again. And again. And again.
By the fourth thrust, you were rolling your hips to meet his.
By the fifth, the two of you had established a rhythm. Tempered, but passionate.
You watched Walter's face the entire time. Admired his half-closed eyes, his burning cheeks, and his kiss-bruised lips.
"I love you," he kept gasping between moans. "I love you, I love you, I love you..."
You pushed yourself up to kiss him, messy and passionate. He kissed you back, your tongues dancing in time with your hips.
One thrust was harder than the others. Hard enough to make you see stars.
"Shit!" Walter stopped, cupping your cheek and looking down at you concernedly. "Are you okay, hon? I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I—"
"No, Walter, it's okay." You kissed his fingers. "I promise, it felt amazing."
Walter bit his bottom lip, his eyes still scanning your face. "You sure?"
"Yes," you promised. "In fact, I... I'd like you to do it again, please."
Walter swallowed. Nodded. Picked up the pace again.
That pace started to quicken as you met him with your hips. The bed began to creak in protest, the headboard lightly tapping against the wall like a curious visitor. All the while, the wet sounds of your joining bodies grew louder.
Walter's hand slid under your back, pulling you to him in a desperate embrace. The other found yours, holding on tight. You wove your fingers together.
"That's it," you encouraged, gently kissing the shell of his ear. "You're perfect, Wally. Feel so wonderful inside me."
Walter whimpered. Thrust harder. Deeper. Faster. Always mindful, but no longer holding back. Trusting you to speak up if it proved to be too much.
It wasn't. In fact, it was starting to be insufficient. Your desire was a black hole: The more you fed it, the more it wanted.
You slipped a hand between your bodies and started to touch yourself.
Walter felt the motion against his stomach. Felt you tighten around him in response. He looked down and groaned when he saw you rub that sensitive little bud.
"Jesus, sweetie," he breathed, his hips beginning to stutter. "You're—while I'm—while we're—oh, God, that's so—" He kissed you like he was dying of thirst and you were a mountain spring.
As you moaned in each other's mouths, you rubbed yourself faster. "Walter," you gasped when the kiss broke. "Fuck, Walter, I—I'm—"
"I know," he squeezed the hand still holding his. "Me too, hon. Me too." He dropped his head to your chest. Wrapped his lips around a nipple and suckled gently.
You cried out, leaning your head back. And when you felt his tongue drag across the sensitive bud, you rubbed your clit even harder.
You could feel your thighs starting to tremble. Your entire body locking up. Your breath coming in short, frantic bursts. Your back arching like a cresting wave.
Walter felt it. Pulled away from your breast and looked into your eyes. His pupils were blown, his cheeks were ruddy, and his expression was desperate. "Come for me, baby," he begged. "Wanna feel ya come while I'm inside you."
Your orgasm burst from you like a bird from a busted cage. Heat unspooled from your stomach and spilled into every last corner and crevice of your body. Your lips parted around a silent cry, and you squeezed Walter's hand until it must've hurt him.
Walter fucked you through it, his pace completely lost as you pulsed all around him.
Then, with a final, raw cry, he drove deep and came hard. Spilled inside you with a force that left him trembling in your arms like a leaf in the wind.
The two of you stayed locked together. Gasping. Sweating. Shaking. Walter's thumb rubbed circles across your knuckles. You cradled the base of his skull, your fingers gently threading through his hair.
Walter eventually lifted his head. Looked at you with nothing short of wonder. The golden boxing gloves hung around his neck, resting lightly on your collarbone. "This was the best birthday ever, (Y/n). I... can't remember ever havin' a better one."
You smiled. Kissed his cheekbone. "And it's not over yet."
Walter lay his head back down. Listening to your heartbeat. "Can we just... stay here?"
You smiled. "Of course."
So, you did. Napped. Ordered takeout. Cuddled. Talked about everything and nothing. Watched videos together on your iPad. Made love again. Talked about Walter's big dream of owning and running a dry cleaners that he planned to dub Kaminski Kleaners. Dozed off again. Ignored Stan's texts when he repeatedly requested confirmation that Walter would be back in the gym tomorrow morning.
You only left the bed after sundown to take Ash out for a walk, feeling adorably silly as you walked around the block in your pajamas and robes. You didn't even bother putting on shoes; your slippers were enough. Nobody was around to judge you, but even if they had been, neither of you would've cared.
Then, you returned to your house, undressed, and cuddled until sleep claimed you for the night.
Your own birthday was three weeks away. If it turned out to be half as sweet as this, you'd count yourself very fortunate indeed.
***
The next day, Stan got his wish: Walter was back in the gym. Stan worked him like a pack mule. Same went for the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. Rinse and repeat for a week.
Stan ran Walter ragged, and Walter let him do it. And nearly every night, you had to coax Walter to stay awake long enough to shower and to swallow at least a few mouthfuls of dinner.
The one time you didn't, it was because he noticed the kitchen faucet was leaking and he pushed aside his fatigue to fix it. You tried to tell him no, that you could just hire someone to do that, but he wouldn't hear of it. Afterward, you had to help him to bed and take his shoes off for him. He was dead to the world before you'd peeled off his socks.
But at least there weren't any matches. For that, you were thankful. Sure, that meant Walter had even less money in his pocket than usual, but you preferred him intact and penniless to wounded and rich.
One evening, Stan caught sight of a pretty girl and promptly ditched Walter to go wine and dine her. Well, attempt to, at any rate. You'd only had the pleasure of witnessing him flirt once, and it'd consisted of him prepositioning a girl with: "I'm pretty; you're pretty; what do you say we go home and stare at each other?" He'd gotten a slap for his efforts, and you and Walter had hidden your giggling faces in each other's necks.
You were almost upset that you'd be missing tonight's hilarious attempt at courtship. But when Walter walked through your door, looking tired but not exhausted, you decided you couldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.
Especially not when Walter asked, "Burgers?"
You simpered. "Burgers."
The greasier, the better. Courtesy of a small, local chain that held fond childhood memories for both of you. Checkered linoleum floors. The menu specialties burning in neon upon the walls. Big, comfortable booths.
After a five-minute wait, wherein Walter held your hand, the two of you made it to the front desk. Having had time to check out the menu panels above the cashiers' heads, you both knew exactly what you wanted.
Two cheeseburgers. No pickles for you, extra cheese for Walter.
"Get whatever ya want, babe," he encouraged, bumping his shoulder with yours. "My treat."
You stared at him, thrown for a loop. "Really? 'Cause it's no trouble—"
"No, really," Walter insisted, his cheeks glowing the softest shade of pink. "I never get to treat you. Please? I wanna."
You opened your mouth, then closed it. "Okay, honey." You reached out, caressing his cheek with your free hand. "Thank you."
Walter smiled, nuzzling your hand. "O' course."
Still riding the high of Walter treating you, you ordered some curly fries and a strawberry milkshake. Walter asked for some soft-serve chocolate ice cream.
The cashier typed in your order and reported the total: "Twenty-two bucks and fifty cents."
Walter stiffened beside you. For a split second, he said nothing. Then, in a small voice, he asked, "Could you repeat that?"
The cashier, a teenage boy with a cloister of bright red pimples across the bridge of his nose, huffed and repeated the sum. "Twenty-two bucks and fifty cents."
Walter balked. "I... I..."
"You, you," the boy replied, his words smothered in snark. "Pay up, man. We got people in line."
Yes. All five of them.
Your temper flared. "I'm sure they won't starve if they wait another minute."
The boy glowered at you but said nothing.
Meanwhile, Walter moved as though underwater. His cheeks went from pink to burgundy as he reached into his trainers' pockets with his free hand. Avoiding eye contact, he placed a ten and a five on the smooth countertop. "That's all I got." Every word caused him pain.
The boy didn't laugh at him. Didn't look annoyed. Didn't tell you both to fuck off and get out of the way of paying customers.
It was worse.
The boy looked upon Walter with open, unmistakable pity.
You glimpsed at Walter from the corner of your eye. His eyes were trained on his battered sneakers, his jaw set so tight you could hear his teeth grinding.
Hurriedly, you reached into your own pocket. Fished out folded ten dollar bill you'd planned on using on a pizza tonight in case Walter didn't show. "Here," you handed it to the boy. "Keep the change."
"Thanks." The boy's voice was quieter. Softer.
Walter nodded mutely.
You moved off to the side. Waited for your trays. When they arrived, loaded to the brim, you took them in silence and made your way to an empty booth. You sat across from each other. Your feet didn't even meet under the table.
Walter avoided your gaze for a long time. All the joy utterly bled from his system, he ate mechanically. Barely even seemed to taste his burger, and pushed his soft serve to the side.
You managed about a third through your burger, tasting none of it, before the silence became too much. "You thought it'd be cheaper," you stated softly. "It's okay. It happens. I've made that mistake, too."
Walter put down his burger. "Yeah," he agreed hoarsely, still avoiding your eyes, "but if ya ain't got enough, you can always get more from your wallet. I... can't." His voice splintered. "That was all the money I had left in the world."
Your eyes widened as his words sank in. Walter had only had fifteen dollars to his name, and he'd been ready to use it to buy you dinner. You opened your mouth, but shock had numbed your tongue.
"Haven't fought in two weeks," Walter told you, "and that last one only got me three hundred bucks. I get peanuts at my day job, so yeah, three hundred seemed like a fortune. But after the car repair, payin' so my phone wouldn't get cut off, and buyin' those meds the doctor prescribed, that money melted fast. Even with your insurance, those creams and gels cost a pretty penny. Stan suggested I pawn this for extra scratch," he cradled the golden boxing gloves in his palm, "because it's easily the nicest thing I've ever owned. I told him to go fuck himself."
You reached out. Took his hand. "Sweetheart," you tried, "what if you found yourself, like, a proper job?"
"I got a job." Though his tone revealed how reluctantly he defined it as such.
"I mean something better than the sewing factory," you clarified, still annoyed at Stan for finding Walter and his arthritis such a shit job. "Something with regular paychecks and a schedule and, well, a lack of injuries? I could help you look!" you added quickly. "We'll keep trying until we find the perfect fit."
Walter shook his head, though he didn't let go of your hand. "Even if I tried to get another job, I don't even got a high school diploma. I ain't worth shit on paper. I ain't even got an address, unless I used yours—and fuck knows I've taken enough from you already. And I got arthritis, and my brain don't fuckin' work... I mean, who the hell would hire me? Besides, I..." He trailed off, looking away.
You waited, holding his hand the entire time.
"Fightin's what I'm good at," Walter whispered, "and it's all I really know howtta do."
You felt your face crumple. "Someone out there'll give you a job. I just know it."
Walter didn't look convinced.
Aware that it wasn't much by the way of comfort, but not knowing what else to say, you added, "I would."
Walter dropped his head. Not a second later, his shoulders began to quake.
In a blink you were beside him, your own seat abandoned. Without a word, you pulled him into your arms. He came willingly, burying his face in your neck. You held him close, as tight as you dared, while one hand cradled the back of his head.
Walter shuddered, his rigid fingers digging into your hoodie.
Then, you felt the first onslaught of tears soak your neck. Heard him sobbing quietly.
"Oh, sweetie..." You closed your eyes, holding him even tighter. Glad that you had this corner of the fast food joint to yourselves, and that everybody was too busy with their own meals to seek free entertainment through you.
Walter kept crying, trembling in your grasp. You didn't tell him to stop. Didn't insult him with platitudes. Didn't remind him that you were in public. You just held him and nuzzled his hair. Tried to give him support and comfort without denying him this purge.
Eventually, Walter's cries dwindled down to a few, wet hiccups. But he didn't let you go.
You didn't, either. Couldn't.
***
For the next ten days, you and Walter settled back into your life. You both went to work, and Walter slept in your bed more nights than not.
You bought the groceries alone, but you cooked your meals together. Tuna casserole. Cheesy ramen noodles. Homemade meatballs. Chicken-fried rice. Pesto pasta.
When Walter came home, you helped him ice his knuckles as you told each other about your days.
You took Ash out on walks, pausing to look at the sunset together.
You cuddled on the couch and watched movies, sharing a bowl of microwaved popcorn.
You made love in your bed.
What happened at the burger joint remained between you. A patch of scorched earth where a small fire had once burned, continuing to singe your sinuses every time you breathed. But the two of you learned to tiptoe around it, knowing that sooner or later green shoots would poke through.
Walking helped. It was a cost-free, fun, healthy activity that the two of you could do together. You walked along the coast, around the block, through downtown, and just about anywhere your feet would take you.
One evening, as the streetlamps flickered to life all around you, you and Walter were holding hands as you cruised through a shopping area. The closest thing this place had to a tourist trap. It wasn't Maine or Miami, but it did have a beach. One that didn't get nearly as crowded, or cost half as much, as more conventional locations did.
The locals milked that shit for all it was worth.
Said milking proved endlessly entertaining for you and Walter. As you walked, you mocked the window displays and the outrageous prices wherein. Two hundred bucks for a jacket. Four hundred for a pair of trainers that looked like newer versions of the ones on Walter's feet. Fifty bucks for a mug.
You passed by a jewelry store... and stopped.
There, resting on a navy velvet cushion, was a simple but lovely necklace: A lovely golden chain, glinting in the spotlight, and laden with pearls. Each one was the size of your thumbnail and charmingly misshapen the way only real pearls can be. They looked like dollops of cream amid the dark fabric, the chain like tendrils of honey.
It wasn't the fanciest necklace in the store's window display. Not by a long shot. But it was elegant in its simplicity. The sort of thing one might wear at a nice restaurant, or a night at the theater.
It was the kind of jewelry your mother would've worn. Fine without being flashy. Beautiful without being vain.
Walter's voice brought you back to reality. "Hey, you okay?"
Blinking, you looked back to him. Smiled. "Of course." You squeezed his hand. "C'mon. Let's go home."
Walter complied.
As far as you were concerned, that was that.
You didn't see him turning back towards the window display. Towards the necklace.
***
As he cradled your sleeping body in his arms, Walter replayed that moment over again in his mind. Your slowing to a stop. Your eyes lighting up. Your lips stretching in a small, entranced smile.
Ever since the incident at the burger joint, Walter had agonized over what to get you for your birthday—indeed, if he could get you anything at all. Sure, he'd been saving his paychecks from the sewing factory, but those were below minimum wage, and he already cut corners. What was the point in blowing money on a gift for you if he was just going to burden you even more than usual afterward?
Because no matter what you said, no matter how wonderful you were about it, Walter knew he was a burden. Every other day, he ate your food, consumed your gas and electricity, benefitted from being on your health insurance, and enjoyed films from your Netflix account. Not to mention your pitching in to take care of Ash until she was now as much your dog as she was Walter's.
And the pendant around his neck, of course. It'd become such a gentle, reassuring weight against his collarbone by now. So much so that he noticed when it was gone, and felt off-kilter without it. The necklace was a small piece of you to carry wherever he went. A token of your love, of your affection, bought with him and his passions in mind.
Walter wanted to get you something as beautiful and significant. Something that represented how important you were to him.
As things stood, though, he couldn't afford much more than a bottle of cheap perfume from the local CVS and maybe a new pair of socks. That was it. Not even cute, colorful socks that you could wear to bed or as part of a more eccentric outfit. Just plain, unisex, monochrome ones that could be given to anybody, from anybody.
You'd be kind about it, of course. See the bright side. Use the perfume. Wear the socks. Kiss him. Thank him, and sincerely mean it. Be happy that he'd gotten you anything at all.
Walter loved that about you, just as he loved everything about you. Your kindness. Your appreciation of others. Your empathy. Your generosity. Your desire to take care of him and Ash without ever asking anything in return.
But he also knew that he was living on borrowed time with you.
Sure, you were okay with him freeloading off you now, but what if you lost your job one day? What if some big emergency came up and the money you'd inherited from your parents—the same parents who'd left you the youngest homeowner he'd ever met—melted away like snow in April? Or what if you simply got tired of being his meal ticket?
It could happen, and Walter couldn't blame you one iota if it did. All too easily, he could see the pressure of being the breadwinner slowly wearing you down. The mental stress of knowing that if you didn't buy groceries, then the fridge would remain empty. That if you didn't pay bills, they simply wouldn't get paid. That you could never ask him to support you because he was always strapped for cash. That the times he could pay for shit would be so few and far between as to be laughable, if not outright pitiable.
How unsupported you'd feel. How resentful at being the designated supplier. How you might even start to suspect that Walter loved not you but the easy life you gave him.
Walter could see it so clearly, he didn't even need to close his eyes: One day, you'd look at him and see a loser.
With a shiver, Walter realized why you hadn't mentioned your interest in the necklace: Because you'd known he couldn't afford a single pearl on that chain. Ergo, you hadn't wanted to embarrass him by asking. Chances were, you'd buy it yourself.
Because your boyfriend was too poor to ever treat you. Too pathetic to even buy you a burger and some curly fries.
Keeping you close with one hand, he used the other to text Stan.
Normally, it was Stan who came to Walter with a fight already booked, fully expecting Walter to show up and beat the shit out of his foe.
Not tonight.
Get me a fight, Walter texted. The biggest cash prize you can find.
After ten minutes that felt more like ten days, Stan replied: There IS one. Tomorrow night. But the guy, Big Barry, he's a monster.
Walter didn't waste any time. How much?
Eight hundred to the winner.
Walter considered. That was four times what he'd normally make. A veritable jackpot.
How much had the necklace been? He hadn't looked. Soon, he'd have to rectify that. He didn't want a repeat of the burger place. But surely, eight hundred had to be enough, right?
Fine, he typed.
Lion, Big Barry's a dirty fighter, and built like a brick shithouse, Stan warned. That's why nobody's booked to fight him yet, and why the prize is so big.
I don't care. Book me or I'll do it myself.
***
"I'll be home late tonight," Walter told you the next morning as you two prepared breakfast. "Got a fight."
Those words woke you up more than your cup of joe ever could. "Oh, uh... Okay." You swallowed. Remembering the task at hand, you went back to dishing out the scrambled eggs. "Where is it?" You handed him the plates. "I could come pick you up after."
"Ah, no," Walter shook his head as he took the plates and set them on the table. "It's fine."
"I've never seen you fight, though," you pointed out as you handed him a fruit plate. "Maybe I could, I don't know..." the two of you sat down across from each other, "cheer you on?"
Walter didn't smile, but the skin around his eyes crinkled. "Thanks, babe. But... no. You don't need to see that shit."
It wasn't the first time he'd drawn a line between you and his world. You'd never been thrilled about it, especially once you'd learned that him coming home wounded was all but guaranteed. But you'd always accepted it.
Now, thought, something about it felt... off. You couldn't quite put your finger on it, but you couldn't shake it off, either.
And even as breakfast progressed, that sense of unease didn't let up. You two still ploughed through your scrambled eggs and diced fruit. Still poured each other's coffee without needing to be asked. Talked. Held hands. Kissed. But you could perceive a tension in Walter. Anxiety, mixed with a brittle determination you'd rarely seen from him. He kept flexing his fists, as though envisioning the blows he'd deliver, and eyeing the clock. Counting down the hours like a sinner awaiting salvation... or a condemned man scheduled for the lethal injection.
Unable to stop yourself, you said, "If you don't feel like fighting this time, that's fine. I'm sure even Stan will understand. It's your body, your health, your choice. If you want to sit this one out, it's fine by us. We love you just the same."
And if Stan refuted, if he tried to pressure Walter to do something he was so obviously nervous about, you'd kick his ass. You didn't consider yourself violent by nature, but in this case? You'd kick more than a can-can girl.
Walter fidgeted with the remains of his fruit plate. Pushed the apple seeds and orange peels around like they were puzzle pieces he was trying to find a place for. "No, really, I... I wanna do this." His jaw set. "I gotta do this."
Fuck. There really was no talking him out of this.
He'd go. He'd fight. And whether he won or not, he'd come home in pain like he did every time.
You'd already seen him with black eyes. With a dislocated jaw. With concussions. With cracked ribs. With bruises every color of the sickly rainbow. With split lips. With an internal hemorrhage or two, courtesy of fractured bones. And it never got any fucking easier.
Not for the first time, you wondered how long until Walter's luck ran out. Until he got something that made the rest of those wounds look like mosquito bites.
Oh, God. What if one night, he simply didn't come back at all?
Your feelings must've shown on your face, for Walter's own face softened. "Hey," he left his chair to come kneel beside yours, "it'll be okay." His arm coiled around your shoulders, its wiry weight a comfort. "Stan's even lettin' me keep the whole prize this time. I promise, it'll be fine."
Your eyebrows nearly flew off your forehead. "Stan's letting you...?" If Walter was lying to cover for his brother, he was doing a superb job. Especially for someone so honest.
"Yeah!" Walter looked the most comfortable he'd been all morning. "He won the pot last night. He's good... for a while."
And so would Walter, it seemed.
You wanted to tell him to not go. That whatever money he needed, you'd give him. But you knew exactly how he'd react, and you couldn't blame him for it, either.
You sighed, leaning into his embrace. Nosed his neck and breathed him in. He smelled like your body wash, the cheap detergent he always used, and something else underneath. Something warm and spicy and distinctly him.
No hint of blood. Not yet.
"I love you," you whispered.
Walter turned, kissing your temple. "I love you, too," he murmured against your skin. "So fuckin' much."
Then stay with me, that small, childish part of you wanted to plead. Or at least tell me where you're going.
That was when you remembered that you had Stan's number. Just in case. After all, he was Walter's emergency contact and the only other person in the world he was tied to. You liked Stan about as much as you liked that annoying fly that not only buzzed around your kitchen but was also too foolish to fly out the window you'd purposefully opened for it. But Stan was probably the only person who knew where this fight would be transpiring.
God, it'd be a rough phone call. But Walter was worth it. He was worth all of it.
***
One look at the place had made it abundantly clear why Walter had never wanted you here.
The entire place screamed of borderline illegality. It was humid from so many bodies packed together with no AC, with so many of those bodies having foregone basic hygiene. The smell of sweat and blood had all but soaked into the cracked plaster walls.
Lights hung precariously from above above, shining down on the makeshift ring and casting too many shadows against the walls. Said ring looked like something put together in five minutes with no budgets, the ropes sagging and the canvas looking ready to tear through at any second.
The only chairs available were the folding type, paint peeling off the rusted metal like dandruff.
Managers took cocaine in plain sight. Customers and gamblers drank warm beer. Girls in skimpy outfits sold drinks and cigarettes on greasy trays, rubbing up against guys as they passed. Sometimes, all they got for their efforts was a pinch on the ass. Other times, they at least got a bill they smiled and tucked away in their bras.
This was what Walter subjected himself to, the altar he'd been bleeding on for years.
You thought back on your phone call with Stan. How you'd needled him for intel. But Stan, who normally never shut up, had had little to offer. After a while, he'd admitted that he barely knew much more than you did.
"He just texted me last night sayin' he wanted a fight. Somethin' with the biggest cash prize I could find. I told him not to do this one, but he wouldn't listen. Somethin' lit a fire under my boy's ass."
You'd swallowed. Stan, who'd been more than happy to exploit his brother's talent for their entire adult lives, hadn't wanted him to partake in this fight. That alone had been enough to coat the inside of your stomach with ice.
You'd asked.
He'd told you.
And here you were. To do what, you weren't entirely sure. All you knew was that you couldn't sit around at home, knowing that your boyfriend was about to fight someone who had no problem literally kicking them when they're down.
A guttural roar echoed through the chamber, triggering wild applause.
Turning towards its source, you actually gasped.
Big Barry was already in the ring, living up to his stage name and then some. He was easily six-foot-six of muscle and fat, with arms as thick as your thighs and a chest big enough for a child to crawl in. He had no neck. Instead, his head was fused to his broad shoulders by a collar of unshaved jowls. He had hands the size of baseball mitts, scarred by a hundred matches or more. The shorts he wore did nothing to hide his muscular legs; one kick could've easily dented a car door. His eyes were as small and dark as beetles.
All he needed was an ox's head mask, and he'd have been the Minotaur come again.
A monster.
And Walter—your sweet, doe-eyed Walter who cuddled you every night and pocketed leftover meatloaf for his dog and recycled and who cried every time you watched Rocky—was supposed to beat him.
Forget David and Goliath. This was Stuart Little and Galactus.
You loved Walter with all your heart. But nobody in their right mind would think he was going to win.
Hell, you could already hear people around you betting that Walter wasn't going to live.
Walter's name was announced. The crowd deafened you. You saw him walking out with the grim determination of a soldier marching towards a battlefield. Stan was right behind him, cheering him on and flipping off the spectators.
You got as close as you dared. Closer to the ring than you'd ever been.
You grabbed Stan's arm, pulling him away from Walter. Walter didn't notice. He was too busy heading towards the ring.
Stan's eyes landed on your face. Grew to the size of hard-boiled eggs. "What're you doin' here?! I thought Lion hated you bein'—"
"Call off the match," you demanded. "Now."
Stan's jaw dropped. "What?!"
"Look at that guy!" You pointed at Big Barry. "He'll crush Walter like a grape!"
Stan looked back at Walter, as though terrified of him seeing you.
But Walter only had eyes for his adversary. God, he was scared out of his mind and desperately trying to hide it. Even from a distance, it was plain as day.
Walter got inside. Shed his robe. Put in his mouthguard.
The crowd's ruckus dropped enough for you to hear them talk.
Squaring his shoulders, Walter asked Big Barry, "Do ya know who I am?"
"Some dead man," answered a voice like stones breaking.
A cold, bony hand grasped your throat. "Call. It. Off."
"No, look," Stan tried to push you back, to shepherd you out of the room, "I get that you're scared, I'm nervous too, but it's too late—"
"No, it's not too late!" you retorted furiously. "You're his brother! You're supposed to protect him!"
Stan stopped. Looked at you. Truly saw you for the first time.
You let go of your loathing, if only for a moment, and grabbed Stan's hands in yours. "We both know Walter can't win this, Stan. Please, please don't let him go through with this."
Stan opened his mouth—
—and the crowd shrieked.
Just beneath it, you heard the meaty smack of a fist colliding with flesh.
You spun around, eyes wide and breath caught in your lungs.
Walter had actually managed to land a punch right in Big Barry's kidneys. The behemoth groaned. Made a wild swing at Walter, but Walter danced around him. He was as nimble as a stag, jaw set and fists raised. His eyes were blue laser-beams scanning for weak points and ensuing attacks.
You and Stan, still holding hands, watched the fight.
Walter started off strong. Dodged the punches. Swung at Big Barry's sides, ribs, and stomach. Even managed to trip him.
But then, Big Barry got angry.
He lunged. Sent an upper cut Walter's way. Walter's head snapped back. If it hadn't been for his mouth-guard, he might've bitten clean through his own tongue.
The crowd howled with excitement.
Walter barely had time to recover before Big Barry tackled him, sending them both on the canvas. He straddled Walter, casting his shadow over him, and began to beat him with both fists. There was no strategy in his movements. No finesse. No final goal. Just pure, animalistic rage.
Walter kept his arms up, but he may as well have been blocking an incoming tsunami wave. He tried, oh how he tried, but it wasn't enough.
All it took was a second for his exhausted, aching arms to drop, and Big Barry seized it. Wrapping his huge hands around Walter's throat and squeezing him like an orange.
The ref blew his whistle. Big Barry ignored it. The ref blew again, harder. A shrill, angry sound. Big Barry kept ignoring it. Walter clawed at those hands, gasping and spluttering even as his face went pomegranate-red.
Finally, the ref—and three bouncers—rushed forth, seizing Big Barry by the biceps and prying him off Walter. Walter let out a hoarse, shuddering gasp as those sausage fingers finally released him. But he didn't get up. He just lay there, curling up in a fetal position, and clutched at his throat with trembling fingers.
You looked to the ref and the beast who'd nearly strangled your boyfriend. You couldn't hear the words over the crowd's ceaseless clamor, but you knew a warning when you saw one. Big Barry had gotten a penalty. If this'd been a real tournament, he'd have been disqualified. But the people wanted more, and they were ready to keep shelling out cash to get it. So, just a slap on the wrist.
Oh, God. What would he try next?
Walter lay there as the ref started counting. Trying to breathe through his pained throat.
One, two, three...
Come on, baby, you thought. Please, just stay down. Please.
Four, five, six, seven...
Walter forced himself to his feet. The crowd cheered. Big Barry spat.
The fight carried on, with Walter narrowly avoiding those ham-sized fists and landing whatever punches he could throw. But while Walter was getting tired, Big Barry had barely broken a sweat. He may have been twice Walter's age, but he had experience, brute strength, and plain old viciousness on his side.
For the next several rounds, it was a standstill. A stalemate. Neither went down. Neither really 'won'.
The crowd got impatient.
Someone shouted above the rest: "Stop pussy-footing around, Lion!"
Walter turned towards the voice, a retort sitting on his tongue.
Big Barry struck, his punch sending Walter flying into the ropes. Big Barry followed, landing blows hard enough to rock a trapped Walter from side to side like a pendulum. The crowd screamed its approval, greedy for blood. And soon, they were getting it: Fat drops of it were flying from Walter's split flesh onto the canvas.
Walter's legs gave out, and he collapsed like a house of cards.
He was out cold. Probably had been for the last couple of punches.
And still Big Barry wasn't stopping. He lifted both his fists over his head like a gorilla. Ready to deliver the final attack.
You didn't think; you just acted.
Pushing through the crowd like a salmon swimming upstream, you climbed into the ring and threw yourself over Walter's unconscious body. "NO!" you screamed at Big Barry. "STOP IT! NOW!"
Big Barry stopped, his beetle-like eyes widening at the sight of you. You held his stare, your body shielding Walter's.
You could see something like rationality cutting through Big Barry's bloodlust. It was one thing to beat your opponent within an inch of his life; it might get him disqualified, even in a place as seedy as this, but the crowd loved him for it too much to banish him for good. But to hit a civilian? That would have far more serious ramifications.
The ref stepped in. The bell rang. The match ended. Big Barry left. The crowd dispersed.
You stayed where you were even after Stan and the medic reached you. Cradling Walter's battered, bleeding face in your hands and no longer bothering to hide your tears.
***
You were there when the medics patched him up. Heard them list his wounds, from his concussion to his cuts to his fractured ribs to some minor internal bleeding from being punched in the torso so forcefully. Some damage to the trachea, too.
Miraculously, none of it would require surgery. But the doctor lay down the law: No boxing for at least a couple of months. No exertion. Just rest and good food.
Nobody argued. Not even Stan.
You paid to keep Walter in the hospital overnight, just in case.
He volunteered to stay at your place to take care of Ash. You gave him your keys. The two of you hugged for the first time. It was awkward, but sincere.
You spent the evening in a chair by Walter's bedside. The rest of your body shifted and twisted, trying to find a comfortable position, but your hand remained latched to his.
You tried to scroll on your phone. To listen to music. But the pictures and words were utterly meaningless to you, and even your favorite tunes were static. All you could focus on was Walter.
Every time you looked at him, you wanted to cry and beg him to tell you why he'd done this.
It wasn't like other fights. Stan hadn't browbeat him into doing it. And surely, money couldn't have been so tight that he had to go and almost get himself killed, could it?
The burger joint was behind you now, and neither of you had had any big expenditures lately, so what...?
You froze.
No.
With trembling fingers, you found the jewelry store you and Walter had walked past last night. It was still open, but it wouldn't be for much longer. Even as you felt like you were about to jump off a cliff, you hit the 'call' button. It took so long for someone to answer, each ring grating on your already raw nerves, that you almost gave up.
Then, there came a click. "Hello?" A man's voice, tired and ready to go home.
"Hi," you swallowed. "I'm calling on behalf of my boyfriend, Walter Kaminski. Has he made any orders recently? Bought anything? Maybe asked you to hold onto something for him?"
"Kaminski? Oh, hell yeah," the man replied. "Easy to remember a name like that. He came in this morning, right when we opened. Pointed to a necklace we have on display and asked us to hold onto it until tomorrow. And that he wanted it bundled up when he bought it. Said it was a birthday present for... well, you, I guess."
Your mouth went drier than sandpaper. "Was it..." You cleared your throat and tried again. "Was it... a gold necklace? With pearls?"
"Yep, the very same." The man chuckled. "I told him it was probably a little out of his league, that maybe he should buy costume jewelry or something, but he wouldn't hear of it."
Your eyes widened, then narrowed. "You told him that?"
"Well, ma'am, with all due respect, the guy was wearing second-hand tracks and sneakers with holes in 'em. We don't exactly cater to people like that."
You came within a centimeter of telling the guy to go to hell. Instead, you gritted out, "Well, thanks for letting me know. You can put the necklace back, by the way. My boyfriend's money is too good for your stuff." You hung up before he could reply.
Looking back at Walter, at his still, bandaged face, you felt the tears coming back with a vengeance.
He'd endured all that pain for you. To get you a necklace you'd liked. To make you happy.
You crawled onto the tiny cot, taking whatever bit of space you could, and buried your face in his chest. Wept as quietly as you could, your fingers digging into his thin shirt.
You didn't intend to fall asleep. And yet, you did.
***
You and Walter awakened at the same time, yawning and rubbing the crusts out of your eyes.
When Walter saw you, he froze. Looked down at himself. Grabbed a blanket and pulled it higher, trying to hide his bruised body. "I can explain." He sounded like he'd been gargling bleach.
You looked away from him, sensing that your gaze would be too much for him right now.
The stucco walls and white linoleum floor made it feel like you two had spent the night in a giant egg. There was but one window, through which you saw the bluish predawn light.
This wasn't where you wanted to discuss what'd happened.
You turned back to him. Saw him brace himself for... something. Tears. Reprimands. Anything he thought he deserved.
Instead, you leaned in and gave him the softest kiss you'd ever given anyone. After only the briefest of hesitations, he kissed you back.
You let him feel that again. Tenderness. Sweetness. Love. Let it start to slough away the memories from last night. Memories his brain might not have retained, but his body certainly had.
When you finally parted, you whispered against his lips, "Let's get outta here."
"No need to tell me twice."
The drive back home was quiet and just a little tense. Both of you knew what was coming, but neither knew how to approach it. Instead, you looked out to the awakening town. The lamplights switched off. The stars winked out, one by one. The sky steadily lightened, the bellies of overhead clouds blushing pink. Joggers and dog-walkers emerged from their homes, and the first few cars glided out of their driveways.
It was a morning like any other. You were tempted to pretend that last night had never happened, and that you didn't know why it ever would.
But it had, and you did, and you had to clear the air lest you go mad.
As you stepped inside the front door, pocketing your key, you immediately sensed Stan's presence. Faint traces of cigarette smoke and coffee. Rumpled couch cushions where he'd spent the night. A few beer bottles in the recycling bin. A fork and a knife he'd forgotten to wash after use.
Ash padded over to you both, her tail wagging. You smiled at her. "Hey, baby." You knelt, rubbing her head and letting her lick your face. Walter crouched beside you, wincing, and was soon on the receiving end of Ash's loving tongue. You watched them. Loving them. Realizing how easily you could've lost them.
Walter caught you staring and glanced away. Swallowed nervously. "You want breakfast or somethin'?"
"Not right now." You took his bandaged hand in yours. "Can we talk?"
Walter paused before slowly nodding. Let you guide him to the couch, where you both got a whiff of Stan's cheap cologne. It was soft and yielding, embracing you both. Walter leaned in with a sigh, all but melting into the fabric.
He looked up at the ceiling, the bandages on his cheekbone and jawline doing nothing to conceal his resigned expression. "I'm sorry I put ya through all this," he whispered. "I needed the money. Bad."
You nodded. "For that necklace I wanted."
Walter turned sharply to you, his eyes wide. "You... figured it out?"
"It was the only thing that stood out," you explained. "And when I called the store, they confirmed it. The guy was a prick, by the way."
Walter snorted. "That's puttin' it mildly." His expression grew absolutely miserable as he held your gaze. "I wanted to get you somethin' nice for once. Provide, like you're always providin' for me. I..." his voice caught. "I wanted to stop bein' a burden, if only for a day."
Your jaw dropped. "You're not a burden!"
"I am!" Walter's feeble voice cracked. "I am, baby. I really am! If it weren't for you, I'd either be in some foreclosed house with Stan right now, or sleepin' in my car. I come here, eatin' your food and sleepin' in your bed and lettin' you pay for my dog's checkups because I can't afford 'em and... and buyin' me gold, and..." Walter was crying at this point. "I just wanted to give you what you deserved, even if it was just once. Wanted to show you that you ain't just a meal ticket to me, that I love you and would love you even if you were poorer than me and—"
"Walter." You grabbed his face as gently as you could, cutting him off before he could spiral further. He stopped, staring into your eyes even as his own kept leaking tears.
You wiped them away with your thumbs, even as they kept coming. Even as your own eyes threatened to spill over. "Baby," you cooed, "I know you don't see me as a meal ticket. I know."
Walter's shoulders slackened with relief.
The pendant around his neck caught the early morning light. Seeing it, you felt your heart turn to lead. "I'm sorry," you murmured. "That necklace was supposed to make you happy, not make you feel like this."
"It did," Walter promised. "It really fuckin' did. Nobody's ever thought I was worth gold before. But... but I know I can't ever get you somethin' like that."
"I don't care," you told him. "I don't need gold and pearls. I don't need you to match me dollar for dollar. Money's just money. Right now, I'm lucky enough to have it. One day, maybe you'll have it, too. Maybe not. But that won't change how I feel about you. Not one bit."
A shaky sigh left Walter's lips. "I wish I could believe that."
"Me, too." You brought your forehead to his. "Sweetie, don't you get it? You've already given me the best gift in the whole world. And you've given it to me every day since we met."
"What?" Walter sounded almost afraid of the answer.
"You," you replied. "You're the greatest gift anybody could ask for. You're kind and sweet and sensitive and strong and funny. You're everything I could've ever wanted in a partner and more. You cuddle me every morning and every night. You open up to me and let me in, and you're always there when I need you. You share your dog with me, for fuck's sake, and I know how much you love her, so the fact that you trust me enough with her means so much. And, above all, you turn this house into a home."
Walter stared at you. "I do?"
"Honey, yes! Everyone's always so impressed when they see where I live, but don't you think I'd trade it in a second to have my parents back? That I'd give away every penny I got if it meant them being here again? But I can't. And for the longest time, I just used this space. It never felt like home to me until you showed up. Same with my life, sweetie. It wasn't a bad life before, of course not, but I wasn't really happy until I met you. If I visually compared my life to before and after getting with you, it'd be like comparing Kansas to fucking Oz. From sepia tone to Technicolor. That's what you contribute. That's how you provide."
"But can you really be okay with that forever?" Walter asked. "Like, two, five, ten years down the line, do you really think you'll be okay with buyin' me new shoes and payin' for Ash's food and payin' for us to go on vacation? Knowin' ya gotta pay for two every time?"
"Yes," you answered simply. "Because you're worth it, Walter. You're worth every bill, every trip to the grocery store, every new pair of trainers, and yes, every gold necklace. And who knows? Maybe one day you'll open that dry cleaners after all. You can save for it while I take care of the rest. Or I can help you get a bank loan. Whatever you want. I just want you, for as long as you want me. Because you're a gift, Walter. The greatest gift." You kissed him softly. "Do you believe me?"
Walter stared at you for a long time, his cheeks and your hands still bathed in tears.
Then, he answered. But not with words.
He kissed you slowly. Deeply. Tenderly.
And when he pulled back, you just knew you looked utterly wrecked.
Walter didn't look much better. "C'mere." He pulled you close, his arm snaking around your waist. You curled up against his chest, your cheek pressed against his sternum. His heartbeat was lively and strong. After last night, hearing it was a balm.
You found Walter's hand and wove your fingers together. He held on tight, his thumb tracing your knuckles.
For the longest time, you didn't speak. Just basked in the peace of early morning and each other.
Then, Walter spoke. "I know what I could getcha for your birthday."
You looked up at him, curious and just a tad apprehensive. "What?"
Walter smiled down at you. "Breakfast in bed. Just like you did for me."
You giggled. "I'd love that. And cuddles, please."
"As many as you want." Walter held you closer. Tighter. Until there was no separating the two of you.
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Pairing: Walter 'Lion' Kaminski x prostitute fem!reader (One-shot)
Summary: After a particularly hard-won victory, Lion gets a special reward courtesy of his brother... and the money Lion literally bled for: His first time with a woman. You are that woman, paid to give the battered boxer a good first time. At first, you treat it as yet another job. But one look at those bandaged knuckles and big, gentle eyes, and you find yourself motivated by something far more tender than money. Something you hadn't felt since before you wound up in this life.
Warnings: Prostitution, some angst, loss of virginity, p in v sex, heavy petting, blowjobs, a bit of nipple play, praise, surprisingly emotional sex.
You lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, as the john pounded into you. Grunting. Gasping. Gripping the sheets with white-knuckled hands because you'd told him not to damage the merchandise, i.e, your body. Granted, a lot of your clients didn't care how bruised you were so long as your holes worked, but no matter what they paid, it still belonged to you at the end of the night. And you didn't want some stranger's handprints on your hips come dawn, no matter how well they may have paid.
The john gave a few last pumps, his breathing growing short, before finally releasing with a muted cry. You felt the condom pulsing inside you as it filled. In truth, you were on the pill. But you hadn't told this guy that. He was fat, with bad teeth, two long coke nails, and a hair oil that smelled like fish. No wonder his ex-wife, this 'Sarah' he'd kept moaning for as he fucked you, had dumped him. He hadn't even taken off his wedding ring, and had made you wear hers before you'd both gotten naked.
Your john—unless they were regulars, you rarely bothered to remember their names—collapsed on top of you. The weight of him, despite the dewy flesh and horrid hair oil, was almost pleasant. Something real. But before your loneliness could gnaw its way out of the cage you kept deep inside yourself, he raised his head. You could feel him looking at you even as you kept your own gaze firmly on the ceiling. You knew what was happening: His fantasy was crumbling away. He wasn't back home. You weren't Sarah. The two of you hadn't made love; it'd just been a transaction.
He climbed off you without a word. You heard the rubbery sound of the condom being tied shut and the brief clatter of it being chucked in your trash can. You glanced at the john as he dressed with his back to you. Mute, you slipped off Sarah's wedding ring and placed it on the nightstand. Once he was clothed, he turned to you. He seemed ready to say something—maybe a word of thanks, or well wishes—but the moment he saw the ring that'd once adorned Sarah's finger, you ceased to exist to him. He pocketed it before slipping out your door, as quiet as a shadow.
The dingy room was silent. The building was silent. Hell, the entire street was silent. Not in the way that brought peace. No, it was the sort that made every heartbeat resonate like a church bell and every breath echo in the stale air.
Normally, you might've fought it with your phone. Some music. A podcast. Something to make you feel a little less alone.
But tonight, you didn't even have the strength for that.
Instead, you turned out the light, rolled on your side, and hugged your pillow. You closed your eyes with a sigh, imagining that it was a person in your arms instead of cheap cotton stuffed with feathers.
Just a typical night for you.
***
Lion Kaminski was no longer a person. He was strength and agility and pain and instinct all jumbled together in the rough approximation of a human being. He didn't feel his cracked ribs or his bleeding lip or his swollen eye. He didn't hear the screaming crowd or Stan's barked instructions. He didn't smell the sweat, the blood, or the cheap chemicals of the ring.
He had no sense but the sense to fight. And so did his opponent.
They circled each other. Threw blows. Drew blood. Glared each other down. Waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.
Both were weary and bloodied. On their last legs. Neither had any more chances of winning than the other. The odds were even.
It wasn't even about the huge cash prize anymore. Stan handled that stuff. He managed the fights. He spent the money. He got them in trouble, and then tried to get them out of it again. All Lion had to do was fight... and fight... and fight.
It was easy at this point. All he'd ever done was fight. There'd been a brief time when he hadn't, but it'd been so long ago.
The opponent lunged. Lion dodged, sweat raining off him. He swung. His fist collided with meat.
The opponent spun like a top.
Collapsed.
Spat out a loosened crown.
Didn't get up again.
Not when the ref counted to three. Not when he counted to five. Not when he counted to ten. He lay there, the tarp under him darkening with sweat and blood.
Lion remained on his feet, his entire body trembling like a live wire.
The bell clanged, louder than thunder.
His arm was raised over his head. The crowd roared. Stan climbed into the ring and pulled him in a bone-crushing embrace. Bestowed him with a million-watt smile.
"That's my boy!" Stan cheered, clapping him lightly on the face. "That's my Lion! We're rich, baby brother. Rich!"
For now. For the next month, maybe. And then, back to Dumpster diving. Back to diners. Back to squatting in a house that didn't belong to them or anybody else. Back to feeling like they were both living on borrowed time. Back to the pain of arthritis, which would return the moment the cash for over-the-counter meds evaporated. Back to the same old grind.
Lion gave Stan a wan, bloody smile.
***
You didn't like the look of him from the first.
Good-looking, you supposed: Blond, with a scruffy goatee, blue-eyed, and fit. Plenty of your friends and fellow ladies of the night would've loved to have him between their legs. In the right light, he might even look like Ryan Gosling.
But there was an air about him that immediately put you off. Arrogance mixed with desperation and grit. You'd seen it before. This was a guy who, in his mind, had never gotten his proper due. He was smart, capable, savvy, but the world refused to acknowledge it. Refused to hand him the opportunities he so obviously deserved. He was better than all this, of course he was. The fact that he was down in the mud with the rest of us was mere proof that the world was an heinously unfair.
As he approached, looking you over, Mr. Underappreciated smirked. "Hey there, pretty girl. Feel like beddin' a champion and doin' your good deed for the day?"
You snorted around your cigarette. "Way to make yourself sound like a prize and a charity case at the same time. Whichever you are, buddy, it's a hundred for a half-hour, two hundred for a full hour, and three hundred for the full night."
"Jesus, lady," Mr. Underappreciated gasped, "you don't come cheap."
Actually, you were somewhere in the middle as far as street prices went. And you didn't have a pimp, so you could keep the full amount to yourself. But the building you and other worker girls rented out rooms; it hardly gave them out for free. Not to mention the amenities and groceries.
You smirked. "Like the song goes: 'I got bills to pay, I got mouths to feed, there ain't nothin' in this world for free'."
Mr. Underappreciated chuckled. "Ya sing, too? Not bad. A lady of many talents."
"Flattery will get you everywhere." You gave him a wink, though you didn't smile. "If your wallet's light, I'll blow you for a fifty. Or, if you're into the sweeter stuff, I'll cuddle for a twenty." Though God knew he didn't look like the sort of man who knew how to appreciate a good cuddle.
Mr. Underappreciated laughed. "Oh, no, doll! It ain't for me—it's for my baby brother."
You arched a manicured brow. "Oh?"
"Yeah!" Mr. Underappreciated nodded. "Name's Lion Kaminski, the baddest boxer this side of the county. Beast from the Northeast. Maybe you've heard of him."
You hadn't. "So, he won a fight and I'm his reward."
"Hell yeah. He's earned it, too. The guy he beat sent three other dudes to the fuckin' hospital." Mr. Underappreciated puffed his chest out, looking down at you with nauseating superiority. One would think he'd won the fight, not his brother.
But okay. A boxer. At least he wouldn't have a belly that pressed down on you while he fucked you. He might even be hot enough to get you wet. You bought so much lube, the drug store owner knew you by name.
"Not just that." Mr. Underappreciated leaned in, like you were two old friends sharing a juicy secret. You finished off your cigarette, tossed it in the gutter, and got closer.
Despite yourself, you were a little bit interested now. You hadn't had any clients yet tonight, but last night's pickings had included an old golf pro with liver-spotted hands, a garbageman with lice, and an inebriated lawyer who'd just lost his job. A boxer still riding the high of a hard-won victory was a step up.
Cupping a hand around his mouth, Mr. Underappreciated whispered, "He's a virgin."
You blinked. "A... virgin?"
"Yep!" Mr. Underappreciated nodded excitedly. "Gets totally tongue-tied around the ladies, and besides, they always preferred me." He waggled his eyebrows. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. "So, yeah! He's twenty-five now. 'Bout time he popped his cherry. And I think you're just his type. So..." he flashed you a smile that was as wide and insincere as a news anchorman's, "... what do ya say, sweetheart? Ready to be a champion's first?"
You considered it for a moment. "Four hundred bucks."
Mr. Underappreciated's jaw dropped. "Four?!"
"I'm taking his virginity," you reminded him. "That's a big deal. Give me that amount of cash, beforehand, and I'll make it a night he'll never forget. I'll be everything he wants a woman to be. If he wants it rough, I'll scratch him up like a cat and bite him 'til he bleeds. If he wants it gentle, I'll be softer than lambswool. I'll even kiss him on the lips, which I normally never do, so long as he brushes first."
Mr. Underappreciated scoffed, his plastic charm well and truly gone now. Men like him tended to change their tune once they didn't immediately get what they wanted. "The fuck you think you are? The Queen of Sheba?" He held up a hand in farewell, already stepping away. "Forget it. I'll get another girl."
You cackled then. A raucous, ugly sound that you'd never made before getting thrust in this life. A sound of mockery rather than joy.
Really, when was the last time you'd felt joy? Or even contentment?
You pushed the thought away. Joy had nothing to do with this. It was just business.
"You think you can find a better deal? By all means," you waved a hand at the other girls, "take your pick. But I know every single one of them personally, and while many of them are good friends of mine, and a lot of them will ask for less, I have to say it like it is: None of them can pop a cherry as well as me. You know what my mama used to say? You pay cheap, you get cheap. So," you raised your brows, "what's it gonna be?"
***
You'd wanted to do this in your room. Not only would've it saved you the trip back home once the job was done, but it would have given you that extra bit of control of the situation.
Mr. Underappreciated, a.k.a. Stan Kaminski, had insisted that you do it in some crappy motel room. He was even stingier than you'd thought, though you suspected he'd wanted to jab at you one last time. Remind you of what you were and what you did for a living. It would've been funny if it weren't so pathetic.
In the end, the two of you had compromised with a decent motel room. One three blocks from your home. One with AC, soft towels, and clean sheets. The wallpaper was a bit faded, but in a way that felt more charming and homey than pitiful and threadbare. You arrived first, burning a few scented candles and storing away snacks for later in the minifridge. You shed your clothes, revealing expensive lace lingerie barely covering a body you'd spent three hours beforehand bathing, shaving, and moisturizing. Your hair was washed, your breath still smelling of toothpaste and mouthwash.
No matter the job, no matter the john, no matter the fee, you didn't believe in half-measures.
There came a timid knock at the door.
You could feel your true self retreating, allowing your business persona to take hold. The men that came to you and your fellow worker girls didn't want a real woman. Some wanted a dommy mommy. Others wanted a submissive little flower. The details varied, but ultimately, it all boiled down to a fantasy. Stan wanted that for his little brother, and would've wanted the same for himself if you hadn't shown him your teeth in negotiations.
So. Showtime.
You positioned your body into that of a lounging cat, lying on your side and stretching your legs out. Letting the lamps' warm luminescence show off the body that'd been your livelihood, your sole card to play, for years. In a well-rehearsed tone, all smoky sweetness, you called out, "It's unlocked, baby."
The briefest of pauses, then the creaking of an opening door.
In stepped a lean, brown-haired man around your age, dressed in a threadbare red sweater and jeans scuffed from use rather than deliberate stylishness. He was unshaved; scruffy, even. Lean but thin. Brittle, even, the same way iron gets with time and overuse. The knobs of his shoulders were visible even through his sweater, and a cut just below his eye had barely started to heal. His hands were shaking, drawing your attention to them: The knuckles were scabby and red, the fingers crooked and bent.
Instantly, a rush of sympathy cut through your professionalism. You'd expected a Stan clone: Charming in a slimy sort of way, arrogant, fast-talking, and allergic to accountability. Instead, you found yourself in the presence of a man whose battered hands contrasted the shy gentleness in his eyes.
"Lion?" you inquired.
"Yeah," came the quiet huff of a reply, unaccompanied by eye contact.
Huh. Genes were weird.
"I thought so," you lied, sliding off the bed with the grace of a panther. "Name's (Y/n)." Acting more like a queen than a whore, you sauntered over to him. Smirked a bit when you saw him look you over in a quick, timid way. It was innocent, inexperienced. Almost boyish.
You'd had clients you'd tolerated and some you'd even reluctantly liked. But already, you found Lion cute. "Nice to meet you, champ," you cooed.
"I-I'm sorry," Lion's pretty eyes—large and gentle, the irises cornflower-blue around the pupils, darkening to lapis lazuli further out—lowered. He had the sort of long, dark lashes that some of your fellow worker girls would pay good money to get. "My brother sent me here. Said he got me a reward for winnin'. Said it was about time I became a real man off the ring, since I was already one on it. I..." He ran a trembling hand through his hair, still avoiding eye contact. "Do I... sit on the bed or...?" His voice was taut with anxiety.
He was willing to cooperate. Even willing to let you tell him what to do. You could just get on with it, go home, and maybe sneak in something from Netflix to close out the night.
Instead, you found yourself stepping closer. "Lion," you dropped the façade, if only briefly, "if you're not in the mood, if you just don't feel like it, it's fine. Just say so. Your brother may have paid, but it's your call."
Lion looked up at you with wide-eyed surprise. "I..." His throat clicked as he swallowed. "Stan said..." He trailed off, looking unsure. Almost scared at being given a decision.
With a brother like Stan, you figured it was a position that Lion hadn't often found himself in. Besides being the older brother, Stan probably thought he was smart enough to decide for both of them. 'Thought' being the key word.
You didn't say anything. Didn't move. You just watched Lion, open-faced and waiting and devoid of judgment.
Finally, after a few thoughtful beats, Lion gave his chapped lips a nervous lick. "I... I'd like to... see where this goes." He met your eyes, lightning-quick, before looking down again. "If that's okay."
He was so shy. So sweet. Like a fawn poking its head out of the underbrush for the very first time. You felt a slow smile spreading across your lips. A real one. The kind your clients rarely got.
"Of course it's okay." You stood aside, gestured to the room. "Go on. Make yourself at home."
Lion's shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. He sat on the bed at first, upright and nervous, like he expected to get back up at any moment. Then, after about a minute, he hesitantly toed out of his battered trainers. Glancing at you, as if for permission, he lay back on the bed. Trying to get comfortable but, you saw, not entirely sure how.
Lion fought for a living. Got beaten bloody for a couple hundred bucks at a time. He'd grown accustomed to being on edge, to always gearing up for the next grisly showdown. Of course he didn't know how to totally relax.
You decided that going slow was the best approach.
"How about a massage?" you asked as you sat on the edge of the bed. Wanting to give him space.
Lion fiddled with a loose strand on his sleeve. "Oh, uh, thanks, but Stan does that. For me. Y'know, to help keep me in shape."
You arched a brow. "Is Stan a chiropractor? A professional masseuse?"
"Uh, no."
"Well, I ain't either," you admitted, "but I took a couple of courses back in the day. Interested?"
Lion hummed, tapping his fingers against his thigh. "Uh... Sure. Why not?" He sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than you. The same way one might talk oneself into getting on a rollercoaster.
"I promise," you crawled closer to him, "it's gonna feel nice."
"Do..." his cheeks were already crimsoning, "... do I gotta take my shirt off?"
You shrugged, giving him an easy smile. "If you want."
Lion pulled his sweater off with next to no shame. A result of years of boxing shirtless in front of crowds.
His upper half was a sight to behold: Lean and muscular, pale skin mottled with scars and healing bruises of every color. The knobs of his shoulders were even more visible without that protective layer of cloth, and his collarbone looked sharp enough to be used as a letter opener. A budded cross tattoo decorated his side, ink staining his ribs. Veins crawled down his arms, gathering on the back of his trembling hands.
He was beautiful. Strong, yet fragile.
Lion shifted uncomfortably under your gaze. "Can ya stop lookin' at me like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like I'm... I dunno, good-lookin' or somethin'."
"Well," you shrugged, "you are."
"Ah," he ducked his head, "yer just sayin' that."
"I'm really not," you replied.
"I look like somethin' that died and came back to life," Lion insisted, still staring down at his lap. "Frankenstein, or some shit."
"Frankenstein was the scientist, not the creature," you corrected, "and while I know you have no reason to believe me, considering what I am, all I can do is call it like I see it. And Lion, you're handsome. Banged up, sure, and probably in need of some extra meals, but handsome."
Lion raised his eyes, his shyness now countered by curiosity... and something else. "I..." He closed his mouth, muscles jumping in his jaw. "Thanks," he finally gritted out. Not angrily. Just thickly.
You nodded. "You're welcome."
He then lay on his stomach, arms dangling over the bed's edge like vines.
You straddled his lower back, hearing his breathing hitch. "This okay?"
He gave a quick, shaky nod. "Y-yeah, you're good."
"All right. Here it goes." You started at his shoulders, your thumbs digging into the firm muscle. Feeling the knots formed by tension and slowly loosening them. Working your way down his back, tracing his vertebrae, and kneading the scarred flesh.
You could feel the bones. The muscle. The sinew. Not to mention the goosebumps blooming everywhere you touched.
At first, Lion was as silent and still as a log. But as your hands continued their gentle ministrations, he softened. Sank into the mattress with a sigh. Let out little gasps and whimpers as you worked, letting you know exactly what you were doing to him.
You smiled, encouraged, and shifted your technique to match his noises. Kept going when he sighed and drew back when he whined. Dug deeper into the muscle when he gasped and patted the area tenderly when he keened with delight.
And when you twirled his little rattail around your fingers, you smiled at his muffled giggle.
Eventually, your arms were tired and Lion was a man-shaped pile of pudding on the bedspread. You leaned forward, kissed his hair, and then climbed off to lie beside him.
He turned his head. Facing you. Looking at you like you were some beautiful plant he'd never laid eyes on before.
You returned his gaze, trying to ignore the warmth in your chest. Your hands twitched, longing to touch his face. You ignored them. Even if you were sure how he'd take such contact, you didn't want to make this into something it wasn't.
For a minute, perhaps two, the two of you just stared at each other. Silently. Gently.
"Hi," he finally murmured.
You smiled. "Hi, yourself."
"Haven't felt like this in years." His mouth twitched. "Thanks."
"You're welcome."
"I... Er..." Lion paused. "Would it be okay if we... cuddled?"
Your heart melted. Beast from the Northeast, indeed. "If that's what you want."
"Well, yeah, but... do you want to, too?"
"Lion, sweetie, I'm a hooker. What I want isn't exactly a priority."
Lion raised his shoulder in a half-shrug. "Don't care. Wouldn't feel right if I didn't ask first."
You chuckled. "A boxer and a gentleman. Your parents did a lovely job at raising you."
Lion's face fell. "Our mom died when I was really young."
You stopped. "Oh, I'm... Lion, I'm so sorry." Shame left a bitter taste in your mouth. "And your father?"
Oh, God. It was a miracle Lion had turned out as well as he had.
You reached out, covering his hand with yours. "I'm sorry," you told him, sincerely meaning it. "I can't imagine what that must've been like."
Lion's eyes gleamed. For a second, you thought he might cry. Instead, with a strength he must've normally reserved for the ring, he blinked them away. Turned his hand under yours, allowing your palms to touch. "Thanks." The word had been pried right out of him. Exhumed from a place he kept under lock and key.
You laced your fingers together. Tugged him closer. "Come here."
Lion came willingly, resting his head on your chest with a small but contented sigh. You wrapped your arms around him, one hand amid his shaggy locks and the other tracing patterns in his back. He embraced your middle, his arms strong but his grip gentle.
Lion inhaled through his nostrils. "Y'smell nice."
You were glad that he couldn't see you blush. "Thanks. You do, too." He smelled like cheap soap and the faintest whiff of lingering sweat. But you found it strangely pleasing.
Lion chuckled, burying his face in your chest. His thanks were muffled. When he emerged from his makeshift hiding place, he asked, "Tell me 'bout yourself?"
You snickered, both surprised and embarrassed. "You don't wanna hear about me."
"No, really, I do." He looked up at you. "If ya want, I mean."
You carded a hand through his hair, contemplating, as you held his gaze. Assessing him. Few before him had asked you such a thing. Even fewer had really cared to hear the answer.
But Lion? He looked utterly earnest. So much so, it was a little intimidating to behold. Stan loved to project the image of a smart, charismatic manager. A guy who had it all figured out. Lion projected nothing. He was simply himself, and didn't pretend to be anything else.
The edge of your mouth curved up. "I'll tell you about me," you proposed, "if you tell me about yourself after."
Lion grinned. "Deal."
And so you shared your stories amid burning candles and fading wallpaper.
You told Lion of your childhood, your hopes and dreams, and the series of seemingly innocuous events that'd eventually led you here. You told him things you'd never told anyone else. Not your colleagues, and certainly not your johns. And Lion listened. His eyes never glazed over. He never interrupted. He just let you talk, taking in every word, and held your hand. His grip was gentle, his skin warm and calloused. It touched you deeper than anything in your line of work ever had.
You wore no mask. Put on no act. You were simply yourself. It was as liberating as it was frightening.
Lion, in turn, told you his story in a low, resigned voice. Of his mother, what little he could remember of her. Of Stan raising him as best he could when money was tight and food was scarce. He told you about the genesis of his boxing career. Of him quickly making a name for himself in certain circles, of him hoping to become a professional and finally rising out of the pit of destitution. Of Stan ruining it all by trying to bribe a ref. Of the underground fights that'd followed. Of losing their family home years ago and the parade of motels and foreclosed houses they'd lived in since.
His voice brightened a little when he told you his dream to own and run a dry cleaners. 'Kaminski Kleaners', he'd call it. Someplace nice and homey, so much humbler than Stanley's ceaseless daydreams of tailored suits and gold watches and big manors.
And he told you about Ash, his dog and only friend.
"She'd... she'd like you," Lion added shyly, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "She's got a good nose for people."
"So how does she not bite Stan all the time?" you asked, only half-joking. "Cujo-style?"
Lion chuckled. "Stan ain't bad. He's just... Stan." He shrugged. "Ain't perfect, far from it. But he ain't evil, either. I don't know what he said to ya, but all I can say is: Sorry."
"Don't be." You leaned forward, kissing the crown of his head. Lion stiffened at the touch before relaxing. "It's not your job to apologize for him."
"I know, but he ain't gonna apologize to ya, so I'll do it."
You gave a soft laugh. "You're very sweet."
Lion ducked his head. "Ah, stop."
"No, really." You cupped his chin, gently guiding his gaze back to yours. "I've only known you for, what, two hours? And I can tell you: You're sweet, and gentle, and you really didn't deserve such a crappy hand."
A dozen different emotions danced on Lion's face like shadows on a wall. Shock. Disbelief. Gratitude. Warmth. And something else you were too world-weary to try to name. "Same with you. You're really nice, and kind, and... and you deserved better. A lot better."
Every word caused you gentle pain. Lovingly dismantled the walls you'd built around yourself. Reached the authentic self within. Recognized its value even when you yourself struggled to see it.
You leaned in a little. Close enough for your breath to fan Lion's cheeks. "Lion," you whispered, "sweetheart, can I kiss you?"
Lion's pupils visibly dilated. "Fuck," he breathed. "Yeah. Yes. Please."
Smiling, you closed the gap between you.
Lion's lips were chapped, but warm and pliable. They moved softly against yours, with only the briefest of hesitations. As though he couldn't quite believe this was happening. You opened your eyes just a crack, too curious to do otherwise. His brows were upturned in earnest, his face etched in longing. The sight made your heart twist. Your eyes shuttered closed again. Tilting your head slightly, you deepened the kiss just a bit. The little shudder you got for it went straight to your core.
Lion's lips parted around yours. Unable to resist, you licked into his mouth. Tentative at first, then more confidently when he moaned against you. His tongue found yours, shy but willing. As your tongues danced, stoking the heat in both your bellies, he found your hand again and held on.
You wove your fingers through his, careful not to apply too much pressure to the damaged digits.
Lion whispered your name when the kiss broke, your foreheads touching. "I... I never thought it... it'd be that nice."
"With a prostitute?" you asked, every syllable dripping with dry humor.
He shook his head. "No. Just... kissin'."
It took you a second to understand what he was saying. When you did, you thought your heart might burst. "Honey, never?"
Lion shook his head, an embarrassed little smile tugging at his kiss-reddened lips.
"Oh, Lion, you sweet little thing..." You cupped his cheeks, your thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the bruised skin there.
"Walter," he murmured.
You hummed questioningly, not pulling back or loosening your hold.
"My name's Walter," he clarified. "'Lion's just a name Stan picked out for me. Said all the greats got nicknames, and that I'm a wild animal in the ring."
You arched a brow. "Are you?"
Lion... Walter... shrugged. "I dunno. I... I'm just out to win. Or at least go down swingin'. Don't really think 'wild' enters the equation." He sighed, nuzzling your hands. His entire body slackened against yours. "Honestly, I... It's tirin', bein' Lion all the time. Bein' a fighter and nothin' else. Everybody likes Lion better. Even Stan. And why not? Lion's a fighter, a champ, and Walter's..." he shrugged, his look of dejection too complete to be faked. "I'm not even sure I know who Walter is. Not anymore."
You knew what he meant. Perhaps more than anybody else, you knew. "Let me ask you this," you whispered. "Are you Lion right now?"
Walter shook his head, his eyes big and wet. "I'm just me."
"Were you Lion at any point before now? Since you walked through the door, I mean."
Walter considered, then slowly shook his had again. "Didn't think about it."
"Well, then," you smiled, "I've only ever met Walter, even though I didn't know it until a minute ago. And you know what? I like Walter plenty." You really did, too. Job be damned.
Walter stared at you, visibly moved, before murmuring, "C'mere," and bringing your foreheads together. You gladly complied, wrapping your arms loosely around his strong shoulders.
You traded kisses for what simultaneously felt like hours and seconds, your lips gliding together with almost instinctual ease. You brought your hands to his face, lightly scratching his stubbly cheeks, while his hands timidly explored your body. He cosseted your ribs, caressed your stomach, and stroked your hips. You could feel the curiosity and budding desire deep within him, and it ignited your own.
You shifted in his grip... and felt his erection poking your thigh.
Walter abruptly broke the kiss. He looked away, flushing so badly he looked sunburned. "I... I'm sorry, I—"
You hushed him gently. "It's okay. That's good. It means I'm making you feel good."
Walter looked back at you. Searching for deception and finding none. Slowly, sheepishly, he nodded. "So good," he admitted breathily.
You pushed a few brown locks from his forehead and temples, tracing his ears. They were large and kind of squarish in shape. Adorable. "Do you want to go on?"
Walter's throat worked. "I'd like to," he replied, "but I don't know what I'm doin'. I'll just embarrass myself."
You moved your hand from his ears to his cheek. "Not with me, Walter. I'll show you what to do, hmm?"
Walter nodded, biting his lips. Looking at you with such open trust, it punched you right in the chest.
Pausing to kiss his forehead, you took his hand and guided it to your panties. Walter gasped but didn't pull away. Not even when you brought his hand under the lacy fabric.
"This," you explained, "is the key to a woman's pleasure." Gently, patiently, you showed him what to do with his fingers. How to rub your clit, how much pressure to apply, and where your entrance was. Bending his fingers, you brought two of them close enough for the tips to be sucked inside.
Walter gasped, pupils expanding, before plunging his fingers inside you. With your guidance, he brought his thumb to your clit and began to circle it.
He was a quick learner, and incredibly intuitive. You retracted your own hand, slipping it in his hair.
"Just like that," you encouraged, your forehead touching his temple. "Like that, Walter. God, you're perfect, baby..."
Walter whimpered at the praise, hiding his face in your neck even as he kept going. Picking up speed without having to be told, moving with the same decisiveness he must've employed in the ring. Then, entirely on his own, he began to kiss your neck. Quick but heated little pecks that poured gasoline over the fire growing within you.
"Y'feel so good," he breathed against your heated skin. "So wet. Fuck, you're a miracle. So glad I met you..."
Sentiment cutting through lust, you brought your lips together. He kissed you with a whine, his fingers still moving inside you. And when your hips began to jerk against those skilled digits, he made a strangled noise. "Wanna make ya feel good," he stated, sounding more than a little desperate. "Wanna make ya come. Please, baby, come for me."
You obliged, back arching and lips parted in a soft cry. Walter's pace faltered then, unsure whether to continue or not. Your hand found his, gently stopping him.
"Did I do good?" Walter asked, big-eyed and eager.
You kissed him softly. "You did perfect."
Walter preened, earning him a laugh from you even as your hand trailed down his chest. You stopped at the waistband of his jeans, even as you could see his bulge straining against the denim. "May I?"
Walter gulped. "Please."
You gave him a quick peck before sitting up, reluctantly disentangling yourself from his embrace, and unbuttoning his jeans. You peeled both them and the boxers underneath off him, tossing them to the floor and not caring where they landed.
Walter was now bare before you, bruised and beautiful. His cock was hard and leaking against his abdomen. Begging for attention. Looking to his face, you saw a mixture of excitement and nervousness.
You placed a gentle hand on his shin. "Do you trust me?"
Walter nodded without hesitation. "Yeah."
Another visit from the feels. Swallowing, you said, "Then let me take care of you, honey." You stripped down, joining him in his nakedness. Balancing the playing field. Hopefully making him feel less exposed, less vulnerable. Or at least, no more vulnerable than you.
Walter looked at you with something approaching adoration.
Settling between his legs, you lay on your stomach. Peppering the insides of his thighs with butterfly kisses. Walter gasped at each one, his legs twitching, but he didn't tell you to stop. Not even when you placed a gentle kiss on the crown of his cock.
You looked up at him, loving his wrecked expression. "Ready, sweetheart?"
Walter nodded eagerly, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Yes. Please."
"Well," you teased, "since you asked so nicely..." You swallowed his cock, taking half of him in one go. Walter bucked and cursed, his fists clawing at the sheets.
Smiling around your mouthful, you began to suck Walter off in earnest, fondling his balls with one hand and caressing his stomach with the other. Walter babbled and moaned, his hips twitching. When you glimpsed his face, your desire came back tenfold. His eyes were closed, his cheeks were redder than apples, and his wonderful lips were parted. A pure, delicious picture of debauchery.
He found your hand on his stomach and held onto it like a lifeline. You wove your fingers together.
His other hand hovered over your hair, then rested on your cheek instead. A sweet, tender gesture. You leaned into it as much as you could while still sucking him off.
"Wait," Walter choked out, "wait, I... I'm gonna come. I... I don't wanna yet. I wanna... wanna be inside ya. Please, baby."
You pulled off him, wiping your lips, and crawled up his body. Scattered more kisses along his skin as you ascended. When you were in reach, Walter cupped your face and kissed you with the desperation of a drowning man. "Wanna make ya feel good, like before," he reiterated, self-consciousness flashing across his face, "but I... I'm scared it'll be over too quick."
"That's not a bad thing," you assured him, rubbing your nose against his. "Finish as quickly or as slowly as you need. You already gave me one orgasm, which is more than I can say about a lot of my clients. Even if it's over fast, I just want to feel you."
And you really did. This wasn't a job to you anymore. It was something special. Sacred, even.
A first time for you as well as for Walter. Not in the act itself, but what it meant.
Walter once again gave you that look. The one of someone so unaccustomed to kindness, to understanding, any they received was borderline overwhelming. His eyes even welled up. Before they could spill over, though, he took the reins—if shyly.
"Lie down for me, please?"
You giggled. A girlish sound. A relic from a sweeter, more innocent time of your life. "Sure thing, baby." You were lying on your stomach when Walter placed his hand on your shoulder. "No," he said, "no, please, I... I wanna see you. See your face."
God, what were you supposed to do with all this tenderness?
You turned over, lying on your back, and stared up at Walter. He towered over you, breathing heavily. A Roman statue, all lean muscle and sinewy power, his erection making a mess on his abs, his face made ragged by hunger. It should've made for an intimidating sight. Or at least, it would've, if not for the softness in those large blue eyes. For the gentleness he'd already demonstrated.
You reached out to him. "Make love to me, Walter. Please."
You'd never called it that before. Not with your clients. Not with anyone. Love had never been part of the equation. It was too volatile, too soft.
But oh, you were starting to get why artists dedicated so much of their work to it. Why people spent their whole lives searching for it. Why it'd been called the closest thing we had to magic.
Walter was careful as he climbed on top of you, planting his arms on either side of your head so that you wouldn't bear the brunt of his weight. But then, he stopped. Frowning pensively.
"What's wrong?" you asked. "If you've changed your mind, it's okay." It would've stung a bit, honestly, but you'd respect his choice nonetheless.
"No, no, I wanna, it's just..." Walter made a bashful noise. "I... don't know how to... how to put it in." He gave you an adorably beseeching look. "Help?"
You were tempted to laugh at just how cute he was, but you didn't want to embarrass him further. Instead, you cupped the base of his skull with one hand, bringing your foreheads together, and reached down with the other. You found his cock and gave it few pumps, making Walter shudder. "Oh, fuck," he whispered. "Your hand... That feels so much fuckin' better than mine..."
You chuckled. "I do try."
Walter kissed you with trembling lips. "I-I'm ready, baby. Please. Put me inside ya."
You kissed him back. "Right where you belong." You meant it as a tease—mostly—but Walter nodded, staring at you like nothing else existed. "Yeah," he murmured, "yeah. Where I belong."
You blushed. Kept your foreheads together as you guided him inside you. He pushed in slowly, letting out a moan so low and guttural it sounded more pained than pleasured.
You moaned alongside him, loving the stretch. The way he filled every crevice without ever hurting you. The way he made you feel whole. Complete.
He stayed like that for a moment. Panting. Eyes closed. Body trembling. But when he opened his eyes, he gave you a wide grin. "Wow."
You giggled. "I know." You caressed his cheek. "Are you all right?"
"Better than all right," Walter blinked. "Wait, should I be serious?" He tried to school his expression into neutrality. "Is me smilin' weird?"
"No," you shook your head, still stroking his cheek. "It should be fun, honey. Smile as much as you like."
Walter's smile returned, brighter than ever. "Okay. Good." He pressed his forehead a little harder against yours. Trying to be as close to you as possible. "You make me wanna smile."
You gave a small chortle, kissing him briefly but sweetly. "And you make me feel... Well," you trailed off, "... things I'd given up on."
Walter looked like he might break, right then and there. Instead, he began to pull out, slow and careful, before plunging back inside you. It didn't take him long to build up a steady rhythm, and even less for you to enjoy it. You wrapped your legs around his trim waist, encouraging him. The headboard began to gently tap against the wall in time with the sound of skin on skin. You moaned and sighed together, your foreheads never parting. Your hands wove into his hair, while his gripped your shoulders.
It was wonderful, but you wanted more. And, you sensed, so did Walter.
"Harder," you urged him. "I can handle it. I'm not gonna break. I wanna feel you lose control."
Walter's eyes widened. He let out a ragged gasp. Then, he gave you exactly what you'd asked for. His hips began snapping deeper, faster, but no less careful. One of his hands left your shoulder to tweak your nipple instead, making you cry out. In response, you began to roll your hips to meet his. To lightly scratch his back. To give his neck a few feather-light nibbles. All little sensations that added to his pleasure like spices in a stew.
"Fuck," Walter groaned, still rolling your nipple between his fingers, "y'feel so good, honey. Could do this forever. Never wanna stop."
"Then don't," you replied, directly in his ear, and snapped your hips especially hard to meet him halfway.
Walter keened, buried his face in your neck, and kept pumping away like his life depended on it. You moved with him, using every trick you knew to amp his pleasure... and some you'd never used. You kissed his temple. You held him close. You whispered praises that you actually meant.
"So good... You feel so good, Walter... So perfect inside me."
Walter whined at the praise, his hips pistoning with a bit more force.
And then, without any prompting from you, his hand left your breast in favor of the point above where your bodies connected. His fingers found your clit. Remembered what you'd taught him.
You cried out. Clutched him with all you had. You felt it building within you, as bright and hot as wildfire. "Yes," you moaned, "yes! Yes, that's it." You kissed him hard. "That's it, sweetheart."
Walter panted against your skin, his entire body shaking even as he worked like a plough horse. "I-I'm close," he warned, his voice breaking, "I'm so fuckin' close... Fuck, (y/n), lemme... Please, lemme..."
"Me, too," you told him. Found his gaze and held it. "Together?"
Walter nodded, shattered and reverent. "Together." He quickened his pace on your clit. Pounded into you harder. Kissed you like the world was ending.
"Baby—oh God, I’m—" He came with a raw, helpless cry, spilling inside you in hot, pulsing waves that left you both shaking.
You came in the same breath, moaning as your second orgasm rushed through you like a sweet, red-hot fever. Back arching, head thrown back, legs tightening until the muscles in your calves cramped. It was easily the most intense climax you'd ever had with someone else, and innately you knew that Walter had ruined you for anybody else.
Then again, maybe you'd known that even earlier.
For a long moment, there was only the melody of you two panting. Your cooling bodies still tangled together. Your rapid heartbeats slowing down in almost perfect synchrony. Your hands joined without either of you remembering how it'd happened.
Walter stayed buried in you, nuzzling your neck. Not a client, but a lover. Your hand slipped into his hair, gently working out a few knots. Played with his rattail again, eliciting another bubble of laughter from Walter. You laughed with him, holding him closer.
Then, Walter's stomach growled. Walter raised his head, as though surprised by his own hunger, and the two of you locked eyes. The next thing you knew, you were giggling like schoolchildren.
"Here," you pecked the tip of his nose before reluctantly leaving his embrace, "I'll get you a snack."
"But won't we get charged?" Walter asked.
"Nah," you replied as you walked over to the minifridge. "I brought these. I've been to places that've had the same damn snacks in their fridges and cupboards since the nineties. Better be safe than sorry." You opened the minifridge, paused, and looked back at him. "What do you like? I brought chips, popcorn, beef jerky, Oreos, pretzels..."
Walter shrugged. "Ah, I'll eat anythin'. Beggars can't be choosers, and all that."
You considered before selecting the beef jerky and two cans of Coke. When he saw them, Walter brightened. "You go for the full-fat Coke?"
You snickered. "Of course! It's my favorite."
Walter sat up, still grinning from ear to ear. "Mine, too."
"See? Match made in Heaven." Kicking the minifridge's door shut, you brought your offerings back to the bed. Walter thanked you with a smile and bit into the jerky. He hummed around his mouthful as you retreated to the bathroom to dampen a pair of hand-towels. "This is good!" he exclaimed through half-chewed jerky.
You chuckled as you returned to his side. One hand-towel was used to gently wipe his groin clean of your juices. The other, you used to clear the sweat from the rest of him, starting with his face and working down to his thighs. A ritual of aftercare you'd never performed before. "Well, of course. This is the good stuff. A bit pricier, harder to find, but worth every penny."
Walter swallowed, his cheeks colored by more than just exertion. "Thanks. Again."
You gave him a wink. "After a workout like that, I figured you could use the protein."
Walter looked down at the remaining jerky, then gave you half of it. "Please."
You giggled, accepting the food, and sat beside him on the rumpled bedspread. You hadn't even realized how hungry you'd been until the first piece hit your tongue.
The two of you polished off your jerky, clinked your Coke cans together, and drank. Then, Walter reached out to you. "Please come back? Miss ya already."
You chuckled even as you felt a similar yearning in your chest. "Say no more." This time, you were the one to settle on his chest. He held you close, nuzzling the crown of your head.
The two of you stayed like that for a few minutes, bellies full and bodies still buzzing with endorphins. You tapped your fingers against Walter's chest in sync with his heartbeat while he traced patterns on your back.
Eventually, you lifted your head and asked, "How do you feel?"
Walter looked at you with open, unabashed affection. "Everybody said it wouldn't be good," he admitted.
"Your first time?"
Walter nodded. "That after all that talk, all that buildup, all that waitin', all that fantasizin'... Real life couldn't compete." He tapped his forehead against yours. "But you were better than anythin' I could fantasize. You..." He swallowed. "Don't think I want anybody else."
Hearing him echo your feelings punched the air right out of your lungs. Even so, you tried to keep a level head. "That's just the afterglow, sweetie."
"No," he shook his head firmly. "It ain't. It's you."
"I'm a prostitute," you reminded both him and yourself. "You don't even know me." That part felt like at least half a lie. But someone had to be the rational one, the practical one.
"I know enough," Walter insisted. "I know your story. I know how ya like to be touched. I know you're sweet and kind and patient and gentle. I know that you'd rather shell out extra dough to get good jerky than get the cheap stuff 'cause you care about quality. I know you really listen, and that you took massage courses, and that you like full-fat Coke, just like me."
You couldn't help but laugh even as you were coming apart just beneath the skin. "That's not a whole lot, sweetie."
"It's a start," Walter pressed, sounding more desperate by the second. "And you know Walter. You like Walter, not Lion."
"Yes." You had to own up to that part. Had to let him know how he made you feel, at least a little. You caressed his cheek. "Anybody with eyes, ears, and a functioning pre-frontal cortex would. Walter is wonderful."
Walter turned his head, kissing your palm, before looking beseechingly at you again. "So're you. I like you. A lot. I... I..." he swallowed thickly. "I think I'm falling for ya."
You stared at him, your heartrate picking up all over again.
"Would ya wanna come do laundry with me?" he asked. "I-I've already found a place. Don't got enough for the deposit yet, but I'm gettin' there. Been puttin' aside money for years. Money Stan don't know about, since he spends everythin' he gets. Not a lot. Just a ten here, a twenty there. But it adds up. And... and I'd really like ya there with me and Ash. I know it ain't a glamorous life, and I know we've only known each other for such a short time, and I got arthritis and memory problems and I ain't never had a girl before so I might get a buncha shit wrong, but... but..." His voice broke. "Fuck, I don't want things to end here."
You slowly shook your head. "Neither do I." Your voice didn't sound much better than his.
Walter looked at you with an almost frightful amount of hope. "So... You...?"
It was devoid of rationality, of levelheadedness. It was risky. It was borderline crazy. It was based on emotion rather than practicality. It was the sort of decision you'd have made when you were younger and more naĂŻve, before the world beat it out of you.
It was also the easiest thing in the world to nod, cradle his face in your hands like the treasure it was, and say, "Yeah, Wally, let's do it."
Walter began to cry even as he laughed, pulling you in a bone-crushing hug that you gladly returned. His tears soaked into your skin, his grip almost painful. You ran your hand up and down his back, humming an old lullaby your mother used to sing to you, and blinked back your own tears.
Eventually, his sobs subsided. After you'd dried his face and tenderly kissed every inch of it, after you'd cajoled a glass of water down his throat—between your lovemaking and his crying, you didn't want him getting dehydrated—you lay him down and held him tight. He held you just as tightly, burying his face in your hair. You nuzzled his chest. Letting everything he was envelope you. Undo you. Remake you.
Tomorrow, you'd start making plans. After all, you had some money put aside, too. Not much of a nest egg, but something. Pooled with Walter's savings, it could probably cover the first couple months' rent, as well as the safety deposit. Not a whole lot, but enough to get the business started.
And you knew that you could convince the other girls to be your first customers. They'd be happy to help, and you knew you and Walter could get their clothes looking good. Once the place had truly found its footing, they could keep coming back, too. Have a safe little haven where they could do their laundry for a reasonable price without having to worry about getting hassled.
You could see it so clearly now, as vivid as any memory. Kaminski Kleaners. The place would be small and humble, but well-kept, clean, and functional. The two of you would make sure every washing machine and dryer ran. He'd paint the walls. You'd bring in pictures and plants. The place would have Wi-Fi that was cheap but reliable. Maybe a couple of loveseats where folks could relax while they waited. There could be a coffee corner, too. The whole place would smell like laundry detergent and feel warm even in the dead of winter.
You and Walter would take turns running the front desk and chatting with the clientele, slowly getting to know them as well as the garments they brought you. Ash would have a little dog bed behind the desk, with a nearby water dish and a bowl full of treats. You and Walter would walk her around the block on your break.
It wasn't what you'd imagined for yourself. Not when you were young and innocent, and certainly not when you'd fallen into this life. But now, as you lay in Walter's embrace, you realized just how much you wanted that kind of sweet normalcy. Almost as much as you wanted the man in your arms.
The man you were already in love with.
Walter had already dozed off. He looked younger when he slept, and even sweeter than he did awake. You stared at him, smiling softly as you caressed his face. Confirming that he truly was real. That he was here, with you, and that this was all really happening. That it wasn't some sweet dream.
It couldn't be: You were starting to nod off. And this would all be waiting for you in the morning. He would be waiting.
You tucked your head under his chin, smiled when he curled his body even more snugly against yours, and let sleep take you.
Tonight had been the first time you'd both felt truly loved. And it wouldn't be last.
***
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Kiss My Eyes and Lay Me To Sleep
Part Four of Four
Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal x fem!reader
Contains smut; 18+/MDNI
Summary: It was a misguided act of kindness, comforting your captor. Singing one of your mother's songs to him. The likes of which he hadn't received in years, if not longer. It reminded him of a long-dead world, of a childhood he was robbed of... and a mother he lost.
Now, he seeks to rekindle that tenderness with you. The idea is less than appealing to you. You play along, knowing you have few alternatives. But what happens when you begin to need him just as much as he needs you?
Note: This story takes place during and right after the events of 'The Bone Temple'.
Thank you to @lulaaaaaaw for writing so many cool ideas for 'Jimmy Crystal with mommy issues', which wound up inspiring me to write for the first time in a while!
The lyrics are 'Prelude 12/21' by AFI. You can listen to it here.
Thank you, @jimmythecookiemonster, for letting me use this gif! It's awesome!
Part One is here.
Part Two is here.
Part Three is here.
Warnings: Contains p in v sex, emotional sex, angst, hurt/comfort, religious delusions, and some viscera in the form of crucifixion.
You told yourself you didn't miss Jimmy. And sometimes, you didn't. Especially when your rude little mind dragged you back to that barn. Back to the thick, coppery stench of blood. Back to the muffled wails of those poor people. Back to the Jimmies, donning toothed masks and gleefully peeling said people like they were ripe fruit.
Back to Jimmy's latest masterpiece.
The fact that it'd been far from his first salted your wound. In truth, you were almost glad you didn't know how many had come before those poor souls. Some things were simply too much for a person to take.
Especially a person traversing the wilds alone. A person who drank from streams, slept high amid tree branches to avoid the infected, and talked to the stars in lieu of any other company.
A person who sometimes missed the very wretch she'd run away from.
You didn't want to miss Jimmy. There was nothing you wanted less. But just as your mind brought you back to the barn, it forced the kinder moments upon you, too. The way he'd nuzzle your neck in his sleep. The way his entire body relaxed against yours when you sang him your song. The surprisingly sweet way he'd ask for uppies and kissies. The trust in his gaze, so painfully childlike, whenever you cradled him in your arms. The way he'd desperately need your comfort after a nightmare.
"Say yer here wit' me. Promise me, Mummy. Promise ye'll never leave me."
But you had left him. And, despite the thorns wrapping around your heart, piercing the muscle until it bled, you'd do it again.
You'd known that Jimmy hadn't exactly been a good person. Good people don't go around forcing their delusions and traumas on others. Nor do they make other folk fight to the death for the privilege of joining their inner circle.
But the barn had been far, far worse than anything you'd imagined. It'd been worse than any nightmare you'd ever had. Worse than anything you'd ever seen the infected do.
How could you be a part of it, even to survive? Would there be anything left of you worth surviving?
You knew you'd done the right thing. Even when you missed him, you knew.
But sometimes, oh... who knew the right thing could feel so cold?
***
When you'd first spied the milk-white spires in the distance, you hadn't known what to think beyond the expected 'What the fuck?'
The first explanation your befuddled brain had provided had been arboreal. Maybe it was a plot of leafless aspens, or dead cypresses. But as you drew closer, you dismissed the idea. Without their cover, cypresses looked like pale, stiff tendrils rising out of the ground. These looked like towers. And none of them had branches, so you decided they couldn't be aspens, either.
Your next guess was that it was some ruin of either ancient times or of Before. Maybe columns from when the Romans passed through here all those centuries ago. It seemed a bit closer to the mark, but not quite. With so many columns, wouldn't there be something more? The crumbled remains of a fallen rooftop? The occasional stump that'd once been a wall? The armless deities of a long-dead world? And yet, even as you drew closer, you saw none of those things.
But you did eventually get close enough to see what the strange structures were made of.
If the architect hadn't been there, you'd have screamed yourself hoarse.
And that was how you met Dr. Ian Kelson and Samson.
***
You were on a first-name basis with him before the first week was out.
Ian was a good man. Kind and gentle despite the horrors he'd experienced. He explained that the Bone Temple was a memorial to the dead, and that even now he searched for bodies to add to the ossuary. Tried, in his own small way, to give peace to the dead.
He provided you with food and shelter. Shared his music and books with you. Set up a cot for you in his bunker. Told you his stories but didn't ask for yours.
In return, you did what you could for him. You cleaned and sharpened his tools without needing to be asked. You kept the lager full of meat, fish, and eggs. You mended his clothes. You ravaged every clinic and hospital you could find and brought back what you could—in particular, the iodine he covered himself in.
And, once you got over your terror, you also did whatever was in your power for Samson, the Alpha that kept coming back like a tomcat looking for fish heads. You fed him meat, and was glad that he seemed to like venison and mutton over human. You brushed and braided his hair. You found him shorts. You got into the habit of speaking to him, slowly convincing yourself that he could understand you as well as Ian.
When Ian claimed he might be able to treat the Alpha, you promised to help. And, indeed, whenever Ian concocted a new cocktail of medicine for Samson, you were there. Not just as emotional support, but to intervene with a bat if needed. Ugly business, but thankfully you only had to knock the Alpha out once.
It was a strange life, but a good one, too.
You kept it free of Jimmy. He was your secret, your cross to bear. Your mother? Sure, you told Ian and Samson all about her. Your many homes? Absolutely; you were happy to talk about them. Learning to hunt and ride and read the stars? No problem. But not Jimmy Crystal.
Embarrassment was the first and more shallow reason. From the outside looking in, you thought it all sounded messed up. Creepy. Funny, too. A full-grown man suckling on his captive's breasts like a baby attempting to nurse? Sitting on her lap while she sang to him or read him fairy tales? Her spoon-feeding him?
But beneath the embarrassment and the fear of judgment... you just couldn't. Jimmy haunted your dreams and lingered in your peripheral vision. You found yourself thinking of him even as you brought back game to the Temple or accompanied Ian on supply runs. You'd hear the song you always sang to him if the wind blew through the wild grasses just right. And sometimes, at night, you'd close your eyes, cup your own cheek, and pretend that the hand touching your face was Jimmy's.
You hated it. Made yourself remember the barn. But as the days ripened into weeks, your gentler feelings for him refused to fade. If it was already so bad with your secrets crowding the back of your throat, how much worse would it be if you let them out?
And again, you feared judgment and possibly banishment. Sure, you hadn't harmed anyone, but you'd been with someone who had. Worse yet, you missed him. A cult leader. A killer. A monster.
Who was worse, really? The monster, or the person who knew what the monster was and loved him anyway?
The thought stopped you dead.
'Love'?
***
That night, over bowls of rabbit, carrots, potatoes, and onions, you began to talk about Jimmy. It was like a summer storm: Once the words started, they came down hard and numerous.
You told Ian—and Samson, who was tearing into the rabbits' organs like a child pigging out on candy—about the night the Jimmies happened upon you. About how you could've run once you'd freed yourself, but how you comforted their weeping leader instead. You recounted the two months you spent cooking Jimmy's meals, listening to his sermons, holding him when he cried, and letting him call you 'Mummy'. You described how you went from playing his game for the sake of survival to slowly returning his feelings, warped as they were. You spoke of your complicated feelings; how you'd always been aware of how disconnected Jimmy was from reality, how dangerous he could be, but how it'd been impossible to feel anything but affection when he'd cry in your chest and beg you never to leave him.
Then, you told them about the barn. About running off. About how Jimmy's wails and pleas followed you all the way to the forest... and, sometimes, found their way in your dreams.
You hung your head afterward, feeling hollow despite the warm, savory stew sitting in your belly. You stared down at the empty bowl, wondering if you'd just had the last good meal you'd find in a while.
Gentle arms wrapped around you, the chemical scent of iodine filling your nose. You blinked, stunned, as Ian held you as though you were made of glass... and Samson placed a hand on your knee in silent support.
"I'm so sorry," Ian whispered. "I had no idea you were going through so much."
"You...?" You blinked. "You don't think I'm messed up?"
"Of course not," Ian drew away, smiling softly at you. "People can be blamed for many things, dear, but their feelings are not among them. Do I think this relationship, if that's what you can call it, ideal? No. The power dynamic is unstable, and the man's delusions and traumas are worrisome. I believe, though, that underneath all that madness, he really is just a scared child desperate for love and connection. Of course, this doesn't excuse what he's done, but it cannot be ignored, either."
You sighed. "I never signed up for something this complicated, Ian. I just wanted to keep breathing! I never expected to start feeling these things!"
"We seldom do," Ian assured you. "Still, we're only human. We love whom we love." He paused, considering. "Who knows? Maybe I could treat this Jimmy of yours."
He's not mine, you almost said. But you stopped yourself for reasons you weren't ready to face yet.
Instead, you asked, "Do you really think so?"
Ian gave a small chuckle. "Why not? If I could help Samson, why not Jimmy?"
"I hope you're right," you muttered.
Ian patted your shoulder. "We'll see what happens, dear," he told you. "Whatever happens, happens."
***
Jimmy's breath hitched when he saw you through the binoculars. The others were too dazzled by the presence of Old Nick to notice. But Jimmy barely gave the old man a sideways glance. He only had eyes for you.
You were as beautiful as the day he lost you.
Jimmy lied to his Fingers. What remained of them, anyway. The barn had been a fucking disaster. Jimmima and Jimmy Jimmy were dead, Jimmy Jones was wounded, and everyone's spirits were in the negatives.
That was why, the more he thought about it, the more Jimmy realized what a blessing this might actually be.
He told them to wait. That he had to square it with 'Old Nick' before having the rest of them meet him. When they opened their mouths to protest, he shot them a death glare. And then, his heart pounding at a million miles per hour, he stepped into the Temple.
It was as beautiful as it was terrifying. Spires of femurs tall enough to block out the sun. Garlands of pelvises. Small finger joints rattling in the breeze. And in the center, a tower of skulls. Some were old, gray, and flaking, while others shone like pearls in the daylight.
A crow cawed. Jimmy jumped.
He could see Old Nick living here... but why were you here?
His thoughts ground to a halt when a gentle, familiar voice reached his ears. "Jimmy?"
Jimmy froze. Slowly, fearfully, he turned towards it. Saw you standing there, between two columns, with the sun in your hair and tears in your eyes.
Jimmy felt like he'd been kicked in the chest by a horse. For a long time, all he could do was return your stare. Then, in a voice he could barely call his own, he croaked out your name.
You inhaled shakily. "What're you doing here?" You didn't sound angry, though. You almost sounded scared.
"I..." Jimmy tried, and failed, to clear his throat. "... Jimmy Ink found this place. Saw Old Nick." He gave you a nervous smile. "Ye hate Him, and me, but... it's good tae see ye, lass."
"I don't hate you, I—" You stopped, frowning at him. "Wait, Old Nick?"
Jimmy blinked. "Aye, I just saw him with me binoculars."
"So you think...?" You shook his head. "Oh, no, baby, it's not Old Nick! He's human. He's a doctor. And he's really nice, too!"
Jimmy's lower lip wobbled when you called him 'baby'. Had you even realized you said it?
The rest of what you said finally sank in. "He's not Old Nick?"
"No!"
"But he's orange, and he lives here—" he gestured wildly to your surroundings, "—and yer here! Placed back onto me path! How can he not be Old Nick?"
The two of you had been steadily closing the distance between you with every word exchanged, neither of you aware of it until you were within reach of each other.
It was too small a distance to ignore what you'd once been to one another. What you continued to be.
"Jimmy..." you sighed, hugging yourself. "... I... I can't live in your world. Not anymore. I can't be what you need me to be."
Jimmy's heart lodged itself in his throat. He tried to speak, but couldn't. His hand drifted towards your face, but stopped short of your skin. As though he feared touching you without permission. Considering your shared history, it'd have been funny if it hadn't been so heart-wrenching. "May I?"
You swallowed. Hard. "Yeah."
Jimmy's fingers were gentle as they curled against your cheek. Instinctively, you leaned into them. Jimmy stepped even closer. At this point, you were breathing the same air. You didn't even realize your hands were on his jacket until you saw them there, white-knuckled and trembling against the purple velour.
"I missed ye," he breathed, his voice raw and vulnerable in a way you'd never heard during the day. "Missed ye like fuckin' crazy. I... I know I was bad. But... but please, donnae leave now."
You didn't. Instead, you coiled your arms around his neck and pulled him into an embrace. A low, wounded noise spilled from his throat as he melted against you, burying his face in your neck. One of his hands came up to cup the base of your skull, while the other pressed against the small of your back.
You felt so perfect in his arms. Familiar. Warm. Comforting. Jimmy began to cry at the painful beauty of it all, not giving a fuck if Old-Nick-But-Not-Old-Nick walked in on you both and saw his tears. And you began to hush him gently, nuzzling his hair and kissing his temple. "It's okay," you whispered in his ear, "just breathe."
"I'm sorry, Mummy!" he apologized, his voice breaking. "I shoulda been yer good boy. Instead, I scared ye away. I'm sorry. I'm so fuckin' sorry..."
You sighed even as you moved one of your hands on his back, gently sliding it up and down his spine.
Jimmy wished he could find the words to fix what he'd damaged. To get you to look at him like you used to. But he couldn't. What could he say? That he'd stop charity? Stop paying tribute to Old Nick? How could he? Old Nick was the reason Jimmy was still alive. He'd shielded him from the demons. He'd guided Jimmy through the wilds. He'd given Jimmy countless Fingers over the years. He'd shown him the way, no matter how cruel or brutal it was. How could he turn his back on his dark lord now? Even if Old Nick didn't strike him down for his betrayal, what would Jimmy Crystal be if he couldn't be a Sir Lord?
He could be yours again. Your good boy.
But could he? Would you even want him back?
Eventually, you pulled away but kept your arms around each other. Pressed your foreheads together. It was healing and painful at the same time, like squeezing pus out of a wound.
Jimmy gave a trembling sigh. "... What now?"
You licked your lips nervously. "Well, for starters, I could introduce you to Ian." You looked up at him. "But, Jimmy, I wasn't taking the piss. He's really not the Devil. I..." you chuckled humorlessly, "... I don't think anyone is. It's just us. We're alone."
"No, we're not," Jimmy insisted, tapping his temple. "He's right here. Always."
You closed your eyes. Said nothing.
Until you delivered his damnation and salvation in the same sentence. "Jimmy... It's him or me. I'm sorry, but you can't have both."
Jimmy stared at you, feeling like he might collapse.
"I missed you, too," you whispered. "And I think about you every day. A part of me still hates and fears you. I mean, how could I not? But," you shook your head, "that's not all there is to it. Far from it." You swallowed. "I... honestly think there's something still good inside you. Something capable of love and gentleness and warmth, even if it's not what you might call 'conventional'. But it's tangled up with so much darkness, and if you keep giving in to it, Jimmy, it's gonna swallow you up."
"The darkness is honest, (Y/n)," Jimmy replied softly.
"Yes," you agreed, "but are you to yourself?"
Jimmy didn't know how to answer that. Didn't know how to answer to anything you'd just said.
Instead, he burrowed back into your embrace, hiding his face in your neck. Sighed when you ran a hand through his hair.
The man could wait. His peeps could wait. Hell, even Old Nick could wait.
He just wanted you. Just for a little longer. Just you.
***
Ian didn't want you at the Temple that night. He said that it'd be a gamble, that with a bit of luck the Fingers would believe the charade, Jimmy would be satisfied, and they would leave. "He said he'd come back for you," Ian added, "but the question is: Would you receive him?"
You rubbed your eyes. They were itchy with exhaustion. "Wish I knew. Seeing him today was..." You swallowed. Looked helplessly at your strange but dear friend. "Ian, Jimmy's a monster. How can I love a monster?"
Ian chuckled warmly. "Even monsters have hearts. And even when we spoke, I sensed that Jimmy's already belongs to you."
You sighed. "And what am I to do with it?"
"Ah, I can't tell you that," Ian replied. "No one can. You can only make that choice, and then live with it. That's all anyone can do."
You were almost glad to be excused from that night's sham. But you stayed closer than Ian had asked. Drawn by the people you'd known, the one who'd taken you in... and the one you loved despite it all.
You heard the music. You saw the faint blasts of fire. And then... nothing.
It wasn't peaceful, though. There was a tension in the air, as though the night itself were holding its breath. And for the life of you, you stayed rooted to the spot. Waiting for it to exhale.
Instead, you heard the rhythmic thud of a hammer. And screams that chilled your blood. They were great, terrible wails that devolved into sobs.
And you knew the voice making those sounds.
You had never moved so fast in your life. And what you found at the end of that desperate run branded itself into your mind.
Samson, covered in blood but clear-eyed, carried Ian's body out of the Temple. You cried out, stumbling into the Alpha's path. He stopped. Let you look at your friend's serene face... and the knife in his side. Your eyes brimming, you looked to Samson. "Where will you take him?"
"Somewhere safe," Samson promised. His voice was gentle thunder.
"And... will you come back?" you inquired.
Samson shrugged. "Sometimes."
You nodded. "I'll be here." You hesitated, glancing at the entrance to the Temple. "Is anyone alive in there?"
"Boy and girl left," Samson replied. "Two others dead. Man dying."
Your throat sealed itself shut. "What man? I..." You stopped yourself. You'd find out soon enough. "Okay." You found Samson's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "See you around, my friend."
Something in Samson's face softened. He nodded. Squeezed your hand back.
You let him go then. Ran into the Temple despite the hornets making a nest of your innards.
Instantly, you recognized the two bodies. Jimmy Jones and Jimmy Snake, within inches of each other. But no sign of the boy or Jimmy Ink. Of that, you were relieved. They'd been better to you than the others. You hoped they found a nice, safe place. Someplace with plenty of food and few, if any, dangers to deal with. A place to call 'home'.
A pained whimper caught your attention. When you turned towards it, you gasped. Your hands flew over your mouth.
You recognized the upside-down cross, large and heavy with lies. You'd seen Ian make it that very afternoon. An extra prop, he'd called it. Jimmy, stripped of his shirt, jacket, and jewelry, had been nailed to it. You could see the huge nails digging into his wrists, his fingers twitching helplessly as blood dribbled onto the grass. A puncture wound sat on his side; a glaring red eye weeping blood all the way to his collarbone. His hair hung around his face like tendrils of seaweed.
His face. Red, from the blood rushing to his head. Slick with sweat and tears.
You approached, numb with horror.
When he saw you, he cried out. "Mummy," he croaked.
You stumbled back.
"Mummy, please," he spoke faster now. Desperate. Panicked. "I... It hurts, please... Father has forsaken me... Ink and Young betrayed me... Please... Donnae leave me, too..." He was full-on crying at this point, his tears falling from his eyes and getting caught in his tangled locks. "Please... I'll forsake Old Nick right back... I'll be good, always... Always be good for ye... Yer all I've got left in the world, please..." his face crumpled like wet paper. "I love ye..."
His words devolved into sobs. Broken, childish wails fraught with pain and misery.
You stood there, unsure of what to do.
You thought of the barn, and of the countless other places like it. Places where Jimmy had sacrificed innocent people to his delusions. Places where he'd spilled blood, defiled flesh, and ended lives so brutally... and all with a smile.
Then, you thought of him cradling your face in his hands. Looking at you with the most loving eyes when you spoon-fed him. Lying in your arms, trusting you completely, as you sang to him or read him stories.
You could leave him. Let him die, either through the infected, dehydration, or an internal hemorrhage caused from being upside-down for far too long.
Or you could yank those nails out. Tend to his wounds. Be his mummy again, and hope that he remembered your ultimatum.
"You can only make that choice, and live with it."
You took a deep breath. Got down on one knee, Grabbed one of the huge nails pinning Jimmy to the cross. The metal was slick with blood.
You looked at him. Met his eyes. "I love you, too."
Then, you pulled hard.
***
Ian had been the doctor, not you. But you'd been taking care of yourself, and your mother, for years. And in the time you'd been with Ian, you'd filled the gaps in your knowledge by watching him work.
And so, with trembling hands guided by a steady heart, you mended your broken boy. Soaked his wounds in disinfectant. Sewed them shut. Bound them in gauze. Washed his body with cloths dripping with river water. Spooned stew in his mouth. Held him when he sobbed. And he sobbed so much in those early days.
But as the days matured into weeks, Jimmy's tears dried just as his wounds healed. His fingers had lost some of their dexterity—for now, at any rate—but he was awake, lucid, and devoted to you in a way you'd never seen before.
He did what he could around the Temple. Tidied up your clothes, brought you wildflowers, fetched water from the river, and dug up roots for you both to eat. Whenever Samson visited, Jimmy always stood nearby with a blade, ready to defend you if necessary. And sometimes, when you dozed off before him, he sang to you. That song. Always. Every time.
He claimed that he couldn't hear Old Nick's voice anymore. "But even if I could," he insisted, "I'd ignore Him. He left me," he cupped your face, "but ye came back."
You hesitated, caught between fear and love. Between what you knew and what you hoped.
Not knowing what to do, you did nothing. You stayed with him, but kept him at arm's length. You were kind, but never overindulgent. You held him, but didn't kiss him. You turned your head when he tried to kiss you, and silently appreciated it when he didn't push it.
Until one day, as you were changing the bandages on his wrists, his fingers found yours. Laced them together with loving care.
You stared at them, then up at him. He looked at you as though nothing else existed. And maybe, to him, that was exactly the case.
"I ain't askin' ye tae forget what I did," he whispered. "Just... lemme do better for ye. Please."
You swallowed. Regarding him carefully. "No more charity?"
"No."
"No more Fingers?"
"None but the ones on me hands." He wiggled his unoccupied hand for emphasis. The edge of your mouth quirked up despite yourself.
Even so, you had to know. Had to be sure. "No more—"
"No more nothin' 'cept us," Jimmy cut you off gently, leaning forward until your noses almost brushed. His eyes locked with yours, desperate to make you understand. "Yer the closest I've felt tae home since everythin' fell apart. I wanna be good for ye. Wanna..." his voice splintered, "... I wanna come home." The truth, raw and bloody, laid at your feet like an offering.
You considered the man before you once more. Weighed everything you'd seen him do against all he was saying now.
You made your choice...
... and kissed him. Gently. Slowly.
Jimmy kissed you back, whimpering against you. His tears ran down his cheeks and landed on your lips, warm and salty.
Silently, still kissing, you made your way on the cot. Your hands explored each other's bodies in a quiet, mutual reacquaintance. He was as strong and beautiful as ever, and when you felt his hands on your bare skin, it was enough to fill your lower abdomen with warm oil.
You undressed each other, taking care with Jimmy's wounds.
You lay down. Guided him on top of you. Gave his cock a few pumps, smiling when he moaned, and gasped when his fingers glided along your slit.
"Mummy's wet," he proudly stated.
"Yes," you confirmed. "Need you. Need my baby."
Jimmy looked like he might come undone from your words alone. Stopping only to kiss you, he settled between your legs. Hesitating, he looked to you. Only after you'd nodded did he push inside you. Long. Slow. Devoted. You gasped but didn't tell him to stop. For once, you felt that he'd listen if you asked.
Jimmy pressed his forehead against yours, your breaths fanning each other's cheeks. "Mummy," he admitted, "I dunno how long I'm gonna—"
"It's okay," you promised him, tucking his blond hair behind his ears. "I just wanna feel you."
Jimmy's face crumpled. He began a slow and easy rhythm, letting you both find your footing after all this time. You met his movements as best you could, pressing kisses to his lips, cheeks, and neck. Eventually, he turned his head and ensnared your mouth with his own. He kissed you softly, desperately, and you responded with equal fervor.
"I love you, sweetheart," you whispered when you parted.
And just like that, Jimmy couldn't hold back anymore.
"Fuck," he gasped as he began to pick up the pace, "y'feel so good—So warm—missed this, missed ye, missed bein' inside ye—"
You coiled your legs around his waist, heels pressing in the small of his back. "Missed you, too," you replied breathily. "Missed you so much."
Jimmy's hips snapped harder, his breath hitching in your ear. "I'll be good," he promised between groans. "Always—Forever—I'll never hurt ye again—Or anyone—I promise."
His voice was ragged, wrecked, stripped of all artifice. So were his words. So were his thrusts. So were his desperate touches.
You let it all drown you, kissing him hard.
Jimmy began to truly lose it then, sliding his arms under your back and pulling you close to him, his hips stuttering wildly against yours. He kept babbling, swearing to be good, to be yours, even as he kept moaning and gasping and whimpering. An unhinged orchestra of madness and love, all for you.
Then, Jimmy slid his hand down your belly. Found your clit in no time. With every rub, his fingers sent sparks of pleasure climbing up your spine. That, combined with his jackhammering hips and all the sounds he didn't even bother containing, finally sent you over the edge.
Your orgasm hit you so hard, it made your entire body arch. You clung to him with white-knuckled hands, crying out like a wounded animal.
Jimmy followed instantly, sobbing your name as he filled you to the brim. Even when he must've been oversensitive, he didn't stop moving. He just kept thrusting into you, trying to stuff his seed as deep as he could into your warmth.
Until you stopped him with a hand on his cheek and a gentle look.
Jimmy pulled out with a whimper, then promptly collapsed on you. You welcomed him, your arms and legs tightly coiled around him.
You panted against each other's lips, your bodies cooling as you came down from your high.
Jimmy began to caress you. Cosset your ribs. Trace your collarbone. Glide his fingers along your jaw. You let him do it, your own fingers finding their way in his hair. Gently, patiently, you combed out where Jimmy's sweat had matted his blond locks.
"Why?" Jimmy whispered at last.
You turned to him. "Why, what?"
"Why'd ye save me?" he asked. "Why d'ye stay wit' me? I meant it," he added quickly. "I'll make myself over, just for ye. I'll be yer good boy, for real this time. But..." he looked at you helplessly, "... why'd ye give me a chance? Why..." sobs bubbled in his throat, "... why do ye love me, even when I'm this?"
You pressed your forehead against his. "Because we're human," you answered, "and we love whom we love."
Jimmy let out a noise so quiet, you felt it more than heard it. He kissed you again, trembling in your arms, before settling against you. You held him, finding his hand and weaving your fingers together.
You weren't entirely sure if Jimmy could recreate himself, no matter how much he might've wanted it. And even though you believed him when he said that Old Nick's voice had vacated his mind, you couldn't be certain that it'd last.
And of course, even if Jimmy never hurt another soul in his life, you could never forget what he'd done. You could never forget the barn. Nor could you ever forget that Jimmy had killed Ian, a kind man who'd deserved better.
It wasn't your place to forgive Jimmy all he'd done, nor could you forget about the blood on his hands.
But you loved him. Despite all you knew and all you'd seen, you loved him. You knew that he loved you with all he was, however warped and twisted it was. And you knew that, at the very least, he'd try to be better.
Maybe, just maybe, that could be enough for the both of you to start over. It wouldn't be perfect, nor could it ever be... but it could be yours.
"Jimmy?"
He hummed.
"Could you sing me the song?"
Jimmy gave a nervous chuckle. "Can't sing it as well as ye, love."
"Even so," you glanced at him, "please?"
Jimmy paused for a beat before nodding, planting another kiss on your lips. Still settled against you, he began to sing. The song vibrated between your bodies. A living thing, all its own.
"This is what I brought you, this you can keep,
This is what I brought, you may forget me,
I promise to depart, just promise one thing,
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep."
Kiss My Eyes and Lay Me To Sleep
Part Three of Four
Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal x fem!reader
Contains smut; 18+/MDNI
Summary: It was a misguided act of kindness, comforting your captor. Singing one of your mother's songs to him. The likes of which he hadn't received in years, if not longer. It reminded him of a long-dead world, of a childhood he was robbed of... and a mother he lost.
Now, he seeks to rekindle that tenderness with you. The idea is less than appealing to you. You play along, knowing you have few alternatives. But what happens when you begin to need him just as much as he needs you?
Note: This story takes place during, and right after, 'The Bone Temple'. Events have been tweaked a bit, but not much.
Also, this was originally meant to be a trilogy, but it wound up growing beyond my expectations. There will be an epilogue, folks!
The lyrics are 'Prelude 12/21' by AFI. You can listen to it here.
Warnings: Oral sex (fem! receiving) and viscera.
Part One is here.
Part Two is here.
Part Four is here.
Taglist: @perfume-and-oatmilk, @scannainscanrula, @lulaaaaaaw, @thatsthewrongwallcraig, @just-jack-oconnell, @guysgoldtooth, @cherryxhaze, @theabhartachsbride @bleedingsunlight @aniahvol3 @sonnensche1n @heynickiheynickisblog @calam-arii @passine @heyylolitaheyy @freezer-barbie @valvalvalval-val @pearlstiare @nlnny @nimisardenter, @ladybirdblue1313, @lpalmer00, @sugartitsfornat, @premiumsilverfish, @h3artzforbillkaulitz, @poppiespng, @allsmilesarebadnews, @wunhsuhnssijnsijsijns, @muffinidy, @prettyflyforawhitelie, @pott-mccoy, @decayeddissolvedgirl, @jimmythecookiemonster, @roomiesoreo, @lightningcrashes, @suffer-a-sea-change, @sadhaner97, @lolyolololyolo123456789-blog, @emimai9924, @ragingcrier, @hrasulova, @anonymous-sylvicole, @madkingcrowley, @sirenssongsofdeath, @darkfantasies606, @leptitlu, @prettyflyforawhitelie, @undead-riv, @saintlucretia, @valzxzx, @vifemme, @ur-honey-child, @bugs0re, @loup---garou, @uncxltured, @moonsunrisemel, @imakms, @riotjesterr, @sweetxlv, @frenchkimbo, @opticoo, @www-interludeshadow-com, @lhoopz, @hazymoondaisy, @emo-queer-boi, @chris-starlight, @faeriebvbydoll, @cosmic-panels, @delicateheartts, @rottenhalo04, @sm0key-ravens
The smoke had been a lot farther away than it'd looked.
You hadn't really minded. Not when you sensed that you wouldn't like charity, and thus had no problem waiting to finally witness it. And not after being cooped up for what'd felt like forever. Even in the darkness, every little thing stretched your lips into an awed smile. Fireflies blinking in the fields. The gurgle of an unseen brook. The smell of damp soil and moss. The brush of damp grass soaking into your jeans and cool wind on your cheeks. The tartness a few late-season berries you picked and crammed into your mouth before anybody, even Jimmy, could see.
But your good mood was your own. The Fingers grew more anxious with every covered mile, and Jimmy grew angrier. He didn't start yelling or kicking at stones like other men. Oh, no. That'd have been too easy. Instead, you could see the temperature around him dropping to below freezing. Saw his jaw set until the muscles twitched. Heard his breathing grew more labored in a way that had nothing to do with this unexpected hike.
You, like the Fingers, feared what Jimmy might do. Granted, you weren't on the same level as them. Whatever punishment he'd dish out on them for dragging him out of bed—and the afterglow with you—probably wouldn't touch you. After all, what had you done wrong?
Then again, thinking that something was closer than it actually was didn't exactly constitute as a crime, either.
An idea came to you then. You didn't know where it came from, and the meaner part of you wanted to shut it out. But, just like the night that'd sealed your fate, empathy won out.
"Sir Jimmy?" You were careful to address him by his 'title' in the Fingers' presence. "May we rest here for the night, if you please? I'm beginning to get blisters." You weren't, but you spotted the flash of gentle concern in Jimmy's eyes.
Jimmy stared at you for a few beats, visibly wrestling with his choices, before finally nodding. "Yes. Old Nick was just tellin' me that we should set up camp anyway. We need tae be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed fer charity, and how can we do that if we walk from here tae the fuckin' coast, howzat?"
"Howzat?" they all echoed, looking a bit relieved but still mostly on edge. Waiting for his wrath.
None came. Jimmy simply chose Jimmy Jones to have the first watch, lay on a soft bed of moss, and gestured for you to join him. You did, feeling the eyes of his followers on you like burrs.
They understood why you'd made everyone stop. Not for your sake, but for theirs. To ensure that Jimmy wouldn't get any angrier, and thus less likely to dole out a punishment.
They saw your kindness for what it was. But fuck if they knew what to do with it.
***
You didn't reach the smoke the next morning, either. Or the next. Or the next.
You did what you could to keep Jimmy's anger to below-critical levels.
You held his hand when the others weren't looking, smiling to yourself when he laced your fingers together.
At night, as you lay in Jimmy's arms, you whispered his favorite fairy tales in his ear until he dozed off.
While the Fingers hunted for food, leaving the two of you with the remaining rations, you fed him by hand without having to be asked. You slipped the morsels past his waiting lips, trying to get used to the soft way he looked at you while he ate.
When he cut his hand when the lot of you had to climb the crumbled remains of a bridge, you treated the wound yourself and kissed it better.
You coaxed him to a nearby river to bathe, insisting on washing him yourself with the soap you'd pocketed before you'd all left.
One evening, you insisted he lie on your lap with his head on your chest. You curled an arm around the back of his head, just as one would with a baby, and spooned stew in his mouth. He nearly swooned.
By the end of your third night, Jimmy was so pleased despite the delayed charity that he regaled everyone with a story about Tinky Winky, Po, and all the rest. The logic was insipid to you, the characters odd, but it was sort of nice not to land in the role of storyteller for once.
The Fingers acted like it was the pinnacle of storytelling. You were half-convinced they were exaggerating their pleasure for their lord's sake. Even so, you sensed the genuine relief beneath their broadcasted enjoyment.
More than once, you caught their eyes. Discreetly, they nodded at you. Jimmy Jones gave you the last cupful of her broth. Young Jimmy shot you a timid smile. Jimmy Ink looked at you with something akin to respect. It made you feel... good. Proud. Almost happy.
And that night, when the rest of the Jimmies dozed off, Jimmy took your hand and led you away. The moment the camp was out of sight, he began to kiss and touch you like he'd been starved for it. Leaving wet kisses all over your face and neck and slipping his hands under your clothing.
"Ye've been so sweet tae me lately," he mumbled into your skin. "So wonderful."
You knew better than to tell Jimmy the truth. Instead, you gave him a weak smile. "I just... wanted to coddle you a bit. My baby boy."
Jimmy met your eyes, his own glimmering with unshed tears. Even though you knew it was for your survival, a small part of you felt guilty for lying to him. "I know, Mummy." He kissed you so softly, it made you wish for a kinder reality. One where he'd been sane. Where you could've had a healthier, more normal relationship. "Yer so good tae yer baby." Jimmy nuzzled you like a housecat. "Treat me better than anyone ever has."
Your heart clenched. Burdened with what could've been. With what should've been.
With more gentleness than you would've expected, Jimmy pinned you against a tree. "Wanna make Mummy feel good," he panted, pressing his groin against yours. You could already feel him swelling against his purple velour track pants. "Wanna make Mummy happy."
You knew what would've made you happy: Jimmy sane, your relationship with him a choice, and your mother still alive. Impossibilities, all of them.
You shook your head, gently pushing Jimmy away. "Please. Not now, baby."
Jimmy looked genuinely hurt. "Ye donnae want me?"
You blinked back tears. "It's not that, I just..." You trailed off, unable to find the words to make him understand. Your body may have been willing—you could already feel heat beginning to pool in your belly—but your heart wasn't so easily persuaded.
Jimmy let out a low whine, nuzzling you again. "Just wanna be good tae Mummy."
You took a deep, steadying breath. Forced your feelings aside. It didn't matter, what could've been. This was how things were. "Okay."
Jimmy pulled back a bit, his eyes meeting yours. "Really?"
You nodded. "Yes, baby. Go ahead," you carded a hand through his blond locks, "make Mummy feel good."
From the way his face lit up, one would've thought you'd just given Jimmy all the gold in the world. "Mummy..." He kissed you again, long and yearning, as his body guided yours down to the ground. The moss was soft and cool against your back. A contrast to the firm heat of Jimmy's body hovering over yours.
For a minute, it seemed like all he'd do was kiss you. Then, he began to slide down your body, pressing butterfly pecks into your skin as he descended. When he made it to your trousers, he dragged the zipper down and pulled the material down your ankles. With a nod from you, he gave your underwear the same treatment.
Jimmy paused, his gaze traveling across your exposed pelvis like a physical touch. You could hear his breath stuttering, could feel the way his hands were trembling atop your thighs.
"Fuck," he whispered, "yer wet already, Mummy."
You gave a helpless little shrug. "Sue me."
Jimmy chuckled. "I'd rather make ye come, like the good boy I am." With that, he leaned in.
You felt his breath first. Hot. Damp. Excited.
Then, his tongue flattening as it traveled up your seam. A slow, deliberate lick that made you gasp and shiver.
Jimmy groaned as he tasted you, adjusting his grip so as to keep you open for him. "Ye taste like Heaven," he told you, sounding half-drunk. "Like beauty. Like love. Like everythin' I thought was gone from this world."
Sentiment cracked through lust, making your breath catch. Your hands found his hair. Not to pull. Not to steer him. Just to touch. Just to connect.
Jimmy leaned back in, licking you with sloppy desperation. There was no technique, no plan. He simply ate you like a starving man, plunging his tongue in as deep as it could go before gliding it from end to end. The tip of his tongue danced across your clit, the pleasure as sharp and bright as starlight. It was a wild, chaotic pattern that soon had you squirming on the forest floor.
You didn't even realize you were grinding your hips against his face until Jimmy encouraged you to do so. "That's it, Mama," he purred against your flesh. "Use me. Use yer baby. Baby wants tae make Mummy feel good."
You cried out. A short, desperate wail. Your nails lightly scratched his scalp. His moan vibrated against your folds as he dove back in, curling his tongue deep inside your entrance before sliding back up to your clit. Suckling it as he would your nipple. The act poured oil over the fire building just beneath your skin.
"More," you found yourself begging. "More, please, Jimmy, don't stop—Please don't stop—"
Jimmy let out a strangled noise. "Say me name again."
"Jimmy," you breathed.
"That's right," he praised. "Say me name as ye come on me tongue." He doubled down, sucking on your clit while his tongue flicked over it relentlessly. You cried out, your breath coming in short bursts while your thighs trembled. And just when you thought it couldn't get any better, he slipped two fingers into your entrance. Began to pump them at just the right pace.
It hit you like a lightning bolt. Bright. Hot. Blinding.
Jimmy's name dripped from your lips like honey as your body twisted, lost to the throes of ecstasy.
Jimmy moaned as though your euphoria were his own, continuing his movements without pause. Prolonging your pleasure.
Then, just before bliss could sour into discomfort, Jimmy stopped. Raised his head, panting like he'd just run here all the way from Wales. The lower half of his face shone with you, his lips were pink and swollen, and his eyes were pits of adoration. For a moment, he simply looked dazed. Then, the biggest smile spread across his slick face. "Howzat?"
You giggled in spite of yourself. Soon, you were both laughing like children. Feeling warm in ways that went beyond the afterglow, you gestured for Jimmy to come closer. He complied, though not before pulling your underwear and jeans back up. Lying on top of you, his head on your shoulder, he asked, "Was I good, Mummy?"
You nodded, not a trace of dishonesty this time around. "Very good." Without thinking, you used your sleeve to clean his face of you. "You did so good for me."
Jimmy grinned, his eyes shining with joy, before nuzzling your neck.
You hesitated before asking, "What about... you? Do you want a turn?"
"Ah, no," Jimmy shook his head. "No need, Mummy. I came, too."
"You...?" Craning your neck, you eyed his track pants. Saw the dark stain spreading across the front. "Oh." You swallowed. "First thing tomorrow? It's bath time, mister. No excuses."
Jimmy pouted. "Only if Mummy gets in with me."
You rolled your eyes, though the edge of your mouth was twitching. "I did last time, didn't I?"
"True." Jimmy gave you a hopeful look. "Until then: Kissies?"
You couldn't reach his lips. Thus, you contended with kissing his forehead. He purred like a fishmonger's cat, settling more comfortably against you. "Sing tae me, Mummy."
Maybe it was the afterglow. Or maybe it was just your getting more accustomed to your new role. Regardless, you asked him a rhetoric: "What do we say?"
"Please, Mummy?"
You nodded. "Good boy." Coiling your arms around him, one hand tucking some hair behind his ear, you began to sing.
"This is what I brought you, this you can keep,
This is what I brought, you may forget me,
I promise to depart, just promise one thing,
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep.
This is what I brought you, this you can keep,
This is what I brought, you may forget me,
I promise you my heart, just promise to sing,
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep.
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep.
This is what I thought, I thought you'd need me,
This is what I thought so think me naĂŻve,
I'd promise you a heart, you'd promise to keep,
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep,
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep,
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep."
Jimmy was slumping against you by the last few lines, his breaths evening out. You were nearly dozing yourself when you heard him whisper, his breath warm against your jaw.
"I love ye, Mummy."
You blinked. Stared down at him. He was already asleep, his face made innocent by his dreams.
Soon, his visage blurred.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you rested your cheek against the crown of his head. No matter how you tried to reel it in, to keep your sobs at bay, your tears began to dampen his hair.
You didn't doubt that he meant it. As far as you could tell, he loved you as much as he could love anybody.
But that didn't make it healthy. Or right. Or good.
And that knowledge, more than anything, gave you grief.
***
Aside from the pregnant woman fleeing and that idiot dumping the pot of boiling water on the table, missing every single Jimmy—and you—by at least a foot, everything was going as smooth as silk. Jimmy's latest offering to his father, these remaining souls bound and gagged in a derelict barn, was about to commence. Everyone's bellies were full. And for the first time, Jimmy had his father and his mummy here.
You looked unsettled by it all. Kept shooting him confused looks. But Jimmy didn't break character. Not for a moment. He knew that you'd understand. All you had to do was watch.
Jimmy could barely keep his voice even as he began the usual sermon. Spoke of how Old Nick saw how the World of Man had failed and knew only disharmony. He spoke of how Old Nick released His demons onto the World of Man, making it His domain. Eagerly, he got to his favorite part: The part involving himself. Even now, even after all these years, the words were as clear as they had been that day.
"You are now Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal, and you shall be my right hand, which shall be strong. And you shall have seven Fingers, and each Finger shall be a claw. And you shall offer charity to the World of Man. And for this, you alone shall be my heir, and your seven Fingers shall hold your crown!"
The charitable act Jimmy chose, after a moment's careful consideration, was the removal of the shirt. He watched with serenity and pride as his Fingers slipped on their masks. Blessed their deed with a simple nod before moving away, his eyes on your visage.
Waiting for the epiphany. The joy. The pride. The love.
Instead, all he saw was shock, quickly followed by horror.
As the flesh began to peel, as the blood started to flow like water after a storm, you looked to him with that strange expression. Begging him, with your watering eyes, to stop this. Jimmy simply shook his head. Bit his lip. Discouraged by your knee-jerk reaction but held out hope that you'd see the light.
Removing someone's shirt was a slow business, even for an experienced hand wielding a sharp blade. That was why Jimmy had chosen it: So that you'd have that much more time to have the wool pulled from your eyes and see the true order of things.
Instead, your face just kept getting grayer. Your expression, more horrified.
Then, Jimmy Fox pulled off a sheet of flesh from the old man's belly, letting his organs spill forth like wet jewels.
You slapped a hand over your mouth.
You bolted.
Thoughtlessly, Jimmy ran after you.
He found you ten feet away, the wild grasses nearly reaching your waist. You were holding onto a rusted road sign for dear life, vomiting the eggs you'd eaten that morning. You gasped and coughed, your entire body trembling like a leaf in a gale.
A cold, bony hand reached into Jimmy's chest and squeezed his heart. Pushing aside his anxiety at your reaction to charity, he hurried over to you. Placed a hand between your shoulder blades. "Mummy?"
You jerked away as though he'd burned you. Looking back at him, you revealed the tears flowing from your eyes. In those eyes, he saw only disgust. Only horror. None of the warmth he adored so much. None of the tenderness he'd been starving for.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go. You weren't supposed to take it like this.
He tried again. Reached for you with a trembling hand. "Mummy, I—"
"This is charity?" You looked at him like you'd never seen him before. "How... how many times have you done this?"
Jimmy balked. "What?"
"Did I stutter?!" You growled, wild-eyed, as you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. "How many, Jimmy?!" With every word, your voice grew louder. More heated. Nothing like the gentle one that sang him to sleep. "How many people have you killed?! Tortured?! My God, Jimmy, how fucking many?!"
"I dunno!" he admitted, his tone matching yours. "Why're ye actin' like this?! This is what we do! This is what Old Nick commands! I was tryin' tae show ye that!"
"All you've shown me is how monstrous you are!" you screamed.
Jimmy recoiled, hurt punching through his righteous fury like a hammer through tinfoil. "I... I'm... I'm Old Nick's heir," he meekly stated. "He wants souls, always does... Mummy, I—"
"I'm not your fucking mummy!" you shrieked. "The only reason I comforted you that night was because I felt sorry for you! Now I wish I hadn't! At first, I played your game, did what you wanted, because I was terrified of what would happen to me if I didn't! But..." your face cracked like cheap plaster, "... but then, I... I started feeling things for you. Fondness. More."
Jimmy's breath hitched. Something in his chest twisted.
"But now, I..." You trailed off, your expression absolutely wrecked.
Jimmy stood there. A sir lord, favored son of Old Nick, and he was as powerless before your gaze as a butterfly pinned to a board.
You shook your head. Taking a step back. Then, another. And another. "You know what?" you asked, fresh tears filling your eyes. "I'm glad your mother's dead. If she saw what you've turned into, she'd wish you'd died that day." You paused. "God knows, that's what I'm thinking right now."
Jimmy wanted to be furious at your words. Wanted to hate you. Wanted to order his Fingers to come out here and commandeer you. String you up and flay you, too.
But only for a heartbeat. Maybe less.
His knees hit the ground, crushing a dozen green stalks in their wake. He tried to grab at you, but you spun on your heel and ran.
Taking everything good in his world with you.
"Please!" Jimmy cried after you. "Mummy, please! Please come back! Please, I need you! Please!" He was bawling now. Great, heaving sobs, the likes of which only ever belonged in his nightmares.
But this was worse than any nightmare he'd ever had.
Jimmy found himself crying out your name. Not 'Mummy'. Your name. Screaming and begging you to come back.
But you were already beyond his reach. Beyond even Old Nick's.
Just like the Before. Just like Jimmy's mother. Just like his sisters. Just like his innocence.
Gone, his heart supplied from its place within his ribcage. Every beat sounded like that horrible word. Gone. Gone. Gone.
Summary: It was a misguided act of kindness, comforting your captor. Singing one of your mother's songs to him. The likes of which he hadn't received in years, if not longer. It reminded him of a long-dead world, of a childhood he was robbed of... and a mother he lost.
Now, he seeks to rekindle that tenderness with you. The idea is less than appealing to you. You play along, knowing you have few alternatives. But what happens when you begin to need him just as much as he needs you?
Note: This story takes place during, and right after, 'The Bone Temple'. Events have been tweaked a bit, but not much.
The lyrics are 'Prelude 12/21' by AFI. You can listen to it here.
Part One is here.
Part Three is here.
Warnings: Contains p in v sex, a handjob, mommy kink, religious delusion, nightmares, and codependency.
Jimmy was wiping bacon grease from his lips, the last remnant of the breakfast you'd cooked and served him, when his 'Fingers' awakened. One look your way instantly banished any lingering sleepiness from their eyes. It wasn't just that you were free and unbound. No. It was the visible shift in your status. No longer a prisoner, but not a potential future Finger, either; else, you'd have already been given a weapon.
What you were... was something else entirely.
Jimmy elaborated as such the moment all seven of his Fingers were sitting up. With a glance, he summoned them before him. With a wave of his hand, he had them all on their knees.
"This," he proclaimed, gesturing to you, "is tae be my personal servant, handpicked by Old Nick Himself. She will obey me in any and all ways I deem fit, which is why she won't be fightin' tae replace any o' yous. Her place is right here." His hand found the back of your head, caressing it tenderly. "Next tae me."
The Jimmies shared baffled looks, but were wise enough to hold their tongues.
"She is tae be respected," Jimmy continued in that voice that left no room for argument. "Fed. Given second dibs tae showers and spoils, the first still bein' mine, o' course. And if anybody lays a hand on 'er..." he tightened his hold on your hair, his eyes flashing dangerously, "... they lose the hand. Howzat?"
"Howzat," they all echoed, their gazes hardening as they switched back to you.
You sat there, enduring their envious and angry looks with blank-eyed silence. You wished you could tell them you didn't want this, that you hadn't sought this new favoritism any more than a mouse seeks to wind up in an owl's talons. But they would never have believed you, even if you'd tried.
If only they knew what your role really was. What all these privileges were in exchange for.
Already, you'd had to begin your role as Jimmy's 'mummy' by cooking him breakfast and feeding it to him. Yes, feeding him. Not content to have you bring him a platter of fried bacon and eggs, he'd handed you the fork and told you that he wanted you to coddle him just that little bit more. So, feeling awkward and tense the entire time, you'd spoon-fed him every bite. Waited for him to chew and swallow before bringing him the next forkful. Wiped his chin with a nearby rag when a bit of egg spilled over. Forced to endure his eyes on you the entire time. Those eyes that'd glinted like slabs of ice in starlight.
It'd almost been a relief when he'd demanded 'kissies'. At least you'd had the luxury of closing your eyes.
Jimmy ordered the Fingers to take down the camp. To pack everything up. One of the three female Fingers, whom he called 'Jimmy Ink', was sent ahead to find 'pastures new'. She obeyed. But not before shooting you a seething look.
"Jealous?" you wanted to bark at her. "Wanna be his mummy?! Go ahead!"
Instead, you turned to Jimmy. Already, you loathed the fact that the only companionship you'd get around here would be from your deranged captor. Like drinking water from a poisoned spring because there are no others to be found. "What's pastures new?"
Jimmy simpered at you, tucking some hair behind your ear. "Our new home," he purred. "At least, until Old Nick demands fresh souls. It could be a week, could be a month. But donnae worry," he lowered his voice a bit, "once we're on the move again, I'll keep ye safe and close."
"Oh," you replied, careful to keep your tone neutral, "I know you will."
Jimmy's simper split his face in two.
He rose then. Went off to do who knows what, far from the riff-raff doing his bidding.
You didn't watch him leave. Didn't watch the Jimmies pack up. Instead, you looked inward. To the image you had of your mother, maintained in the years since her passing. What would you do? you asked helplessly.
Your opportunity will come, baby, she comforted you. Just wait. Watch. Learn.
You knew she was right. She'd nearly always been right. But oh, it'd be such a difficult wait!
***
Jimmy Ink found pastures new before late morning, and you'd all moved in by lunchtime.
According to the rotting sign on the front lawn, it'd once been a bed and breakfast. A cluster of small cottages, each with their own little picket fence and garden, connected to one another by a winding path of white stones.
Of course, every single one of those cottages was cloaked in ivy, the fences gone and the gardens overgrown with wildflowers. But they were free of infected, miraculously enough, and they all had a few key luxuries. Fireplaces. Beds with blankets, albeit musty ones, and—by some bizarre quirk of fate—running water.
Jimmy claimed the largest cottage for himself and you, letting the other Jimmies pick their own accommodations. It was a lovely space, you had to admit to yourself. The wooden beams along the ceiling, reminiscent of the ribs of a whale you saw in a book once, made you feel safe. Pressed flowers, still colorful despite the passage of time, hung on rusted nails. The carpet was dusty, but plush under your tired feet. There was soft-looking furniture, a teal-painted bookshelf loaded with yellow-paged tomes, and some brass pans hanging on hooks in the kitchen.
If only you and Mum could've found this place. You could've seen the two of you putting down roots here, once you'd erected a new fence and cleaned it up a bit.
Hell, you could've seen yourself settling here with a man. A different man. One whose every tender instinct hadn't curdled inside him.
Instead, you had Jimmy Crystal. And he had you. God above, he had you.
Jimmy stretched like a cat, his bones playing a symphony of pops and cracks that echoed in the silent room. Casting a satisfied look your way, he stated, "I think I'm in the mood for cuddles. What about ye, Mummy?"
You swallowed nervously. Caught between revulsion for this man and a pathetic desire for physical contact. Even though you regretted it now, considering what it'd brought you, you'd liked cuddling with Jimmy the night before. Not just because your stupid empathy had been in the driver's seat, but because it'd been so long since you'd found yourself in anybody's embrace.
You doubted, though, that that was all Jimmy wanted.
Your stomach grumbled in that moment, and you realized you hadn't had a thing to eat since the day before. Since before the Jimmies found you. Since before your life had ceased to be your own.
"Um..." you looked in Jimmy's direction without actually meeting his gaze, "... mind if I eat something first... son?" The word tasted rotten, but you hoped that it might please Jimmy enough to acquiesce. He'd said he'd take care of you, but given his definition of 'charity', you weren't convinced his idea of 'care' matched yours.
Jimmy looked like Christmas had come early. "Of course, Mummy." Smiling, he hurried to his backpack. It was purple, of course, and smaller and lighter than any of his Fingers'. Unzipping the front pocket, he produced a fistful of deer jerky wrapped in aluminum foil. Peeling the foil back, he held the jerky out to you. "Here y'go."
You accepted it with mumbled thanks. One bite fully awakened your hunger, and before too long you'd scarfed it all down. Jimmy watched you eat as though he, too, were being nourished.
Once you were done, he took your hand. You hated how nice it felt. Warm, lightly calloused, and just tight enough. "Come, Mummy," he purred, "cuddles, now."
Your heart drummed in your ears as you let him guide you to the bedroom. It was as pleasant as the living room had been, despite the dust and cobwebs. The bedspread was stamped with colorful butterflies, and there was a pleasant view of the field just outside.
A few does were grazing in that field, two of them accompanied by their spotted fawns. Sweet, tender, natural life. Not this warped reality you found yourself in.
Jimmy spun on his heel, smiling at you. His hand tugged at yours. Pulling you closer. You let yourself enter his orbit, no different from a meteor dragged into a planet's gravity. The moment you were close enough, he kissed you with a whimper. You flinched, barely stopping yourself from pulling away.
After a few seconds, though, your fear ebbed a bit. It'd been years since you felt someone's lips on yours. Even if it was coming from him, you found yourself starving for more.
Without breaking the kiss, Jimmy led you onto the bed. Lay you down on the duvet and placed himself between your legs. You instinctively parted your legs for him, and he moaned against your lips. One hand trailed your thigh, squeezing it firmly, before climbing up your stomach and chest. When it finally made its way to your breasts, Jimmy began to tug at your shirt.
You knew what he wanted. What a tiny part of you wanted, too. So, breaking the kiss and ignoring Jimmy's whine, you pulled your shirt and sports bra over your head. You lay back on the bed, letting Jimmy look at you while you yourself didn't look at him. You didn't want to see the wild hunger in his eyes.
"So perfect," Jimmy whispered, both hands tracing your breasts as though memorizing their shape. "So mine." He latched onto your left breast, suckling like a baby. You gasped, eyes widening at the feel of his tongue and teeth on the sensitive skin. And when his hand began to squeeze your untended one, tweaking the nipple between ringed fingers, you bit back a yelp.
"No, Mummy," he drew back, staring at you with laser-blue eyes, "I wanna hear ye. Wanna hear how good I make ye feel. What a... what a good boy I am." He nuzzled the valley between your breasts. "Am I a good boy, Mummy?" You heard the despair in his voice. The need. It was both pitiful and frightening to behold.
You swallowed. Hard. Caught between relief at finally getting some physical contact and trepidation at the man giving it to you. "Y-yes." You tried again, hoping to sound more convincing. "You're good, Jimmy. My good little boy."
Jimmy exhaled, kissing your sternum before moving on to your right breast, giving your left one its twin's previous treatment. This time, you didn't contain your noises. They spurred Jimmy on. Encouraging him to lick longer, to suckle slightly harder.
Your hand combed through his blond locks. You had no idea how it'd ended up there.
Jimmy groaned at the touch, leaving your damp breasts in favor of your neck. He kissed and nuzzled the soft skin there with a gentleness that simply didn't belong on someone like him. And when he slid his arms under your back, pulling you even closer to him, you felt his hands trembling against your shoulder blades.
For a moment, you felt sorry for him. He, too, was touch-starved. He, too, needed the comfort of warm skin.
If he'd simply asked... if yours had been a more conventional encounter... if he'd been able to distinguish kindness from cruelty... you'd have given it to him. Happily. Willingly.
You'd never wished to live in a different reality more than you did in that moment. Not even Mum's tales of the Before, of bountiful food and simple luxuries and no infected, had ever made you long for something you could never have.
But you hadn't forgotten the promise you'd made to yourself. You would find a way through this. Maybe not out of it, but through. Like a little girl in a fairy tale making her way through a haunted forest.
In the meantime, you'd do your best to play along. To be what he wanted.
Thankfully, Jimmy was both willing and able to give instructions. To leave no room for misinterpretations.
He tugged at your jeans. "Take these off," he whispered heatedly. "Take it all off. I wanna see what Old Nick brought me."
Jimmy lay on his side, allowing you room to unzip your trousers and shimmy out of them. As he watched you expose more and more of yourself, he began to palm the growing tent in the front of his pants. Sighing. Groaning. Almost drooling.
"Need ye." The words were punched out of his chest. Taking your hand, he slipped it past the waistband of his velour tracks. Immediately, you felt him. Thick. Hard as stone. Warm and soft-skinned. Instinctively, your fingers shied away. But he didn't release your hand. "Touch me, Mummy," he begged. "Make me feel good."
You nodded, using your free hand to tug his trousers down his strong thighs. His cock was nestled in wiry blond hair. Long and thick, but not so much that you feared it not fitting—because at this point, even a blind person could see where this was going.
Excited, Jimmy unzipped his velour jacket and practically ripped the white shirt underneath in his haste to get it off. He was, you had to admit, a very pretty man. Slender, yet sinewy. Broad shoulders. Strong arms. A smooth, flat belly. Pale skin decorated with paler scars.
You moved a little closer. Wrapping your hand around his cock, velvety and hot, and beginning your movements. Up, down. Slowly. Carefully. Uncertain of what he liked.
"Harder," Jimmy supplied, as though reading your mind.
You stroked him harder, watching as he began to thrust into your fist. All sorts of moans and whimpers began to spill from his fetid mouth, his eyes squeezing shut. You kept going, soon going on autopilot, as you saw his reaction for what it was: Confirmation.
You weren't powerless in this situation. You did have a way through this. Already, he was like putty in your hands. Somehow, you had to use this to your advantage.
And, of course, you had to make him like it. You sensed that if you displeased him, he wouldn't simply let you go. Oh, no. It'd be charity for you. You still didn't know what it was, nor did you want to find out.
Jimmy grabbed at you. For a split second, you ducked back. Afraid. But when you found yourself in Jimmy's embrace, your bare chest against his and your face pressed into his neck, you relaxed... a bit. He smelled like the wilds. Smoke. River water. Moss. And, underneath it all, the coppery tang of blood. Despite the undertone, you closed your eyes and basked in his scent. Letting yourself think of outside. Of the life you'd been dragged from.
It would've worked if Jimmy's throat hadn't vibrated with all the little noises he couldn't hold back. Groans. Whimpers. Gasps.
And words. So many words.
"S'good... Feels s'good... Mummy... Mummy makes me feel... Ohh, fuck, keep goin'... Mine..."
You kept going, your hand gliding up and down his now slickened cock. You could feel it throbbing in your grip. Could feel Jimmy's fingers digging into you, not unlike spurs encouraging a horse to go faster.
So you did.
Jimmy's thrusts grew sloppy. His breath shattered.
"Fuck," he gritted out, "M'gonna come—Fuck, Mummy, make me come—!"
Without thinking of anything but making him climax, of securing your position with him just a little, you bit his neck. Poured all of your unspoken emotion into it. You tasted his skin, and the faintest hint of blood.
Jimmy screamed as he came, his entire body shuddering as he spilled between your bellies. Hot, sticky ropes of come oozed down your fist and stained the duvet below. Jimmy ground against your hand, whimpering like a dog left in the rain, and you found yourself holding the base of his skull. Comforting him through the aftershocks.
Eventually, he stopped. His ragged breathing hot against your ear, he slumped against you like a marionette with its string cut.
You pulled back a little, eyeing the mark you'd left on Jimmy. You could see the ring of toothmarks stamped into his skin, most of them dotted crimson. Inexplicably, you felt a jab of guilt. You leaned in again, nursing the punctures carefully. Almost apologetically.
For his part, Jimmy either didn't notice or didn't care about the bite. He simply buried his face in your hair, sighing contently. "Old Nick was generous, sendin' ye tae me." He sounded so relaxed, it bordered on sleepiness. His lips brushed the crown of your head. "Sing tae me, Mama. Sing that song tae me."
You hesitated, aware of the come gluing you two together. It was cooling. Congealing. "Let me clean us up first."
"No." Jimmy tightened his hold on you. "Song."
Like a child making demands from its booster seat. Except most children weren't dangerous.
Resisting a sigh, you began to sing once more. Mum's song, now yours. Now this madman's.
"This is what I brought you, this you can keep,
This is what I brought, you may forget me,
I promise to depart, just promise one thing,
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep."
Jimmy hummed, his body curling around yours. Possessively. Almost protectively.
You kept singing, trying to ignore your discomfort.
"This is what I brought you, this you can keep,
This is what I brought, you may forget me,
I promise you my heart, just promise to sing,
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep."
You sang through the whole thing, in a voice as soft as butterfly wings, until you felt Jimmy grow heavy in your arms. Even when he began to softly snore beside you, his grip on you remained vice-like.
You sang that song one last time before lapsing into silence. That final time, you sang for yourself.
***
Every day lasted a year. Weeks put a chasm between the life you'd had before and the life you led now.
The first had been wild, unpredictable, fraught with peril. You'd had to hunt and forage to feed yourself, and that could go well as often as it could go poorly. You might go days or even weeks without bathing, lacking a river or lake to dip into. You could, at any moment, have to either run or sneak past hordes of infected. You'd been lonely. You'd missed Mum. But you'd be free.
Now, you were safe and surrounded by pleasantries you'd rarely experienced before. You got to bathe every day with hot water and soap. You ate regularly. You didn't have to hunt or forage; just dust and tidy up here and there. You didn't have to fear the infected because there was always a lookout and a rapid dispatch.
But you knew what you were, and how small your world had become. It was barely bigger than the cottage, really.
You read. You napped. You lounged. You kept the cottage tidy. You kept your knife, which you eventually persuaded Jimmy to return to you, nice and sharp. You were allowed to go out into the fields, though it'd taken a lot of begging and the cringeworthy statement of "please, be good to Mummy". But you were never permitted beyond sight of the cottages. Sometimes you'd sit on the ground, looking at the world beyond. Imagining an escape even though you knew exactly how such an attempt would end.
And of course, you were Jimmy's mummy.
You cooked for Jimmy three times a day, the two of you taking your meals together like a real couple. Sometimes, he wanted you to feed him like you had on that first morning. Other times, he was able to do it himself just fine—and indeed, sometimes he fed you. It was strange, being on the receiving end of such treatment. Strange... and kind of nice.
Evenings were when you really got to work. Cuddling him—and sometimes, it really was just cuddling. Singing that song to him. Reading to him from an old book of fairy tales you found in the spare bedroom. Giving him kissies and letting him sit on your lap whenever he demanded it. Letting him 'make love' to you, doing what he asked and taking note of everything he liked.
Praise was a big turn-on for him, and you made sure to shower him with it once things got going. And saying 'no' didn't really do anything, so within days you'd stopped using it. If Jimmy wanted you, that was it. Luckily for you, he was good at getting you ready.
And, of course, you comforted him whenever he cried in his sleep.
Most days, you were left to your own devices. But when Jimmy preached, he wanted you there. Perhaps he wanted to teach you the ways of Old Nick. To help you understand the narrative he'd slipped you into. Every time he preached, he kept you close to him. Within arm's reach. Which was just as well, seeing as the Fingers treated you like a bad smell.
You got to know them the way one might get to know birds or badgers or squirrels: Via distant observation. God knew none of them let you get too close.
There were Jimmy Snake and Jimmy Jones, a couple never far from one another. Always holding hands or cuddling. Looking exactly like the sort of relationship you'd have liked to be in someday.
Jimmima was childish and saccharine, with eyes as pretty and lifeless as a doll's. She was always as eager to kill something as she was to do what Sir Jimmy called the 'Dipsy Dance'. You saw it once, from the window, and couldn't for the life of you see what was so entertaining about it.
Jimmy Fox was strong and fast, but not terribly remarkable. He was simply... there.
Jimmy Ink, renamed as such for her many tattoos, was quiet and strong. She was one of two who didn't mock or mistreat you. Instead, she regarded you with pity. Better than the others' derision, but not by much.
Then, there was Young Jimmy. A boy, his voice still breaking and his cheeks still hairless. He always looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here, but he was by far the best archer. Once, you saw him shoot a squirrel through the eye from seventy yards away. He'd meet your gaze, try to smile, nod, and quickly scamper away.
But Fox? Snake? Jones? Oh, they were a wretched bunch.
Around their Sir Lord, none of them dared anything beyond a glare. But on the few occasions they caught you alone, usually while Jimmy napped or discussed matters with his father, they took shot after shot at you. Either not caring that you might tell on them, or figuring that you wouldn't dare.
They mockingly bowed their heads when you passed, right before pinching or tripping you. They knocked things out of your hands. Yanked on your hair. Spat into a cup of water right before offering it to you. Asked you, in the most sardonic of tones, what all-important task you'd done for Old Nick and His favored son today. Had you sucked his cock? Rubbed his feet? Washed and braided his hair?
You told yourself you didn't care. That you didn't want their friendship, that they were a bunch of sadistic children anyway, and that what they thought didn't amount to a hill of beans.
Once, and only once, did you try to befriend Ink and Young. Young seemed willing enough, but Ink planted herself between him and you. Like you were an infected. She met your gaze, not unkindly, and shook her head. Backed away. "Yer his," she stated with terrible finality. She then guided Young Jimmy away.
She may as well have kicked you in the stomach. It would've hurt less.
That night, you were the one who cried in her sleep. Jimmy comforted you. Kissed you. Nuzzled you. Asked you if you'd had a nightmare. You clung to his affection like a starved thing, but didn't answer his question.
Things carried on like that for what felt like an eon.
And then... charity.
***
You'd been with Jimmy and his cult for nearly two months when you awoke to the sound of whimpers.
By now, you knew what it was. Even while under the thick fog of sleep, your brain no longer wondered what was happening. Automatically, you turned over. Faced Jimmy. Found him sobbing in his pillow.
Despite everything, seeing him like this always tugged at your heartstrings. He was never a leader in these moments. Never a killer or a sinner or a devil worshipper. Just a scared little boy.
With practiced ease, you pulled him into your embrace.
Jimmy came willingly, burying his face in your chest. Crying like a wounded animal, he clung to you as though letting go meant death. Instantly, your nightgown began to grow damp.
You hushed him softly, playing with his hair and rubbing his back. "It's all right," you kept whispering. "It's okay, Jimmy. I'm here. Mummy's here, sweetheart." It was surprisingly easy to use your title in moments like these.
Jimmy let out a miserable little whimper, burrowing even deeper against you. "Ev'ry time, it never gets easier," he lamented. "Ev'ry time I watch 'er... I watch them all..."
Normally, you let him exhaust himself into slumber, sometimes singing or letting him have at your body if that was what it took. But tonight, you decided to try your hand at a different technique. Treat this whole thing less like you were just waiting for it to be over and more like you honestly wanted to help him. Because, for reasons you couldn't entirely sort out yet... you did.
You tucked some hair behind his ear. "There's nothing you could've done."
"I was the son o' Old Nick!" he cried. "I coulda saved 'em!"
You shook your head. "No, you couldn't have. No more than I could save my mum."
Jimmy kept crying. You dried his cheeks, for all the good it did. Just as you'd wiped away his tears, fresh ones replaced them. "Jimmy," you crooned, "baby, look at me."
Jimmy did. He was the picture of glassy-eyed misery.
You cradled his face in your hands, wiping away his tears as they spilled. "You were eight years old. The... the son of Old Nick, yes, but still only a child. You couldn't be expected to do anything, not yet."
Racking your brain, you came up with as apt a comparison as you could. "Can a lion cub be expected to take down a gazelle when it's only a few weeks old? Can a baby bird be expected to fly the moment it hatches? No, of course not."
You paused, hoping that you were getting through to him. "You are... a great leader," you prayed you sounded convincing, "and a worthy heir of Old Nick. And now you're in your prime. But you weren't then. And really, I don't think your mum would want you blaming yourself like this."
"What if it were ye?" Jimmy asked. "If ye'd been the one I let die? Wouldn't ye wanna haunt me, too?"
You shook your head. Ideally, you wanted Jimmy to let you go. Failing that, you wanted a room of your own. The ability to say 'no' when he tried to come onto you and have that word actually be heard. The freedom to choose your role instead of having it be thrust upon you. You wanted to be able to have friends, to make connections outside of him. You wanted to be his 'mummy' because you wanted to be, not because you had to survive.
But one thing you wouldn't want was for him to torture himself over your death, especially if he couldn't do anything to stop it.
You didn't answer with words. Instead, you lifted his chin and kissed him. Slow. Deep. Tender.
When you pulled back, you clenched your jaw. Jimmy's eyes were so soft, the sight was painful to behold.
"C'mere," Jimmy whispered. He reached for you with both hands, fingers opening and closing in a grabby motion that had no right being as cute as it was. This time, you went along with it. Let him climb on top of you, caging your body with his. He tugged at your nightgown until you got the memo and pulled it over your head. Then, without waiting for him to do it himself, you freed him of his purple silken pajamas.
He reached between your thighs. Smiled at the slickness he found there. Maintaining eye contact, he popped his damp digits into his mouth. Moaned at the taste. "Mummy tastes so good."
You rolled your eyes as subtly as you could as you gripped his shoulders.
Jimmy sank into you with a long, slow push. One that filled you with him all the way to your throat. You took it with a gasp, your legs automatically coiling around his waist. Jimmy's forehead fell against yours, his golden hair curtaining both your faces. Cutting off everything that wasn't him, you, and this moment.
You breathed the same air for a few beats, enjoying a small pause that Jimmy had never allowed you.
Then, Jimmy started moving. Slow at first. Deep rolls that dragged his cock against every inch of your insides, sowing heat wherever it touched. You moaned in appreciation, your hands moving to hold him close. But not as much as Jimmy. He groaned. He gasped. He let out the most delicious "ah, ah, ah"s that fanned the flames growing inside you.
"That's right, baby," you encouraged, both in remembrance of what you'd observed and genuine passion. "That's so good, baby boy. You're making Mummy feel so good."
With a whine, Jimmy angled his hips to drive into you even deeper. "Mummy... Mummy..." he kept moaning like a mantra, his breath hot against your cheek, "... y'feel so good, so tight, so wet f'me..."
Your nails scratched lightly at his back. "You feel amazing."
You felt Jimmy smile against you. "That's 'cause nobody could fuck ye like yer lovin' son."
That shouldn't have turned you on. And yet.
The room crowded with the sounds of your coupling. The slap of skin against skin. Your voices mingling like paints on a canvas. The headboard tapping against the wall. All of it, rising to a fever pitch.
"Say yer here wit' me," Jimmy begged, his lips brushing yours. "Promise me, Mummy. Promise ye'll never leave me."
It wasn't something you could promise. It wasn't something anyone could promise. Not in the world you lived in. And besides, you were his captive. His prisoner, no matter what narrative he might've crafted in his head. When you couldn't leave out of fear of what would happen if you did, could you really promise to stay?
But in that moment, only partially due to the desire saturating every cell in your body, you only had one answer for him.
"Never." You brought your foreheads together. "Never, Jimmy."
Jimmy came with a sob, spilling deep inside of you. His fingers dug into your hips and held on through it. Riding the aftershocks as his breath came in wet, shattered gasps. His forehead never left yours.
He said your name then. Not 'Mummy'. Your name.
You came not a heartbeat later, your orgasm hitting you like a ton of bricks. Your back arched. Your body clamped down all around him. Your lips shaped his name, but all that came out was a high-pitched cry.
The two of you lay there, your heartbeats in sync and your sweat mixing. Jimmy pushed himself up on one elbow so that he wasn't crushing you. The moonlight shone upon his face, revealing his wild hair and bruised mouth. His eyes found yours, as soft as dandelion fluff.
He looked... wrecked. Vulnerable. Human.
Looking at him, you knew you should've felt bad for enjoying it. After all, he was your captor. The man who was imposing his weird mommy issues on you. And while you were scared of him, you knew that it was nowhere near as much as it probably should've been.
No. Looking at him now, all you could register was a strange fact.
He needed you.
And... you were starting to need him, too. Not just to survive, either.
A sharp knock snapped you out of your thoughts. Jimmy twisted his body, further covering yours, and glared at the door.
For a second, you were confused. Then, it hit you: At this angle, all any intruder would see is Jimmy's naked back. They wouldn't see much of you except, maybe, your arm.
The surprisingly gallant gesture made something swell in your chest.
"What?!" Jimmy barked. "This had better be good!"
"Sir!" Jimmy Fox exclaimed through the door. "Jimmima saw smoke! A campfire!"
"Ah!" In a blink, Jimmy relaxed. "Very good, Fox. Go tell the others tae get ready. I'll be out soon."
"Yes, Sir Jimmy." Jimmy Fox's footsteps faded into silence.
Jimmy looked back at you, beaming from ear to ear. "Mummy, tonight's our lucky night. We've got souls tae deliver tae my father. Charity, Mummy!" He sounded like a child on their birthday.
You swallowed. Not knowing what charity was, but doubting it was anything good. "Charity, eh?"
"Aye." Jimmy's hand found your cheek. A surprisingly tender gesture. "Would ye come wit' us? Please? It would please Old Nick... and me."
You hesitated. Almost certain you wouldn't like what you'd see.
But you knew that, in order to improve your own lot in life, you had to do things you wouldn't like. Up until now, all you'd had to do was read Jimmy fairy tales and sing him your song and comfort him when he cried. This, however, was bigger. A guarantee to win points with your captor. Could you really let such an opportunity pass you by?
Finally, you nodded. "Okay, baby," you conceded. "Just let me throw on some clothes, yeah?"
Jimmy beamed. Kissed you softly. You kissed him back.
All the while, you prayed to any god you could think of that charity wasn't as bad as you feared.
Not just for whatever poor souls might receive it, but for yourself as well.
Because, despite knowing that you shouldn't, you were starting to feel things for Jimmy. Things that a prisoner shouldn't feel for their captor. Things as fragile as bird bones.
Summary: It was a misguided act of kindness, comforting your captor. Singing one of your mother's songs to him. The likes of which he hadn't received in years, if not longer. It reminded him of a long-dead world, of a childhood he was robbed of... and a mother he lost.
Now, he seeks to rekindle that tenderness with you. The idea is less than appealing to you. You play along, knowing you have few alternatives. But what happens when you begin to need him just as much as he needs you?
Note: This story takes place during and right after the events of 'The Bone Temple'.
Thank you to @lulaaaaaaw for writing so many cool ideas for 'Jimmy Crystal with mommy issues', which wound up inspiring me to write for the first time in a while!
The lyrics are 'Prelude 12/21' by AFI. You can listen to it here.
Part Two is here.
Warnings: Contains a mommy kink, religious delusion, nightmares, and codependency.
When you were a child, your mother had always been there to wake you from a nightmare. To hold you close, kiss your brow, and promise that it'd just been a dream. That even though the world itself seemed to be having a nightmare, she was with you and all was well. But there was no waking up from this. The ropes binding your wrists and ankle were too tight. The hunger piercing your belly was too sharp. The fear crystallizing in your chest was too intense.
You leaned against the tree you were tied to, trying to make yourself as small as possible. As insignificant to your captors as you could. Hoping against hope that they'd forget you were there.
You shouldn't have bothered. They were crowded around a fire, eating the food you'd spent days scavenging from abandoned stores and houses, and reclining in pillows and blankets you'd been washing and mending for years. With the exception of one boy, young and scrawny and thoroughly miserable, the lot of them were having a ball. Laughing, chatting, teasing one another, and acting like nothing in the world could touch them. Their merriment washed over you like oily rain, echoing across the otherwise quiet night.
If it weren't for their leader's occasional gander in your direction, you'd have sworn they'd forgotten you were there.
God. Their leader. At first glance, he seemed odd. Almost funny. Wavy hair brushing his shoulders, kept in place by a plastic tiara. A purple velour tracksuit that didn't have so much as a speck of dirt on it—nothing like his followers' suits, which were overrun with stains and patches. Gold and silver rings gleaming on his fingers, gems sitting along the knuckles like large bugs. A lot of glitz and glamor to hide his rotting teeth.
But one look in those eyes, and nobody would think of laughing. Here was a man who wore power as naturally as his own skin. Who'd spun an absurd yarn for himself and all those around him, and who was ready to spill blood to lend it believability.
When you'd been dragged to this little encampment, exhausted from your doomed effort to fight them all off, this man—Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal, he'd styled himself—had talked your ear off about why the World of Man had fallen. How Old Nick had unleashed His wrath upon us all, and chosen 'Sir' Jimmy to bring charity onto all he found.
'Charity'. A word he'd warped, just as this world had warped him.
Apparently, that was what awaited you come morning. 'Sir' Jimmy had said that Old Nick wanted to reward them all with food and rest. Hence, their taking your things. Your food. Your pillows. Your blankets. Your handful of worldly comforts.
Not your bow, though. Or your knife. The former had been the first thing to go into the campfire, the high-pitched plink of the string snapping as it overheated breaking your heart in two. The latter had been claimed by the Sir Lord himself. He'd even had the gall to admire it. To hold it to the light like a gem, purring, "'Tis a fine gift me father's given me."
You slumped against the tree, letting the soft moss growing there cushion your head. Turning away from the Jimmies, you instead raised your eyes to the stars. Watched them shine. Remembered your mother teaching you the constellations. You could still hear her voice so clearly. You knew it better than your own.
"See, my little love? There's the bears. Ursa Major and Minor. Mama Bear and Baby Bear, just like you and me. Then there's Orion, the Hunter, almost as good a hunter as you. And Andromeda, so beautiful even Aphrodite was jealous of her. Just like you'll be beautiful someday, my darling..."
You didn't even realize you'd dozed off until you awoke with a jolt. Cold. Hungry. Motherless.
The moon stared down at you like a great, blind eye. The stars shone, silent but supportive. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. The campfire had died down to a few, ruddy embers. It was the kind of night to make you forget daylight had ever existed.
Instinctively, you tried to hug yourself. But the ropes stopped you. Frustration flaring inside you, you tugged at the bonds with your teeth. You may as well have tried to bite through wire. After a few, painful seconds, you gave up with a harrumph.
Your eyes landed, then, on the rope connecting your foot to the tree. A cursed umbilical cord, keeping you as helpless as a baby. Biting your bottom lip, you began to fidget with the knot with cold-blunted fingers. Hope against hope that you could free yourself.
More than once, you failed. More than once, you considered giving up.
Then, you remembered what awaited you at daybreak and tried again.
And again.
And again.
Finally, something loosened. Finally, a lucky break.
You kept at it. Kept glimpsing at your captors to make sure they wouldn't awaken.
And then, at long last, the rope loosened its grip on you. Revealing a band of whitened, dented flesh that burned with fresh blood flow. It was a delightful agony. One that stopped you from walking, at least at first, but did nothing to deter your limping.
Stopping only to grab one of the snoring Jimmies' knives, even if it was a poor replacement of your own, as well as a can of strawberries you were relieved they hadn't gotten to, you prepared to hoof it. To put as much distance between you and these madmen as you could.
Thankfully, it hadn't rained in a while, so the soil wouldn't leave prints. A skilled hunter could probably find you anyway. But, frankly, none of these folks gave you the impression they could track anything smarter than a dodo.
They'd chanced upon you. A bit of chaos. It wouldn't happen again.
You were so deep in thought, you almost missed the sound. But once it caught your ear, it refused to let go.
It was the same noise you'd made every night for the first year following your mother's death. A pathetic, wet whimper, barely muffled by blankets. The ruckus only a frightened child makes.
You hadn't expected the frightened child in question to be Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal, but there he was. Curled up in his sleeping bag. Shivering. Tears bathing his cheeks. Nestled amid his cries was a single, unmistakable word.
"Mummy."
Over and over. Like a mantra. Like a prayer. Like an echo, resounding into an abyss.
You shouldn't have cared. In fact, you should've reveled in his torment. After all, this was the man who'd led his pack of freaks on the hunt for you, no better than an old-timey aristocrat sending his bloodhounds after a fox. This was the man who'd made you a prisoner, your things claimed and your fate a grim prospect. He deserved no compassion, least of all from you.
And yet, your feet remained rooted to the spot, your eyes tracing his tear-streaked visage.
He looked so scared. So miserable. Just as you'd been when you lost your own mother. You, too, had gone back to being a frightened little girl.
No one had been there to comfort you. You hadn't even had a photo of her to gaze at, to keep in your pocket. You'd been completely alone. An adult, yes, but it'd been hard to feel like one when you'd been by yourself in a world full of things that just wanted to hurt you.
One of those things was before you now, crying brokenly in his sleep.
Because even the worst monsters have mothers.
Despite your survival instincts screaming at you to run, to flee, to save yourself, you edged towards the weeping man. Knelt before him. Watched him sob as though his very heart were breaking.
Your hand moved on its own accord. Gently dried his cheeks.
Jimmy's wails subsided ever so slightly. Without stirring from his uneasy slumber, he chased your hand. Nuzzled it with the desperation of a starving mutt. "Mummy..." he whined, his face a kaleidoscope of hope, despair, and love.
That reaction, that whimpered word, trapped you like the rope around your ankle never could.
Careful not to break contact, you lay on the dirt directly before Jimmy, coiling your free arm around him. Even through the material of his sleeping bag, you could feel his taut body already relaxing. He kept nuzzling your hand, his tears dampening your fingers.
Without realizing it, you began to hum for him. A gentle tune from Before, rising from the back of your mind like mist off a lake. As you watched his face, you graduated to softly singing.
"This is what I brought you, this you can keep,
This is what I brought, you may forget me,
I promise to depart, just promise one thing,
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep."
You didn't sing it as well as Mum had. But you did your best.
Little by little, Jimmy's cries died down to quiet sniffles. Which, in turn, eventually faded. You stopped singing, but you didn't move away. If anything, you drew closer. Kept your arm around him. Ready to keep watch in case his nightmares returned.
You didn't mean to doze off.
Just as Jimmy didn't mean to wake up. He took you in with wide, teary eyes. Felt your arm around him. Still heard your lullaby in his ear.
***
Jimmy's nightmares were nothing new. He'd had them since the Fall; not every night, but often enough that it made little difference. They were, Father had explained, for his own good. Meant to remind him that he'd survived the Fall when so many had died. That he was Old Nick's favored son and heir, and his fleeing the demons had been his earliest demonstration of being worthy.
Jimmy never would've admitted, especially not to Father, that all he could ever remember about those nightmares was his mother. How she'd urged him to run. How she'd closed that door, locking herself in with the demon, so that he could have enough time to flee. How her cries had gradually turned into a demon's mindless screeches.
The worst part? Jimmy could remember all of that, but not the little things about her. Not anymore. Not her face. Not the kind of perfume she'd worn. Not the color of her clothes. Not the sound of her voice. It'd all faded, like a photograph left in the sun.
Only the horror remained.
Then, you came along. Doing what she would've done.
Jimmy lay there for a long time, staring at you. Realizing, with growing excitement, why Old Nick had placed you squarely on his path.
Jimmy could never reunite with his mother. She'd never been meant for Old Nick's domain; not in life, not in death. But now, he had you.
Jimmy slipped an arm out of his sleeping bag. Mirroring you, he coiled it around you. Pulling your sleeping body closer. Your foreheads almost touched.
Jimmy smiled at you. Tracing your jawline with a feather-light touch. "Mummy..."
***
When you awoke to find yourself in Jimmy's embrace, his hair catching fire in the dawn's first light, you cursed yourself for that one act of kindness. Never mind that he was holding you like you were something precious, rubbing your back and caressing your hair. Never mind the way his feverishly-bright eyes were beholding you now. You should've fled. Ignored your empathy. But that ship had sailed.
Jimmy shocked you by cradling your face in his hands. His touch was gentle, a touch desperate, but you sensed how that could all change in a heartbeat.
"Ye were so good tae me last night," he whispered, his thumbs caressing your cheeks. "Like a mammy comfortin' 'er lil' bairn." He smiled at you, exposing the disorganized assortment of his rotting teeth. "Nobody's done that fer me in a long, long time."
Was he just thanking you? Showing his appreciation? Fuck, you doubted it, but you still clung to that feeble strand of optimism even as you saw the awed hunger in his gaze. He looked at you like a believer. Like a sinner. Like a child.
"You'll stay wit' me," he stated. Not loudly. Not roughly. He didn't need to. "Be me mother. Me comfort. Me warm, precious secret. In exchange, you'll be safe from anythin' and everythin'. You'll never go hungry. Never get hurt. I'll protect ye like a good son should. It is Old Nick's will, as well as mine own."
You were trembling so badly, you thought your bones might pop right out of their sockets. You could only register the signs of early morning—sweet birdsong, the tall grass glittering with dew, the stars winking out one by one—as though from far away.
Instead, you found yourself in a portrait painted by Jimmy's words. You saw yourself traveling with the people who'd tied you to a tree and stolen your things. Living as their prisoner, or perhaps their den mother. Listening to this man's insane ramblings for hours on end. Comforting Jimmy every time his ghosts came back to haunt him. Letting him call you 'mother'. Singing him the lullabies your mother used to sing to you in order to soothe his wretched spirit.
You wanted to take your chances in the wilds. That is, if you weren't certain that Jimmy would hunt you down to the ends of the earth.
And once he caught you... charity.
"Mummy?" Jimmy's voice softened. Like a velvet sheathe hiding a blade. "You'll stay, then? Be wit' yer devoted son?"
"I..."
I will find a way to work through this, you swore to yourself. Somehow, I will.
Licking your lips, you slowly nodded. "I'll stay."
Jimmy smiled at you. The mad joy in it was terrifying. "Good." Still holding your face, he leaned in. Brushing your lips with his. Already, you smelled the rot of his breath. Of his soul, it felt like.
Your heart jackrabbiting against your ribs, you closed the tiny gap between you. Sensing what refusal might bring.
Jimmy moaned in your kiss, his hands trembling as they kept you in place. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and his tongue tapped against the seam of your mouth. You let him in. Felt him glide inside your mouth, caressing your tongue with his own. Foul in taste and relentless in movement. It was all-consuming. A black hole of thought and stimuli and desperate longing.
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Summary: After losing all seven of his Fingers and nearly dying himself, Jimmy has never felt so lost. So stranded. So devoid of purpose. He prays to his father for a sign. Instead, he is met with a vision: You, an uninfected woman, making love to a red-eyed Alpha. One who speaks, touches you with care, and ensures you enjoy it just as much as him. The sight overwhelms Jimmy. Fills him with fantasies and desires he never thought possible.
He returns to that spot, driven by loneliness and a desire for you both.
Neither you nor your Alpha lover, Remmick, wants to harm him. No. You want to keep him.
Part One is here.
Warning: Contains threesome (m/m/f), oral sex (male and female receiving), voyeurism, begging, enthusiastic consent, talking during sex.
In his most restless dreams, Jimmy relived the Fall.
The screams drowning out The Teletubbies.
The sounds of his sisters' flesh being ripped from their bones.
His mother shouting at him to run, her words dissolving into wrathful howls.
His father... his father... Red eyes... Demons...
And then running. Running, running, running, clutching the gold crucifix in his small, sweaty fist. Running until he simply couldn't anymore.
Jimmy had been weak then. Lost. Without purpose.
But it hadn't been long after that that his father had begun speaking to him in his head. Comforting him. Telling him of his purpose. Teaching him how to survive.
Jimmy, ever the dutiful son, had obeyed. And grown stronger.
He'd dodged the demons, and mortals who were no less vicious. Found others like him; children without parents or homes, left to fend for themselves. He'd taken them in. Shown them the way. Taught them to worship his father, Old Nick, in exchange for His unholy protection.
Which, as far as Jimmy was concerned, beat so-called 'divine' protection by a long shot. After all, the World of Man had fallen, and God had done nothing to stop it. To save it. To save anybody.
But sometimes, even Old Nick failed. Jimmy's friends fell, replaced by new ones. And those, in turn, died. By accident. By disease. By demons. By other people. By themselves, sometimes. Here one moment, gone the next.
Beatrice. Jack. Patrick. Eunice. Hank. Anna. Colom. Zoe. Seth. Lucy. And so many more. All echoing in Jimmy's head, as throaty as crow caws and as loud as bells.
Until, one day, his father told him what to do. Told him how to make the names disappear: By replacing them with his own.
And so, the Jimmies were born. Seven, because Father demanded it, and all of them were Jimmy. From the moment they joined to the moment they died, they were Jimmy.
For years, they'd been Jimmy. The nicknames had changed. The color of their tracksuits had changed. The faces under the wigs had, too. But ultimately, they were all Jimmy. Even when they died, they were replaced. Because Jimmy was the favored son of Old Nick. Because Jimmy could not die.
Until he almost did.
Jimmy could still feel the fire, close enough to singe the delicate hairs on his fingers. Could still smell the oily smoke every time he exhaled. Could still see the barn's rooftop falling apart, one burning beam at a time. Could still see them landing atop his Fingers. Some died quickly. Others didn't. Those ones called for him. Begging him not to leave them. But he had. Not because Old Nick told him to, but because he'd been scared.
As scared as that eight-year-old boy fleeing the only home he'd ever known, with only the clothes on his back and the golden cross in his hand. And almost as weak.
Jimmy wasn't sure how long he wandered the woods. Long enough for hunger to come, to go, and to come again. Long enough to stick fistfuls of snow in his mouth to quench his thirst. Long enough to forget what dry, warm socks felt like.
Long enough to recall what it meant to be alone.
No Jimmies. No victims. No family. Not even Father came; He abandoned Jimmy, as He'd done whenever Jimmy was too weak to heed His call.
Jimmy didn't even bother talking to himself. The sound was too damn lonely.
Then, one night, he heard a different sound. Not birds. Not the crack of thawing ice. Not squirrels. Not even the distant yowls of demons.
Something different enough to compel him, no different from a siren song.
And that was where he saw it, right in the middle of a small clearing across the river. Surrounded by blackberry brambles.
A man, as pale as the moon above them, crouching in the melting snow. His hand was on his cock, furiously pumping. His mouth, between a woman's thighs. And the moans that woman was making were sweeter than any words of worship Jimmy had ever heard.
Jimmy couldn't have looked away even if he'd wanted to. The muscles in the man's back, rippling beneath skin as white and smooth as marble. Your face, like a delicate flower, raised heavenward as you moaned. Your shared pleasure, growing hotter by the second.
It was the most beautiful thing that Jimmy had seen in a long time.
Thoughtlessly, he took a step forward.
His foot landed on a patch of melting ice. It snapped cleanly in two.
The man stopped working on you. Sat up. Spun his head towards the forest. Jimmy ducked behind a tree—but not before he saw the man's glowing red eyes.
The eyes of a demon.
For a long, terrible moment, Jimmy was too terrified to even breathe. He just stood there, pressing his back into the soggy bark, silently begging his father to protect him. To dissuade His demon from coming closer, from investigating.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Waiting for death or Old Nick's mercy, whichever came first.
And for the briefest of moments, he saw his mum. More clearly than he had in years, in fact.
Golden hair cut in a practical but stylish bob. Clothes that were modest and usually cool-toned. Grays, typically, or blues. Mum hadn't smiled a lot, but when she had? She could outshine the sun. She'd wrinkle her nose while deep in thought, take her tea with two sugars, and liked to sleep in on weekends.
Tears prickled in Jimmy's eyes. His throat clogged up. He gritted his teeth, trying to stay quiet.
Until another sound pierced the night. Voices. The demon's—smooth and smoky—and yours—higher-pitched and sweet as morning dew.
Talking at first. Laughing.
And then, the most delicious of moans, this time coming from the demon.
It slipped under Jimmy's skin, burning away his fear and replacing it with something else entirely. Something far less familiar, but infinitely more welcome.
Desire.
Even though he knew it was risky, that the demon could hear any false move Jimmy made, he couldn't resist a second longer. He was ravenous, and the two of you were a feast.
His blood roaring in his ears, Jimmy stepped out from behind his tree—though he stayed close enough to hide behind it once more, should the need arise.
You'd changed positions, you and your demon lover. You were riding him like a queen, and he was moving with you. Locked in a heated embrace, you kissed as though every touch of each other's lips was precious oxygen.
The demon was facing away from Jimmy, but he found he didn't mind. He could admire that gorgeous back. Those arms, stronger than Jimmy's and threaded with veins. And every so often, Jimmy could see the demon's claws, long and sharp as knives. Yet they touched you with the greatest care.
Jimmy felt himself growing hard in his stained velvet slacks. Could feel his breathing hitch. He wanted to be held in those arms. Wanted to touch that lovely back, feel the muscles pulsing under his fingertips. Wanted to taste the demon's kiss.
And yet, he didn't want you out of the picture. In fact, you were a gorgeous accompaniment to the demon. Jimmy couldn't see much of you, save for your limbs and visage. But what he saw, he adored. Your arms and legs were strong, your hands and feet small and kissable. And your face. Mercy, your face. Eyes closed, mouth open in ecstasy, and cheeks flushed.
Jimmy wanted to cup those rosy cheeks. Wanted to press his lips to yours and drink in your moans. Wanted to feel your hands carding through his hair and your legs flanking his thighs. He wanted to be inside you.
The realization crept up on him. Slowly. Insidiously. Like fungus devouring a corpse.
He wanted both of you. Together.
Of course, the old ways were dead. Convention was a thing of the past. In the new world, you could always make new rules to live by.
Even so... Jimmy hesitated. Stopped himself from doing what his body was begging him to do. Because the longer he watched you two, the more he saw the love shining through the lust. The sweet way you kissed. The careful way the demon cradled you body in his clawed hands. The joy that shone in your eyes. The moans that, at times, almost sounded like laughter.
It felt... wrong, somehow, to touch himself to that. Like he'd be soiling something pure, even if nobody would know but him.
The irony wasn't lost on him. He'd skinned and disemboweled dozens of souls. He'd failed to save countless Jimmies, just as he'd failed to save his mother and sisters. He'd done all sorts of horrific things in the name of his Father, and he'd relished in pretty much all of it.
And, again, he wanted this. Wanted to be part of that sweet embrace. Wanted to feel some of that love you two shared so readily, so shamelessly, despite living in a world that only ever seemed to breed hatred and pain.
But this? This was where he drew the line, thick and black.
That was when your eyes opened, right as you were kissing your way from the demon's jawline to his shoulder. Your gazes locked, rooting Jimmy to the spot.
Jimmy should've fled and hoped that you didn't send the demon after him. Should've at least looked away. But he couldn't. The two of you were beauty itself. To look away from the pair of you would've been, to his child self, like looking away from God.
But you didn't seem angry. That instantly puzzled him. You kept your eyes on him, even as you keened and writhed against your demon lover. The sight was even more spellbinding than before because, now, it included him. Whether it was simple indifference, smugness, or lust addling your judgment, you were adding him to the equation. Fixing your lovely eyes on him even as your demon lover thrust into you with increased desperation. Even as you, too, were approaching your peak.
God, Jimmy wanted to feel both your rapture. Wanted to taste it. Bask in it. He'd have gladly traded ten years of his life for a moment of your love.
You nodded at Jimmy then.
His eyes widened, his heart somersaulting in his ribs. Had you really...?
You kept your eyes on him. Eyes that were warming by the second, until they made Jimmy forget he'd ever been cold in his life.
You'd given him your blessing. Erased the line.
"No," Father hissed in Jimmy's ear. "They are souls for me. Mewling fodder. You should be skinning them, not being intimate with them!"
For the first time in his life, Jimmy blocked out the voice.
He loved his father. But he needed this.
He untied the strings of his slacks. Pulled himself out. Began to stroke himself, biting his lip to keep quiet, and imagined it was someone else's hand on his cock. Yours, or your demon's. Either would've been amazing. A dream.
Jimmy was part of it now. In his own, small way. He could bask in your love, in your passion, if only for a little while. And it felt transcendent.
He saw your lips move. Saw the demon's movements unraveling. Heard your whimpers, your grunts, your moans, if only from a distance.
Jimmy tried not to move too fast. Tried to savor it. But he couldn't slow down. Couldn't take his time. The noises you were making, that gorgeous back moving, the powerful yet desperate thrusts, your love-drunk expression... It was perfection. It was the Holy Grail. It shook him apart.
And when your eyes found his again, it was as good as a physical touch.
Jimmy's climax tore through him with sharp claws, his entire body shuddering as he emptied himself. Thick ropes of cum painted the half-melted snow, narrowly missing his soggy shoes.
Even as the ecstasy ebbed, the aftershocks still stole his breath.
When he finally came down enough to think clearly again, Jimmy knew that he had to leave. The moment was over, and with a sinking heart Jimmy realized he hadn't really been a part of it. You weren't even looking at him now. You and your demon were basking in the afterglow together, trading lazy kisses and sweet caresses.
And Jimmy wanted that. Wanted it so much it hurt. Even as his body trembled, as his basic need was taken care of, Jimmy found himself wanting more. Wanting both of you. Wanting to be part of that lover's embrace.
But he knew better.
Jimmy inhaled through his nose. Wiped his hand on a nearby patch of snow. Then, tucking himself away, he retreated deeper into the woods.
He'd be back, though. Even though he knew it'd hurt, he'd be back. Because the sweetness he'd feel, the warmth, the illusion of being part of things, would be worth it.
***
Every day, the snow receded. More and more flowers and stalks of grass poked through, bursting with delicate, eager life. The small streams shed their icy skin, gurgling with noise and fish once more. Hibernating animals, like dormice and hedgehogs, began to show their faces. On one fine morning wherein you and Ian were skinning the hares that Remmick had hunted that morning—six in total, more than enough to eat your fill, salt the remaining meat, and boil the bones for broth—a cuckoo called out from an unseen locale.
And your mysterious blond man kept returning.
Always from a distance, always quick to disappear, but reappearing so often it bordered on recklessness. For all the stranger knew, you were a bunch of violent psychos. And yet, he kept returning. A flash of gold amid the greens and browns of the forest.
Ian noticed, but did nothing. "He might just be lonely," he remarked. "If he ever comes closer, I'll be happy to set out an extra plate for him."
Remmick was less certain. He'd sit atop the hill sometimes, scanning the horizon with those ruby eyes. At first, you worried that he might attack the man. But then, one day, you both spotted him. A blast of purple, hair catching the light. There one second, gone the next.
The edge of Remmick's mouth quirked up. "Persistent," he stated. "I'll give him that."
***
It started to become more on an early morning, when you were returning from a foraging trip. Your bag was stuffed with hairy bittercress and wild garlic—Remmick hated the latter, but it was undoubtedly useful for Ian's more rustic remedies. You found a small gift waiting for you at the woods' entrance. Right where you'd been not two hours ago, your footprints still visible in the sleety mud.
A small bouquet of wildflowers, delicately picked and bound together with a long blade of grass.
You blinked at the present, then looked around. Searching for whoever had left it there.
Already, you had a feeling.
When you found no one, you crouched down and picked up the flowers. Breathed in their sweet scent. Smiled into their soft petals.
"Thank you!" you called out, hoping they would hear.
Then, you brought the flowers home. Filled a cup with water and lemon juice, ensuring they'd last longer, and admired them for a long time.
Remmick wasn't thrilled when you told him where the flowers had come from. But he didn't throw them out, either. In fact, by dinnertime, he'd chosen his favorite blossom and tucked it behind his ear.
And later that night, before you both went to bed, you spotted Remmick leaving something just outside the Bone Temple. A bundle of clothes, as well as a few slices of Ian's delicious brown bread.
The next morning, it was gone.
A gift for a gift.
***
As the last of the snows melted, the air sweetened by thousands of blooming flowers, the gifts became a weekly occurrence. The blond man left everything from firewood to fish at your door, as well as little knickknacks that were of no inherent use but you all still found charming. Power Rangers action figures. A ukulele. A bracelet of plastic jewels. A coloring book, complete with an unopened box of Crayola.
That last gift wound up being surprisingly handy for you. Even though you still loved reading to Remmick, or having him read to you, or listening to him play his banjo, there was something relaxing about coloring in drawings. Making them beautiful.
The three of you, in return, left things for the stranger. Clothes. Food. Books you'd read and thought he might like. A bar of Dove soap you'd found in an abandoned delivery truck. Ian even left out some first-aid: Gauze, disinfectant, and some antibiotics.
Every time, the gifts were accepted.
***
A nightmare woke you up. Scared you enough to fear falling asleep again, even if dawn was hours away.
And so, after pecking a sleeping Remmick's cheek, you slipped out of bed, tucked him in, wrote a quick note for him and Ian to find, and claimed three essential items: Your spear, a flashlight, and the book you were currently devouring. Jurassic Park. A good one.
You climbed high into a tree, your legs swinging over the thick branch's edge, with your back propped against the bark. Your spear was within reach, while you used the flashlight to read.
Hours passed. An owl hooted. The wind sighed through the trees' skeletal branches. The river murmured.
Eventually, the eastern sky went from black to navy. Which, in turn, became azure. Clouds became bruise-colored. Stars winked out.
You dog-eared the page you were on and flicked off the flashlight. Content to watch the world wake up.
The sun finally peeked through, the deep orange of an egg yolk. As it emerged, it painted the world golden. The shadows became stark and black, stretched out like scars.
That was when you saw him. Your blond stranger. Curled up along the banks, using one of the jackets you'd given him as a makeshift blanket.
Overtaken by curiosity and something else you couldn't name, you reclaimed your spear and climbed down the tree.
You approached the sleeping man, taking care to be quiet. Crouched beside him. Getting your first good look.
He was a lovely man. Beautiful, like Remmick was. But while Remmick was a dark beauty, all marble skin and inky hair and crimson eyes, this man had the loveliness of a spring morning. The way his blond hair caught the dawn's first light seared into your memory banks.
And he looked... sweet, if a little scared. His brows were furrowed, his breathing short. After a moment, you heard him mumbling.
"No... no... Mummy..."
Your chest aching with compassion, you reached out. Stroked the man's hair. Caressed his unshaven cheek. Tried to make him feel, if only distantly, that all was well.
After a few seconds, it seemed to work. The lines in his forehead smoothed out. His breathing calmed. And he leaned into your touch like he was starving for it. One of his hands even slipped out from under his jacket, finding yours. Pressing it to his skin.
You could've retracted your hand. Left. But you didn't. Not until his hand fell away, sleep fully reclaiming him.
Not until you'd pecked his forehead, and seen the corner of his mouth lift.
***
It was a warm day, the sky the color of a robin's egg and the air alive with bees humming and birds singing. Off in the distance, a couple of wild horses were grazing.
Ian was sitting beside the skull tower, carefully mending one of Remmick's torn shirts.
You were babysitting the stew pot, stirring regularly and stealing the occasional, savory spoonful.
Remmick was sitting on a log, strumming his banjo and humming to himself. There was an old, half-forgotten song lurking in the back of his mind. Slowly making it way back to the front. And with every twitch of his fingers, every word he mumbled, it got a little closer.
So did something else. Someone else.
Remmick heard him coming from a mile away. Quite literally. Could smell him, too. Amid all the scents of flora and fauna, here was an aroma that simply didn't belong. Dove soap. Unwashed teeth. Desperate loneliness.
But he didn't look towards him. Didn't interrupt his playing. Even as his instincts, the ones that'd kept him alive during his days as a full-on infected, told him to tear the intruder apart. To protect his pack. Because something in him, something that sounded a lot like your voice, told him that it was okay.
The words came to him then. Covered in dust, uncertain, but there.
"Will ye go, lassie, go?"
Unbidden, his fingers began to play a tune he knew he'd heard in his first life. Trying to recall those days were like trying to look through a shattered window, but this was coming through loud and clear.
"Oh the summer time has come
And the trees are sweetly bloomin'
The wild mountain thyme
Grows around the bloomin' heather
Will ye go, lassie, go?"
From the corner of his eye, Remmick could see that blond hair. Could hear the man's stomach growling. Pretending to be none the wiser, he kept playing.
"And we'll all go together
To pull wild mountain thyme
All around the bloomin' heather
Will ye go, lassie, go?"
The man sat on the farthest edge of the log, moving like someone far older than his years. Trying to be quiet and inconspicuous. Remmick kept feigning ignorance, his fingers strumming the melody.
But before Remmick could sing the next part, the stranger took over. His Scottish accent was thick, his voice pleasing to the ear.
"I will build my love a bower
By yon cool crystal fountain
And round it I will pile
All the wild flowers o' the mountain
Will ye go, lassie, go?"
Remmick finally glanced at the stranger, who flinched at the sight of his eyes but didn't run away screaming. That was something, at least.
"It's okay," Remmick promised him. "I'm an Alpha, yes. But I ain't gonna hurt ya."
"Oh! Well, all right, then." The man gave a nervous chuckle. "I suppose Old Nick made ye special, eh?"
Remmick blinked. "Um. Sure."
The man was... rather handsome, Remmick saw that right away, and not just because he was wearing clothes Remmick had seen you personally wash and mend. He was fair-skinned, with a build that was more slender than strong, with golden hair brushing his shoulders and eyes the exact shade of cornflowers.
Unfortunately, his teeth were appalling. Yellow, some of them black. Even from this distance, Remmick could smell his breath. And Remmick, who prided himself on having a strong stomach, thought that it could peel the paint off a wall.
But that mouth was stretched into a timid smile. Despite the odor, Remmick found himself simpering back.
"How'd you know that song?" he inquired.
The man blinked hard, like he was trying to get something out of his eye. "Me... me mam used t'sing that tae me. When I was a wee bairn. Her mam was Irish."
Remmick's smile softened. "I... don't know if my mammy sang it to me. But I sing it for my mate sometimes, and she loves it."
The man stared at him. "Yer... mate?"
Remmick shrugged. "The only word that feels right. 'Girlfriend' seems juvenile, and 'wife's too stuffy."
The man considered it, then slowly nodded. As though it actually made sense to him. Then, he placed a hand on his chest. "I'm Jimmy."
Remmick hummed. "Jimmy."
"Actually, it's Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal," Jimmy added, "but no, yer good. Jimmy's fine."
The title sounded fairly ridiculous. Like something a child might come up with. But instead of saying anything, Remmick simply inclined his head. "Name's Remmick." He straightened, gesturing to the trees around them. "Do you live out here? All alone?"
Jimmy nodded. "I do now, aye. Ever since..." He trailed off, and his eyes darkened with sorrow. Despite hardly knowing Jimmy, and worrying that he might harm his pack, Remmick felt a pang of sympathy for him. There was genuine sorrow in his eyes. Grief. Perhaps a bit of guilt, too. The kind that comes from living when everyone else died.
Remmick wondered what that must be like, to recall one's friends and family like that. He couldn't remember anyone he'd known before becoming an Alpha, but he could faintly recall his love for them.
Which was worse? To forget? Or to remember?
Jimmy shook his head like a dog trying to rid itself of fleas. "Anyway, I still got me father. So, it ain't too bad."
Remmick scratched his chin. "Haven't sensed anyone else around here. Just you. Does your old man live far away?"
Jimmy shook his head. Tapped his temple.
Remmick frowned. "You... hear him in... your head?"
"All the time," Jimmy confirmed.
Oh, great, Remmick thought. He's beautiful, but he's mad as a March hare.
"But... y'know..." Jimmy shrugged, evading eye contact. "I never get tae sit wit' him or see him. Be wit' him like... like ye and yers."
Those words, so drenched in vulnerability, tugged at something deep inside Remmick. Something you and Ian had awakened.
Remmick wasn't sure what he could do or say. He opened his mouth, hoping the right words might emerge—
"Sweetheart!" Your sweet voice rang through the air. "Lunchtime!"
Remmick turned to Jimmy. "You're... welcome to come. If ya like."
"Oh, no," Jimmy glanced away, cheeks bright pink. "Father wouldn't like that. He's cross enough wit' me enough as it is."
Remmick arched a brow. "Why?"
Jimmy nibbled his bottom lip. "Let's just say I ain't been too obedient lately."
Remmick shrugged. "Suit yourself." Holding his banjo close, he rose. "But if ya ever change your mind..."
Jimmy blinked. Then, to Remmick's shock, began to tear up. "I..." His throat constricted. "Thank ye. I'll... keep that in mind."
Remmick nodded at him before jogging down the hill, eager to grab a bowl of stew and sit next to you. And maybe, if Ian was willing, to listen to some Iron Maiden.
***
Jimmy watched him until he made it back to the Bone Temple. Saw you greet Remmick with an embrace, a broad smile, and a sweet kiss. Saw Ian clap Remmick on the back.
A tear ran down his cheek. Almost angrily, he wiped it away.
"Charity, son," Father whispered. "I demand charity. Those three would do. Especially the dark-haired man. An Alpha with a mortal mind? Very valuable indeed."
"No," Jimmy replied out loud.
"You idiot!" Pain shot through Jimmy's head, strong enough to make him cry out and fall to his knees. "I give orders, and you obey! That is how this works!"
"They..." Jimmy did his best to speak through the pain, clutching at his skull as though that'd do any good. "They've been kind t'me, Father!"
"And what about me, then?" Father snarled. "Where would you be without me?! I saved you! It was ME! You SURVIVED because of ME!"
"Go away!" Jimmy whimpered, still grasping at his head.
Instead, Father did what any parent would do to a disobedient child:
He punished.
***
Jimmy didn't return the next day. Or the next. Or the next.
You found yourself missing him. Remmick did, too. He'd told you and Ian about their interaction. About how cute Jimmy was, if a bit loopy. About how he heard his 'father's voice in his head.
Ian had gone quiet for a while. Disappeared in his lab until morning. Then, he'd shown you both an old prescription bottle. "I don't know if it'll work, especially after so many years of his issues going untreated," he'd admitted. "But maybe, if he ever trusts us to come here, we could try treating him."
"And you think it'll work?" Remmick sounded doubtful at best.
Ian shrugged. "How will we know if we don't try?"
Remmick was still unconvinced. But Ian had once used those very same words with you, regarding Remmick himself. Back when he'd been a full-fledged Alpha, snarling and wrathful.
You'd taken a chance, and found love.
Who knew what would happen this time?
You took a deep breath. Plucked the bottle from Ian's hand and slipped it in your pocket. "I'll go look for him," you said. "Offer him these."
Ian gave you a stern look.
"What?" You threw up your hands. "He hasn't come in a spell. Might be hurt, or worse. I mean, he's an undiagnosed schizophrenic living alone in the woods. I'd say there's a damn good chance that he's less than optimal right now!"
Ian sighed. "Reasonable."
"I'm coming with you," Remmick stated. When you turned to him, he added, "Not because you ain't capable, darlin', but because I wanna be there. For both o' ya."
Your expression softened. Leaning in, you stole a quick kiss. Without another word, you collected your spear.
"Do you have the flare gun?" Ian asked. "Just in case you need help?"
Remmick reached into his jeans' back pocket and held up his prize.
Ian nodded, satisfied.
***
You found Jimmy in a cave, curled up like a shrimp and clutching his head like he thought it might fly right off his shoulders. His face was wet with tears, his awful teeth gritted in agony.
You and Remmick didn't hesitate. You placed Jimmy's head on your lap while Remmick draped Jimmy's legs on his lap, caressing them soothingly.
You and Remmick shared a look. Summoning the prescription bottle, you unscrewed the lid. Plucked out a pill. Held it before Jimmy's face. "Here," you cooed. "It'll help with... with the voice."
Jimmy shook his head. "He's me father, I..."
"No father would put you through this kind of pain," you told him. "Please. Take it. It'll make you feel better."
Jimmy shook his head. Harder. Like a child trying to make the bogeyman go away. "I-I... I'll be alone."
Your heart broke. Right down the middle. You looked at Remmick and saw that his had, too.
You pursed your lips. "You won't be alone." You tucked some hair behind his ear. "We'll be here."
Jimmy opened his eyes then. Stared at you, and then at Remmick. More tears leaked from his eyes. Without thinking, you wiped them away. Remmick reached out and took Jimmy's hand, squeezing it comfortingly.
Jimmy let out a deep, shuddering breath. He gave a slow, solemn nod. Opened his mouth. You slipped the pill past his lips. An act of communion. Of kindness.
Jimmy swallowed. Then, he looked back at you two with something close to fear. "Really ye... ye won't leave?"
You shook your head. "We're right here."
"We ain't goin' nowhere," Remmick chimed in.
Jimmy burst into tears then. You hoisted him into a sitting position before pulling him into a hug. He buried his face in your hair, sobbing like a lost child. Remmick came closer, pulling you both into his strong arms.
Jimmy wept for what felt like hours, soaking through your shirt and dampening your hair. His cries eventually left, taking his strength with them. He dozed off in your arms, clinging to your shirt with white-knuckled hands. You looked at Remmick, finding the same tender expression you could feel on your own face.
"Can we keep him?" you whispered.
Remmick gave you a brief but sweet kiss. "I think we already are."
***
By high summer, Jimmy had more good days than bad. Ian had had to fiddle with the medication a bit. Find a cocktail that banished the voice the longest while delivering the least amount of side effects. Jimmy never complained. Never made a fuss. Never refused to take it. And all he wanted was a pat on the head after taking his pills.
Indeed, he dragged his feet more about brushing his damn teeth. But you, Remmick, and Ian all refused to yield on that front. At some point, you even chased him around the field, a toothbrush in one hand and a tube of toothpaste in the other. When he finally collapsed from exhaustion, you tackled him and brushed his teeth with the determination of a prospector digging around for gold.
After that experience, Jimmy started brushing his teeth more. Not enough for them to be white, but enough so that his breath smelled better.
He slept on a blanket at the foot of your and Remmick's cot. Set up snares in the woods, bringing back rabbits and badgers for everyone to eat. Accompanied Ian on his long treks to one hospital or another. Learned to cook and sew. And when either you or Remmick read, Jimmy was there. Sitting at either of your feet with wide, awestruck eyes.
And so, one day, you and Remmick decided to treat Jimmy. Took him to the blackberry bushes, each of you armed with a bucket. Jimmy walked between you. And, after a moment, he took each of your hands. You stared down at your hand, enveloped in Jimmy's, and couldn't help but smile.
For every berry that you collected, two wound up in your mouths. Soon, the three of you had reddish-purple stains all over your lips and fingers. You took one look at each other and laughed. Even when you went back to picking, you were still chuckling under your breath. Shooting each other mirthful looks.
It was the happiest you'd felt in a long time.
Until you heard Jimmy's voice, closer than you thought it'd be. "Um... (y/n)?"
You turned to find Jimmy looking oddly bashful. "I, er..." He presented you with a berry the size of an acorn, dark and bursting with flavor.
You lit up. "That's perfect!" You looked at him. "Thanks, Jimmy."
Jimmy smiled, though there was a nervousness to it. "May I...?" He held it between his forefinger and thumb.
Oh. Oh.
Feeling your heart beginning to race, you nodded.
Jimmy, looking as nervous and as excited as you felt, placed the berry between your lips. You took it into your mouth. The moment you bit down on the berry, summer bloomed on your tongue. Sweet, tart, and warmed by the sun.
Jimmy looked at you with pupil-blown eyes. "Is it... good?"
Your gaze flickered to Remmick, who'd paused in his picking to watch the display. Smiling, you asked Jimmy, "Why don't you try it for yourself?"
Jimmy blanched. "I... What?"
You smiled. Held out your hand. "It's okay."
Jimmy stared at you, and then at Remmick, who looked at you both with a mixture of hunger and affection. Never looking away, he prowled over to you. Embraced you from behind, nuzzling your neck until you simply had to card a hand through his hair. He chased your hand, kissing your stained fingertips. Meeting Jimmy's gaze over your shoulder, he nodded.
Jimmy let out a broken little whimper. One that only made your heart beat faster.
Nervously, yet grinning from ear to ear, Jimmy accepted your hand. Let you pull him closer. His hand found your cheek, tracing it gently. "So pretty..." he breathed out, blue eyes darting like swallows. "Both o' ye..."
You bumped your nose against his. "You're not bad-looking yourself, sweetie."
Jimmy whined at the term of endearment. Remmick chuckled against your neck.
Then, without further ado, you kissed Jimmy. His lips tasted like berries as they moved clumsily against yours. You guided him, threading your fingers together. Remmick moaned softly against your skin, his fingers trembling against you. Savoring the vision before him.
It was different from kissing Remmick. But lovely in its own way. And the longer you kissed Jimmy, the more you felt like maybe you could try to build something together. The three of you.
When you finally pulled apart, Jimmy's eyes stayed closed for a second. He looked like he was in the middle of a lovely dream. When he opened his eyes and saw the two of you, his dopey smile stretched from ear to cherry-red ear. "Ye taste better than the berry, hen."
"That she does," Remmick purred, peppering kisses along your hairline. You giggled, basking in the attention, before reciprocating with a peck along his jaw.
Jimmy watched you two with undisguised tenderness. He glanced at Remmick then, giving his kiss-bruised lips a nervous lick. "R-Remmick, may I...?"
Remmick grinned at him, sharp teeth flashing. "I thought you'd never ask." Giving you one last peck, he moved closer to Jimmy. He took yours and Jimmy's hands, still interlocked, and brought them to rest over his heart. Then, taking a moment to tuck some hair behind Jimmy's ear, he leaned in and pressed his lips to Jimmy's.
Their kiss was a bit rougher than yours had been, but no less emotional. When they parted, Remmick was beaming and Jimmy looked ready to walk on air.
Remmick turned to you, an invitation already on his lips. But you beat him to it, giving him a tender kiss.
That last kiss felt like a seal. The last link in a light, glittering chain binding you three together.
"Is this what it's always like?" Jimmy asked softly.
"Nah." Remmick winked at him. "Just with the right person. Or people."
***
It wasn't long after that kiss that Jimmy came clean. Told you both the extent of what he'd done. Who he'd been. It was difficult to tell and even more so to listen to. For a moment, you thought you'd made a mistake. That you'd let a wolf in sheep's clothing into your home. But when you looked into those desperate blue eyes, you didn't see a monster. You didn't see a killer or a cult leader. You just saw Jimmy.
"I'm not askin' ye tae forgive or forget what I did," he supplicated. "I'm just askin' for the chance to be better."
Remmick nodded. Took Jimmy's hand and brought it to his lips. "Okay," he whispered. "A chance. That's what I got. That's what you'll get, too."
Indeed. What if you hadn't given Remmick that chance? What if Ian hadn't given you that chance, all those years ago, but decided that an orphan was more trouble than she was worth?
You exhaled, slowly, and nodded. Pulled Jimmy into an embrace that he quickly melted in.
***
The three of you never said it. Never made it official. But that didn't make it any less real.
You found an old cot in a former bed and breakfast. It took a lot of sweat and elbow grease, but you managed to drag it back to the Bone Temple. From there, it was easy to push it against the cot you shared with Remmick, redo the sheets, and make a queen-sized bed. The first night Jimmy slept with you and Remmick, sandwiched between you, he cried happy tears.
Jimmy began to read to you two. Clumsily at first, stumbling over the bigger words, but gradually gaining skill as well as confidence. And when either you or Remmick read aloud, Jimmy insisted on being on the orator's lap, his head on their chest. It was too damn cute to discourage.
Ian kept playing his music whenever Remmick confirmed that no infected were nearby. Some nights, Ian's poor record player crooned out tunes until well past the witching hour. There, beneath the moonlight, you'd all dance. You'd spin and flail, not giving a damn how you looked because you were having too much fun. Remmick would dance an Irish jig recalled from his former life. Ian sang along to all the words as he danced, contorting his body like a snake's. Jimmy's dance was a beautiful thing to behold: He danced like a chicken, but he did it with such enthusiasm, the rest of you couldn't help but laugh, cheer, and clap.
As the days began to shorten, as the temperature started to drop, you taught Jimmy how to make cider.
Ian taught Jimmy the same things he'd taught you: How to clean and suture a wound, how to set a broken bone, and how to deal with a sprain. Jimmy was a quick study, and like with his medication, all he wanted was a pat on the head when he got it right.
Jimmy told you two all about his childhood staples, namely the Power Rangers and the Teletubbies, whom he called 'glorious'. Neither you nor Remmick understood a word of what the blond man said, but you still listened and asked the occasional question—for all the good it did.
One night, when Remmick was shivering, Jimmy took a blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders.
Once, when you came down with a cold, Remmick and Jimmy fussed over you. Jimmy pressed a cool, damp cloth to your forehead and spoon-fed you soup. Remmick sang you to sleep and cajoled you into taking Ian's homemade remedies. Ian himself barely had to do a thing, but he still checked in on you twice a day. Even at your lowest—when your body pendulated between unbearable heat and terrible shivers, all you wanted to do was sleep, and you barely had the strength to string two thoughts together—you felt loved and cared for.
Once the geese migrated, you all took it as a sign to start stocking up for winter. You and Remmick hunted more than ever, bringing back game every other day. Stags. Fish. Pheasants.
Under Ian's patient tutelage, Jimmy learned to skin, salt, pickle, smoke, and pressure-can your and Remmick's spoils.
Ian made sure all your blankets and furs were accounted for, and Remmick spent three whole days chopping firewood—sometimes ripping the log in two with his bare hands, if the axe didn't meet his standards. By the end of his self-imposed chore, the lot of you had enough kindling to last three winters.
You made dozens of new beeswax candles, stowing them away in preparation for the encroaching darkness.
Jimmy used some of the pheasants' feathers to fashion a necklace for you and a bracelet for Remmick. You were both so moved, you ganged up on him, kissing him senseless.
Ian never missed a chance to pat Jimmy on the back, ruffle his hair, or call him 'son'.
You and Remmick showered him with soft kisses, caresses, and plenty of cuddles. Letting him know, little by little, how much he meant to you.
***
On the night it finally happened, none of you expected it.
It started off innocently enough: The three of you making out in the clearing, drunk on each other and the lingering sweetness of blooming blackberry flowers. The moon was a thin smile above you, the stars hard little pinpricks against the velvet sky.
Then, slowly, it grew heated.
Kisses deepened. Touches roamed under clothes. Pupils expanded.
You'd been kissing Jimmy for the last few minutes, with Remmick kissing his way up Jimmy's spine, pulling up his purple shirt as he ascended. But now, as you parted, you cradled Jimmy's face in your hands like the treasure it was. "Jimmy, sweet pea," you crooned, "would you like to go further tonight?"
Remmick moaned, rutting against the back of Jimmy's legs at the prospect. "You watched last time, sweetheart," he remarked, eyes glowing like lanterns. "Why don'tcha partake this time around?"
Jimmy froze up, jaw clamping shut.
Remmick's gaze softened. "Hey," he crooned, kissing Jimmy's shoulder, "it's okay. We don't gotta do anything ya don't want."
"Yeah," you nodded, beginning to withdraw your hands. "We can wait—"
"No, I want tae!" Jimmy exclaimed, covering your hands with his own. Keeping them on his face. "I wanna, me loves, I do, it's just..." he hesitated, glancing down. "I've never..." He cleared his throat.
The realization hit you like a truck. You shared a wide-eyed look with Remmick before reverting your gaze to Jimmy. "Never?"
Jimmy shook his head. "I was..." he gave a self-deprecating laugh. "I was s'possed tae be the favored son o' Old Nick. Untouchable. Unreachable. Like a god. Plus, I..." he rolled his shoulders. "I was scared tae let anyone that close. Scared tae feel things fer someone, and then lose 'em, so I... kept me distance, I did."
You felt your face crumple. You began to caress his cheeks. "Oh, honey..."
Remmick spoke up. "We can go slow, if ya like. Stop if it gets t'be too much. Sound good?"
Jimmy nodded, his face shifting between anticipation and anxiety. "Aye, that sounds grand." He looked at you, then at Remmick, and then back again. "How d'we start?"
Remmick chuckled. A deep, rich sound. Like thunder smothered in honey. Reaching around Jimmy, he touched your shoulder. "How's about I start us off, darlin'?"
You nodded. "Go for it, babe."
Remmick smiled, leaned in, and thanked you with a kiss. Then, he gently turned Jimmy to face him. "The three of us," Remmick stated, "are gonna shake the very foundations o' Heaven." He captured Jimmy's lips in a kiss then. One that was gentle, almost chaste. Letting your sweet virgin ease into it.
Jimmy mewled in the kiss, cupping Remmick's face as though it were made of porcelain. You leaned back on the blanket you'd brought, watching as your men made out. It didn't take you long to feel the first stirrings of desire sparking deep inside you. But you held off on touching yourself. You wanted to savor this.
Remmick gradually upped the heat, kissing Jimmy with more passion. More tongue. And Jimmy was all for it, whimpering into the kiss and clutching Remmick's shirt so hard you thought he might tear the fabric.
Then, Remmick slipped a knee between Jimmy's thighs. Grinding slowly, almost teasingly.
Jimmy ripped free from the kiss to let out a filthy moan. One that went straight to your core. Even without moving your hand, you could feel yourself beginning to grow hot. To grow slick. To get ready for what was to come.
Jimmy moaned again, head lolling back as though it suddenly weighed a tone. "Fuck, please—R-Remmick—Don't stop—"
Remmick chuckled, his carmine eyes finding yours as he slathered Jimmy's jaw in kisses. "I'd say he's likin' the experience so far. Wouldn't you say, honey?"
"Oh, yes," you purred. "And let's keep it that way, hmm? Make it good for our boy."
Remmick brought their faces together again, but didn't kiss him. Not yet. All the while, he kept grinding his knee against Jimmy's crotch. "Yes, ya are," he replied with surprising solemnity. "Our beautiful boy."
Jimmy's whimper compelled you to come closer. Nestle behind Jimmy, hugging his torso. "Our boy," you repeated, kissing and combing back his tresses. "Our sweet boy. We love you so much."
Jimmy let out a noise that was somewhere between a whine, a moan, and a sigh. He kissed Remmick fully, filthily, before turning around and kissing you with equal vigor. The kiss made you feel lightheaded, all the while making the flame inside you grow hotter.
"Love ye too," he replied. "So much." He stole another quick kiss. "More," he begged you and Remmick. "Please. More. I want ye both so, so bad."
Remmick smiled. "Your wish is our command." He removed his knee from Jimmy's crotch, prepared to pull those purple trousers down, but stopped. Looked back at Jimmy.
Jimmy whispered, "Please."
You held him closer. "Do you want me to undress your top half, sugar?"
Jimmy nodded almost frantically. Helping you unbutton his shirt and peel it off his heated flesh. You undid his gold chains, one by one, and lay them out on the blanket. You took each of his hands, kissing the palms and the inside of his wrists, as you removed his rings and placed them next to the necklaces.
Suddenly, Jimmy wailed. For a split second, you were alarmed. Then, you looked down and saw Remmick taking Jimmy's entire length in his mouth. He was making a show of it, too, hollowing out his cheeks and moaning as though Jimmy were the best thing he'd ever tasted. His ruby eyes locked on you both, shimmering with lust and love. A pale, clawed hand reached lower. Cupped Jimmy's balls, squeezing them just enough for him to feel it.
And boy did Jimmy feel it. Moaning helplessly, he bucked into Remmick's mouth. One hand pawed behind him, searching for you, and wasn't satisfied until he cupped your cheek and pulled you into a frantic kiss. The other hand grasped Remmick's hair. Not to pull at those locks, but to anchor himself.
Remmick moaned, the vibrations making Jimmy mewl in your kiss. Almost reflexively, you slid your hands up Jimmy's torso. Caressing his stomach. Tracing his ribs. Loving how the muscles jumped at your touch. And when you brushed his nipples, he thrust into Remmick's mouth. Remmick groaned, gripping Jimmy's hips in an attempt to still him. You were sure there'd be bruises there come daybreak... and Jimmy would wear them like he always wore his jewelry.
Smiling against Jimmy's lips, you rolled one of his nipples between your fingers. Tweaked it gently. Jimmy's responding groan was barely muffled by the kiss.
Remmick pulled off Jimmy, wiping his mouth. His eyes were glowing brighter than ever, nearly outshining the stars. "Taste so good, baby." He gave Jimmy's hipbone a gentle peck.
As you and Jimmy pulled apart, Remmick patted the other man's thigh. Summoning his attention. "How ya wanna do this?"
Jimmy swallowed, visibly unsure of how to respond.
"We can go slow," Remmick promised, caressing Jimmy's stomach. "And ya can always say no. This is all about feelin' good, Jimmy. If you ain't havin' fun, neither are we." He looked to you. "Right, darlin'?"
"As rain, sweetheart." You pushed an errant lock from Jimmy's eyes. "Just tell us what you want, and we'll do our best to make it happen."
Jimmy swallowed. "I just... wanna feel ya. Both." Blushing, he added, "At the same time."
Remmick considered it, then nodded. "Okay." Reaching into his hoodie's pocket, he produced—
"—A bottle of lube?" You exclaimed, equal parts shocked and delighted. "Where the hell did you find that?"
"Pharmacy," Remmick winked. "Found it on the last supply run with Ian. Held onto it, just in case."
Jimmy did the math in his head. "Ye've had it for two weeks?!"
Remmick's sweet smile melted your heart a little. God, you loved this man. "Didn't wanna force anything. I thought it best just to have it until we got to this point."
Jimmy moaned, his head tipping back and landing on your shoulder. You blew some of his hair out of your face. "Why is the thought o' ye goin' around wit' lube in yer pocket so hot?"
You grinned, giving Jimmy's peck a playful squeeze. "Because right now, you're horny as fuck. I'm pretty sure a light breeze could make you come right about now." As Jimmy nodded in agreement, you turned back to Remmick. "Shall you do the honors?" Nodding at the tent in his pants, you added, "I can touch you while you work our boy open."
Remmick shook his head, still smiling. "Nah, it's okay. I can wait. In fact, it'll make it that much sweeter." He arched a brow. "But maybe our boy can work on ya while I open him up." He traced Jimmy's hip with feather-light claws. "What d'ya say, Jimmy? Wanna taste our girl?"
Jimmy's eyes lit up. "Can I?"
In response, you shed your clothing and lay on your back. When Jimmy turned to behold you, you smiled at him as you opened your legs. "I don't know, Jimmy," you teased, reaching down to circle your clit. "Can you?"
Jimmy dropped to his hands and knees, crawling towards you with single-minded determination. Remmick chuckled at his enthusiasm as he stripped down. Both sights—Remmick exposing more and more of that pale, sinewy body to the cool night and Jimmy making his way toward you, his eyes glassy with both lust and love—made heat flare in the pit of your stomach.
Jimmy reached you at last. His trembling hands climbed up your calves, your knees, and your thighs. His touch was worshipful, almost painfully so. His gaze weighed by a thousand emotions. And when you felt his hot, excited breath on your entrance, you shivered.
Jimmy looked up at you with eyes as blue and glassy as marbles. "Are ye ready, petal?"
You nodded. Caressed his jaw. "Go ahead, Jimmy."
Jimmy smiled at you. A genuine, sweet smile. One that made your heart twist. You and Remmick had been right to keep him.
Jimmy put his mouth on you then.
He was gentle at first. Slow, reverent licks from end to end. Tasting you with care. Even when you looked up to see Remmick sliding a finger inside Jimmy, Jimmy didn't change his rhythm. Just moaned as he licked into you, his fingers digging into your thighs.
As Remmick pumped that one finger into Jimmy's hole, he gazed at you both with open hunger. Drool began to dangle from his lips, the strands glistening in the moonlight.
"You two're so perfect like this," he whispered. "So blissed out. Heaven-sent."
You keened in reply, feeling beautiful and desired and utterly loved. One hand reached down, cradling Jimmy's cheek as he worked his tongue into you. The other made its way to your lips. You kissed your fingers, then blew the kiss at Remmick. He beamed before blowing a kiss right back.
Jimmy's tongue found your clit then, licking it with the perfect amount of pressure. You gasped, back arching, as that dexterous muscle circled that bundle of nerves like a shark.
Remmick watched Jimmy take you apart like he was starved for it. He slipped a second finger inside Jimmy, who shuddered and mewled against your folds.
"So good," Jimmy whimpered against you, his face wet with your slick. "Both o' ye... So good." He sounded dazed, almost drunk.
"So do you." Remmick gave Jimmy's ass a good squeeze, all the while working him with unyielding patience. He looked painfully hard, the head almost purple and weeping precum. But he focused on prepping Jimmy. On beholding you. "Hot and tight. Can't wait to fuck you blind, Jimmy, and have our girl ride you while I do it."
The mental picture made you cry out and thrust your hips against Jimmy's mouth. He took it as a sign to lick your clit faster. To slip two of his own fingers deep inside you.
"Fuck!" you cried out, gyrating your hips even more. "Fuck, Jimmy, so good... You're doing so well, baby, I..." You cut yourself off with a moan.
Jimmy detached his lips from your clit, but his fingers kept pistoning inside you. "Ye gonna come, bonnie?"
You gave a quick nod.
"Good girl." Jimmy lowered himself again. "Give it tae me. Give it tae us. Please."
His tongue returned to your clit. Quick. Sloppy. Relentless. Moving almost as quickly as his fingers. It was a wonder his hand didn't cramp up.
"Guys," you gasped, "I'm—I'm gonna—" You shattered, hips bucking wildly against Jimmy's tongue and fingers. Your back arched, your eyes sliding shut in bliss.
When you finally recovered enough, when your broken pieces came together again, you looked up at your sweethearts. Jimmy clutched at your thighs, whimpering and mewling as Remmick finished prepping him. Remmick was thrusting three fingers into Jimmy, drinking in his needy little noises while still gazing at you. "That was beautiful," he whispered.
"D-divine," Jimmy managed to say around a keen. "S-su-sublime." He yelped as Remmick gave a particularly powerful thrust.
Remmick stopped. "Sorry," he sounded legitimately concerned, his free hand petting Jimmy's hip. "Too much?"
"No!" Jimmy shook his head. "No, it's perfect." He looked between you both with eyes feverish with desire. "I'm ready. For ye both. Please."
Remmick hesitated, weighing his judgment against Jimmy's plea, before finally nodding. "Okay, honey." He slowly withdrew his hand, and Jimmy let out another debauched moan. Squirting a generous amount of lube in his palm, Remmick slicked himself up. Then, he sat on his knees.
Grinning at Jimmy, Remmick patted his sturdy thighs. "Come now," he purred, "sit on Daddy's lap."
Jimmy did, but not before giving you a quick kiss. He crawled to Remmick, giving you a truly excellent view of his firm, round ass. Remmick smiled, leaned down, and gave Jimmy a searing kiss of his own. Jimmy responded instantly, cupping Remmick's cheeks as he let the Alpha guide him into a straddling position, facing you.
The kiss broke, Remmick staring into Jimmy's blue eyes with his crimson ones. "Ready, darlin'?"
Jimmy nodded at Remmick over his shoulder. "Are ye?"
Remmick groaned, rubbing his nose against Jimmy's. "I been ready for you two for years."
Jimmy smiled even as his eyes grew dewy. "Me, too."
Then, he sank down. Taking Remmick's cock inch by inch. Both men moaned at the contact, panting and clutching each other with white-knuckled hands.
You rubbed your thighs together, desperate for friction, as you waited for your turn.
Eventually, Jimmy was fully seated in Remmick's lap, his own cock hard and leaking against his stomach. It was smaller than Remmick's, though not by much, but thicker. You were tempted to touch it, but you didn't want to smother Jimmy. God knows he already looked overwhelmed, breathing in short bursts and twitching and squeezing his eyes shut. If you hadn't heard him whimper, "Feels so good..." you might've worried.
Even so, you stroked Jimmy's abdomen. Traced a few of the scars there. Let your soft touch ground him. Smiled when you saw some of the tension bleed out of him. And, when you saw that Remmick was gripping Jimmy's hips, taking care not to incise the skin with his claws, you covered one of Remmick's hands with yours. Remmick interlaced your fingers.
You waited until they'd caught their breath before asking, in a tone that was both saucy and soft, "Room for one more?"
"For you?" Remmick replied. "Always. Ain't that right, Jimmy?"
Jimmy grinned, looking at you with half-lidded devotion. "Yes. Ye. Only ye."
He offered you his hands. You took them. Let him hoist you up. Your thighs flanked his hips, your shins brushing against Remmick's. You smiled at your Alpha lover, leaning in to meet him over Jimmy's shoulder. Remmick kissed you like he hadn't seen you in years. Jimmy showed no jealousy, no pettiness. Just held you close, helping you stay balanced on his lap as you gave Remmick some attention.
To thank Jimmy, to show your appreciation, you kissed him in return. Jimmy moaned at the taste of you and Remmick, a combination of flavors he couldn't hope to go without ever again.
Your hands found Jimmy's shoulders. Then, maintaining eye contact, you sank down on his cock.
Jimmy's head lolled back, landing on Remmick's shoulder. A broken moan spilled from his throat. Remmick combed his hand through Jimmy's hair, whispering soothing words you couldn't catch.
Those ruby eyes met yours. You can do this, they said. I know you can.
For a split second, you weren't so sure. Jimmy was even thicker than he'd looked. It stung for the briefest of moments, your body adjusting to the sudden intrusion. But you were aroused, Jimmy had done an excellent job on you, and Remmick's gaze gave you the strength you needed. Before Jimmy was fully sheathed inside you, the pain had turned to pressure. Which, in turned, bloomed into pleasure.
You cupped Jimmy's cheek. He chased your touch, raising his head once more. He looked just about ready to pass out.
"Are you okay?" you whispered.
Jimmy nodded, looking as blissed out as you felt.
"'Course he is," Remmick kissed Jimmy's cheek, making it go bright red. "He's our strong, perfect boy."
You giggled. "Yeah, he is." You leaned in, skimming Jimmy's lips with yours. "Really, though. If you need a second—"
"N-no, I'm all right." Jimmy pressed his forehead to yours. "What about ye, hen? How're ye doin'?"
"I'm making love to my darlings, so," you pecked his lips, "yeah, I'd say I'm doing pretty fucking well."
Jimmy chuckled as he adjusted his grip, sliding his hands down your sides to cradle your hips.
You, in turn, coiled your arms around his neck. "Don't let me fall," you half-joked. After all, you were on Jimmy's lap, and Jimmy himself was doing a reverse cowboy on Remmick. Not exactly a stable structure.
Jimmy gave your hips a comforting squeeze. "Ain't never lettin' ye go," he swore.
"Neither o' us are," Remmick promised. Then, as if to prove it, he reached around Jimmy to placed a clawed hand on your back. Helping you find your balance.
Then, together, you began to move. Instinctively. Innately.
Your blood sang in your veins, your heart pounding like a rabbit's on cocaine. The drag and pull of Jimmy's cock inside you, the fullness, the echoes of every one of Remmick's thrusts... it almost felt like a feedback loop. Like you couldn't tell whose pleasure was whose.
But really, you knew: It belonged to all three of you.
You moved in a dance all of your own. Like you wanted to crawl under each other's skin and live there forever, nestled against your bones. The clearing filled with your symphony: Skin slapping against skin, the wet glide of your kisses, and your noises. Whimpers. Moans. Whispered words of praise and endearment. You were so drunk on both of them, it was hard to imagine a point in your life when you'd never even met them. Nor did you especially want to.
Maybe that was what love was, at the end of the day.
The thought made you hold Jimmy closer. Reach behind him to give Remmick whatever affection you could. Breathe them both in. Let the pleasure grow until it felt like you were inside it rather than vice versa.
Until it was about to consume you.
You buried your face in Jimmy's neck, reaching out behind him to grasp Remmick's shoulder. "I'm gonna come, darlings," you moaned. "But don't stop, please don't stop."
Jimmy's eyes widened. He nodded, kissing you fiercely, as Remmick quickened his pace. Moved harder, faster, every nerve spitting sparks.
You moaned into Jimmy's mouth, cradling the back of his head while your other hand reached behind him and found Remmick's cheek.
Jimmy's hand slid down to just above where your bodies were connected. His fingers found your throbbing clit, rubbing it with frantic revelry.
You cried out, bucking against him. Chasing your peak, that sweet oblivion.
"Let go, me love," Jimmy urged against your lips. "We've got ye, sweet pea. Please. Come for us."
Your second orgasm crashed around you like a wave, hot and sweet and roaring. Your entire body went rigid, a raw noise bursting from your throat and spilling into the night air.
Feeling your climax triggered Jimmy's own. With a broken cry, he pulled you to him in a crushing hug as he pumped you full of his seed. His orgasm went on and on, waves rolling over him until both you and him nearly fell off Remmick's lap.
Remmick wasn't one to let go easily, though. And he wasn't done, either. One arm remained coiled around you both, keeping you in place. The other curled around Jimmy as Remmick kept thrusting. Frantic. Uneven. Driven by the need for both of you.
Jimmy began to whimper. Wince.
Remmick stopped at once. "Shit," he embraced Jimmy from behind, nuzzling his neck. Kissed the delicate shell of his ear. "Sorry, darlin'. I didn't mean to hurt ya."
Jimmy shook his head, his hand finding Remmick's and giving it a squeeze. "I-it's fine."
"You sure?" You cupped Jimmy's face. "Do you need to stop?"
"N-no," Jimmy promised, leaning into your touch. "I'm fine. I-I can do it."
Remmick nibbled the inside of his cheek. "I don't know..."
"Please." Jimmy looked beseechingly at you, and then at Remmick. "Please, me loves. Got another one in me. I wanna keep goin' if ye two are still willin'."
You pursed your lips, weighing his words and studying his expression. Nothing but certainty looked back at you. Satisfied, you assessed your own body. It was still sensitive from its own orgasm, but not overstimulated. It could take some more.
Finally, you nodded. "Okay. I'm good to go."
Jimmy sighed happily, pulling you closer.
You looked at Remmick over Jimmy's shoulder. "What do you say, babe?"
Remmick nodded. "Okay. But the second either of ya need to stop, you tell me."
With a frustrated groan, Jimmy jerked back against Remmick.
Remmick gave Jimmy a careful slap on the ass. "Brat." But the word was said too affectionately to truly be a reprimand.
He drew out, almost exiting Jimmy entirely... before thrusting back in.
Jimmy moaned, clutching you close. You returned his embrace, meeting Remmick's eyes as he fucked into Jimmy like a man possessed. The sight of you only seemed to rile him up more. He thrust harder, deeper, than before.
You could feel echoes of it through your connection to Jimmy, and it felt wild. Feral. Gorgeous.
Jimmy moaned like a zombie in an old movie, loud and mindless and utterly desperate. He kissed every inch of skin he could reach, both on you and on Remmick. Gorging himself on both your tastes, no better than a man at a banquet. When Remmick caught Jimmy's lips in an all-consuming kiss, all tongue and teeth, you could feel how much Jimmy enjoyed it. Could feel him hardening inside you again.
His arousal calling to your own, you thrust against Jimmy. Alternated between kissing and nibbling on his neck. Tightened your muscles against his shaft. And, remembering your earlier ministrations, you gave his nipples a light pinch.
Jimmy pulled away from Remmick's lips with a cry. "I'm so close!" he wailed.
You grinned, playing with a lock of his hair. "Yeah? Gonna come again, baby?"
Jimmy nodded, nearly sobbing.
"Me too, sweet pea," Remmick leaned over Jimmy's shoulder, kissing you fully. "Let's do it. Together. Yeah?"
"Together," Jimmy agreed, his voice cracking. With white-knuckled hands, he kept holding you and pawing at Remmick. "Please, please, please, I—"
Without thinking, you bit Jimmy's neck. Just hard enough to dent the skin.
Jimmy screamed, actually screamed, as his orgasm took him. He shuddered between you two as you felt him fill you up a second time, his seed spilling down the inside of your thighs and dripping onto the ground.
It was enough to give you one last climax. Brief but brilliant, like a firecracker.
Remmick moaned at the sight of Jimmy filling you. Of you biting Jimmy. "My beauties," he gasped, thrusting hard. "Love ya both—so—goddamn—much—" He came with a broken moan, burying his face into Jimmy's neck as he emptied himself inside him.
The three of you collapsed on the blanket together, breathing hard and trembling from the intensity.
Five whole minutes later, you were still breathless. Still shaking. But you noticed that Jimmy was clutching you both like he was scared to let go. Instantly, you pulled him in your arms. Remmick, in turn, pulled you in his arms. Curling his body around yours and Jimmy's, protective and loving. You three were entangled, no better than the blackberry brambles around you.
Jimmy made a small noise that you felt more than heard. Something between a moan, a whimper, and a sob. The sound one makes when they're utterly overwhelmed with something wonderful.
You kissed the crown of his head. "You're all right," you whispered.
"Yeah," Remmick caressed Jimmy's back. "We're right here, lovey."
Jimmy slowly raised his head. Looked at you both with a mixture of disbelief, hope, and the same emotion you were nursing in your chest. He kissed Remmick first before moving onto you. Gentle. Unhurried.
"Love ye," he whispered. "Both o' ye. Wit' all me heart. I..." he gave a weak, frayed chuckle. "Kinda lost it for a while. Me heart, I mean. But now I found it." He sniffed. "And it's yers. All of it."
You tightened your hold on Jimmy. "We love you too," you whispered.
"Always," Remmick confirmed. He looked at you, eyes like liquid rubies.
You guided him into a sweet kiss of your own. When you parted, Remmick nuzzled you like a cat. His whiskered cheeks rasped delightfully against your smooth ones. That simple yet sweet sensation, combined with Jimmy's face nestling against your throat, brought you close to tears.
The three of you fell asleep like that. Under the stars, locked in a three-way embrace. Safe. Content. Together.
Summary: After losing all seven of his Fingers and nearly dying himself, Jimmy has never felt so lost. So stranded. So devoid of purpose. He prays to his father for a sign. Instead, he is met with a vision: You, an uninfected woman, making love to a red-eyed Alpha. One who speaks, touches you with care, and ensures you enjoy it just as much as him.
The sight overwhelms Jimmy. Fills him with fantasies and desires he never thought possible.
He returns to that spot, eager to see your lovemaking again. Eager to be part of it, if only by watching.
Neither you nor your Alpha lover, Remmick, wants to harm him. No. You want to keep him.
"I believe that the infection can be treated."
Three months since Dr. Ian Kelson, who'd long ago become 'Da' to you, had spoken those words, yet they still clanged within your skull like rusted church bells. He may as well have said that fish can fly, or that hemlock was a great seasoning. It would've been just as preposterous.
When the virus struck, you'd spent the first three days of the new world's existence cowering in a broom closet with your parents' lifeblood drying on your clothes. If Ian hadn't found you... you'd have been there still, nothing but bones and dusty clothes. He'd taken you in. Loved and nurtured you. Taught you everything he knew. Been there for you. Yours wasn't just gratitude, but genuine love for the man.
That was why, for the first week or so after he'd made his declaration, you'd tried time and time again to talk him out of it. Told him that it wasn't possible. That even if the rest of the world had found a cure, they'd written off the British Isles as lost, all those living there as not worth saving now that the virus had been cleansed everywhere else. And leaving wasn't possible, either. Not with powerful eyes watching the islands, ready to bomb any vessel they saw to Kingdom Come.
"And even if you did find a cure, somehow," you'd carried on, "whatever meds you have are finite. You'd never be able to cure every single infected here."
Ian had given you a sad smile, his chlorine-blue eyes crinkling with affection. "I know, dear," he'd said, "but if I can cure even a small handful of people, then that'd make all the difference."
You'd groaned. Begged. Insisted that it was a pipe dream. But in the end, when he'd gone hunting for an infected to bring back home, you'd seized your weapons and shadowed him.
As the morning mists curled around the hills, the sun a silver coin just beyond the tree line, the two of you had set a trap. Laid out the boar organs you'd been intending to grill and stew. Made sure the line was nice and taut. Then, you hid in the blackberry bushes, which were just starting to bear fruit.
That last part was your idea. Waiting for a trap to spring could take a while. At least this way, you'd have something to eat. You weren't a fussy eater by any means—hard to be, when you grew up hunting in the woods and scavenging in long-abandoned supermarkets—but blackberries were easily your favorite.
You and Ian munched on a few berries, the juice staining your lips until you probably looked a little like infected yourselves, when something came into view. Sniffing. Tilting its head.
You were holding a rock. Ready to throw it at an animal and scare it away from the trap. But as the thing stepped out of the shadows, the stone slipped from your fingers.
It was an infected. Male. Dressed in a filthy white wife-beater and black trousers, the shoes soggy and full of holes. Its pale skin was marred with dried gore, its dark hair hanging in stiff clumps, and its eyes were rubies. Its fingernails had grown so long, they were practically claws. That old movie, Nosferatu, sailed before your mind's eye. Its teeth, too, were those of a predator. Sharp. Jagged.
It wasn't the biggest infected you'd ever seen. Not by a long shot. It was only a little taller than you, its build strong but slender. But somehow, the way it carried itself was unmistakable.
It was an Alpha.
Anxiety gnawed at you with broken fangs. Presently, Alphas were the crème de la crème of the Rage Virus. Stronger, faster, smarter, and more tenacious than other infected. If an Alpha was ever in a herd of infected, you could bet whatever you liked that they'd be the unquestioned leader.
Honestly, you'd have preferred a weak, pathetic specimen. At least, when Ian's optimistic endeavor failed, the creature would be easy to kill. An Alpha in the Bone Temple? In your home? The thought was too horrifying to consider.
Even so... You couldn't deny that this was a good-looking specimen. Handsome, yes. But beyond that... there was something almost pensive in the way it carried itself. Like a musician trying out a tune in their head.
Who had this Alpha been before being bitten? What had it been like? You knew that whoever he'd been was lost now, with only a rabid carcass to prove he'd existed at all. But as you watched the Alpha inch closer, tilting its head like a curious bird, you felt the faintest stirrings of pity for it. Maybe even compassion.
Ian had rubbed off on you even more than you'd thought.
The Alpha neared the organs, each one glistening in the anemic sunlight like a wet jewel. It began to drool at the smell; thick, viscous tendrils hanging from its lips. Its fingers twitched with anticipation.
It took another step.
The wrong step.
With a snap and a whir, the line went taut and the Alpha was reeled into the air. Its ankle was bound with steel wire, already cutting into the pallid flesh, and its body flailed like a fish out of water. It began to scream and howl in outrage, sending several flocks of frightened birds careening into the sky.
Gone was the pensive gentleness. Gone were the contemplations of who'd lived in this body before. Only the virus remained. Only the madness. Only the Alpha.
You looked to Ian one last time. "This is never going to work."
Ian gave your hand a gentle squeeze. "I think it will," he told you. "But even if you're right, dear, even if it's hopeless..." he gave you a beseeching look, "... how will we know if we don't try?"
You looked at him for a long time, seeing the kindness and sweetness that the world hadn't beaten out of him—though not for lack of trying. The same kindness that'd compelled him to build the Bone Temple, take you in, and knock out the infected rather than kill them.
You emptied your lungs of air. "Let's get this over with."
Ian smiled at you. "That's my girl."
The two of you approached the screaming Alpha. Upon seeing you, its furious howls grew louder and somehow even angrier. It tried to force its body towards either you. Reaching out, ready to tear you limb from limb.
Promptly, you hit its head with the butt of your spear. In one, precise blow, the Alpha was knocked out. Hanging there like a side of veal.
Ian cracked his knuckles. "All right," he murmured, "let's work, pray, and work some more."
You grunted. "And get a big dose of morphine ready. Just in case."
***
Ian injected the Alpha with his homemade cure, hope twinkling in his eyes. You were just happy that he'd agreed to chaining the creature's wrists and ankles while it was still unconscious. You kept your spear ready, just in case, the blade sharp and keep and ready for service.
Sitting far enough away to be safe, yet close enough to protect your adopted father, you watched. Waited. Simultaneously dreaded and looked forward to the Alpha waking up and proving you right.
It wasn't that you didn't want it to work. Of course you did. You'd have been over the moon if Ian could cure even one person of the virus. But this world loved to kill hope. Some days, it seemed too much to hope for a stag plump enough to feed you both for a fortnight. Hoping for something as monumental as a cure felt like asking for disillusionment.
The Alpha's eyes snapped open, its pupils blood-red. But instead of lunging for either of you, or fighting against its restraints like you expected, it simply growled. A warning. Nothing more, nothing less. It assessed its environment with something within shouting distance of intelligence, its body stiff with tension.
Ian held his hands up for the creature to see. "Easy," he spoke softly, as though to a spooked animal. "My name is Ian. And this," he nodded in your direction, "is (y/n). My adopted daughter. We don't want to hurt you. We only want to help."
You hummed. A noncommittal reply. It was the best you could do.
The Alpha hissed, but still made no move to attack.
For a long, tense moment, none of you moved.
Then, slowly, the Alpha shifted. Raised its hands.
For a second, you thought it wanted to attack. You tightened your grip on your spear.
Then, you realized what it was doing—and your jaw dropped.
The creature had raised its clawed hands. Imitating Ian.
Ian laughed. You could only stare.
***
At first, the creature remained chained to the bed in the supply chamber. You and Ian took turns feeding it, injecting it with the cure, cleaning it, and simply sitting with it. Keeping it company. It never bit either of you. Never showed any aggression. If anything, it became more docile by the day.
But by the end of the fifth day, it was anxiously tugging at its restraints, looking at the grate leading to the outside.
You could almost see its thoughts. It wanted to run. To hunt. To breathe fresh air, as it had for who knows how long before it wandered into your trap.
Ian didn't notice the creature's restlessness. He was too busy taking notes and ensuring the cure's ingredients were stocked.
But you noticed. And, despite a part of your brain screaming at you to not be stupid, to keep the danger to a minimum, you found yourself undoing the straps.
The Alpha massaged its wrists, staring at you without an ounce of hostility. You half-expected it to thank you. If it had, you would've fainted.
Slowly, almost timidly, it got to its feet. Approached you slowly. Your spear was close enough to grab, but you made no move to seize it. You simply let the Alpha get close to you, meeting its gaze. Sensing not anger or madness from it, but simple curiosity.
It was clean now, donned in some of Ian's old clothes. You'd even used some of your shampoo on its hair, its dark waves now glossy in the poor lighting.
That, combined with the almost gentle way it was looking at you, made the Alpha look human.
The creature reached for you. Slowly. Hesitantly. Its long-clawed hand traced your cheek as though it were made of delicate lace. The edge of your mouth quirked up, and the Alpha mirrored you. Was it just mimicry? Or did it feel as you did?
You swallowed. Letting yourself hope, if only for a moment. "What's your name?"
The Alpha's lips moved, but no sound came out.
"My name is (y/n)," you told it in a gentle voice. "Can you say that?"
The Alpha kept looking at you like you were the moon peeking out of a storm cloud. It touched your cheek again. You found yourself leaning into it. "Would you like to go outside?" You pointed to the exit.
The Alpha's gaze lit up, no better than a child being offered candy. You smiled. Widely, genuinely, for the first time. You nodded, moving slowly for the exit. "Come."
It did.
You watched the Alpha for the rest of the day, smiling to yourself. You watched it bask in the sunlight as though it hadn't had the chance in years. Watched it splash around in the river. Watched it sniff a flower, try to eat it, and then spit it out in angered revulsion, floored that something that smells so sweet could taste so vile. The display made you laugh. The Alpha turned towards your laughter... and smiled at you. The sight did strange things to your heartbeat.
***
From that night onward, it didn't sleep with any restraints. And, one day at a time, you and Ian began to interact with it more. You assigned it with simple tasks, like fetching firewood or guarding the Bone Temple.
But in between chores, you began to teach the Alpha what it meant to live as a human. Ian played music, fully encouraging the two of you to dance along with it. You taught the Alpha how to play checkers and poker, often letting it win. With the patience of a saint, Ian reintroduced the Alpha to words, holding up the items so that it could make the connection. You talked to the Alpha about this and that, letting it grow used to conversation.
One day, it left. You held back tears. Convinced that it'd abandoned you both.
It came back at nightfall with a stag, carrying it on its shoulders without breaking a sweat. Reverently, the Alpha lay the dead beast at your feet. Looking at you from beneath its eyelashes. Is this good? that gaze screamed. Did I do good for you?
Two things happened that night: The three of you ate well, and you started calling the Alpha 'him'. Both in your mind and with your voice.
***
One day, three months after you and Ian first dragged the Alpha's body to the Bone Temple, you heard his voice for the first time.
You were reading to the Alpha—a daily ritual for you, today's selection was Paradise Lost—when he said something.
A single word.
Your name.
You froze, the old tome nearly falling from your hands.
"Could..." you swallowed hard, "... could you... repeat that, please?"
From his place at your feet, the Alpha smiled at you. He did that a lot. "(Y/n)." He said the word with all the gravitas of a priest quoting Scripture.
You chortled. Just a little at first, then more. Loudly. Happily. Almost overwhelmed by the joy flooding your mind and heart. Putting the book down, you nodded as you abandoned your chair. Moved to kneel on the ground beside him, your hands finding his shoulders. "Yes!" you exclaimed. "Yes, that's right!" Your hand found his cheek, and he leaned into it with a sigh. "You did it! You..." You laughed again, though it was tinged with sadness this time. "But I still don't know your name."
The Alpha looked back at you, saw your distress, and took a few rapid blinks. Straightened. Visibly racked his brains to remember.
"It's okay," you said quickly, wanting to shield him from that potential disappointment. "It's all right, you don't have to—"
"R... Remmick."
Your jaw dropped. For a moment, it was stuck like that. Then, carefully, you echoed him. "Remmick?"
The Alpha brightened. Nodded eagerly.
You giggled even as a couple of hot tears ran down your face. "Okay. Remmick." You exhaled, feeling like you'd just been given a priceless gift. "Nice to meet you, Remmick."
After a moment's hesitation, Remmick reached up and covered your hands. Keeping them on his shoulders.
***
Ian was ecstatic. Even more so when, in the following weeks, more and more words bloomed on Remmick's lips like flowers. Warm. Cold. Hungry. Okay. Then, as summer made way for autumn, he began to speak in short but clear sentences. Full moon tonight. Infected nearby. Need more water. I go hunt. And, your personal favorite: One more story?
You briefly freaked out when Ian disclosed, out of Remmick's earshot, that he was going to begin weaning the Alpha off the cure. "He's been taking it for a season now," he explained. "I think that it's well and truly in his system. Giving him more might just be a waste of limited resources."
"Yes," you hissed, your eyes darting anxiously back to Remmick, "or it might keep him human! Son of a bitch, Da, what if he regresses? What if he attacks us? I don't—!" You cut yourself off, but Ian heard the rest anyway. I don't want to lose him.
Ian covered your hand with his. "Let's just see what happens, hmm?"
You worried your bottom lip. And that night, when the time for Remmick's daily dose came and went, you sweated bullets. Watched him closely. Waited for any relapse. Any regression. You were so anxious, you couldn't even eat dinner.
That night, Remmick tapped on the curtain that separated your portion of the shelter from Ian's. And when you let him in, he approached you. His eyes were still red, but clear. His body language, gentle. That alone helped you relax, if only a little.
"Are you okay?" you asked, sitting up in your cot. "Are you still hungry, or...?"
Remmick shook his head. Suddenly looking as timid as a child, he nudged the cot's corner with his foot. "Can I...?" He gave his lips a nervous lick. "With you?"
Your shock must've shown on your face, for Remmick added. "Wanna... be near... you." The longest sentence he'd said so far, each word raw and bloody. His face, ashen with longing and vulnerability.
That was when you knew, beyond any doubt, that Remmick wouldn't hurt you.
You didn't know if the cure's effects would wear off. But whatever tomorrow brought, you knew that for tonight, all he wanted was closeness.
Your heart somersaulting in your rib-cage, you slowly nodded. Remmick smiled. Sweetly, almost childlike. You threw back the blankets and scooted back in the cot, making as much room for him as you could. He crawled in, eyes like embers, and wasted no time taking you in his arms.
You gasped at the sudden contact before slowly relaxing, pulling the afghans to cover you both. Then, once you were both tucked in, you rested your head against his chest. Listened to the steady drumbeat of his strong heart.
His hand found your hair. Stroking it gently.
You two lay there for what simultaneously felt like seconds and hours. Time softened all around you, the world narrowing to this small chamber, the bed, the candle burning on your nightstand, and your intertwining bodies.
"Goodnight, Remmick," you whispered, your eyelids growing heavy. "I wish you good dreams."
"Goodnight, (y/n)," he murmured in reply. Then, you felt him shift against you.
Felt his lips press against the crown of your head.
You never slept better than you did that night.
***
As autumn froze into winter, and Remmick's doses withered away to nothing, he continued to mesmerize you.
On one hand, he never became fully human. His eyes stayed red. His freakish strength remained. And when he was bitten by a couple of other infected—who didn't live long enough to regret their poor decision—the bite marks healed, and that was the end of that.
On the other, Remmick's mind continued to emerge from its virus-induced fog. His sentences grew longer still, his memory coming back in fragments. He began to read to you, just as you'd done for him, his hand never far from yours. He and Ian began to discuss matters over dinner, while you mostly sat back and watched with a mixture of admiration and affection. They discussed politics in the Before times. History. Philosophy. Even cooking shows and music.
Remmick revealed that he'd once played the banjo. That he'd loved it more than air.
Not long after, while scavenging in one of the many desolate towns, you found a relatively intact music store. It didn't take you long to find what you were looking for.
Remmick stared at the banjo for a long time, his eyes and mouth forming three perfect O's. Hesitantly, almost fearfully, he strummed the strings. Notes sweetened the air like perfume.
"Do you like it?" you asked, caught between giddiness and anxiety.
Remmick set the banjo against one of the many pillars of femurs and humerus bones. Then, he turned around, cupped your face, and pulled you into a kiss.
It was gentle, almost chaste. No tongue. No teeth knocking together. You two barely even tilted your heads.
You didn't rush, either. Neither of you did. Just slowly fell into the sensation together, like stones sliding into warm water.
Your eyes slid shut. His clawed hands, capable of rending flesh like tissue paper, cradled your cheeks with the utmost tenderness. After a moment, you wrapped your arms around his neck.
When you parted, if only a little, you felt as though someone had stuffed your head with wool fluff. Remmick's cheeks were dusted pink, his ears the color of Pepto Bismol, and his pupils were the size of bullet holes. You'd never seen anyone smile so widely, and it was beautiful—sharp teeth and all.
"Wow." The word, more sighed than said, warmed your own, crimsoned cheeks.
You giggled. "I know."
Remmick suddenly seemed to realize something. "I'm sorry I didn't ask first. I was just so happy, and..." he gave a helpless shrug.
You arched a brow. "Do I look upset to you?"
"... No?" Remmick ventured.
You laughed. "How about you kiss me again? Just to be sure you didn't cross any lines?"
Remmick chortled, his unease melting away like spring snow, and he leaned in for another kiss. This time, he coiled his arms around your waist and picked you up as though you were weightless. You cackled against his lips, tightening your grip around his neck, before kissing him back with fervor.
It was one of the happiest moments of your life, bar none. And somehow, you knew that it wouldn't be the last. Not for you, and not for Remmick.
***
Neither of you two said it out loud, but ever since the kiss, you became a couple.
You held hands all the time. You went hunting and foraging together. You shared a bed, often cuddling before sleep claimed you both. You kissed and touched each other over your clothes. You read together, often for hours, sitting shoulder to shoulder with mugs of home-brewed tea and snacks within arm's reach. You talked about everything and nothing. You told each other things you'd never told anyone else. You gave each other little gifts, from necklaces made from small animal bones to flowers to unexpected treasures you found in the wreckage of the Before. When either of you was sick or hurt, the other was right there, ready to help in any way possible. And, now that he had a banjo, Remmick played for you almost every night. His fingers moving with almost instinctual grace, he sang songs that you'd never heard before but still felt deep inside your bones.
Nobody told you how to act in the relationship. Not even Ian. He smiled at you two, his eyes lighting up whenever he saw you together, but he never once tried to dictate your behavior. And even the few romance books you found and read didn't leave much of an impact.
It felt better this way. More genuine. More yours. You did things because you both wanted to, not because you were obeying some pre-approved script.
The more time passed, the more you wondered how you'd gone so long without ever feeling this way. Being in love was like living in a country that was different, brighter, softer than your own. Where colors were more vibrant, food had more flavor, and problems weren't as earth-shattering.
You didn't even realize that was what you felt. Not right away.
But one night, as the first flowers began to poke through the snow, you and Remmick sneaked into the woods in pursuit of some time alone. You found a small clearing near the river. Right where you and Ian had hidden all those months ago. The blackberry bushes were nothing but frost and brambles now. But come summer, they'd be alive with fruit, leaves, and hungry birds. It was the perfect spot to lay out the blanket you'd brought.
It was a beautiful night, clear and starry, with the bright moon painting the landscape silver. That, coupled with Remmick's gentle touches and reverent kisses, as well as the song he'd just finished playing for you, fished the words right out of your throat. They stalled in the air, as thick and warm as the breath that'd carried them.
"I love you."
Remmick froze. Slowly drew back to stare at you with eyes the size of dumplings.
Eyes that were quickly watering.
Your heart nearly broke at the sight. "Oh, honey, no," you began to wipe the tears cascading down his pale cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have—"
"I love you, too," Remmick rasped.
You blinked at him, your fingers still wiping his face. "You...?"
Remmick began to nod, clutching at your hands to keep them near his visage. "I do, I really do," he croaked, his eyes locked with yours, desperate to make you understand, "I do, (y/n). I love you. I love you. I..." With a small whimper, he closed the distance between you. Claimed your lips in a deep, slow kiss salted by his tears. And, you soon realized, yours too.
You kissed long. Hard. As though trying to stamp yourselves into each other's DNA. And when you finally parted, you were both panting.
Remmick's eyes, those iridescent rubies you'd grown to adore so much, gazed into yours. His eyelashes were still wet, a few errant tears still gleaming on his cheeks like liquid silver.
In a voice as soft as spidersilk, he whispered, "Kelson may've given me the cure... but you made me human again."
Your heart fit to bursting, you cupped his cheeks and kissed him again. Hoping to pour everything you felt into his mouth and down his throat. Hoping to nourish him with it.
Remmick kissed you back with equal passion, his clawed hands trembling as they held you close. Gently, posed more as a question than a command, he pushed you down.
You let yourself lie on the blanket, tugging Remmick down with you. He covered his body with yours, planting a hand beside your head so as to keep the majority of his weight off you. The two of you continued to kiss, to have a conversation in a language only you knew, until the pesky need for air got in the way.
"Please," you whispered against his kiss-bruised lips, "I want us to make love." Nervously, you added, "I don't think you can infect me. Not when we've been kissing for as long as we have. I..." you traced his face with feather-light fingertips, "... I just want to be with you."
Remmick's face crumpled. "I want the same, love." He leaned in. Not to kiss you, but to nuzzle you like an affectionate housecat. "Lemme make ya feel good?"
You chuckled despite the love and joy threatening to drown you. "How can I turn down an offer like that?"
Remmick grinned, eyes lighting up like distant wildfires. Stealing one last quick kiss, he began to crawl down your body, peppering you with butterfly kisses as he descended. Even through your clothes, you felt his lips and longed for more.
Remmick made it to your trousers. Stopped and looked up at you. You nodded, breathless and eager. Smiling, he undid your buttons and pulled the cloth down your legs. You were happy to shimmy out of them, leaving your lower half completely bare, even as your skin was immediately overtaken by goose-bumps.
Remmick hiked your legs over his shoulders, giving him full access to your entrance. Then, meeting your gaze across the landscape of your body, he grinned. "Ready?"
You grinned right back at him. "Are you?"
Remmick laughed. "Your tongue's quick..." he winked, "but mine's quicker."
Before you could reply, he dove in like a scuba diver from the Before.
The first sweep of his tongue made your knees buckle against his shoulders. By the time you'd caught your breath, he'd already slipped his tongue back inside like it'd always been meant to fit there. His slow, long drags made your whole body lock up. Remmick licked you like he meant it. Like he’d earned it. Like he'd been dreaming of tasting you for weeks, if not months, and had finally gotten his wish.
Remmick worked his jaw, his tongue gliding along your folds, until you were nothing but a trembling, soaking mess.
All thought abandoned you. You were nothing but pure, primal need, desperate for more, more, more. You bucked against Remmick's mouth, combing both hands in his hair to keep him right where he was, and moaned without shame.
Let Ian hear you. Raiders. Infected. You didn't care. You were in Heaven, and Heaven was a long way away from Earth.
Remmick parted just long enough to say, "That's it, baby. Ride my face. Take what you want. I wanna make you feel so good. Better than you've ever felt. Gods," he began to lower himself again, "I love you so much..."
"Y-you, too!" you cried out. "R-Remmick, you feel so good, you're doing so good... God, I love you..."
Remmick groaned. You felt him shifting. Heard his belt buckle clinking.
Then, you felt his arm slide down his own body. Felt ripples of steady movement connecting his body to yours, all the while he kept working you like he'd been born to do it.
You realized it then, through the thickening fog of pleasure: Remmick was touching himself while pleasing you.
The thought was so erotic, it made you cry out. Remmick moaned in reply, muffled by your folds.
The rhythm of his mouth grew sloppier then. Louder. His hand quickened along his length, the slick glide adding to the orchestra of your rapture.
Your toes curled tight. Your clit throbbed against Remmick's greedy lips. You were close, so, so close, legs trembling, stomach tight, ready to reach the zenith of your pleasure.
And just when you were about to come hard enough to see stars—
Remmick pulled away. Suddenly, like a deer hearing a twig snap.
Even as you mourned the loss, you sat up. "Are you okay?"
Remmick didn't answer right away. He scanned the woods just beyond the river. His face looked like it'd been carved from soap.
In that moment, he wasn't your lover. He was an Alpha. A predator.
Gently, you touched his claw.
Remmick blinked. Looked back at you with softening red eyes. "Sorry, darlin'," he mumbled.
"No, it's okay," you promised, "but what happened? Infected?"
Remmick shook his head. "Just thought I heard something, is all." He gave the tree-line one last survey before reverting his gaze to you. "I left my girl unsatisfied." He sounded genuinely ashamed. Closing the distance between you, he rested his forehead against yours. "Forgive me?"
You caressed his cheek, damp with your slick. "There's nothing to forgive."
Remmick exhaled with relief. "Still..." he gave you a cheeky smile, "... we ain't done yet, are we?"
In response, you climbed on his lap, looping your arms around his neck. Instinctively, he cupped your ass. Keeping you right where you both wanted to be. You gave his cock a few strokes, pleased by the precum easing your movements and Remmick's moan.
"May I?" you asked.
Remmick swallowed. Hard. "I think I'll die if you don't." He only sounded like he was half-joking. No, more like one-third.
You tutted. "Well, I can't have that." Guiding the engorged, reddish-purple head to your entrance, you gave him a playful smirk. "You still have to finish reading Anna Karenina to me."
Remmick's laugh turned into a moan as he slipped inside you. He coiled his arms around you, burying his face into your neck and breathing you in with ragged desperation.
"You're so... so warm..." he groaned against your skin. "So soft... Wanna live in you..."
You carded a hand in his hair. Turning your head to kiss whatever you could reach. His temple. His cheek. His earlobe. "You feel good, too," you told him. "So hard, so perfect for me."
You two started moving then, your bodies falling into a rhythm that should've belonged to people who'd been lovers for years and not a couple exploring each other for the first time. Remmick thrust up. You ground down. The two of you kissed as though you were trying to suck the very oxygen out of your lungs. All the while, the pressure climbed. The heat off your bodies made it feel more like summer than winter.
"Remmick," you moaned, "my Remmick—I love you—God—how'd I get so lucky?"
Remmick moaned your name as though it were salvation and damnation both. "That's right, I'm yours—and you're mine—fuck—we both got lucky—never lettin' you go, not unless you tell me to..."
You hid your face in his neck. Not to hide. Just to be closer. And Remmick reciprocated, burying his face in your hair. You both held each other so tightly, you wouldn't have been surprised to find you'd branded each other with your fingerprints. Nor would you have minded.
Soon, you were back where you'd been before Remmick had stopped. Pleasure climbed up your spine like ivy. Found your brain. Prepared to crack open like an egg inside it.
Desperate for more, for that wonderful peak, you slid your hand down your belly.
But Remmick gently batted it away. "I gotcha," he promised with a toothy grin.
Then, his fingers found your clit. Tight, slick circles that matched his thrusts.
You cried out, jolting as though you'd just received an electric shock. You kissed him, hard, and then trailed your lips along his jaw. His neck. His shoulder.
That was when you saw him. Across the river. Hiding behind a tree. Trying to be inconspicuous and doing a rather poor job of it.
Hard to be invisible when you have blond hair painted silver by moonlight. When you're wearing a velvet tracksuit. When you're fumbling with the bulge in your trousers like you hardly know what to do with it.
That was when you understood, even with pleasure addling your brain. Remmick had heard something, and you were looking at it—him—now.
He was a few years older than you, around Remmick's age. Handsome like Remmick, same body type, but with less definition than Remmick. Softer, in every sense of the phrase... except for a certain part of his anatomy, barely hidden by his pants.
You should've been angry. Indignant. You should've sicced Remmick on the interloper.
Instead, you felt even more aroused than before. Flattered that your moment with Remmick was feeding a stranger's pleasure. Excited to see the naked desire on this man's face, to see him barely stop himself from touching his throbbing cock.
Beyond the erotic elements, you were strangely moved by the emotion on the stranger's face. The longing. The loneliness. The hunger for more than just flesh. It was all there, clear as day, and it broke your heart a little.
You had Remmick, and he had you. But who did this blond guy have?
Still moaning, still writhing against Remmick, you nodded at the stranger. Silently gave him permission. His eyes widened, his already flushed cheeks going beet-red. But the moment his shock faded and he realized you'd given him your blessing, he untied the strings of his trousers and pulled himself out. Began to stroke himself furiously, biting his bottom lip to keep quiet.
You saw the relief on his face. The simple joy of partaking, if only from a distance.
"That's it," you murmured to both men, "that's it, you're doing so well, so perfect for me, baby..."
Remmick whimpered, rutting into you harder, as his hands trembled against your flesh. "Oh, fuck!" he cried out. "I—I’m gonna—"
You felt Remmick's cock pulse inside you. Saw the stranger's face contort as his own orgasm took him. Saw the tendrils of cum spurt out of him, painting the half-melted snow at his feet.
That was all it took for your climax to finally strike you like lightning. You clung to Remmick with every part of you, crying out his name.
Remmick followed seconds later, shuddering against you as his own peak tore through him.
The two of you stayed like that for several long, blissful minutes. Holding each other close. Trading kisses that were slow, almost lazy, like sips of fine wine. Letting your heartbeats slow down together.
It was there, with your forehead against Remmick's, that you finally told him. "Someone was watching us."
Remmick drew back a bit. "Huh?"
You nodded. Jerked your chin towards the tree the stranger had been hiding behind. Unsurprisingly, the man himself was nowhere to be seen. "He enjoyed it quite a bit, too."
Remmick growled lowly, his claws twitching along your flesh. "He did, did he?" He flashed his teeth, no doubt already imagining what the man's flesh would feel like between them. "I knew I sensed somebody about."
"I don't think he meant any harm," you told Remmick, brushing some sweat-dampened hair out of those lovely scarlet eyes. "He looked... well, horny, yes. But lonely, too."
Remmick looked at you for a moment, a thoughtful expression settling over his face. All the while, he touched you. Caressed your back. Fiddled with your hair. You let him watch. Let him think.
At last, he spoke. "Well... let's see what happens next time, hmm?"
You arched a brow, smiling faintly. "What?" you asked. "You'd let him join us?"
"Hey," he replied, "stranger things have happened, love." He cupped your cheek, and as you leaned into his touch, he added, "Like an Alpha bein' cured. And finding love with a human."
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Summary: After losing all seven of his Fingers and nearly dying himself, Jimmy has never felt so lost. So stranded. So devoid of purpose. He prays to his father for a sign. Instead, he is met with a vision: You, an uninfected woman, making love to a red-eyed Alpha. One who speaks, touches you with care, and ensures you enjoy it just as much as him.
The sight overwhelms Jimmy. Fills him with fantasies and desires he never thought possible.
He returns to that spot, driven by loneliness and a desire for you both.
Neither you nor your Alpha lover, Remmick, wants to harm him. No. You want to keep him.
Warning: Contains threesome (m/m/f), oral sex (male and female receiving), voyeurism, begging, enthusiastic consent, talking during sex.
"I believe that the infection can be treated."
Three months since Dr. Ian Kelson, who'd long ago become 'Da' to you, had spoken those words, yet they still clanged within your skull like rusted church bells. He may as well have said that fish can fly, or that hemlock was a great seasoning. It would've been just as preposterous.
When the virus struck, you'd spent the first three days of the new world's existence cowering in a broom closet with your parents' lifeblood drying on your clothes. If Ian hadn't found you... you'd have been there still, nothing but bones and dusty clothes. He'd taken you in. Loved and nurtured you. Taught you everything he knew. Been there for you. Yours wasn't just gratitude, but genuine love for the man.
That was why, for the first week or so after he'd made his declaration, you'd tried time and time again to talk him out of it. Told him that it wasn't possible. That even if the rest of the world had found a cure, they'd written off the British Isles as lost, all those living there as not worth saving now that the virus had been cleansed everywhere else. And leaving wasn't possible, either. Not with powerful eyes watching the islands, ready to bomb any vessel they saw to Kingdom Come.
"And even if you did find a cure, somehow," you'd carried on, "whatever meds you have are finite. You'd never be able to cure every single infected here."
Ian had given you a sad smile, his chlorine-blue eyes crinkling with affection. "I know, dear," he'd said, "but if I can cure even a small handful of people, then that'd make all the difference."
You'd groaned. Begged. Insisted that it was a pipe dream. But in the end, when he'd gone hunting for an infected to bring back home, you'd seized your weapons and shadowed him.
As the morning mists curled around the hills, the sun a silver coin just beyond the tree line, the two of you had set a trap. Laid out the boar organs you'd been intending to grill and stew. Made sure the line was nice and taut. Then, you hid in the blackberry bushes, which were just starting to bear fruit.
That last part was your idea. Waiting for a trap to spring could take a while. At least this way, you'd have something to eat. You weren't a fussy eater by any means—hard to be, when you grew up hunting in the woods and scavenging in long-abandoned supermarkets—but blackberries were easily your favorite.
You and Ian munched on a few berries, the juice staining your lips until you probably looked a little like infected yourselves, when something came into view. Sniffing. Tilting its head.
You were holding a rock. Ready to throw it at an animal and scare it away from the trap. But as the thing stepped out of the shadows, the stone slipped from your fingers.
It was an infected. Male. Dressed in a filthy white wife-beater and black trousers, the shoes soggy and full of holes. Its pale skin was marred with dried gore, its dark hair hanging in stiff clumps, and its eyes were rubies. Its fingernails had grown so long, they were practically claws. That old movie, Nosferatu, sailed before your mind's eye. Its teeth, too, were those of a predator. Sharp. Jagged.
It wasn't the biggest infected you'd ever seen. Not by a long shot. It was only a little taller than you, its build strong but slender. But somehow, the way it carried itself was unmistakable.
It was an Alpha.
Anxiety gnawed at you with broken fangs. Presently, Alphas were the crème de la crème of the Rage Virus. Stronger, faster, smarter, and more tenacious than other infected. If an Alpha was ever in a herd of infected, you could bet whatever you liked that they'd be the unquestioned leader.
Honestly, you'd have preferred a weak, pathetic specimen. At least, when Ian's optimistic endeavor failed, the creature would be easy to kill. An Alpha in the Bone Temple? In your home? The thought was too horrifying to consider.
Even so... You couldn't deny that this was a good-looking specimen. Handsome, yes. But beyond that... there was something almost pensive in the way it carried itself. Like a musician trying out a tune in their head.
Who had this Alpha been before being bitten? What had it been like? You knew that whoever he'd been was lost now, with only a rabid carcass to prove he'd existed at all. But as you watched the Alpha inch closer, tilting its head like a curious bird, you felt the faintest stirrings of pity for it. Maybe even compassion.
Ian had rubbed off on you even more than you'd thought.
The Alpha neared the organs, each one glistening in the anemic sunlight like a wet jewel. It began to drool at the smell; thick, viscous tendrils hanging from its lips. Its fingers twitched with anticipation.
It took another step.
The wrong step.
With a snap and a whir, the line went taut and the Alpha was reeled into the air. Its ankle was bound with steel wire, already cutting into the pallid flesh, and its body flailed like a fish out of water. It began to scream and howl in outrage, sending several flocks of frightened birds careening into the sky.
Gone was the pensive gentleness. Gone were the contemplations of who'd lived in this body before. Only the virus remained. Only the madness. Only the Alpha.
You looked to Ian one last time. "This is never going to work."
Ian gave your hand a gentle squeeze. "I think it will," he told you. "But even if you're right, dear, even if it's hopeless..." he gave you a beseeching look, "... how will we know if we don't try?"
You looked at him for a long time, seeing the kindness and sweetness that the world hadn't beaten out of him—though not for lack of trying. The same kindness that'd compelled him to build the Bone Temple, take you in, and knock out the infected rather than kill them.
You emptied your lungs of air. "Let's get this over with."
Ian smiled at you. "That's my girl."
The two of you approached the screaming Alpha. Upon seeing you, its furious howls grew louder and somehow even angrier. It tried to force its body towards either you. Reaching out, ready to tear you limb from limb.
Promptly, you hit its head with the butt of your spear. In one, precise blow, the Alpha was knocked out. Hanging there like a side of veal.
Ian cracked his knuckles. "All right," he murmured, "let's work, pray, and work some more."
You grunted. "And get a big dose of morphine ready. Just in case."
***
Ian injected the Alpha with his homemade cure, hope twinkling in his eyes. You were just happy that he'd agreed to chaining the creature's wrists and ankles while it was still unconscious. You kept your spear ready, just in case, the blade sharp and keep and ready for service.
Sitting far enough away to be safe, yet close enough to protect your adopted father, you watched. Waited. Simultaneously dreaded and looked forward to the Alpha waking up and proving you right.
It wasn't that you didn't want it to work. Of course you did. You'd have been over the moon if Ian could cure even one person of the virus. But this world loved to kill hope. Some days, it seemed too much to hope for a stag plump enough to feed you both for a fortnight. Hoping for something as monumental as a cure felt like asking for disillusionment.
The Alpha's eyes snapped open, its pupils blood-red. But instead of lunging for either of you, or fighting against its restraints like you expected, it simply growled. A warning. Nothing more, nothing less. It assessed its environment with something within shouting distance of intelligence, its body stiff with tension.
Ian held his hands up for the creature to see. "Easy," he spoke softly, as though to a spooked animal. "My name is Ian. And this," he nodded in your direction, "is (y/n). My adopted daughter. We don't want to hurt you. We only want to help."
You hummed. A noncommittal reply. It was the best you could do.
The Alpha hissed, but still made no move to attack.
For a long, tense moment, none of you moved.
Then, slowly, the Alpha shifted. Raised its hands.
For a second, you thought it wanted to attack. You tightened your grip on your spear.
Then, you realized what it was doing—and your jaw dropped.
The creature had raised its clawed hands. Imitating Ian.
Ian laughed. You could only stare.
***
At first, the creature remained chained to the bed in the supply chamber. You and Ian took turns feeding it, injecting it with the cure, cleaning it, and simply sitting with it. Keeping it company. It never bit either of you. Never showed any aggression. If anything, it became more docile by the day.
But by the end of the fifth day, it was anxiously tugging at its restraints, looking at the grate leading to the outside.
You could almost see its thoughts. It wanted to run. To hunt. To breathe fresh air, as it had for who knows how long before it wandered into your trap.
Ian didn't notice the creature's restlessness. He was too busy taking notes and ensuring the cure's ingredients were stocked.
But you noticed. And, despite a part of your brain screaming at you to not be stupid, to keep the danger to a minimum, you found yourself undoing the straps.
The Alpha massaged its wrists, staring at you without an ounce of hostility. You half-expected it to thank you. If it had, you would've fainted.
Slowly, almost timidly, it got to its feet. Approached you slowly. Your spear was close enough to grab, but you made no move to seize it. You simply let the Alpha get close to you, meeting its gaze. Sensing not anger or madness from it, but simple curiosity.
It was clean now, donned in some of Ian's old clothes. You'd even used some of your shampoo on its hair, its dark waves now glossy in the poor lighting.
That, combined with the almost gentle way it was looking at you, made the Alpha look human.
The creature reached for you. Slowly. Hesitantly. Its long-clawed hand traced your cheek as though it were made of delicate lace. The edge of your mouth quirked up, and the Alpha mirrored you. Was it just mimicry? Or did it feel as you did?
You swallowed. Letting yourself hope, if only for a moment. "What's your name?"
The Alpha's lips moved, but no sound came out.
"My name is (y/n)," you told it in a gentle voice. "Can you say that?"
The Alpha kept looking at you like you were the moon peeking out of a storm cloud. It touched your cheek again. You found yourself leaning into it. "Would you like to go outside?" You pointed to the exit.
The Alpha's gaze lit up, no better than a child being offered candy. You smiled. Widely, genuinely, for the first time. You nodded, moving slowly for the exit. "Come."
It did.
You watched the Alpha for the rest of the day, smiling to yourself. You watched it bask in the sunlight as though it hadn't had the chance in years. Watched it roll around in the wild grasses like a bear cub. Watched it splash around in the river. Watched it sniff a flower, try to eat it, and then spit it out in angered revulsion, floored that something that smells so sweet could taste so vile. The display made you laugh. The Alpha turned towards your laughter... and smiled at you. The sight did strange things to your heartbeat.
***
Nights passed, and the Alpha slept without restraints. At dawn, it'd be given simple tasks, like fetch firewood or guard the Bone Temple.
But between chores, you and Ian began to teach the Alpha what it meant to live as a human. Ian played music, fully encouraging the two of you to dance to it. You taught the Alpha how to play checkers and poker, often letting it win. With the patience of a saint, Ian reintroduced the Alpha to words, holding up the items so that it could make the connection. He even went through the trouble of re-educating the Alpha on table manners. You talked to the Alpha about this and that as you went about your duties, letting it grow used to conversation. You weren't sure how much it really understood, but it always watched you with sweet attentiveness.
That was why, when you woke one day to find it gone, you had to fight to keep your tears at bay. No doubt, the Alpha had abandoned you both. You spent the rest of the day trying to forget its innocent, crimson gaze. Its gentle touch. Its mute curiosity.
It came back at nightfall with a stag, carrying it on its shoulders without breaking a sweat. Reverently, the Alpha lay the dead beast at your feet. It looked at you from beneath its long, dark eyelashes. Is this good? that gaze screamed. Did I do good for you?
Two things happened that night: The three of you ate well, and you started calling the Alpha 'him'. Both in your mind and with your voice.
***
One day, three months after you and Ian first dragged the Alpha's body to the Bone Temple, you heard his voice for the first time.
You were reading to the Alpha—a daily ritual for you, today's selection was Paradise Lost—when he said something.
A single word.
Your name.
You froze, the old tome nearly falling from your hands.
"Could..." you swallowed hard, "... could you... repeat that, please?"
From his place at your feet, the Alpha smiled at you. He did that a lot. "(Y/n)." He said the word with all the gravitas of a priest quoting Scripture.
You chortled. Just a little at first, then more. Loudly. Happily. Almost overwhelmed by the joy flooding your mind and heart. Putting the book down, you nodded as you abandoned your chair. Moved to kneel on the ground before him, your hands finding his shoulders. "Yes!" you exclaimed. "Yes, that's right!" Your hand found his cheek, and he leaned into it with a sigh. "You did it! You..." You laughed again, though it was tinged with sadness this time. "But I still don't know your name."
The Alpha looked back at you, saw your distress, and took a few rapid blinks. Straightened. Visibly racked his brains to remember.
"It's okay," you said quickly, wanting to shield him from that potential disappointment. "It's all right, you don't have to—"
"R... Remmick."
Your jaw dropped. For a moment, it was stuck like that. Then, carefully, you echoed him. "Remmick?"
The Alpha brightened. Nodded eagerly.
You giggled even as a couple of hot tears ran down your face. "Okay. Remmick." You exhaled, feeling like you'd just been given a priceless gift. "Nice to meet you, Remmick."
After a moment's hesitation, Remmick reached up and covered your hands. Keeping them on his shoulders.
***
Ian was ecstatic. Even more so when, in the following weeks, more and more words bloomed on Remmick's lips like flowers. Warm. Cold. Hungry. Okay. Then, as summer made way for autumn, he began to speak in short but clear sentences. Full moon tonight. Infected nearby. Need more water. I go hunt. And, your personal favorite: One more story?
You briefly freaked out when Ian disclosed, out of Remmick's earshot, that he was going to begin weaning the Alpha off the cure. "He's been taking it for a season now," he explained. "I think that it's well and truly in his system. Giving him more might just be a waste of limited resources."
"Yes," you hissed, your eyes darting anxiously back to Remmick, "or it might keep him human! Son of a bitch, Da, what if he regresses? What if he attacks us? I don't—!" You cut yourself off, but Ian heard the rest anyway. I don't want to lose him.
Ian covered your hand with his. "Let's just see what happens, hmm?"
You worried your bottom lip. And that night, when the time for Remmick's daily dose came and went, you sweated bullets. Watched him closely. Waited for any relapse. Any regression. You were so anxious, you couldn't even eat dinner.
That night, Remmick tapped on the curtain that separated your portion of the shelter from Ian's. And when you let him in, he approached you. His eyes were still red, but clear. His body language, gentle. That alone helped you relax, if only a little.
"Are you okay?" you asked, sitting up in your cot. "Are you still hungry, or...?"
Remmick shook his head. Suddenly looking as timid as a child, he nudged the cot's corner with his foot. "Can I...?" He gave his lips a nervous lick. "With you?"
Your shock must've shown on your face, for Remmick added. "Wanna... be near... you." The longest sentence he'd said so far, each word raw and bloody. His face, ashen with longing and vulnerability.
That was when you knew, beyond any doubt, that Remmick wouldn't hurt you.
You didn't know if the cure's effects would wear off. But whatever tomorrow brought, you knew that for tonight, all he wanted was closeness.
Your heart somersaulting in your rib-cage, you slowly nodded. Remmick smiled. Sweetly, almost childlike. You threw back the blankets and scooted back in the cot, making as much room for him as you could. He crawled in, eyes like embers, and wasted no time taking you in his arms.
You gasped at the sudden contact before slowly relaxing, pulling the afghans to cover you both. Then, once you were both tucked in, you rested your head against his chest. Listened to the steady drumbeat of his strong heart.
His hand found your hair. Stroking it gently.
You two lay there for what simultaneously felt like seconds and hours. Time softened all around you, the world narrowing to this small chamber, the bed, the candle burning on your nightstand, and your intertwining bodies.
"Goodnight, Remmick," you whispered, your eyelids growing heavy. "I wish you good dreams."
"Goodnight, (y/n)," he murmured in reply. Then, you felt him shift against you.
Felt his lips press against the crown of your head.
You never slept better than you did that night.
***
As autumn froze into winter, and Remmick's doses withered away to nothing, he continued to mesmerize you.
On one hand, he never became fully human. His eyes stayed red. His freakish strength remained. And when he was bitten by a couple of other infected—who didn't live long enough to regret their poor decision—the bite marks healed, and that was the end of that.
On the other, Remmick's mind continued to emerge from its virus-induced fog. His sentences grew longer still, his memory coming back in fragments. He began to read to you, just as you'd done for him, his hand never far from yours. He and Ian began to discuss matters over dinner, while you mostly sat back and watched with a mixture of admiration and affection. They discussed politics in the Before times. History. Philosophy. Even cooking shows and music.
Remmick revealed that he'd once played the banjo. That he'd loved it more than air.
Not long after, while scavenging in one of the many desolate towns, you found a relatively intact music store. It didn't take you long to find what you were looking for.
Remmick stared at the banjo for a long time, his eyes and mouth forming three perfect O's. Hesitantly, almost fearfully, he strummed the strings. Notes sweetened the air like perfume.
"Do you like it?" you asked, caught between giddiness and anxiety.
Remmick set the banjo against one of the many pillars of femurs and humerus bones. Then, he turned around, cupped your face, and pulled you into a kiss.
It was gentle, almost chaste. No tongue. No teeth knocking together. You two barely even tilted your heads.
You didn't rush, either. Neither of you did. Just slowly fell into the sensation together, like stones sliding into warm water.
Your eyes slid shut. His clawed hands, capable of rending flesh like tissue paper, cradled your cheeks with the utmost tenderness. After a moment, you wrapped your arms around his neck.
When you parted, if only a little, you felt as though someone had stuffed your head with wool fluff. Remmick's cheeks were dusted pink, his ears the color of Pepto Bismol, and his pupils were the size of bullet holes. You'd never seen anyone smile so widely, and it was beautiful—sharp teeth and all.
"Wow." The word, more sighed than said, warmed your own, crimsoned cheeks.
You giggled. "I know."
Remmick suddenly seemed to realize something. "I'm sorry I didn't ask first. I was just so happy, and..." he gave a helpless shrug.
You arched a brow. "Do I look upset to you?"
"... No?" Remmick ventured.
You laughed. "How about you kiss me again? Just to be sure you didn't cross any lines?"
Remmick chortled, his unease melting away like spring snow, and he leaned in for another kiss. This time, he coiled his arms around your waist and picked you up as though you were weightless. You cackled against his lips, tightening your grip around his neck, before kissing him back with fervor.
It was one of the happiest moments of your life, bar none. And somehow, you knew that it wouldn't be the last. Not for you, and not for Remmick.
***
Neither of you two said it out loud, but ever since the kiss, you became a couple.
You held hands all the time. You went hunting and foraging together. You shared a bed, often cuddling before sleep claimed you both. You kissed and touched each other over your clothes. You read together, often for hours, sitting shoulder to shoulder with mugs of home-brewed tea and snacks within arm's reach. You talked about everything and nothing. You told each other things you'd never told anyone else. You gave each other little gifts, from necklaces made from small animal bones to flowers to unexpected treasures you found in the wreckage of the Before. When either of you was sick or hurt, the other was right there, ready to help in any way possible. And, now that he had a banjo, Remmick played for you almost every night. His fingers moving with almost instinctual grace, he sang songs that you'd never heard before but still felt deep inside your bones.
Nobody told you how to act in the relationship. Not even Ian. He smiled at you two, his eyes lighting up whenever he saw you together, but he never once tried to dictate your behavior. And even the few romance books you found and read didn't leave much of an impact.
It felt better this way. More genuine. More yours. You did things because you both wanted to, not because you were obeying some pre-approved script.
The more time passed, the more you wondered how you'd gone so long without ever feeling this way. Being in love was like living in a country that was different, brighter, softer than your own. Where colors were more vibrant, food had more flavor, and problems weren't as earth-shattering.
You didn't even realize that was what you felt. Not right away.
But one night, as the first flowers began to poke through the snow, you and Remmick sneaked into the woods in pursuit of some time alone. You found a small clearing near the river. Right where you and Ian had hidden all those months ago. The blackberry bushes were nothing but frost and brambles now. But come summer, they'd be alive with fruit, leaves, and hungry birds. It was the perfect spot to lay out the blanket you'd brought.
It was a beautiful night, clear and starry, with the bright moon painting the landscape silver. That, coupled with Remmick's gentle touches and reverent kisses, as well as the song he'd just finished playing for you, fished the words right out of your throat. They stalled in the air, as thick and warm as the breath that'd carried them.
"I love you."
Remmick froze. Slowly drew back to stare at you with eyes the size of dumplings.
Eyes that were quickly watering.
Your heart nearly broke at the sight. "Oh, honey, no," you began to wipe the tears cascading down his pale cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have—"
"I love you, too," Remmick rasped.
You blinked at him, your fingers still wiping his face. "You...?"
Remmick began to nod, clutching at your hands to keep them near his visage. "I do, I really do," he croaked, his eyes locked with yours, desperate to make you understand, "I do, (y/n). I love you. I love you. I..." With a small whimper, he closed the distance between you. Claimed your lips in a deep, slow kiss salted by his tears. And, you soon realized, yours too.
You kissed long. Hard. As though trying to stamp yourselves into each other's DNA. And when you finally parted, you were both panting.
Remmick's eyes, those iridescent rubies you'd grown to adore so much, gazed into yours. His eyelashes were still wet, a few errant tears still gleaming on his cheeks like liquid silver.
In a voice as soft as spidersilk, he whispered, "Kelson may've given me the cure... but you made me human again."
Your heart fit to bursting, you cupped his cheeks and kissed him again. Hoping to pour everything you felt into his mouth and down his throat. Hoping to nourish him with it.
Remmick kissed you back with equal passion, his clawed hands trembling as they held you close. Gently, posed more as a question than a command, he pushed you down.
You let yourself lie on the blanket, tugging Remmick down with you. He covered his body with yours, planting a hand beside your head so as to keep the majority of his weight off you. The two of you continued to kiss, to have a conversation in a language only you knew, until the pesky need for air got in the way.
"Please," you whispered against his kiss-bruised lips, "I want us to make love." Nervously, you added, "I don't think you can infect me. Not when we've been kissing for as long as we have. I..." you traced his face with feather-light fingertips, "... I just want to be with you."
Remmick's face crumpled. "I want the same, love." He leaned in. Not to kiss you, but to nuzzle you like an affectionate housecat. "Lemme make ya feel good?"
You chuckled despite the love and joy threatening to drown you. "How can I turn down an offer like that?"
Remmick grinned, eyes lighting up like distant wildfires. Stealing one last quick kiss, he began to crawl down your body, peppering you with butterfly kisses as he descended. Even through your clothes, you felt his lips and longed for more.
Remmick made it to your trousers. Stopped and looked up at you. You nodded, breathless and eager. Smiling, he undid your buttons and pulled the cloth down your legs. You were happy to shimmy out of them, leaving your lower half completely bare, even as your skin was immediately overtaken by goose-bumps.
Remmick hiked your legs over his shoulders, giving him full access to your entrance. Then, meeting your gaze across the landscape of your body, he grinned. "Ready?"
You grinned right back at him. "Are you?"
Remmick laughed. "Your tongue's quick..." he winked, "but mine's quicker."
Before you could reply, he dove in like a scuba diver from the Before.
The first sweep of his tongue made your knees buckle against his shoulders. By the time you'd caught your breath, he'd already slipped his tongue back inside like it'd always been meant to fit there. His slow, long drags made your whole body lock up. Remmick licked you like he meant it. Like he’d earned it. Like he'd been dreaming of tasting you for weeks, if not months, and had finally gotten his wish.
Remmick worked his jaw, his tongue gliding along your folds, until you were nothing but a trembling, soaking mess.
All thought abandoned you. You were nothing but pure, primal need, desperate for more, more, more. You bucked against Remmick's mouth, combing both hands in his hair to keep him right where he was, and moaned without shame.
Let Ian hear you. Raiders. Infected. You didn't care. You were in Heaven, and Heaven was a long way away from Earth.
Remmick parted just long enough to say, "That's it, baby. Ride my face. Take what you want. I wanna make you feel so good. Better than you've ever felt. Gods," he began to lower himself again, "I love you so much..."
"Y-you, too!" you cried out. "R-Remmick, you feel so good, you're doing so good... God, I love you..."
Remmick groaned. You felt him shifting. Heard his belt buckle clinking.
Then, you felt his arm slide down his own body. Felt ripples of steady movement connecting his body to yours, all the while he kept working you like he'd been born to do it.
You realized it then, through the thickening fog of pleasure: Remmick was touching himself while pleasing you.
The thought was so erotic, it made you cry out. Remmick moaned in reply, muffled by your folds.
The rhythm of his mouth grew sloppier then. Louder. His hand quickened along his length, the slick glide adding to the orchestra of your rapture.
Your toes curled tight. Your clit throbbed against Remmick's greedy lips. You were close, so, so close, legs trembling, stomach tight, ready to reach the zenith of your pleasure.
And just when you were about to come hard enough to see stars—
Remmick pulled away. Suddenly, like a deer hearing a twig snap.
Even as you mourned the loss, you sat up. "Are you okay?"
Remmick didn't answer right away. He scanned the woods just beyond the river. His face looked like it'd been carved from soap.
In that moment, he wasn't your lover. He was an Alpha. A predator.
Gently, you touched his claw.
Remmick blinked. Looked back at you with softening red eyes. "Sorry, darlin'," he mumbled.
"No, it's okay," you promised, "but what happened? Infected?"
Remmick shook his head. "Just thought I heard something, is all." He gave the tree-line one last survey before reverting his gaze to you. "I left my girl unsatisfied." He sounded genuinely ashamed. Closing the distance between you, he rested his forehead against yours. "Forgive me?"
You caressed his cheek, damp with your slick. "There's nothing to forgive."
Remmick exhaled with relief. "Still..." he gave you a cheeky smile, "... we ain't done yet, are we?"
In response, you climbed on his lap, looping your arms around his neck. Instinctively, he cupped your ass. Keeping you right where you both wanted to be. You gave his cock a few strokes, pleased by the precum easing your movements and Remmick's moan.
"May I?" you asked.
Remmick swallowed. Hard. "I think I'll die if you don't." He only sounded like he was half-joking. No, more like one-third.
You tutted. "Well, I can't have that." Guiding the engorged, reddish-purple head to your entrance, you gave him a playful smirk. "You still have to finish reading Anna Karenina to me."
Remmick's laugh turned into a moan as he slipped inside you. He coiled his arms around you, burying his face into your neck and breathing you in with ragged desperation.
"You're so... so warm..." he groaned against your skin. "So soft... Wanna live in you..."
You carded a hand in his hair. Turning your head to kiss whatever you could reach. His temple. His cheek. His earlobe. "You feel good, too," you told him. "So hard, so perfect for me."
You two started moving then, your bodies falling into a rhythm that should've belonged to people who'd been lovers for years and not a couple exploring each other for the first time. Remmick thrust up. You ground down. The two of you kissed as though you were trying to suck the very oxygen out of your lungs. All the while, the pressure climbed. The heat off your bodies made it feel more like summer than winter.
"Remmick," you moaned, "my Remmick—I love you—God—how'd I get so lucky?"
Remmick moaned your name as though it were salvation and damnation both. "That's right, I'm yours—and you're mine—fuck—we both got lucky—never lettin' you go, not unless you tell me to..."
You hid your face in his neck. Not to hide. Just to be closer. And Remmick reciprocated, burying his face in your hair. You both held each other so tightly, you wouldn't have been surprised to find you'd branded each other with your fingerprints. Nor would you have minded.
Soon, you were back where you'd been before Remmick had stopped. Pleasure climbed up your spine like ivy. Found your brain. Prepared to crack open like an egg inside it.
Desperate for more, for that wonderful peak, you slid your hand down your belly.
But Remmick gently batted it away. "I gotcha," he promised with a toothy grin.
Then, his fingers found your clit. Tight, slick circles that matched his thrusts.
You cried out, jolting as though you'd just received an electric shock. You kissed him, hard, and then trailed your lips along his jaw. His neck. His shoulder.
That was when you saw him. Across the river. Hiding behind a tree. Trying to be inconspicuous and doing a rather poor job of it.
Hard to be invisible when you have blond hair painted silver by moonlight. When you're wearing a velvet tracksuit. When you're fumbling with the bulge in your trousers like you hardly know what to do with it.
That was when you understood, even with pleasure addling your brain. Remmick had heard something, and you were looking at it—him—now.
He was a few years older than you, around Remmick's age. Handsome like Remmick, same body type, but with less definition than Remmick. Softer, in every sense of the phrase... except for a certain part of his anatomy, barely hidden by his pants.
You should've been angry. Indignant. You should've sicced Remmick on the interloper.
Instead, you felt even more aroused than before. Flattered that your moment with Remmick was feeding a stranger's pleasure. Excited to see the naked desire on this man's face, to see him barely stop himself from touching his throbbing cock.
Beyond the erotic elements, you were strangely moved by the emotion on the stranger's face. The longing. The loneliness. The hunger for more than just flesh. It was all there, clear as day, and it broke your heart a little.
You had Remmick, and he had you. But who did this blond guy have?
Still moaning, still writhing against Remmick, you nodded at the stranger. Silently gave him permission. His eyes widened, his already flushed cheeks going beet-red. But the moment his shock faded and he realized you'd given him your blessing, he untied the strings of his trousers and pulled himself out. Began to stroke himself furiously, biting his bottom lip to keep quiet.
You saw the relief on his face. The simple joy of partaking, if only from a distance.
"That's it," you murmured to both men, "that's it, you're doing so well, so perfect for me, baby..."
Remmick whimpered, rutting into you harder, as his hands trembled against your flesh. "Oh, fuck!" he cried out. "I—I’m gonna—"
You felt Remmick's cock pulse inside you. Saw the stranger's face contort as his own orgasm took him. Saw the tendrils of cum spurt out of him, painting the half-melted snow at his feet.
That was all it took for your climax to finally strike you like lightning. You clung to Remmick with every part of you, crying out his name.
Remmick followed seconds later, shuddering against you as his own peak tore through him.
The two of you stayed like that for several long, blissful minutes. Holding each other close. Trading kisses that were slow, almost lazy, like sips of fine wine. Letting your heartbeats slow down together.
It was there, with your forehead against Remmick's, that you finally told him. "Someone was watching us."
Remmick drew back a bit. "Huh?"
You nodded. Jerked your chin towards the tree the stranger had been hiding behind. Unsurprisingly, the man himself was nowhere to be seen. "He enjoyed it quite a bit, too."
Remmick growled lowly, his claws twitching along your flesh. "He did, did he?" He flashed his teeth, no doubt already imagining what the man's flesh would feel like between them. "I knew I sensed somebody about."
"I don't think he meant any harm," you told Remmick, brushing some sweat-dampened hair out of those lovely scarlet eyes. "He looked... well, horny, yes. But lonely, too."
Remmick looked at you for a moment, a thoughtful expression settling over his face. All the while, he touched you. Caressed your back. Fiddled with your hair. You let him watch. Let him think.
At last, he spoke. "Well... let's see what happens next time, hmm?"
You arched a brow, smiling faintly. "What?" you asked. "You'd let him join us?"
"Hey," he replied, "stranger things have happened, love." He cupped your cheek, and as you leaned into his touch, he added, "Like an Alpha bein' cured. And finding love with a human."
Summary: Jimmy Crystal awakens from a wretched nightmare. One where he'd grown up alone, become a sadistic cult leader, and killed people because the voice in his head told him to. He wakes up still feeling the nails in his wrists. Thankfully, you are there to comfort him.
Content Warning: Contains smut (p in v sex) and mentions of skinning, torture, disembowelments.
Nightmares were a staple in the world you lived in. The infected—or demons, as Jimmy had always called them—had a way of forcing their way into one's mind. And if their blood-red eyes and bone-chilling shrieks didn't haunt your dreams, some of your fellow survivors did. Plenty of newcomers and transplants in your community had stories about raiders, cannibals, cults, and more. Stories you personally didn't want your children to hear.
Nightmares were, in essence, like sneezes: They occurred at random, inconvenienced someone for a moment, and then life carried on.
But when Jimmy woke up with a jolt, snapping you out of your slumber, you knew something was wrong.
He was panting, nearly wheezing. Frantically touching his wrists as though searching for wounds. And crying like a child. Big, wet gulps that instantly yanked at your heartstrings.
"Jimmy? Sweetheart?" you placed a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, his cries halting. For a moment, his watering eyes seemed to merely look through you. Then, whatever he'd been dreaming of relented enough for him to recognize you. "Oh, (y/n), hen..." His voice was nothing like the smooth, rich baritone that preached to your people for hours, read fairy tales to your children, and sang softly to you. It was brittle. Weak.
You pushed an errant lock out of his face, getting the best view you could in your dim bedroom. "Are you okay?" Your gaze flickered to his wrists, but found only smooth, pale skin.
Jimmy opened his mouth, but whatever answer he would've given you was lost to fresh sorrow.
"Oh, baby..." He let you pull him into your arms, hiding his face in your neck like it was the only safe place in the world. Already, you could feel hot tears soaking into your skin. Could hear the cries he was barely muffling. You held him close, cupping the base of his skull and rubbing his back.
All the while, you tried to keep your own tears in check. This was the man who'd been your husband for nearly five years now. Who'd found you in the wilderness and brought you here, to the best home you'd ever had. Who'd given you two beautiful children. You'd seen him command his Fingers, take down infected, and execute justice with nary a twitch in his jaw. And now, he was crying with a fear that seemed almost too profound, too intense, to expel.
A part of you was tempted to call his father, Ian, and get him to make Jimmy something. A concoction to help him sleep, or at least calm him down. Why not? Ian had already created an elixir that kept the voice in Jimmy's head quiet. Comparatively, a sleeping mixture would've been child's play.
"It's okay," you kept saying, using the same tone you employed with the kids when they were littler, "you're all right. I'm here. I'm right here. Shh, shh..."
Eventually, Jimmy's sobs died down to the occasional sniffle. Shuddering against you as though gripped by a fever, he kissed and nuzzled your saturated neck. "M'sorry, dovey," he managed to say through his tears. "I just... I..."
"It's all right," you promised him, tucking some hair behind his ear. "Just breathe, okay?"
Jimmy nodded, taking one shuddering breath after another. You breathed with him, using the edge of a blanket to wipe his face as best you could.
"I..." Jimmy trailed off, cleared his throat, and tried again. "I dreamed I..."
"You don't have to talk about it now," you cut him off gently, fearing he might get upset again. "It can wait until tomorrow."
"No, I... I can do it." Jimmy shifted so that he wasn't distributing so much of his body weight on you. You moved along with him, making sure that he stayed in your arms. Your legs tangled together, your hearts beating in gentle synchrony.
Finally, Jimmy spoke. "I dreamed I..." he shuddered, "... was a monster."
You kissed his forehead. "I've dreamed of being an infected, too." It'd been horrible, too. You'd been trapped in your own body, unable to stop yourself from tearing other living things to pieces.
Later, Ian had shared his two cents with you: That the infected were suffering from psychosis. That they looked at us and saw monsters. You hadn't believed it until he'd healed Samson, who was now your community's best warrior and one-man patrol unit. On occasion, you'd even let him watch the children while you and Jimmy went out on a hunt or trade.
Ian still regretted not having enough medical supplies to make the cure more readily available. The fact that the rest of the world had washed its hands of the UK didn't help. Surely, they would've had the tools he needed to make more. But at least he'd saved Samson, and that had to count for something.
Jimmy shook his head. "No," he rasped. "I... I wasn't infected. I was human." He huffed. "Barely." The disgust in his tone, bordering on venomous, was one you'd rarely heard from him.
That was when you understood: However horrible his dream had been, he had to talk about it. Get it out, lest it rot him from within.
You patted his back. "Do you want me to turn on the light?"
Jimmy shook his head. "No, thanks, lovey. Some things're easier t'say in the dark."
"That's true." You began to comb his hair with your fingers, knowing how it soothed him. "Go ahead, honey. I'm listening."
Jimmy gave your jaw a tender kiss, silently showing his appreciation, before speaking once more. "I dreamed way, way back. On the day the demons came. Mostly, it started the same. The strange noises drownin' out the sounds o' the telly. The blood. Me mum tellin' me tae run. Me... me father tellin' me it's the end o' days and givin' me that necklace."
You nodded, both to show that you were listening and to silently recall the tale yourself.
In a way, you'd be lucky: You'd only been about two when the virus came. Whatever you'd witnessed was stored away in the darkest corners of your mind—and it could stay there forever, as far as you were concerned. Jimmy? He'd been eight. Just old enough to remember not only the Fall, but the Before a bit as well. And sometimes, you both knew, memory could be a curse as well as a blessing.
"But here's where the story changed," Jimmy recounted, his tone more contemplative than scared now. "I... I never met Ian. He never took me in. I... I wandered the Highlands for years, dodgin' infected and survivors by the skin o' me teeth."
"All by yourself?" You nuzzled his hair, if only to dispel the mental picture. It'd only been a dream, but it was still upsetting. "I'm sorry, honey."
Jimmy swallowed. "Aye. And... and I grew up into a beast, (y/n)." His voice trembled once again, and you rubbed his back. Ready to spring back into action if the dream overwhelmed him once more. "I... I killed people. Skinned 'em. Disemboweled 'em. Called it 'charity'. Made me Fingers, who were all me for some reason, fight tae the death whenever we found a promisin' new fighter. Did things that'd make a saint swear. I..."
You could feel tears once again dampening your skin.
Then, in a terrible whisper, Jimmy said, "I stabbed me father, darlin'."
That made even you go rigid. Ian Kelson was one of the kindest people you'd ever met. He was a sweet, doting grandfather to your children, helped anyone who came to him with a sprained ankle or a broken bone, and was largely responsible for Jimmy turning out the way he had.
In a world that gorged on blood and violence, Ian had taught Jimmy kindness and empathy. It'd been that very empathy that'd compelled Jimmy to take care of the community, one member at a time. To take in any who wanted to stay. To save you back when you'd been but a stranger in the wilderness.
Imagining Ian dead, even in a dream, made you shiver. By the hand of his adopted son, no less.
But it'd been a different Jimmy, not the one cocooned in your arms. That was why your voice was free of judgment when you asked, "Why?"
Jimmy's throat worked, as though dislodging the shameful answer. "'Cause he wasn't me father in the dream. I thought Satan was, imagine that. Called him 'Old Nick'. Thought the voice was his. I only met Da once in me dream. He was kind t'me, but what did I do? Made him put on a charade for me Fingers, made 'em think he was Satan, and then stabbed him when he went off-script."
Jimmy began to cry anew, and you cradled him to your chest. Hushed him gently. Wiped his tears with the heel of your hand. "It's okay, sweetie," you whispered. "Your dad's fine. He's just pulling an all-nighter in his lab, like always."
"I-I know, but..." you could hear him grinding his teeth, your own jaw aching in sympathy, "... but it felt so real."
"I know, baby," you cupped his cheek, wiping away errant tears.
Jimmy took a few ragged breaths before forcing out the rest of his story. "Then, I... I was crucified, lovey. Upside-down. Kellie—'cept I called her 'Jimmy Ink'—and a boy I never saw drove those nails in deep. Tied me torso up. Left me on an upside-down cross. Cried and whined on it, I did. Then, Samson came and took Father away, leavin' me alone. And... and an infected came, and..." He trailed off.
You cupped Jimmy's chin, gently guiding his gaze to meet yours. "Sweetheart," you said, "that wasn't you. None of it happened. You didn't kill your father. You never skinned or disemboweled anyone. You didn't die so miserably. You're right here, in our bed, with your father in his lab and our children sleeping downstairs."
"I know, but..." Jimmy let out a trembling sigh, giving your fingers an absentminded kiss, "... when I was there, I... I was that man."
"But you're not," you insisted, your voice firm but gentle. "You're my Jimmy. You're the leader of this community. You're strong, fair, kind, and smart." You gave him a small smile. "You're the best man I know, and the love of my goddamn life."
Jimmy's face crumpled. "And yer the love o' mine." He pushed himself forward, his lips skimming yours. Your hand moved from his chin to his cheek, holding it tenderly. Jimmy's hand found yours, pressing it into his skin.
The two of you spent the next few minutes kissing, caressing each other's faces and combing back one another's hair. It was a conversation made entirely through touch and soft breaths. A mutual reassurance.
Then, steadily, it became something else. Something more passionate.
You slipped your tongue into Jimmy's mouth. He mapped out your body with his hands, treating every inch as though it were holy. Your breaths grew heavier. Hotter. Mingling in the dark air.
You could feel the faint stirrings of desire sparking deep within you. Feel your heart thudding harder against your ribs and your head getting fuzzy.
Even so, you cupped Jimmy's face and gently pried him off you. "Wait," you whispered. "Wait."
Jimmy stopped, his eyes scanning yours. "Somethin' wrong, bonnie?"
"No," you shook your head. "I just... You were really upset, honey. I don't want you to feel like you have to do anything with me."
"I don't," Jimmy promised. He kissed one of your palms, and then the other. "I just... I love ya so much, and I love all this, our life, it's so much better than the one in the dream, I..." He gave a small laugh, "... I just wanted tae celebrate it. Wit' ye."
Slowly, you nodded. "Okay. But only if you're sure."
Jimmy smiled at you, revealing his crooked and less than spotless teeth. Dear Ian had taught his adopted son many things, but one lesson he'd never been able to impose on Jimmy was oral hygiene. But fuck it, you loved him anyway.
Leaning in, he whispered, "I'm sure, love," on your lips right before he claimed them in another searing kiss.
Your lips remained firmly locked as you freed each other of your clothing. Jimmy pulled your cotton nightgown over your head while you undid the buttons of his purple silk pajamas—a find he'd immediately snatched up while scavenging in a luxury hotel— and helped him shimmy out of the bottoms.
The moment he was free, he took your hand and brought it to his groin. Understanding immediately, you began to stroke him. Tight and slow, just the way he liked it. He moaned into your mouth, turning the sparks in your belly into a small but bright fire. His hands found your breasts, kneading them lovingly. His thumbs brushed your nipples, making you gasp in your kiss and stroke him harder, caressing the head in a way you knew drove him wild.
"So good, dove," he whispered against your lips. "Y'make me feel so good..."
You smiled as you parted. "Funny," you remarked, your free hand cupping his cheek, "I was about to tell you the same thing."
Jimmy whimpered as he dove back in. Your tongues locked in a delicate dance.
Guided by instinct and desire, your bodies moved in tandem. Before you knew it, you were straddling him, his hard cock pressingly against your belly. The head was lobster-red and weeping precum.
As the kiss broke and you drew back, you giggled at what you saw: Jimmy, thoroughly drunk on you. His eyes were glazed, his cheeks flushed, and his lips drawn in a wide, dopey smile. "I love ye," he panted, his tone as soft as feathers.
Your heart did a backflip. Even after almost five years of marriage, those three little words made you feel warm like no tea or campfire ever could. Adjusting your position, you took both his hands. Maintaining eye contact, you kissed his wrists. Right where, in his dream, the nails had driven through his flesh. "I love you, too. With all my heart."
Jimmy's eyes watered once again, but he was still smiling. "Put me inside ye, lassie," he murmured. "Right where I belong."
You couldn't bring yourself to disagree. Maintaining eye contact the entire time, you took Jimmy's cock in your hand and angled it towards your entrance. Slowly, carefully, you lowered yourself onto it. Let your body swallow that familiar shape, inch by precious inch.
"Fuck," Jimmy groaned, his head dropping back on the pillow. His hands flew to your hips. Not to control. Not to squeeze. Just to hold on for dear life. Your hands covered his. Trying to anchor him further as you bottomed out. You moaned at the feel of him stretching you, of his length filling out every crevice.
"Feel that?" Jimmy gasped. "S'for ye, angel. All o' it."
"Mine," you whispered back, unable to stop yourself. You began to ride him then, starting off slow. Almost testing.
Bliss washed over Jimmy's expression. His thighs twitches under you. "Let go, lassie. Fuck yerself on me, gorgeous."
You grinned. "Oh, I intend to, sweetie." You picked up the pace, if only slightly. Ground your hips against his. Tightened your muscles around his length.
"God, look at ye," Jimmy remarked, his voice rough with want. "Ridin' me like a queen. That's me girl. Takin' charge."
You moaned at the praise, squeezing his fingers as you rode him. Leaned your head back, letting yourself simmer in the heat of your lovemaking.
Jimmy began to thrust into you, fingers flexing on your hips and eyes shining like polished coins. He met your every moan and gasp with one of his own, loud and shameless. Your noises, combined with the slapping of skin against skin and the bedframe clanging against the wall, made for a song meant for lovers in the dark.
You grabbed Jimmy's hand, hoisting him in a sitting position. The moment he was in your range, you wrapped your arms around him and gave him a passionate kiss. One that he returned wholeheartedly, his hips jerking to meet yours.
Your senses were spiraling, utterly lost to the fever of Jimmy and the ache of being stretched and filled. The small fire within you grew, singeing anything beyond the here and now.
"So good," you pressed your mouth to his temple. "You feel so damn good, Jimmy... so hard, so perfect for me..."
"So're ye," Jimmy moaned, his hand sliding down your bodies. "Ye open up so well f'me... Takin' me so well... Ye were made for me, and I was made for ye..."
His fingers found your clit, rotating in tight little circles.
You cried out, writhing in his lap, and rode him with a ferocity that surprised even you. Chasing nirvana for you both.
All too soon, you were almost there. The flames burned you hot, every muscle going molten. Your back arched. Your toes curled. Your end was nigh.
Jimmy's, too. His breath was catching. His rhythm was turning erratic. His expression looked almost pained.
"You're almost there, aren't you?" you asked breathlessly, your hips rocking in tandem with his thrusts.
Jimmy nodded desperately, letting out a cry that would've worried you in any other circumstance. "W-wanna last—" he gritted out. "Wanna make ye feel good—"
"You do," you promised him, cupping his face. "All the time. Every day. You do." Looking directly into his eyes, fighting off the dizziness of pleasure, you told him exactly what was in your heart. "Jimmy, sweetheart—it's okay—let go—you're safe, you—fuck—you're always safe with me. No matter what—ah—nightmares you have, I'll always, always be there when you wake up."
Jimmy's face crumpled. Tears slid down his cheeks. You wiped them away. He lunged forward, crashing his lips against yours. Thrust into you as though his very life depended on it.
He drove into you once, twice, before he groaned—a raw, guttural noise that ran down your throat like whiskey—and came inside you, his whole body shuddering under yours. As he rode the wave, his hips kept grinding. Fucking his seed into you so you could feel it all. Every spurt. Every throb.
You did indeed feel it, and it undid you at last. Pleasure burned you alive, each tongue of flame hotter and sharper than the last.
You collapsed onto your bed, your hands still roaming each other's bodies in gentle strokes. The sheets were damp, your skins were sweaty, and the air smelled of sex. It was perfect.
Jimmy kissed you all over, making you giggle. He kissed your pulse, which was fluttering wildly beneath his lips. Your forehead. Your eyelids. Your cheeks. And your mouth. Again and again, your mouth. Laughing softly as he ravished you.
"(Y/n), my (y/n)," he muttered against your flesh, kissing between each word. "I love ye, I love ye... I love ye wit' all I am." He drew back, gazing at you with eyes still slightly damp and bloodshot from crying. "I'd endure a thousand crucifixes just t'be near ye."
His words struck you deeper than any thrust. You cradled his face in your hands and brought your foreheads together. "You won't ever have to."
Jimmy fell asleep soon after that, his head resting on your chest and his arms coiled securely around your waist. You stayed awake a while longer, going back to combing his hair with your fingers and nuzzling the crown of his head. Waiting to see if any more nightmares would come.
