or do you dim as you go on

[scubatankfilledwithfarts]

It isn’t drowning so much as sinking slowly, dozily down, down—it isn’t cold, not like the way the blade was frigid in the half-dying seconds of his spine giving out, unfeeling, not even numb—not like the press of her lips on his [has nothing on getting your tongue stuck to a frozen pole], that final spark before she takes the entire place down around their enemies heads, nothing left, not even cinders.

Seras is just as warm as he’d imagined, leered, lusted, coveted—her mind, her soul, is an inferno yet he will happily be lost within, will show his belly to the beast.

Father's hands are huge, make up half her face alone, but they are so gentle as they tuck her against his chest, the warmth of his pulse pressed to her nose, tiny arms around his neck—

[not there]

His first time in the jungle and he’s never seen anybody’s jungle-fever asscheeks, let alone someone who’s gotten stung so bad by mosquitoes that aforementioned cheeks blow up like a blow fish—

[that’s it]

Master is so very, very terrifying, so confusing and confounding. And maybe it’s his blood that churns and ripples within her, singing for blood of her blood, but he would never abandon her to rot. This, in all things, she knows.

[not that way-]

When adolescents were caught red-handed with their first cigarette in the old days, their parents made them smoke the whole pack. This ensured the nasty habit wouldn’t happen again. When Pip was caught gulping Grandpere’s aged whisky he was boxed around the ears until he couldn’t see straight.

Pip can no longer hold himself up, hand outstretched for someone no longer waiting, and if hot, churning blood swallowing him whole wasn’t disconcerting in the middle east— blue eyes turned crimson have been his guiding light this time.

“This ain’t gonna cut it, boss! You gotta help me fake my death, it’s the only thing I’ve ever faked—she won’t leave off!”

Eager eyes, fingers stained yellow with tar before iron-red.

“Royal flush. Drop those drawers and weep, assholes!”

They kill for the thrill of it. The way their hearts rattle in the chest cavity. For the money and the way it lines their pockets for all of five minutes before it’s spent.

[Don’t go--]

The many, many times he’s brushed fingertips along open, unseeing eyes. They stare on the sky as if imploring the heavens one last time—its always the same. The hole it punches in his chest never fills with booze or sex or bravado. The cup poureth over.

[come back!!]

If he can do one thing, just one thing, with this crappile of a life of his, it’s save the day. Save the girl. He did it, he did! His men, his idiots, the best leftovers he ever kept in the back of the fridge for another day. She’ll take care of them.

They’ll take care of them. Of all of it.

He breathes deep. Sleep comes to blessedly, blessedly claim him. Maybe he’ll have good dreams this time.

Pip will dream of a shove to the shoulder that jostles, a boy with a scowl hardened by an anger that lies in wait until his prey shows its neck. The boy is wan but warm, hotter than white embers.

“What, did you get lost in your own head? It’s time.”

He knows, down to the core of him, that the next line should be a flick of a snub nose, and he does, laughs in the wisps of smoke the boy leaves in his wake, cigarette burning low.

“Screw off!” The boy howls, bite more than bark, show more than grow—[and he won’t ever see gangly limbs form spindly-sure, broad shoulders bowed over the weight of the world, something tells him]

After Pip’s honks of laughter fade off, the boy gives him a sideways glance. “Thought you’d already left without me.” B---‘s voice is smaller than he’s ever heard it.

The pull of his [denied, hardened, dead] heartstrings is so strong not even that monster woman’s scythe could make the cut, not even the boy’s struggles against Pip’s arms could break it as he’s tucked against the merc’s chest, fingers tugging at greasy locks playfully, knuckles at a hard, stubborn forehead,

“You can’t get rid of me that easily, not ever, you little rat bastard.” He means it even as he closes his eye. “Not ever.” Chanted fiercely, a wish tucked into the puffs of dandelion fluff that fly, fly, fly—

He just needs a little rest, that’s all.