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corishadowfang · 4 years ago

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Forest Child - Original Fiction Big Bang

My piece for @originalfictionbigbang! I was paired with @cecilsstorycorner, and they created an amazing illustration for the story; visit their blog to check it out! (Link)

Summary: Nobody goes into the Forest at the edge of town. People say you’ll go missing if you do--that’s what happened to Mary’s Uncle Ian, after all. But after briefly entering the Forest on a dare from some friends, she realizes there might be more to it than she thought.

Trigger Warnings: Child abuse as a major story theme; some instances of body horror and general horror elements; brief instance of alcohol-induced anger towards the end. If you think these will be triggering, then please stay safe and skip this one.

Story is under the cut. Or, if you’d prefer, you can read it on the Google doc here.

“Look at this!”

Mary, much like the other students near her, started at the sudden exclamation. She’d been drawing, absorbed in trying to get a bird’s wings just right, and hadn’t even noticed one of her classmates excitedly bouncing into the room with something cupped in his hands. Now the boy proudly presented the item—a small stone—to a group of surprised fifth graders.

One snorted. “That’s just a rock, Blake. What’d you do, pick it up during recess?”

“It’s not just a rock,” Blake protested. “Look closer.”

Several of her classmates glanced at each other, as if deciding whether or not it was worth risking the embarrassment. Mary found she didn’t really care much about the risk, and so she leaned forward, squinting a little. “Is it glowing?”

Blake beamed. “Yeah! It’s easier to see if it’s dark.”

Someone shouted, “Get the lights!”

The student nearest the door flicked the lights off, and suddenly everyone was crowding closely around Blake and his find. The rock glowed a very faint purple, the color spreading out across Blake’s hands.

Mary’s fingers itched to draw, and she scooped her sketchbook into her hands, fumbling for a purple pencil.

“Where’d you get it?” someone asked.

“From my brother,” Blake said, and then, in a conspiratorial whisper, “and he found it in the Forest.”

Mary’s pencil skittered across the page. “He actually went in?”

“Uh-huh! He wouldn’t tell me how far, though. Said he saw these weird glowing lights and felt like they were drawing him closer. Before he knew it, he was suddenly standing underneath eerily dark trees, with something moving in the undergrowth. Ran out of there as soon as he realized! The stone got caught in his shoe, so he gave it to me.”

“Right,” said one of their classmates. “I bet he just painted a rock with glow-in-the-dark paint.”

“It’s true!”

Mary asked, “Can I see it?”

Blake clutched the stone tightly, giving her an almost-suspicious look. After a few moments he relented, tipping the stone from his hand to hers.

Mary stared at it for several moments, running a finger over the stone and watching as the purple glow painted the tip. She scratched at the surface with a fingernail.

“Hey!”

“No paint’s coming off,” she said, and gave the stone back to Blake. “I think it’s real.”

“See?”

“I still think you’re lying,” one of their classmates said. When Blake opened his mouth to retort, she continued, “Or your brother’s lying. Nobody goes into the Forest.” She paused, then amended. “Well, nobody goes into the Forest and comes out. That’s why people keep disappearing around town, right?”

Blake opened his mouth, closed it, and then frowned thoughtfully. “Well,” he said slowly, “there’s one way to find out.”

A few moments of silence passed before someone hissed, “Dude, seriously?”

“You can’t really be thinking about going into the Forest, right?”

“If you go missing, do I get your stuff?”

“I’m serious,” Blake said. “I mean, come on! Hasn’t everyone thought about going in there at some point? You guys are just scared.”

Mary’s breath caught, and she clutched her sketchbook to her chest. The town was filled with stories of the Forest, most of them some degree of frightening, but the ones she most remembered were the ones told by her Uncle Ian, a man she mostly remembered for his soothing voice and exciting tales.

“Sometimes it just looks like a normal forest—maybe a little darker than average, but nothing out of the ordinary. But then—then you see these things at the edges. Great big, monstrous things that look like they’d tower over the trees if they stood upright. Birds with too many eyes, covered in glowing feathers. Things that might’ve been deer, at one point, but are so covered in moss and vines that they look more plant than animal. And the lights—those are what get you. Bright colored things that hop and bob and mesmerize anyone who stops to look. If you’re not careful, they can lead you into the woods without noticing. And then—bam! You’re trapped there. You become part of the Forest.”

“Is it real?”

“Well, see, lots of people around town don’t think it’s real. They think someone’s inside the Forest, doing something to make all those people disappear. But you and I? We know better.”

Before she really had time to consider what she was saying, she breathed, “Can I go, too?”

The class went quiet. “You?” one of her classmates asked. “Isn’t your dad, like, really strict?”

“I-I—well. We don’t have to tell him!”

“Getting rebellious, huh?”

“I-I’m not! I just—I just don’t want to worry him, that’s all.”

Blake snorted. “Sure,” he said, “you can come. Anyone can come. We’ll go to the Forest this Saturday around lunch. Anyone who’s not a chicken can meet up there.”

The lights flicked on.

Everyone whipped towards the front of the room.

Their teacher watched them with a skeptical look. “So,” she said dryly, “I hate to interrupt your weekend plans, but I have a class to teach. And besides that, none of you are allowed to go anywhere near the Forest unsupervised. It’s dangerous. I’m sure your parents have all told you this already.” She gave Mary a pointed look.

Mary shrank in her seat.

Blake tried, “But we just—”

“No buts,” their teacher interrupted. “If I hear any more of this, I’ll have to inform your parents. Clear?”

Mary caught her breath, and found herself blurting, “Please don’t.”

Someone murmured, “Knew she’d back out.”

Mary flushed.

Her teacher just gave her a long, tired look that, if Mary stared at it long enough, might’ve been read as sympathetic. Then she said, “Pull out the homework from last night.”

Class passed in the usual manner, but Mary found her mind drifting, a nervous, fearful excitement bubbling in her chest at the thought of stepping foot in the Forest. No one’s ever gone too far in, she thought. Nobody’s come back to talk about what’s in there. What if I’m the first? It could be like—like an adventure! I could draw pictures of all the strange things in there, and people would talk about it forever.

Maybe it’d help stop people from disappearing, too. Like Ian did.

The intercom came on, startling Mary out of her thoughts. “Good afternoon. Baseball practice has been cancelled tonight due to rain…”

The rush of students shoving things in their desks and packing their backpacks overrode the sound of the intercom. Their teacher shouted, “Wait until announcements are over!” to very little success.

Mary sat at her desk silently. She closed her sketchbook, slowly, ignoring the nervous tension ticking through her shoulders.

The announcements ended with, “Teachers may now dismiss their students.”

“Now you can go,” their teacher said. “And Mary?”

Mary looked up at her.

Her teacher sighed, looking resigned. “You know the drill.”

Mary nodded, tugging her backpack on.

“Sucks to be you,” someone said.

Another shouted, “See you later, Mary!”

Blake said, “Saturday, if you still want to come.”

Mary gave him a weak smile, but didn’t dare reply with her teacher still watching.

The school emptied and went quiet. Mary walked slowly to the office. She hated this part; hated the waiting, hated that she couldn’t go and play with her friends after school, hated the tension that built in her chest as she sat in those hard plastic chairs. But she knew Papa wanted to check on her grades, and make sure she made it home safely, and that he was really just worried about her wellbeing, and so she tolerated it, settling into one of the chairs to wait. She didn’t know what to draw, this time, but the conversation about the Forest was still buzzing through her skull, and so she found herself playing with one of her bird sketches, adding eyes and strange, curling plants.

Her homeroom teacher showed up a few minutes later, looking as tired and disgruntled as always. Mary gave her a weak smile and went quickly back to drawing.

The entryway doors opened.

Mary’s shoulders rose, just a little.

Papa looked intimidating, sometimes; she didn’t know if he meant to be, but he always had this serious, stern look on his face that made her wonder if she’d done something bad. He studied her carefully for a few moments and, seemingly satisfied with his findings, turned towards the teacher. “How was she today?”

Her teacher flattened her lips. “She was fine, Rick. As usual.” Her teacher seemed to hesitate a moment, and then continued, “She talked about going to visit the Forest with some friends—”

Mary sent her a panicked look.

“—but I put a stop to that and explained why it wouldn’t be a good idea.”

Papa said nothing, but he did turn, slowly, to look at Mary.

She couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “I-I didn’t—we weren’t really going to—it’s just, Blake’s brother found this rock, and—”

“Thank you,” Papa said, curtly, and it took Mary a moment to realize he was talking to the teacher and not her. “I’ll make sure she understands not to go there.” He reached for Mary’s arm, grabbing it tightly as she tried not to flinch backwards. “Come on,” he said, dragging her to her feet. “It’s time to go home.”

“Rick,” Mary’s teacher called.

Papa paused.

“I don’t think these meetings are necessary anymore. Ian disappeared years ago. Mary hardly seems to remember it. It certainly hasn’t affected her grades or performance. What might affect her is being unable to spend time with friends outside of school.”

Papa didn’t answer for several long moments. “Thank you for the input,” he said, “but I’d like to keep up with this, for now.”

Mary’s teacher made a disgruntled noise. “I agreed to this as your friend, and out of concern for both of you, but Rick—I understand you’re still grieving, but you have to move on—”

“I’m fine,” Papa said, “and my daughter’s fine. We’ll keep up the meetings.” And then he was dragging Mary, again, out of the school and to the car.

Their town wasn’t particularly large; it had a few small convenience stores, the school, a gas station and a diner. Beyond the edge sat the Forest, equally small, but strangely separate from everything. Mary tried not to look at it, slipping her sketchbook slowly into her backpack. Papa didn’t say anything to her, but she could see the furrow of his eyebrows in the rearview mirror, and so she turned her head to look, firmly, out the window, and tried hard not to think about the pit in her stomach.

They pulled into the driveway too quickly, and Mary fiddled with her seatbelt, unbuckling it slowly.

Papa stepped out of the driver’s seat and slammed the door.

Mary flinched. She found herself caught between moving quicker and dawdling.

Papa decided for her, opening her door roughly and catching her arm; she’d just barely gotten free of the seatbelt when he dragged her free, corralling her up the stairs and into the house.

It was very quiet, for a while. Papa turned to look at her slowly, expression downturned, and Mary found herself desperately trying to fill the space. “Papa, I—”

“What have I told you?” Papa’s voice was low, rough, just on the edge of angry. “You don’t go to that Forest. You don’t even think about going. You understand?”

Papa’s grip was too tight around her arm. She pressed on his hand a little, trying, “Papa—”

Papa grabbed her other arm, his hands still too tight, and shook her roughly. “Do you understand?”

Mary swallowed and nodded.

“This is for your own safety. That Forest is dangerous.”

“I-I know, Papa.”

“You’d best remember it.” Papa let go, finally.

Mary didn’t rub at the handprints on her arms, instead holding her hands tightly at her side. Papa liked to keep her in his sight—wanted to make sure she never got into trouble—and she knew, if he was already mad, it’d be a bad idea to leave before she was dismissed.

His eyes softened, just a little, and the tension eased out of Mary’s shoulders. “Go change out of your school clothes,” he said, “then come down for dinner.”

She nodded, then hurtled down the hall to her room.

~*~

-Mary almost considered not going to the Forest on Saturday. Almost.

She didn’t want to make Papa worried—or get scolded again—but the Forest was still a fascinating subject, filled with mysteries she was aching to solve. Something inside her tugged her towards the tree line, and a part of her desperately wanted to follow that pull, even if it meant getting in trouble with Papa.

But she couldn’t just walk out the front door. She’d have to sneak out; Papa didn’t like her going anywhere without him.

She worried her lip, debating. He usually likes to come and check on me if I’ve been in my room for a while. Her door didn’t have a lock, so she couldn’t keep him out. Her eyes darted to her dresser. She slid off the bed, opening a drawer and pulling out some clothes. She shoved them underneath her comforter, arranging them as best she could to make it look like she was just sleeping underneath. It didn’t look much like her, but she hoped it would be enough that Papa wouldn’t notice she’d slipped out.

She hesitated before moving to her window. If I do this, she thought, then I’ll be disobeying Papa. If he finds out, I’ll get in a lot of trouble. She glanced nervously at the door. He doesn’t have to know, she decided. I won’t be in the Forest that long. Just long enough to try and see something cool.

Mary gripped the bottom of her window and worked it open. It made barely a sound, and she hesitated for just a moment longer, glancing uncertainly at the door. Then she grabbed her sketchbook and a pencil and slipped out the window.

Her feet hit the ground with a quiet thump. She stood there, eyes screwed shut, half waiting for someone to come by and yell at her. When they didn’t, she opened her eyes a little.

She was outside. She was outside, and Papa didn’t know, and no one was saying anything.

Mary just suppressed a giddy laugh, her shoulders shaking a little. She was out! She was going to the Forest! She was going to see things no one had seen before!

She just barely remembered to pull her window closed before darting away, sock feet slapping against the ground as she hurried towards the edge of town.

The other kids were waiting there already, hovering near the tree line. Mary lifted her free arm to wave, shouting, “Hey! Hey, wait for me!”

“We didn’t think you’d show up,” one of the kids said—Henry, she thought.

“Of course I was coming,” Mary said, skidding to a halt, lifting her chin and trying not to show her nervousness. “I want to see what’s in there, too!”

Blake snorted and turned towards the Forest. “So,” he said, “who’s going in first?”

All of them swiveled to stare into the darkness between the trees. They remained very quiet, and in the silence, Mary strained her ears, trying to see if she could hear something from within the trees. She caught no birdsong, no rustling of the undergrowth—nothing.

“I think Blake should go,” someone said.

“What?” Blake protested. “Why me?”

“Because it was your idea. What, too scared to go in now?”

“I am not! I just—I just think someone else should have the chance. You know, since I already have that cool stone.”

“Don’t be such a baby—”

“I’ll go.”

Mary hadn’t even entirely realized she’d spoken until the group turned to look at her. She clutched her sketchbook a little closer. “I’ll go,” she repeated, more firmly this time.

Blake recovered first, looking at the other kids and saying, “Hear that? She’ll go.” He turned to give her a scrutinizing look. “So?”

Mary turned back to the Forest. For a moment, it felt like it was just her and the trees, the group of students fading to background noise behind her. A breeze stirred the leaves and ruffled her clothes. The darkness stretched in front of her, deep and thick enough that she wondered if she’d feel it when she stepped inside.

Mary took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and took a step forward. Then another. Then another. She hesitantly stretched out a hand, and didn’t stop walking until her palm brushed rough bark.

Her hand rested against a normal-looking tree, the bark chipped and peeling away, a couple of bugs skittering out of holes in the wood.

Mary’s shoulders relaxed marginally. She turned back to the others, who were still watching warily from the Forest’s edge. “Come on!” She hurried into the trees.

The darkness deepened, and she slowed a little. She wondered if the trees were the ones blocking out the sunlight; she squinted at the tree tops, but couldn’t see well enough to tell. The darkness made her shiver, but she stuffed it down, calling, “Hey, why do you think there aren’t any animals here?”

“Don’t know,” Blake said, closer to her ear than she’d expected. She yelped and jumped, scrambling to keep her sketchbook from falling. Blake snorted; in the dim lighting, she could just barely make out a dryly amused expression. “But we need to find something cool.” He moved towards one of the trees, feeling around the trunk curiously.

“Isn’t coming in here enough?” one of the kids asked. “I mean, we all did it, right? It’ll be something to talk about at school.”

“No,” Blake insisted. “I want to find something else like my stone.” He reached up and tugged on a branch. It came free with a crack, and he stumbled, almost falling off the root he was standing on. “See anything weird about this?”

The kid leaned forward. “Dude, it’s just a normal branch.”

He tossed it aside. “There has to be something.”

The bushes rustled.

Mary jumped, whipping towards it. The leaves shifted, and for a moment, Mary thought she could see a flash of eyes. “Um. Guys?”

Blake and the others didn’t pay attention to her, moving towards some ferns and cautiously shifting through them.

The bushes rustled again. Hesitantly, Mary inched towards them.

The thing inside them moved. It flicked its attention to her, and for a moment, the creature seemed to glow, two sets of eyes blinking up at her.

Mary started backwards.

The thing disappeared into the undergrowth.

Mary braced herself against a tree.

A branch creaked overhead, and something whispered through Mary’s ears, more impression than sound, almost forming words that sounded like, What is it?

The whisper echoed with the rustling of another bush, with a brief flutter of bird wings overhead, or with the quiet creek of the trees:

What is it?

“Guys,” Mary asked, voice sounding unusually loud, “are you the ones saying that?”

“What are you talking about? Hey, do you think this leaf is glowing, or am I just imagining things?”

Humans, the whisper voice said again.

Humans.

Humans, danger.

Breaking, breaking, breaking—

Something landed overhead.

Mary whipped towards it, stumbling away from the tree.

A faintly-glowing bird perched on a branch. Flowers wove through its feathers and gathered on its back, leaves raising like plumes on its head. Its glowing eyes flickered as it leaned closer. It opened its beak, and the whisper-voice pressed, more insistent, into her mind, words a flurry of quiet trills and a ruffling of feathers: I know you.

Mary’s mouth opened and closed several times as she stared at the bird. It took her a moment to realize there had been confusion in the voice—the bird’s voice?—and that made her still.

A sharp crack sounded behind her. Blake yelped in alarm, then shouted, “Nope! That won’t work!”

The bird whipped towards the noise almost as quickly as Mary did. It let out an ear-splitting screech, and Mary rushed to cover her ears. The bird took flight, swooping low over the others’ heads, nearly brushing Blake’s hair.

A low rumble went through the Forest, shaking the ground. The trees suddenly seemed like they were leaning in, closer, closer, pressing until the branches dipped too low. The whole Forest suddenly came alive with noise, and between the rustling leaves, the buzzing, the hoof beats, Mary could barely make out something that sounded like words:

Breaking breaking breaking get out stop breaking leave go leave leave leave—

“What is that?” someone whispered.

Another turned and sprinted out of the Forest.

Blake didn’t move right away, standing frozen, staring blankly into the trees.

“Blake,” Mary hissed, starting towards him.

Something split from the shadows. It reared, dark, above Blake. Glowing patches seemed to ripple across its back, and its mouth stretched just a little too wide as it roared.

The sound shook Mary, and for a moment she wanted to clamp her hands over her ears, the pressure beating deep inside her mind. Her legs shook and she wondered, very suddenly, if she should’ve snuck out at all.

Blake seemed to break out of his stupor finally. He screamed, sprinting away from the strange, shadowy beast.

Mary’s legs moved without her conscious input; she turned and followed Blake, hurrying out of the Forest and breaking into the sunlight. She stumbled, then fell, losing her sketchbook upon impact. Her palms scraped the ground, tearing up grass and dirt. She scrambled back to her feet, and then started running again, and kept running until she could scramble back into her room’s window.

~*~

-Mary couldn’t get what she’d heard in the Forest out of her head. The rest of the day, she wandered around in a daze, a part of her half-focused on the creatures that had emerged to terrify her and her classmates, the rest focused on the strange words.

I know you.

“You’re distracted,” Papa said, and it started her out of her thoughts.

“I-I’m fine, Papa!” she said, forcing a grin.

“You should be focused on finishing your homework,” he said. His scowl deepened, and he said, “You should have finished that Friday night. Or earlier today, when you were in your room.”

“I-I know, Papa.” She leaned over the paper, but her mind drifted. She found it hard to focus on math equations when her mind still pounded with the words, over and over again. I know you, I know you, I know you—

“Papa,” she asked before she could think better of it, “what happened when Uncle Ian disappeared?”

Papa stiffened.

“I-I just—did he disappear because, um—” Because something in the Forest spoke to him? she wanted to ask, but couldn’t quite get the words to form.

“I’m not going to talk about him,” Papa said, voice harsh.

“I-I, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” She trailed off. “I just wanted to know.”

Papa was silent for a long moment. “Go finish your homework in your room.”

Mary knew better than to argue. She just nodded, scooping up her papers and scampering to her room.

She knew Papa would check on her, eventually, to find out whether or not she’d actually finished her homework. She tried to do it, but her attention kept slipping, flicking back to the window and the Forest, not quite visible, beyond.

She didn’t want to go back to the Forest. Not really. She was still curious about what was inside, but her adventure with her classmates had given her a scare. But—

(I know you.)

I left my sketchbook there, she thought. I should go back and get that, at least.

She didn’t acknowledge what would happen if Papa came to check on her and she wasn’t there. She just slid out her window, hurrying across the town in bare feet, trying not to worry too much about how dark it had gotten.

The Forest was just as dark and silent as always. She noticed a dark shape, pages fluttering a little, on the slope.

Mary hesitantly lifted her sketchbook. It’d sustained some wear and tear, the pages covered in dirt, the cover torn a little bit. Mary brushed off what she could, fingers gently running over the pages. She clutched it to her chest. I should get back, she thought, before Papa notices that I’m gone.

The Forest loomed in front of her, dark and imposing.

(I know you.)

Mary bit her lip. She shifted a little on her toes, glancing furtively down the hill. After a few long, agonizing moments, she took a few cautious steps towards the tree line. “Hello?” she asked, her voice coming out as more of a squeak. She cleared her throat, then tried again: “Hello? Is, um. Is anyone there?”

The trees creaked ominously, but nothing answered.

Mary fiddled with the edge of her sketchbook. Maybe whatever it was is mad, she thought, because we were breaking things.

After a few moments of debate, Mary murmured, “I’m sorry for breaking things. I won’t do it again. I just had a question.”

For a few moments, she didn’t think anything would answer. Then a low breeze stirred, and with it, a quiet, almost imperceptible murmur: Human human human back danger back they’re back they’re back.

“Why are you here?”

Mary jumped, whipping around, trying to figure out where the voice had come from. It didn’t sound entirely human; it felt almost as if the words had been pressed into her mind, formed between the low wind and the steady creaking of the trees. “Who are you? Are you that bird?”

The breeze picked up. Something flickered between the trees. “I have been called many things by many humans,” came the voice again, making Mary’s head ache faintly. “You would not understand most of them. Your people do not have a name for me.”

“Are—are you the Forest?”

The Forest didn’t answer.

Mary caught her voice. “You can talk,” she breathed. “Have you ever talked to anyone before? Nobody’s ever said anything about that!” She took a half-step forward, suddenly excited. “Is it because of magic? Can you—”

The wind picked up, blowing past her so strongly that it almost knocked her back. Something growled from the shadows. Danger, a cacophony of voices seemed to whisper. Breaking breaking breaking—

“I-I—” Mary’s voice caught in her throat, and she backed up a little, not quite leaving the edge of the trees. “I’m sorry. I d-didn’t mean—I won’t do it again.”

“Humans say many things,” the Forest said, “and rarely do they mean them.” The murmur quieted, fading to low chittering sounds, then silence.

Mary’s shoulders hunched a little, and she couldn’t help the guilt that bubbled in her chest. “I just had a question,” she murmured, “about something you said.”

The Forest didn’t speak, but she thought she might have heard the fluttering of wingbeats overhead.

Mary steeled herself and said, “Y-you—you said you knew me. B-but I’ve never been here. How?”

The Forest was silent so long that she didn’t think she’d get an answer. “I don’t know,” came the quiet response, like a whisper of a bug against her ear.

“Oh.” It was almost disappointing, and she felt a little silly for even trying to ask. “Okay.” She took a couple steps backwards. “I guess—that’s all I wanted to ask.” She started to leave, then paused. “I—I really am sorry. We just wanted to see if what we’d heard was true. Honest.”

The Forest didn’t respond this time.

Guilt flickered in her chest for a moment. I wouldn’t like it much, she thought, if someone hurt me.

(Papa never apologizes.)

The guilt solidified into something a little more solid and actionable. She squared her shoulders and, an idea forming in her mind, made her way back to town.

~*~

-Mary stood outside the Forest with her backpack slung over her shoulder, decked in her overalls and heavy boots and her coat. Papa hadn’t noticed her sneak out the window, and she hoped he wouldn’t come looking for her just yet. I won’t be long, she thought. I just need to do this.

The Forest was very, very quiet. Mary squinted, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see more than a few feet into the trees. “Um. Hello?”

She waited a little while for a response, but when she didn’t get one, she let the backpack slip to the ground. She unzipped it and pulled out one of several water bottles, hesitating at the Forest’s edge. “Um. Is it okay if I come in?” When the Forest didn’t answer, she took a deep breath, and stepped forward.

Darkness shrouded her, and she blinked. The dim lighting made it difficult to see, but one hand reached out to brush the trunk of a nearby tree. She twisted the cap off the water bottle, opening it with a quiet crack. She poured the water onto the roots of the tree, humming a quiet song to herself as she tried to look further into the woods.

Something rustled behind her. She jumped, then held her breath, but nothing moved again.

She finished pouring the water and darted back into the sunlight. Her chest rattled with a few deep, shaky breaths. After a few moments she bent, grabbing the next water bottle and hurrying into the Forest.

She’d made it through three bottles and was well onto the fourth when that same strange impression of a voice asked, “What are you doing?”

Mary was so startled that she lost her hold on the water bottle. She tumbled backwards with a quiet oomph!

Things stirred inside the trees; vague shapes she couldn’t identify, tall gangly things that looked like they were bent out of shape, the gleam of eyes that were clustered too close together for comfort, the twitching of tree branches that seemed to move all on their own.

Mary took a shuddering breath. Her hands shook a little, but she managed to keep her voice steady as she said, “Watering you.”

She didn’t think she was going to get a response for a moment. Then the voice came again, brushing around her like a breeze: “Why?”

“Be-because! Um. Because I want to make up for the other day.” She stood and brushed off her overalls. The bottle was empty, now, so she stuck it underneath her arm and listened to it crinkle.

“I did not require reparations,” the Forest said, in the hurried footsteps of animals, in the quiet whisper of the leaves.

“Oh.” Mary bit her lip. “Well, I’m going to keep watering you, anyways. Is that okay?”

The Forest didn’t answer.

Mary nodded decisively. “Okay. I’m going to get more water. Um, please don’t do anything to me?” She started back towards the Forest’s entrance, then paused. “Oh! Um, by the way. My name’s Mary.”

~*~

-It became a routine, of sorts.

Mary didn’t know how much she owed the Forest—wasn’t sure if she’d repaid it after giving it a few water bottles—and so made a game out of bringing it things she thought it might be able to use. She planted some seeds, near the edge; stole bird food out of the feeder; brought table scraps for some of the animals. She made sure to stay close to the Forest’s edges, always wary of going too far. (Of going missing, and of no one coming to find her. She wondered if Papa would grieve like he did for Ian. She wondered what that would look like, with no one else around.)

It was fun, almost; it felt like she was getting away with something exciting and new. Papa would pick her up after school, and she’d wait a while, then duck out the window and run to the Forest, some new item stuck in her bag, ready to see if it was something that it would like.

The Forest didn’t really say anything, but that was alright; Mary had plenty of words for the both of them, and would often talk to herself—as much to keep her nerves down as to explain things.

“Kevin said he could fit three whole golf balls in his mouth, but I know he’s lying because his mom would yell at him for putting even one in.”

“I found a feather today! I think it was from a blue jay, but I didn’t see the bird. See, see, I put it in my hair.”

“Kathrine says that you can keep frogs as pets. I want one, but Papa says that we can’t have pets.”

A breeze brushed across the back of her neck. “Why do you keep coming back?”

She stiffened, her hands twisted in the grass as she tried to plant some flower seeds. “Huh?”

Lights blinked faintly in the darkness. Something moved a little, still too coated in shadow to accurately make out. “Most humans stay away. Why do you return?”

Mary fidgeted with her pants. She rocked back on her heels, careful not to sit. “Do you not want me to?”

A long, long pause, before the Forest answered, “You do not do harm. You can stay.”

Mary grinned, and surprised herself with her excitement when she chirped, “Okay!”

An animal (a deer?) started, jumping away into the undergrowth. A couple of birds took flight, letting out odd, tinny cries. “But you did not answer. Why do you return?”

“O-oh. Um.” She worried her lip, suddenly feeling very much like she had done something wrong, somewhere, and couldn’t quite figure out what it was. “Well. It’s. Um.” She shrugged, looking at her feet. “I just want to,” she finished quietly.

When the Forest didn’t respond, she hurried to say, “Um! I like—I think you’re very cool! And, uh, and I still owe you for—for what happened. And—and you listen.” She trailed off, hands wrapped around her legs.

For a few moments, nothing moved. Mary wondered if she should start heading back; time always moved strangely in the Forest, and she found she could end up staying here for hours instead of minutes, if she wasn’t careful. (Papa had almost caught her climbing in her window, once, and she’d sat on her bed frozen, expecting to be scolded, or to find her window locked from the outside, or—

Papa had never said anything, but she hadn’t gone out for a few days, to be safe.)

A bright glow caught her attention.

One of the strange birds had hopped down from its perch. It ruffled its feathers, bouncing closer, head tilted towards one side.

Mary caught her breath and held it.

The bird moved just a little bit closer.

Mary, hesitantly, reached out to pet it.

Its feathers were unusually soft—softer even than the blankets that were piled on the couch at home. Up close, she could tell that the bird had what looked like flowers twined through its down, long stems twirling round and round its body. Mary fingered one of them, but didn’t pull, gently running one thumb over a petal. “I need my sketchbook,” she breathed, and got up so quickly that she startled the bird into flight. “Um! I’ll be back!”

Her cheeks ached from grinning as she sprinted down the slope.

~*~

-“Hey, Mary, I’m having a birthday party this weekend,” Helen said, coming up to her with a grin.

“A birthday party?”

“Yeah! You should come.”

Mary’s grin faltered a little. “Oh. Um. Papa doesn’t usually like me going places without him.” But I go to the Forest, don’t I? She tried not to think about Blake or the others, sitting not that far from her. “But maybe I can ask!”

Helen nodded, appeased, and Mary tried to ignore the nervous excitement buzzing in her stomach. Maybe Papa could come, she thought. Then he wouldn’t have to worry, and I could still go and hang out with my friends.

When Papa came to pick her up after school, she asked, “Hey, Papa? Helen’s having a birthday party this weekend.”

“I’m sure she’ll enjoy that.”

“She invited me to come. Can I go?”

Papa studied her for several long, agonizing moments. “You’ll have homework to do,” he said carefully.

“I’ll get it all done Friday night!”

“You never get it done that early.”

“But I will! You can watch me. Or, or you could come to the party, too. I won’t get into any trouble, Papa. I promise.”

“You’re a child, Mary. Trouble is all children get into.” He shook his head. “No. I don’t think you should go.”

“Come on, Papa, please. I never get to hang out with my friends.”

“You spend time with them at school.” Papa grabbed her arm, roughly, and dragged her to the car. “You can go when you’re older.”

“How much older?”

Papa didn’t say anything.

“I really won’t get into trouble,” Mary said, something tightening in her chest. She didn’t know why this bothered her so much, but she found herself pressing, “It could even just be for a few moments! I just want to—”

“No, Mary. I want you safe. Where I can see you. This discussion is over.”

“Everyone else gets to hang out with their friends.”

“You aren’t everyone else. I don’t know why any responsible parent would let their kids run around unsupervised—not when so many people go missing.”

Before Mary had really had time to think about what she was saying, she muttered, “Just because Uncle Ian disappeared—”

“Don’t talk about him!” Papa roared.

Mary shrank. Her heart thundered in her chest. Very suddenly, she was aware of the fact that they were still in the school parking lot, and that people had stopped to stare at Papa’s outburst.

Papa seemed to realize this, too, because his attention swept around the observers. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “You’re not going,” he growled. “That’s final. I don’t know why you’re putting up such a protest. It’s unreasonable.”

All she could do was nod, even as something tightened in her chest.

“Get in the car.”

I don’t want to, some part of her thought desperately, but she listened, anyways, sliding into the front seat and trying not to hunch her shoulders.

Papa got into the driver’s seat. He started the car, and they pulled away from the school, the worried faces of Mary’s classmates disappearing behind her.

Something welled in Mary’s chest and clogged her throat, but she bit her lip and shoved it down, some part of her understanding that crying would probably make Papa angrier right now.

“I’m doing this to keep you safe,” Papa said, breaking the silence. “You understand that, right? I can’t risk you disappearing like—like others.” He stumbled over the words, and his voice was strained, like he was trying hard to keep it level.

“I-I know, Papa.” Her voice cracked, a little, and she didn’t quite dare look at Papa to see how he reacted.

Papa didn’t say anything more—not even when they got home—and Mary hurried to her room, shutting the door.

She hadn’t even had half a second to think about what she was doing before she was scrambling out her window. Running to the Forest was almost second nature, now, and she found herself sprinting up the grassy slope before she’d really had time to think about it. Her eyes burned, and her vision blurred, a little, as she hurtled between the trees. She nearly collided with a sturdy trunk; her hands flew out to brace herself against it, and she just stood there for a few moments, shaking, tears flowing down her cheeks. She stayed quiet, scrubbing at her eyes as she tried to get the tears to stop. It’s stupid, she thought. I shouldn’t be so upset. It’s just a birthday party.

“Your face is wet.”

Mary started, despite herself. She pulled away from the tree. “Y-yeah.”

“Why?”

Mary rubbed her eyes fiercely. “B-because I’m crying.”

“Crying?” The Forest’s voice trailed off into a breeze, the word picked up by various creatures inside. After a few moments, an answering murmur came: sad upset overwhelmed too much emotion—

“You are hurt.” It wasn’t a question, and there was something almost angry underneath it.

Mary flinched backwards, because for a moment all she could hear was Papa’s voice, and she hadn’t come here because she wanted to be yelled at again— “Don’t be angry. Please.”

The whole Forest seemed to suddenly go quiet. “You are hurt,” the Forest repeated, and this time it sounded vaguely uncertain, “because of anger?”

“I’m not hurt,” Mary said stubbornly. “It’s stupid.”

“Mary,” the Forest said, and for a brief, fleeting moment, she was reminded of Uncle Ian, gently soothing her after she’d fallen and scraped a knee, just before picking her up to tell her a story.

(Papa had told her stories too, once. When had that stopped?)

When the Forest spoke again, its voice was back to normal, and she could believe she’d imagined the whole thing. “It is understandable,” the Forest said. “Humans often hurt others when they are angry.”

“H-he—he just wants to keep me safe. He’s just worried.”

“But you are still hurt.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Mary said quickly. “I just—I don’t want to think about it.”

The Forest went silent again.

Mary stayed silent, pressed against a tree, until something fluttered near her foot. She blinked, lifting her head.

A bird had fluttered closer. Its faintly-glowing feathers illuminated the ground around her.

Something shifted in the undergrowth. A creature that vaguely resembled a fox emerged from the bush, lifting its head to press against her hand. Mary’s fingers curled into the animal’s fur, and it curled up against her. Mary giggled, the sound wet, as more animals emerged, gently pressing against her. “Thank you.”

A low hum went through the Forest as a response.

~*~

-The Forest asked, “Why do you talk to me?”

Mary stopped pouring the water for a moment, startled by the unexpected question. “I, um. Do you not want me to?”

The nearest tree creaked. “It is simply strange. Humans do not often talk to me.”

She wasn’t sure how to take that—as a reprimand, as a statement, as a question. She tried to answer, anyways. “Well, um. It’s because I like having someone to talk to.”

“You do not have humans to talk to?”

“I do!” she hurried to say. “I have Papa, and the kids at school, and lots of other people! But, um. They maybe don’t listen as well? But it’s okay! I know they’re just busy and have lots of other things to worry about and I’m just a kid who makes them worry and causes trouble and—” She paused for breath, and found she wasn’t sure how else she could continue, so she just fell silent instead.

The Forest waited.

Mary whispered, “It’s lonely, sometimes.”

The trees creaked. The wind echoed between them, making the whole Forest sound strangely hollow.

Mary asked, “Is it lonely for you, too?”

Birds fluttered overhead; vines twisted a little around the nearest tree trunk. “I have never talked to anyone before.”

“Is it because of the stories? Because if it’s the stories, then—then I can make them stop!”

A wingbeat fluttered near her ear. “I do not know the stories,” it answered. “I have never had need to talk to anyone before.”

“Oh. How come?”

“Everything within my borders is connected. The trees,” the trunks leaned forward, “the birds,” one rushed overhead, “the stones,” a couple pebbles bounced down the path. “I can see, and hear, and feel everything that is connected to me.”

“Even me?”

“No. You are not a part of the Forest.”

Mary tried not to think about how strangely empty that made her feel. “But you know I’m here. You can hear me.”

“Yes. Through the ears of the birds, and the mice, and the deer. I can see you through the eyes of the ants and the rabbits and things humans have no name for. I can speak through the voices of the wind, and the leaves, and the stones, and you will hear because of your presence within my boundaries. I am many and one at once; I have no need to talk to others.”

“Oh.” Mary scratched a finger in the dirt. “But, um. Then. Um.”

The Forest waited, silent save for a bird call, somewhere in the distance.

Mary chewed her lip, then took a deep breath. “There are stories about people disappearing when they come here. I thought maybe, um—maybe you were taking people because you were lonely? But if you don’t need to speak to anyone—and it’s silly, anyways, I’m being dumb, because if people disappeared then you would’ve taken me and Blake and it’s just a silly superstition, anyways.”

Something soft brushed against Mary’s legs; when she turned, it had already disappeared, eyes gleaming in the undergrowth. “Sometimes,” the Forest said, “things from the Outside enter my boundaries.”

Mary cocked her head.

“Some find their way out. Others stay, and become a part of the Forest.”

“Become a part of you?”

“Yes.”

“But, um, how does that—how does that work? Do they build homes here? But then why don’t they come back to see their families? Dad had a friend—he thought he came here. They never found him.”

“No,” the Forest answered, in a long burst of wind that was more like a sigh. “You do not understand. They become a part of the Forest.”

Mary frowned.

“I can show you.”

Some warning rang in the back of Mary’s mind, then; some instinct that told her that she should leave, that she would not like whatever she was about to see. But she didn’t move, her legs too stiff, her eyes wide as she stared into the too-dark depths of the Forest.

The undergrowth rustled and shifted. A nearby tree creaked and cracked, loudly, and it took Mary a moment to realize it was turning, the roots tugging free of the ground and shifting. Small lights flickered from the grass and popped around the tree’s trunk. A large, bulbous growth had formed on the side of the tree, half-covered in bark and moss; the layers peeled back slowly with a cracking, snapping sound to reveal what lay underneath.

The thing might’ve been human, once. It looked vaguely human-shaped. The arms were twisted above its head, almost completely subsumed by the trunk. A large branch curled through one shoulder, sprouting several large, faintly glowing flowers. The legs had elongated into something that almost resembled roots, toes breaking through shoes that had half-decayed. Moss patterned the lower portion of the person’s face like a beard. Its eyes were half-lidded, glowing white and pupil-less in the dark.

A jumble of emotions Mary couldn’t quite parse apart fluttered in her chest.

Then the maybe-person’s mouth moved, and spoke in a voice that rasped with disuse. “This is what I mean,” it said, and the words seemed to be echoed by the birds, by the leaves, by every single thing around them until Mary felt too hemmed-in. “They are transformed by the Forest. They become a part of me.”

Suddenly it felt like the unnatural darkness of the Forest had lifted, and Mary couldn’t help gaping. Each tree seemed to have something else attached to it—a deer skeleton, threaded through with vines, or a fox that still seemed mostly alive but was covered in mushrooms, or nothing more than a vague face that had been trapped in the hollow wood. The mouse that skittered across the ground carried fungus on its back; the deer that pranced, just in view, had antlers that had twisted out of shape, greenery growing along its chin and neck, legs too long and too many. A many-eyed thing blinked at her, long claws trailing through the undergrowth.

Mary didn’t know when she’d surged to her feet, nor when she’d started running, nor when her breath had gotten caught in her throat. All she knew was that she needed to get out, out, out, back to light and safety and away from that thing in the tree—

She burst into daylight, tripped, and fell, skidding across the grass and scuffing her palms. She lay there a few moments, shivering, hiccupping, waiting for something to step out of the Forest and follow her.

Nothing did. When Mary pushed herself onto her knees, the Forest was as silent as always.

~*~

-The man in the tree wouldn’t stop staring at her.

She saw it whenever she blinked, or looked in a mirror, or caught something out of the corner of her eye. She couldn’t stop seeing it, those glowing eyes boring deeply into hers. It made her chest clench, and her breath shuddered.

“Mary,” one of her teachers said, voice just on the edge of concern, “are you doing alright?” Mary looked at her teacher, and for a moment, she thought his eyes were glowing. She blinked, and it was gone.

(I know what happened to the missing people.)

Mary forced a smile and said, “Fine!”

“I can call your father. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind picking you up if you’re not feeling well—”

“No!” Mary took a deep breath, then continued, “I’m fine. I don’t need to worry him.”

The teacher didn’t look convinced, but he let it go.

The day passed in a haze. One moment, she was sitting in class, staring at a worksheet. The next, the end of day announcements came on, and she was wandering down the hall towards the office.

Papa came to pick her up and speak to her homeroom teacher. She couldn’t really focus on what they were saying; she kept staring at Papa, wondering if she should tell him. (I know what happened to Uncle Ian.)

Papa tugged her towards the car, and she didn’t protest, allowing him to usher her into the seat. Ask, a part of her whispered. Ask me what’s wrong. Please. I need to talk about it.

Don’t ask, another part of her hissed. I can’t do it. I can’t say anything. I don’t want you to be mad at me.

She didn’t even realize how silent the ride home had been until they pulled into the driveway. Papa pulled her, roughly, from her seat and dragged her into the house. He shut the door, but didn’t let go of her arm.

Oh, she thought. He’s noticed. He’s going to ask now.

“Mary,” he said, and for the first time she noticed how hard he was working his jaw, and how harsh his voice came out. “One of my coworkers said they saw you running out of the Forest yesterday.”

Mary’s heart dropped like a rock into her stomach. That’s not what I wanted to talk about, she thought, desperate. That’s not how I wanted this conversation to go.

“What did I tell you,” Papa asked, “about going to the Forest?”

Mary knew she was supposed to say something, here, but she froze, Papa’s image overlapping with that of the man in the tree.

“I told you,” Papa growled, “not to go back there.” His voice lifted, rising to an almost hysterical pitch. “I told you not to go to the Forest! You could get hurt! Do you want to disappear like all those others? Is that what you want? To disappear and leave me alone?” He shook her, roughly, and her head spun.

Maybe it was the disorientation, or Papa’s words, or the desperate attempt to get attention off her. Maybe she just didn’t know how to keep it in anymore, because she blurted, “I know what happened to Uncle Ian.”

Papa suddenly went very, very still.

“H-he—the Forest—it’s magic. He became a part of it. He’s still there.” Mary looked at Papa desperately. “I’m sorry.”

Papa didn’t move for several long, long moments. When he did, it was to hit her, sharply, across the side of her face. Mary would’ve fallen, had Papa not still had such a harsh hold on her. “Don’t talk about Ian,” he shouted, and he hit her again. “He made his own choices. It’s his own fault he’s gone.” And again. “I won’t let you make the same mistakes.” And again. He was crying, now, his voice near hysterical. “I’m doing this for your own good.” He hit her again. “Don’t go back to the Forest. Don’t go back there!”

“Papa—” Her head throbbed. She was crying too, she thought, but her world was spinning, and she was having trouble focusing. “Papa, please—”

She woke up on the floor, with the house dark, and Papa gone.

~*~

-Mary hadn’t intended to go back to the Forest. Not really; not after seeing—

Eyes glowing, moss coating its chin, Mary wondering desperately if this was how the Forest knew her—

But she was tired, and lonely, and hurt, and she no longer knew where else to go.

The route to the Forest seemed longer than before. She wondered, absently, if Papa would notice that she left and come after her.

(Did it matter, if she didn’t come back?)

Mary dragged herself up the slope; she shook, a little, her heart thundering in her chest. She pulled herself inside the tree line, but didn’t make it very far before she collapsed, curling up against the trunk of the tree.

The Forest was silent. That was good; Mary wasn’t sure what she would’ve done if something had come to see her.

She stayed curled against the tree, shaking and silent, for a long time. “Is Uncle Ian here?” she whispered.

The Forest didn’t respond, save for a quiet wind that, if she listened closely, she thought might’ve whispered Ian’s name.

“It’s just—he went missing. Like a lot of people. Him and Papa were really close. They used to tell me stories—Ian was really fascinated about the Forest, you know. But then he disappeared, and Papa stopped telling stories.” Mary pulled her knees to her chest, but it couldn’t quite stop her shaking. “Why?” she whispered. “Why do you take people, and—and—” She couldn’t quite bring herself to say the words; she didn’t know what she might’ve said if she did. “Can you let them go?” Mary asked instead. “I-if Uncle Ian were—if he came back, then maybe Papa would change back, too. Maybe he’d stop—” She broke off, a fractured part of her brushing against another thought she didn’t really want to have. “Please let him go. Please.”

The Forest was silent for a long moment before something gentle brushed her shoulder. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“They are interconnected to my magic. They are part of the greater consciousness. I do not know if their consciousnesses can be unwound.”

“Oh.” Mary leaned heavily against the tree. “Do you think,” she asked tiredly, “I could become part of it, too?”

The Forest went still.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “Papa’s always angry or worried or—he’s not happy. A-and I don’t—he scares me. I don’t want him to scare me, because I know he loves me, but he does, and it’s—! And I keep thinking about the—the person in the tree, and I can’t sleep, and Papa won’t listen because he’s just mad that I went into the Forest, and I’m tired! I don’t want to go back, and I don’t want to think about—about what happened to Uncle Ian, and I don’t want to be alone anymore.” She didn’t know when she’d started crying, but once it started, she couldn’t stop. She shook and heaved, great shuddering sobs rattling her chest and she pressed herself against the tree trunk. “If I disappear into the Forest,” she whispered, “then no one would mind. Papa would be sad for a while, but then he wouldn’t have anything to worry about anymore.” Her words died out slowly, and she just sat there, a heavy sense of exhaustion weighing down on her chest.

The silence went on for a little longer. Then, in a voice so quiet she might not have heard it, had it not been magic: “I hurt you.”

Mary curled up tighter.

“I hurt you,” the voice repeated, and it sounded so strangely human that Mary couldn’t help thinking about the person in the tree again. “I am sorry. I am sorry, I did not mean—I only wanted to explain—I should not have showed you that.”

Mary shrugged, shoulder scraping the bark. She winced, but didn’t move away.

“If I hurt you,” the Forest asked, “why did you come back?”

Mary didn’t know how to answer that for a long moment. “Papa hurts me, too. But he does it because he cares. I—I know you didn’t mean it.”

“That does not make it okay.”

Why do you sound so human now? Mary wanted to ask, but didn’t, almost afraid of the answer.

(A part of her wondered if it was because of the people who were a part of the Forest’s consciousness; if they gave the Forest a way to understand what humans were like. She wished it had worked a little sooner.)

“What can I do?” the Forest asked, the trees creaking.

“Just let me stay here. Please?”

The Forest didn’t respond, and Mary took that as an affirmative. She stayed, curled against the trunk of a tree, until faint sunlight started to peek through the tree line.

She knew she should leave, then. She didn’t want to.

(Didn’t want to go back. Didn’t want to stay. Didn’t know what she really wanted anymore.)

Eventually Mary stood, her legs stiff. She hesitated just inside the tree line. A part of her thought of turning and running deeper; going so deep that she’d be lost in the Forest forever.

(She wondered if that was the reason so many people went missing; if they had just gotten so tired of living in the town that they’d decided leaving for the Forest was better.)

After a few long moments of deliberation, she took a step back into the sunlight.

~*~

-Mary made it back to her room as the sun was coming up, tumbling into her bed and falling asleep almost as soon as she’d hit her pillow. Papa came to wake her up barely a moment later. He didn’t say anything; he just ushered her along, shoving her school clothes at her, driving her to school in silence.

(Mary didn’t want to go, but she didn’t want to stay. The car felt suffocating with its silence, and she practically held her breath until they reached the school building.)

The whole day seemed to pass in a sleep-deprived haze, but that was alright; it meant she didn’t have to think about Papa so much, and about his reaction and what it meant.

But she did think about the Forest, her mind twisting in useless circles as she tried to make sense of her feelings.

(She liked the Forest. She liked that it listened, and she liked the mystery, even if it scared her. But she didn’t like that it took people, and that they ended up like the thing in the tree, and that maybe there were other people out there like Papa who—

But the Forest had been upset to find out it had hurt her, and it had apologized, so maybe—

Papa never apologized.)

She hiked back out to the Forest after school, tired but determined, and set foot into the tree line with a mission in mind.

The Forest spoke, much more quickly than she’d anticipated, the ferns lifting to brush her legs, lights flaring in the darkness. “You’re back.”

“Y-yeah.”

“You did not have to come,” it said, “if I made you distressed.”

“I-I know,” she said. “I wanted to.”

The Forest didn’t say anything to that, and Mary gathered herself, trying to find the words. “What is it like,” she asked finally, “deeper inside?”

The Forest was silent for several long, long moments. “Are you sure you wish to see?”

Mary steeled herself. “Yes. I want to know if—if there’s anything—I just need to know.”

“I hurt you last time. I do not wish to hurt you again.”

Mary smiled, despite herself. “I-it’s okay. I’m choosing to do this, this time.”

“That does not—” The Forest broke off, and Mary was struck again by how strangely human the sentiment was. “If it is too much, then please say so. I will guide you back out.”

“Okay,” she said, voice shaking a little.

Carefully the trees pulled back, inching along the ground, dragging their roots from their places until there was a long, grassy path into the darkness. Lights flickered along the edges, guiding Mary inward.

For a moment, Mary remembered the stories about those lights, and how following them could lead to a person getting lost forever.

But she also knew that the Forest wouldn’t mind if she chose to turn and walk out, instead. Slowly, hesitantly, she edged forward, walking carefully along the path.

The pathway was bright, lit by brightly glowing balls of light that kept the darkness in the rest of the Forest at bay. Trees and stones and animals continued to move out of her way, extending the path further and further into the Forest’s center. She wondered if she could keep walking and come out on the other side.

(She wondered if Papa would come looking for her, or if he’d just stay in his empty house and grieve.)

The trees stopped moving, and Mary stepped into the center of a large, dark clearing. She blinked, trying to peer through the darkness, willing her eyes to adjust.

Lights flickered in the clearing, a rainbow of blue and pink and yellow, flooding the grass and the trees with brilliant, fractured hues. The long strands of grass shimmered with dew, waving in the slight breeze. A massive tree grew in the center of the clearing, trunk twisted so that it looked like it was made up of dozens of smaller trees. Bird nests filled the upper branches, protected by a thick canopy of leaves. Tiny hatchlings peered out of their nests at Mary, feathers still dull, but scattering small bursts of light as they ruffled their downy wings. A larger bird flew overhead, gliding towards one of the nests and perching to feed one of the chicks.

Something emerged from the trees, and Mary gasped as a large stag walked towards her. Its antlers looked like gnarled branches, chipping apart in areas to reveal bursts of color. Its neck seemed too long, its legs too spindly, and when it huffed, it breathed mist. Mary was almost afraid, until a doe and fawn stepped out behind it. The fawn looked much like its father, if a little more proportionate, but had a pair of extra legs it bounced on. It jumped towards Mary, curiously lifting its head and nuzzling at her hand. Mary giggled, stroking its velvety fur.

“Being part of the Forest is not always death,” the Forest said, and it took Mary a moment to understand it was coming from the stag. “There is life, too. One is given power and care through life, and when they pass, they become a part of the Forest again, to help support life. It is the way of things.” A pause. “But I should not have shown you the man. It distressed you. That was wrong.”

Mary knelt, scratching the fawn under the chin. “You didn’t know. You, um. You hadn’t interacted much with humans before.”

“It was still wrong. I should not have hurt you.”

A bird fluttered near her, and the Forest shifted, voice coming from it, instead of the stag. “I do not always understand human morals,” it said, “but I understand harm. My concern has always been whether or not harm has been done to those that are a part of me.”

“Y-you said that’s why you chased us out before.”

“Yes. I allowed you to stay because you did not cause harm. I should not have then caused harm to you.”

Mary stood. A couple more birds fluttered around her, stirring her clothes and making her giggle. “It’s beautiful,” she admitted. “I wonder if that’s why people stay here, sometimes.”

The Forest went quiet, suddenly. “They get lost,” it said after a long, long moment.

“They can’t find their way out.”

“Sometimes. Sometimes, they are lost in their minds, rather than in the physical world. They stay here and do not leave.” A pause. “I do not want that to happen to you.”

“But you can always guide me back out. Right?”

“Yes.”

“And—and you can guide others out, too?”

A pause. Lights flickered, lighting up a path. “If they choose,” it said finally.

“Good. Because—because I don’t want—I don’t want people like Ian to go missing anymore.”

The Forest stayed silent for a long time. Mary didn’t mind; she let the silence grow, absently petting the fawn until it felt like things had grown too late. Then she stood, letting the Forest guide her back to the edge, lights flickering along the path.

The Forest stopped her briefly with a whisper of, “Mary.”

She cocked her head.

“You are always welcome here,” it said, “if you need refuge.”

Mary smiled, a small thing that felt more real than anything she’d given over the past several days. “Okay.”

~*~

-Mary hadn’t really meant to talk to anyone about the Forest—at least, not until she had a better plan. She didn’t know how to explain what she’d learned (didn’t think anyone would listen), and so cautiously hoarded the information to herself, going back to the Forest when she could in order to speak to it and learn more.

But then it was the weekend, and Papa was having people over from his work, and they’d gotten into the adult drinks and gone red in the face and started hollering and laughing in the living room. Mary knew that she wasn’t supposed to go in there—wasn’t sure she wanted to, really—but she’d heard one of Papa’s friends say, “All those stories about the Forest are bullshit. Mark went in a couple days ago, and he came back out, perfectly fine.”

Mary paused, hovering close to the doorway.

“Maybe he just—maybe he just got so lost that he came out the other side.”

“Nah, nah, I’m telling you—he said he saw these colored light things.” The words were slurred, but Mary couldn’t help her grin, and she pressed her hands tightly to her mouth to keep from giggling. “Said they led him right out.”

Papa said, “You shouldn’t tell such stories.”

“Oh, come on, Rick, lighten up. It’s all in good fun.”

“You shouldn’t—you shouldn’t talk about stuff like that.”

Something in Papa’s voice made the hairs on Mary’s neck stand on end. She peered cautiously around the doorway.

Papa was leaning forward in his recliner, bottle clasped in his hands, his expression distant and haggard. “Ian talked like that,” Papa said. “Ian talked about that all the time, about his—about how the Forest was magic, and how he’d go see it one day. Nobody believed it. People just—just fucking ran away. But Ian believed in those stupid fairytales, and he wouldn’t stop looking. He believed them so much it killed him.”

One of the men laughed, and slapped Papa’s shoulder, and said, “Right, a story’s what killed him.”

Papa shoved the man’s arm away. “He wouldn’t leave it alone! He kept—he obsessed over it until—until there was nothing left. He’s dead, now. Maybe if people didn’t talk about those damn stories—” He shook his head and took another swig from his bottle.

Mary stepped into the living room, and without truly pausing to think, she said, “But they’re true, Papa.”

All eyes were very suddenly on her. She quailed under them, suddenly wondering if she should run back to her room.

“Look at this!” one of the men said, pointing at Mary. “Kiddo’s going to join us! What’ve you got to say, kiddo?”

Papa stared at her, a dark look on his face.

(Mary remembered telling Papa about what happened to Ian. Papa had been so angry, then. She wondered if it’d be different now, with friends around. She wondered if it mattered.) “I-it’s true, though. The Forest—people disappear because they become a part of it. But it’s not trying to! It’s because of the weird magic stuff.”

“Weird magic stuff,” someone repeated, laughing.

“Yeah! It’s not all scary, though. Some of it’s really pretty, too. A-and we worked out a way to maybe keep people from disappearing? That’s what those lights were. I talked to the Forest about it the other day, and—”

“You went back to the Forest?” Papa asked.

The room suddenly went very, very quiet.

Mary took a hesitant step backwards. Papa’s scowl had deepened, his eyebrows so low that they cast his eyes in deep shadow.

Papa stood. He stumbled, a little, and nearly dropped the bottle.

Mary scrambled back further.

One of the men said, “Hey, Rick, maybe you shouldn’t—”

“I told you,” Papa said, low and quiet and fierce, “not to go back to the Forest.”

Mary’s eyes darted towards the door.

“Look at me!”

Mary whipped towards Papa, who had come much, much closer than she’d expected. “I-I’m sorry.”

Something sharp stung her cheek. She fell and sprawled across the floor, hands scraping roughly against the wood.

“Rick, hey!”

“Why did you go back there?” Papa snarled, and the way his face contorted made him seem more like the not-human from the Forest, rather than the Papa she’d known as a child. “I told you not to.”

“I’m sorry!” Mary said, scrambling backwards.

Papa lifted his hand again.

One of his coworkers caught it, hissing, “Rick, I think you’ve had a little too much—”

“Let go of me!”

Mary scrambled to her feet and ran.

Papa roared behind her, but she didn’t look back, crashing through the door, sprinting bare-foot through the darkening streets. She wove through the houses, and after a while she heard an angry shout of, “Mary!” from behind her.

Papa was chasing after her. Papa was far away, now, but he could catch up quickly.

(What happens when he catches her?)

(“I will give you refuge, if you need it.”)

Mary stumbled from between the houses and onto the field, the Forest looming dark and silent ahead. She hurried up the slope, chest rattling, breathing heavy, scrambling up, up, up, one hand reaching frantically for the trees.

Heavy breathing and footsteps sounded behind her, and she’d just made it to the tree line when Papa grabbed the back of her shirt. She stretched an arm, frantically, towards the Forest, but Papa dragged her backwards, lifting her like a disobedient cat. “Where are you going?” Papa asked, shaking her, and it hurt. She fumbled for his arm, and she shook her again. “Huh? You think you’re going back there?”

Mary choked on a sob. “Help,” she said, and it was more a sob than an actual cry.

“Help?” Papa snarled. “I am helping you, I’m keeping you from ending up like Ian. You should be grateful, but you never know how—nothing but trouble. We’re going home. We’re going home, and then you’re going to—”

A harsh wind echoed between the trees.

Papa stopped.

Mary dangled, the tips of her feet touching the ground.

(“He has caused you harm,” something that sounded eerily like the Forest whispered in her mind.

He’s protecting me.

Is he?)

“You aren’t helping me.”

The world went very quiet, and it took a long moment for Mary to realize she’d said anything at all. When Papa responded, his voice was low and dangerous: “What?”

Mary swallowed, but continued, one hand reaching to grab Papa’s arm. “You’re hurting me,” she said. “A-and I know it’s because you’re scared, but—but—but I want you to stop hurting me!”

“I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“Then why do I feel safer in the Forest then with you?”

Papa’s face contorted into a snarl. He shook her, roughly.

Mary grimaced, her head spinning, one hand silently reaching back towards the Forest. Something brushed against her fingertips.

Papa growled, “We’re leaving. You are not to come back to this Forest. You are not—”

And then the Forest spoke, long and low and rumbling, like it was shaking the very earth. “What are you doing?”

Papa froze. His grip loosened, just enough so that Mary could drop to the ground, coughing and sputtering.

Rough hands—almost like wood—gently touched Mary’s arm.

Papa’s voice came, low and broken and uncertain: “Ian?”

Mary blinked up, and for a moment she saw Uncle Ian’s face as it once had been, soft and friendly with a twinkle in his eyes. Then it shifted, a little, and she noticed the rough, cracked edges of his face and the bushes along his back. He lifted Mary carefully and turned towards Papa, face contorting into a scowl.

The trees leaned forward ominously. “You have done harm to the child.”

Papa took several steps backwards, eyes too wide. “I’m protecting her,” he said. “Ian, I’m making sure she doesn’t get hurt. I’m trying to keep her from ending up like you.”

“This is not protection,” the Forest rumbled; Uncle Ian’s chest reverberated with the words, and things moved behind him, large and dark and intimidating, gnashing teeth and snarling loud enough that the cries seemed to blend together.

“Sometimes,” Papa said, but his voice was wavering, “sometimes you have to hurt people to protect them. Ian, you have to understand. Sometimes—”

The wind roared through the trees, moving so quickly that it stirred Mary’s clothes and nearly knocked Papa off his feet. “No,” the Forest said. “You have done her harm.”

Papa’s expression contorted, into something angry and feral and frightening. “What do you care?” he snapped. “You’re not really Ian. You’re not really here. You’re just some sort of—some sort of crazy hallucination. Just a bunch of trees.”

“I have many names, and none at all,” the Forest boomed, and it sounded like the thunder of falling stones, of countless animal cries and the crash of waterfalls. “I have been here since time began, and even before. I have seen humans far stronger and braver than you. I have seen love, and life, and death and pain. I have survived throughout the ages, and I shelter those who would take refuge within my trees. And I will protect my own.”

A creature lunged from the depths of the Forest, massive and snarling ferociously, covered in bark-like armor with long claws that stretched like shadows towards Papa. He scrambled backwards, panicked, as it swiped at his chest. More appeared, wraith-like and warped, a mass of long fangs and claws and eyes.

Ian’s fingers curled tighter around Mary, and she lifted a hand to grip his shoulder.

Papa looked at Mary for a moment, then to the wall of darkness that snarled at him. He stumbled a step back, and then another, and then turned and bolted back to the town.

The creatures stayed where they were for a few moments, waiting until he was out of sight until, one by one, they moved back into the trees.

“Are you alright, Mary?” the Forest asked, Ian carefully setting her back on her feet.

Mary hiccupped and shook, but she said, “Y-yes.”

The Forest did not answer, and she found herself admitting, “N-no.” She sat, and hugged her legs to her chest, and tried not to think about how much her neck hurt. “I-I can’t go back. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

“Then stay here.”

Mary’s head whipped up, but she had no one to look at, save the empty expanse of the Forest. “I-I don’t—I don’t want to end up like—”

Ian stretched out a hand, slowly, and reached to gently touch the space above her heart. Light flickered through his fingertip, warm and bright and alive. “I cannot stop that from happening, if you choose to stay here permanently,” the Forest said, and for the first time it sounded pained. “But I can give you refuge, when you want it. I can guide you to the edges, so that you won’t be lost for so long that I overcome you. I can provide you with a piece of my magic, so that even if you travel, you will have my protection with you. But,” and its voice went whisper-quiet, “only if you want it.”

Mary touched Ian’s hand, gently. “You’d look after me?”

“Yes.”

Mary grinned, then laughed, and though the tears still stung, they didn’t feel quite as bad anymore. “Okay.”

~*~

-Most of the time, nobody goes to the Forest outside of town.

There are stories, though; of a young woman who lives within the Forest, who can do strange magic and plays tricks on travelers, who has traveled through the world herself. They say that she was the daughter of someone who lived in the town, once, and that her parents died, or moved away and left her there, or were stolen away by the Forest itself so that it could have their child.

Sometimes people claim to see her—a wild-haired woman in hiking gear or a mismatched dress or heavy winter clothes, sitting in the trees or talking to animals or yelling at travelers when they get too close. She’d guide people out of the Forest, sometimes, and those people talked about the fantastic things they saw within—about fairy lights, and unusual creatures, and shifting trees.

Most people don’t believe the stories—a forest is just a forest, after all. But every so often, someone gets curious enough to go to the edge and look in. And, when they do, they sometimes find her grinning back at them.

#original fiction big bang #forest child #my writing

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storytimefromthecreed · 5 years ago

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To Love From Near and Afar

His hair was lighter, and his face more lined. It had been years since they’d last spoken, but had it really been so many? A blade in the crowd, Ezio stood entranced as Leo chuckled with his workers and took a step back to investigate his experiment. When he smiled, lines creased at his eyes and remained at his cheeks. It looked like he’d smiled many times over the years. Good, Ezio thought to himself, that was the intended affect. Let Leo think he’d left or perished, anything that would keep him safe.

His heart tugged in Leo’s direction, and Leo looked over his shoulder for a moment. Just a moment. His eyes searched the crowds, and the smile frozen on his face faltered. Ezio remained motionless, blending into the crowd easily. Someone called his attention, and Leo returned to his work. Ezio smiled, it was good to see him safe and well, but he’d stayed too long. He left for the evening.

As he lay awake that night, his heart tugging him in the direction of Leo, Ezio thought of what he could do. Playing this game for years had taken a toll on him, and he didn’t know how much longer he could go without speaking to Leo. Touching him, kissing him.

Rolling out of bed, Ezio bound for the door. Once more and then never again, Ezio told himself. I just need ensure his safety, and I’ll never see Leonardo de Vinci again.

Finding his way to the workshop took some tries as Leo always moved around and Ezio was trying to remain in the shadows, but he found it. The candlelight flicked shadows on the street, and Ezio poked his head to the window.

In the small room, was Leo. In one hand, he held a piece of paper while in the other a pen. He spoke to himself as he fiddled with his work, and Ezio found himself transported back in time. They’d do that all the time. With Leo working on a Codex page or assisting Ezio with whatever he needed, Ezio would sit in a chair and watch Leo work and talk a million miles an hour. If Ezio tried to help, he would receive a slap on the back of his hand. “You’re going to break it.” Leo remarked, then tilted his head. “Yes, hm, maybe? You know what? I’m overthinking it.”

“I’m not going to break anything.” Ezio rubbed the stringing hand and pouted, “How do you know what I was doing?”

“But then why would….Ohhhh, that’s genius. Well, of course it’s genius. It would have to be, otherwise I’d not have so much trouble with it. I wonder,” Leo tinkered with his toy. “Because you’re clumsy.”

“What?” Ezio’s jaw dropped and he mouthed some words before settling on, “I’m an Assassin, Leonardo. I run around the city, fight evildoers daily, I am not clumsy.”

“When you’re being an Assassin.” Leo kept working, etching a design, keeping his eyes on it. “When you’re Ezio Auditore, well,” his eyes flickered to Ezio’s and he winked, “you often leave some things left to be desired.”

“I-” Ezio’s pout intensified and his cheeks went red. “Well, I… don’t know what you need me here then. Since I break all your precious,” he gestured around vaguely, “...stuff.”

Leo finished his sketch and set down his pencil. Then, he crossed over to Ezio and laughed, “To brighten the room.” Ezio’s blush deepened and Leo kissed him. “I’m only teasing, my love. Now please, sit there and look pretty.”

Ezio fought his smile and kissed Leo once more. “Fine, fine,” he rolled his eyes, acting like this was the worse job in the world when in face he loved nothing more. “Just because you asked so nicely.”

Now, watching Leo speak to himself as he worked, always working, Ezio’s heart tugged once more. Stronger now, from the nearness and the memories, tears sprang into his eyes and Ezio took a step back. Silently saying goodbye to his love, Ezio straightened, turned, and promptly tripped.

The clang of paint cans made him wince and the rope tightening around him wrapped him like a caccoon before dropped him to the ground. The air left him and Ezio groaned. Light surrounded him as the door opened and before he could speak, he was being hit. “Leo! Leo!” He moaned between swats to the head. “It’s me! It’s Ezio!”

The hitting continued as Leo said, “Oh I know exactly who this is! You no good-! I can’t believe-! All this time-!” Too angry to finish his sentences, he stopped and began setting this paint cans straight and untying the Assassin.

“Wait,” Ezio kicked off the ropes at his feet. “You knew I was there?”

“You make it rather obvious.” Leo gestured to his clothing and let down a hand. Taking it, Ezio was helped up and brushed off. “Years, Ezio, years.” When Leo had worked on straightening Ezio’s collar, he slapped him on the back of the head again. An angry quip rested on Ezio’s tongue and his explanation died when he saw the tears in Leo’s eyes. The corners of his mouth were pulled into a quivering frown, and Ezio saw that he had been using his left hand. Before he could comment on this, Leo continued, “Didn’t you think of what I was going through? Waiting day in and day out for you to arrive? A letter, a note? Anything?”

“Leo-” Ezio said softly.

“Do you know how hard it was? Not knowing if you were ok? If you were….”Leo closed his eyes and crossed his arms. His right was slower than before and Ezio frowned.

“Are you well?” Ezio breathed, already knowing the answer.

“And you just left.” Leo breathed, opening his eyes so the tears spilled. “You’ll say it was to protect me or that your work needed you, but you…you couldn’t tell me? You… couldn’t say goodbye? After all we’ve been through? I didn’t get a goodbye?”

“Wait…” Ezio examined the scene once more. The paint cans, the ropes tied from the roof. “Did you…did you make this trap for me?”

“Well,” Leo swat away Ezio’s hand when he tried to brush his tears away. Palming his face, again his right hand moving slower than his left, Leo explained, “I couldn’t prove it was you any other way.”

Ezio opened his mouth to say, well, anything. You could’ve told me? How? Ezio was hard to track these days. You should’ve let me go? No, that hurt too much. So, he just did the only thing he could. He took Leo’s hands and kissed them. Leo tried glaring up at him, but he missed the contact so much all he could do was muster a frown. “I’m so sorry. It was wrong for me to believe this was the best thing for you. For us.” Ezio breathed, “I’ve just…life hasn’t given me the best track record for the ones I love. Leo, you know this. I-I couldn’t have anything happen to you. I had to keep you safe.” Leo was silent a moment and Ezio squeezed his hands. Leo squeezed back, his right weaker than his left, and Ezio’s heart fell. “I tried very hard to keep you safe from the harm of the outside world, and it seems there are some dangers that not even I can save you from. What is it?”

Leo poked his chest, his mood growing lighter. “Don’t think you can just return here and sweep me off my feet, Ezio Auditore.”

“To be fair,” Ezio chuckled, feeling like they were picking up right where they left off. Like no time had passed. “You’re the one who sweep me off my feet.”

They looked at the trap once more and Leo laughed, “That was a bit dramatic on my part, isn’t it?”

Ezio shrugged, shivering from the night chill. Leo pulled him inside and closed the door. “I expected nothing more from the brilliant mind of Leonardo de Vinci.” Though the room was miles away from their home, it felt like the one he’d spent so much time in. Paintings lined the floor, some unfinished, some drying. Inventions hung wildly in the air, making him cock his head to try to understand them. Finally, his eyes went to the chair, his chair, and his smile fell when he spied the medicine there.

Leo’s eyes watched him, and he confessed, “It happens, Ezio. We’re older now, and it makes sense. I can’t imagine I’d be creating forever.”

Tears ran down his face as he realized all the time he’d lost. “You’re sick?”

“I’d rather not waste more time on it than it’s worth.” Leo pushed him into the chair and began his work again. “Now, tell me of your adventures.”

“Leonardo.” Ezio tried to raise, but Leo made to stop him. Then, he just took his hand. “What can I do? How can I help?”

“Ezio,” Leo kissed the back of his hand and looked at his work. Tears dripped to the table, and he wasn’t really looking at the map. “There are some things that even a hero like you can’t fight, Ezio. There is no point thinking of what we could or should have done, and there’s not point fighting the future. All we can do, is be.”

As the words hit his heart, Ezio rose and took Leo’s hands. The inventor finally looked at him and wept. Ezio pulled him to his chest and kissed the top of his head, his own tears falling into his hair.

Ezio stayed for years, considering this his early retirement. Leo and he enjoyed many picnics under sunsets, cold nights spent wrapped in blankets as Leo explained the stars and Ezio watched his face animate. Many love filled nights, and love filled days, when they had the chance. Dancing in the rain, Ezio singing terribly and Leo begging him to stop but then begging him to start again. They lived with love in their hearts up until the day Leo lay on his bed. He was weaker now, his hair taking on a blonder hue. They held hands and when a doctor came in and asked who Ezio was, Leo simply stated, “He’s a king, can’t you see how regal he is?” The doctor left them and Ezio cried. He’d thought he’d wept to his life’s content, and now this? With a shaking hand, Leo cupped his face, his thumb brushing away his tears. “Ezio, I need you to do something for me.”

“Say it,” Ezio breathed, tasting his tears on his lips. “Anything, and it’s yours.”

Brushing the tears from his lips, Leo memorized his face. “Keep fighting.”

“What?” Ezio rubbed his eyes. “Leo, I don’t get it. I don’t understand.”

Leo sighed, looking over the man he loved. “You’ve grown from a naïve young man to a hero before my eyes, Ezio, and I’m so lucky to have had you by my side all these years. To have loved you and be loved by you. If I could go back, I would change nothing. Now, listen closely.” Leo’s voice dropped as he was too weak, and Ezio leaned in to hear better. He pressed his head to this temple, and remained there. “There are going to be times when it’s going to be hard. When you think yourself alone and don’t want to get back up again. But you must. Not for me, for you. Promise me. Promise me you’ll keep fighting.”

He couldn’t speak, so Ezio just held Leo’s hand in both of his, buried his face in it, and nodded.

When Leo passed, Ezio bid well to the assistants who’d became his family, and told them the Assassins would be lucky to have them. Dawning his robes, he noticed they were tighter. They must have shrunk while hanging, he thought to himself. Then, pulling himself out of retirement, Ezio continued on. It was just as Leo had told him. It was hard, and some days Ezio felt he could disappear into the shadows and never emerge, but he kept fighting. He fought for Leo until he knew how to fight for himself.

#ezioLeo #ezio x leo #ezio auditore x leonardo #inspired by ACTsquad

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creepy-spooghetti · 4 years ago

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A Hapless Endearment [Creepypasta x F. Reader]

Chapter 7 - I’m On My Way

With fatigue, she leans on the wall for support and stands, weakly stumbling to the sink, refusing to look at her reflection in the mirror as she bends over and turns the faucet on. She gets soap from the dispenser on her palm and rubs both of her hands together before holding them under the water to rinse them, and immediately after that, sticks her face underneath, hoping to rid herself of the foul taste still very present in her mouth.

She spits minuscule pieces of undigested food into the sink, letting the cool water run over and wash them down the drain without another thought. The sickening stench of bile sitting in the porcelain bowl almost has her gagging once more, so she reaches over, pushes on the little silver lever, and flushes it down into the sewer pipes, never to be seen again.

Only then does she look at herself in the reflecting glass hung over the sink, not surprised when she sees dark bags under her eyes and unnaturally pale skin, no doubt results from lack of sleep and getting hit by an extreme wave of nausea so suddenly. Her lip trembles from the exertion, her eyes distant, stressed wrinkles creasing her forehead. What is happening? Why is it happening? Why are such terrifying thoughts invading her subconscious each time she goes to sleep?

Perhaps she can blame this one on the news she received yesterday, but that doesn’t explain the strange symbol. Why would she draw such a thing? What does it even mean? And what about the buzzing noise? It’s accompanied each dream she’s had down here thus far, and it made itself apparent before and during she was heaving her lungs out yesterday. It also started when she saw that figure in the woods earlier. Is it connected to something?

She rubs at her eyes listlessly and pushes herself away from the sink at once, switching the light to the bathroom off and wandering back into the living room at a pace much slower than normal. Her eyes trail up from the floor to Marshmallow, who sits on the arm of the couch, eyes narrowed as he stares at her with dilated pupils. Maybe this should worry her; after all, animals can sense things that humans can’t. But she can’t bring herself to care very much. She just wants it all to stop. She doesn’t want to be sick 24\7, or have nightmares far worse than what’s considered healthy, or be on the look-out constantly for something that’s possibly hunting her down.

She flops onto the couch rather sluggishly and runs her hands through her messy hair, gaining sight of the large symbol that she seemingly sketched onto the paper for unknown reasons. Come to think of it, her hand is beginning to cramp due to how tightly she had been holding that pencil after she woke up, and who-knows-how-long before then. Does she have an illness? Is there medication to cure it? Should she go to a doctor and explain her symptoms? She’d prefer to wait and get medical attention, if it is necessary, once she returns home, so she won’t burden her grandparents with her problems and cause them to worry.

She knows for a fact that her parents wouldn’t give it much thought if she told them she needed to go to the doctor, nor would they be very concerned. If she told them the reason, having hallucinations, nightmares, irrational and paranoid thoughts, insomnia, they’d probably call her behavior ridiculous and refuse to allow her to make an appointment. Or would they? She is still their daughter— surely they couldn’t just brush aside something like that, right?

Then again, her father did it with the murder of his sister and the disappearance of his nephew, so she can’t ever be sure. But what about her mother? Isn’t the whole maternal instinct thing still there with her? If her child was hurt or scared, isn’t it natural to be worried?

She glances over at her phone, still sat on the coffee table charging, unable to rid herself of the sudden thought that creeps into her mind. Somebody to talk to would be nice. But would she actually listen?

Sure, her grandparents are just upstairs, but not only does she not feel like making that trek all the way to the second floor, but both her Nana and Pops are likely fast asleep. They've done more than enough for her already, and they have enough stress on their shoulders as it is. She wants to avoid troubling them with anything else and make them unnecessarily frantic about her health, both physical and mental.

Reaching out a hesitant, mildly trembling hand, she unplugs her phone and unlocks it, scrolling to contacts and swiping her thumb along the screen until she sees 'Mom'. Should she really? What if she disturbs her? Or wakes her up? Even if she did, that shouldn't be an issue once she hears about her daughter possibly having some mental illness that needs to be fixed.

Mental illness is a strong way to word it. She shakes her head, continuing to stare at the call icon that pops up once she clicks her mother's contact. It's just... stressed hallucinations. Or... or strange coincidences. Yeah, that's all.

Letting out a soft sigh, she presses the green button and brings the small device to her ear, hearing it ring several times as the anticipation in her heart grows. Is this a mistake? Should she back out? Maybe she's making a big deal over nothing.

"Hello?" She sucks in a sudden breath, heart rate increasing as the familiar voice meets her ear. How should she start this?

"Um... hi, Mom." Clear anxiety is present in her tone, though she hopes that it isn't as noticeable as she thinks.

"Y\n? What is it?" There's a hint of irritation hidden in that sentence, but the girl tries to ignore it and instead focuses on the reason she called her in the first place.

"Y-yeah, uh... I need to talk to you."

"About what? You know I'm busy. If it's more questions about your father, you know I—"

"No, Mom, it isn't about Dad." She's silent a moment as she hears her mother's soft breaths over the line, trying to collect her thoughts and put them into words. "It's... it's about me."

"...Well? Did you make another painting or something?"

She shakes her head, though she knows it can't be seen. "It's... weird things that have been happening to me. I-I don't know what's going on but it's really getting to me, and I feel sick and tired and stressed out. I don't know what to do."

"What exactly has been 'happening' to you, Y\n?" Her hand tightens slightly around her phone and she lets out an inaudible sigh.

"It started out with bad dreams... really bad dreams. Of people being dead, or freaky voices, or strange markings in a tree. A-and I've been seeing things in the middle of the night, or even in the day. I can't sleep because it's so scary and I'm afraid that when I go to sleep I'll have another nightmare..."

"Y\n," An exasperated sigh erupts from the other end. "aren't you a little too old to be scared of bad dreams or the boogeyman?" It's as if a knife is shoved into her chest from the harsh words of her mother, and she fights the tears stinging her eyes, attempting to keep her voice steady.

"Mom, it... i-it isn't like that."

"You used to complain to me all the time about bad dreams when you were a kid. You aren't a kid anymore, Y\n. You're almost seventeen."

"It's more serious than just dreams, Mom—"

"Grow up. You're a teenager, Y\n. Act like it." The girl swallows hard and lands her hard gaze on the floor, unable to stop the tears from slowly rolling down her cheeks.

"You're not even listening to me!" She keeps her voice in a whisper but raises it slightly to make sure she gets the older woman's attention. "This isn't some stupid childhood fear. It's something bad, and it's really affecting me..."

"I don't have time for this. I have about a weeks' worth of papers stacked up on my desk and I have to do them. You'll get over yourself eventually and stop being so childish. Goodbye, Y\n." Before she can say anything else, a beep is heard before the line goes dead, signifying that her mother hung up. What else was she expecting? Sympathy? Concern? Reassurance? She should've known better.

"Fine," she snaps, slamming her phone down on the couch beside her and releasing a huff, "who needs you anyway?" She plants her face into the palms of her hands to stifle the quiet whimpers emanating from between her lips. "I have myself and that's all I need. You're just a... a useless, irresponsible, incompetent piece of crap for a mom." Her fingers run through her h\c locks and she shakes her head, trying to compose herself. "Why are you even a mom..."

Of course her mother would blow her off. Her very own flesh and blood, brush her aside as if she means nothing to her. It's what she's been doing for years now, so why would she expect any different? I'm stupid. I'm stupid for assuming she would be worried. She doesn't care about me. She just doesn't care. She never does.

Soon, her shoulders are shaking as sobs wrack her body. She has to go through this alone, doesn't she? Her parents won't help her, her grandparents don't need that kind of pressure. None of her friends, if she can even call them that anymore, can help her. And they wouldn't. She's the one that left them behind, and they owe her nothing.

She shakily stands to her feet, wiping away the tears with the back of her hands in order to clear up her vision so she doesn't trip over anything, and begins her ascent up the stairs, not caring to bring her phone and instead only turns off the lamp as she passes it by. She walks warily up the staircase, doing her best to avoid looking anywhere but the ground for fear of seeing something lurking in the darkness until she reaches her bedroom, thankful that the light was left on previously.

She's unsure if Marshmallow will even follow her this time and bring her some kind of company, though, considering the aggressive way he was acting just minutes ago, she highly doubts it. Her gaze falls onto her bed, then onto the window that it's attached to, unable to quell the rush of anxiety that goes through her chest. The last time she was in here, she saw... something. What was it? A trick of the light? No, surely not. It was too... strange to be a trick of the light. Not to even mention the droning that formed in her mind while she looked at it. The same kind of droning that was present in her dreams, and at the river with Jack.

Is this normal? If it was, you'd think there would be more talk about it. In blogs, on the news, in books. But she's seen no such thing. Shaking her head in dismay, she steps farther inside, edging her way toward the window and anticipating what may be standing on the other side of the glass. She takes in a deep breath, hoping to calm her nerves a bit and brace herself before peering around the corner, over past her bed, and straight through to the dark woods across from the cottage.

She scans the treeline, her heart rate slowing down when she doesn't find anything out-of-the-ordinary and releases a puff of air she didn't know she was holding in, her muscles relaxing slightly. Nothing. There's nothing, so maybe, she can actually go to sleep without having to worry about anything creeping around. She doesn't want to sleep, but she doesn't want to get sick, again, either. Although that may happen anyway if she has another unexplainably terrifying dream. She can only hope that she'll get lucky and her mind will give her a break, at least for the rest of the night.

She doesn't know what time it is, and she can't gather up the energy to check. It doesn't even matter, does it? She glances over at her lamp, silently debating on whether she should turn it off to both save electricity and hopefully hide her position to anything that may be waiting outside, or if she should leave it on to give her peace of mind. She hasn't really liked sleeping with the light on, not since she was a small child, but recently it's sounded a lot more comforting than being surrounded by pitch blackness, save for the moonbeams shining in through the window and spilling out onto the floor.

What's better, hiding or feeling safer? Maybe there's a way she can compromise and do both. Her eyes avert around the room, eventually landing on the closet across from where she's facing. Could she do that...? Wouldn't that corner her? But it would be safer than sleeping in front of a window where some cryptic being can plainly see me. She remembers seeing a couple of spare blankets folded up on a shelf, and she could use her pillows as both a headrest and a weak attempt at a barrier. As unappealing as it sounds, staying in clear view of whatever is currently trying to get into her head sounds even less so. Closet it is.

She steps over and opens the door, switching on the light and glimpsing around for a good, somewhat comfortable spot to take shelter in. Under the clothes? No, too tight. In the little cabinet of old, stored things belonging to her aunt? Again, too tight. She decides on the opposite end of the closet, in-between a shelf and the wall, not too cramped but not too open either. And she'd be able to see the door clearly. That'll work.

She grabs the two pillows from off of her bed, plus an oversized teddy bear that had been originally sitting in the corner of the room, untouched, and goes back into the walk-in storage room, placing all three items in her self-proclaimed area of safety, before also taking a folded-up blanket from the small stack and tossing it onto the pillows. She releases a yawn, blinking slowly afterward and shutting the door behind her prior to double-checking the room for anything else she may need, only finding her water bottle, and switches off the lamp.

She sets it on the floor and shifts around everything until it meets her intentions, dimming the overhead light on the lowest setting, then walks back over and sits down, wrapping the blanket around her b\t frame, leaning against the wall, and tucking the large stuffed bear into her side. This is good. She feels secure here. There is nothing that can get in here without her knowing about it first... unless it's a hallucination. Then she can't escape. "I guess that's where you come in, Fuzzy," she mutters, hugging the bear half her size to earn some type of reassurance and consolation she had failed to get from her mother.

She stares ahead of her, at the closed door, waiting to hear something. Waiting to hear the creak of floorboards or the stamp of footsteps, or see the knob to the door slowly twist as it swings open. But one minute passes, then two, then five, then eight. Nothing of the sort happens. She just stays there, her breathing leveling out the more time passes, and she finds herself becoming relaxed. Maybe she should sleep in a closet more often...

She snuggles into the soft, though mildly dusty, coat of the bear, inhaling its old, washed-out scent of vanilla and allowing her eyes to droop. "Protect me if the 'boogeyman' comes in here, alright?" Her voice comes out as no more than a whisper, indirectly mocking her mother's previous choice of words to describe her state before fluttering her eyes closed and drifting off into a surprising, though thankfully peaceful, sleep.

___

His footsteps are almost inaudible as he walks through the darkened forest, his senses heightened due to the gloom around him. He's always more active at night, and it's been that way since... well, since the incident took place, all that long ago. Or was it even that long ago? He supposes it feels longer than what it actually is, probably because off of everything that's happened the past few years. But in reality, it's only been, what... eight, nine years ago? He was only seventeen at the time, and physically, he always will be. If he had been able to fulfill his career choice and live a normal life without meeting her, then he would be around twenty-six.

Maybe he'd have a girlfriend, heck, maybe he'd have a wife, although becoming a doctor takes years of dedication so he doubts that he would have the time to put that much commitment into a relationship. Either way, he would be happy. He wouldn't have to worry about being hunted by some otherworldly entity, or stocking up on the less-than-desirable diet his body has unfortunately given him. He wishes he could have something normal for a change... like pizza. He would just about kill for some pizza, preferably supreme, but pepperoni would work, too.

He shakes his head in disregard at his own thoughts, knowing more than anyone that pizza wouldn't ever happen, just like enchiladas wouldn't happen, or cheese sticks, or even something simple like cereal. It isn't possible, and though he accepted that long ago, he still gets certain cravings for things he used to enjoy. If he even tried eating them, now, he'd be sick for a week. One of the many disadvantages of being him. If only, right?

He checks the map on his phone that Ben had sent him about two hours prior, the direction he was supposed to go marked with bright red ink and making it pretty hard to miss. Let's see, he already passed the river, and he knows she took a certain trail to get to it. Just which trail did she take? He would follow footsteps but there's too much grass obscuring the actual dirt beneath, and even though he can see to a point, his vision has still been drastically altered, so he can't make out any pristine details.

He makes a turn and comes across an overgrown area of the trail he's been sticking with, though it looks like it's already been walked through several times. Up ahead a few feet is what looks to be a dirt road and past that sits a quaint property with a white picket fence, a garden, and a gate. This is the place he's been searching for, right? Guess there's only one way to find out.

Will great stealth, he slinks out from behind the trees, creeping across the natural driveway and up to the house, where he hopes his target is currently resting inside. If she's awake, it would make his job quite a bit harder, and he doesn't want to take any lives if it's unnecessary. Once he's directly in front, he scans possible entry points that wouldn't draw attention. A window? Sure, if the front door isn't locked. He quietly jiggles the knob after opening the screen, only to find that yes, the door is locked. Just his luck, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't expecting it.

He peers in through the first window he sees on the bottom floor, quickly realizing that it leads to the living room. All of the lights are off, and it doesn't look like anybody is currently active. Releasing a silent breath from his nose, though instantly being hit with a familiar bout of hot air thanks to his mask, he slips his fingers beneath the rim, briefly tugging upward and being grateful when the window slides up without much struggle.

There's a table placed in front of it, but he can easily maneuver over that. Conquering obstacles is something that he's mastered over the years of breaking and entering other peoples' households, so one measly table shouldn't halt his process too much. With one hand, he holds the strap of his satchel that's been thrown over his shoulder in order to anchor it to his side to make sure it doesn't make any noise, and with the other, he grips the side of the wall, skillfully propping himself up and slipping through the now-open space lacking so much as a thud.

Once his feet hit the carpet beneath them, he does a quick one-eighty of the room, wanting to make sure he isn't disturbing anything by making his appearance, and closing the window when he deems the coast clear. She never mentioned anything about having a dog, or any other kind of pet when he talked to her, then again he didn't exactly ask her about it, either. Maybe he got lucky this time.

Thought too soon, Jack, he thinks as he finally notices the fluffy white feline perching on the back of the couch, ears folded back as it quietly growls at him. Of course it's a cat. It couldn't have been a bunny, a gerbil, or even a ferret, no. It had to be a freaking cat. When he was still human, he was never particularly fond of them, but now he hates them with a passion. They get under his feet when he's trying to work and trips him, they scratch and bite him, they latch on and it takes a lot of force to get them off. Granted, he can and does get rid of them pretty easily, but they're still obnoxious little creatures.

But he has to admit, as bad as cats are, dogs are even worse in these types of situations. At least cats stay quiet. Dogs, however, he can't get dogs to shut up. Especially little ones, like Chihuahuas and Pomeranians. God, those things love barking. How could anyone want to put up with something that isn't even cute barking constantly? He isn't Smile's biggest fan, but he puts his barking to use. And he never gets in his way. At least he can respect bigger dogs for that very reason because they actually protect rather than just yap all the time.

He huffs, brushing the insignificant thoughts aside and walking farther into the living room, ignoring the growls of protest from the cat attempting to defend its territory and making it very clear to Jack who this place belongs to. Not that he cares, he just wants to get in and back out without much trouble. As he passes the couch, something catches his attention. Not only is there a phone lying discarded on the cushion, but there also seems to be a pencil, and beside it is a sketchbook.

He leans down a bit to get a better look, seeing and instantly recognizing the large symbol drawn—or more like scribbled— on the piece of paper, completely overriding the original picture beneath it. Not much care seems to have been taken while it was being created, which is normal if it was made during the frantic state that he imagines it to have been made in. It's been apparent to him that Y\n was being greatly affected by him, but now she's to the point of drawing his symbol, his mark? That isn't good. His stomach does an uncomfortable flip, and he spins around, going up the staircase of the house after making sure there are no bedrooms down here with him.

The hallway on the second floor likely leads to various rooms, his only problem is looking discreetly into each one and identifying his target. He chooses to check the first door on the left, the door inexplicably wide open, only to find a nicer than average girly room. He assumes this to be where Y\n is sleeping, but to his slight surprise, he doesn't see her in the bed. Well... maybe she's staying elsewhere? But why would there be bags on the floor if there was nobody staying inside? Is this someone else's room?

He peeks back out into the hallway, seeing what he recognizes as a bathroom unoccupied right beside a closed door, likely one leading to another bedroom. And at the very end of the corridor is a door also closed. Which one of these rooms leads to her grandparents? Is he even in the right house? He has to be. Unless he's just conveniently landed himself in the home of another individual that's being mentally tormented by the ominous creature, which is highly doubtful. They would know about it.

He hears the sudden squeak of a door as it opens, and just barely catches a glimpse of a masculine figure stepping out into the hallway before he darts back into the previous bedroom, ducking for cover inside of what he assumes is a closet. He closes the door softly behind him, being careful not to make any sound whatsoever, and takes a step back, only just starting to notice the dim lighting around him. He tilts his head up, seeing a light bulb attached to the ceiling, and confirming that it's the source of the light. The question is, why would the closet light be on when virtually every other light in the house is turned off?

Looking back and into the small walk-in closet, he sees a figure curled up in the corner, bundled up in a blanket and hidden behind the clothes hanging in front of her. She's holding tightly onto what looks like a large teddy bear, her eyes are closed, and her breathing is mellow and steady. She's asleep. Good.

He's been getting to her. She must've thought the closet was safer than anywhere else. He eases closer to her, squatting down in front and making sure to not wake her up. Getting a better look at her face, he can tell that she most certainly is the girl he's been trying to find, and quietly opens his satchel, sticking his hand inside and pulling out a needle and a small, clear bottle of a powerful anesthetic. It isn't his go-to method, usually, he would use Midazolam or even Chloroform, but then again, he isn't currently trying to sedate one of his victims, he just wants to knock her out long enough to bring her back, all without harming her in the process.

He sticks the end of the needle into the lid of the glass container after properly sanitizing it, draws the correct amount needed for the injection, and puts the bottle back into the bag. He snaps his fingers in front of her face in order to test how deep of a sleep she's in. It would be hazardous if she woke up as the mediation was being given to her, it would also be mildly frustrating and make his job even more strenuous. Thankfully, her eyes don't even flutter, giving him the leeway he needs to lightly take her arm, twist it around, stretch it, and stick the end of the needle through her skin.

He notices when she flinches, but only slightly, and he begins to inject the sedative into her system. He had no trouble locating a blood vein, as he could hear the blood coursing through her arm from several feet away; yet another ability he possesses that makes people fear him. Most could compare him to a vampire, what, with his unnaturally sharp teeth and his constant craving for human blood. It isn't his fault, it never has been. But he's learned to accept it, no matter how disgusting it may be to others.

His intention is that it will keep her knocked out for around two hours, preferably four or five, in case he runs into any delays. This particular bottle of medicine is the only one he has that causes longer-lasting unconsciousness without any life-threatening symptoms, and he got it by mixing Propofol with another mild, over-the-counter drug with lengthy repercussions. Perhaps not the best thing to use, but oh well, it's all he has at his grasp. He isn't actually a doctor, no matter how much he may be treated like one.

He slides the needle out of her arm, places it into a Ziplock bag, and puts the bag into his satchel, looking down at her when he senses movement. She rubs the area that the drug was injected through, eyes only half-way open as she brings her arm up to her chest, likely wondering where the small twinge of pain came from so abruptly. He stays still, waiting to see if she'll notice his presence or just go back to sleep. It won't be too much of an inconvenience, either way, considering the medicine should be taking effect in the next couple of minutes.

She blinks slowly, shifting around in her position to get more comfortable, and landing her bleary gaze on the startling figure squatting directly in front of her. Letting out a strangled gasp, she tries to crawl backward, though the wall pressed up against her back prevents that and gives him the opportunity to reach out and force his hand against her mouth, muffling her yelps of protest. He can almost swear that her skin gets pale as she takes in his unusual features; a reaction he isn't phased by at all. He's a monster, right? It's only natural to fear him.

She grabs at his wrists, attempting to push him away and twisting her legs out of the blanket covering her body to try and get a good kick in. Only when she frees her legs does he lunge forward and straddle her, stopping any attempts she may have made to harm him, and looks directly into her wide, panicked eyes with his black, tar-dripping sockets.

"Calm down," he instructs in a quiet, yet authoritative voice, putting more of his weight on top of her as her striving to escape gradually increases. She thrashes, pulls at his arms, punches his chest, though he makes sure to keep his neck craned back to avoid getting hit in the face. Even with his mask on, offering a layer of protection, it wouldn't exactly feel good. He knows this from experience.

She tries screaming and yanking her head out of his strong grip, though fails, and can't stop her eyes from watering from the utter terror that rushes through her.

"You're okay, just calm down." He keeps his tone gentle, knowing the thoughts that must be racing through her mind at lightening speed and wanting to make this easier on himself. The faster the drug works, the quicker he can get out of here and go back to the base. She doesn't listen to him, either that, or she's physically incapable of listening with the erratic beating of her heart thumping in her ears and briefly deafening her.

They both sit there for another couple of minutes, her struggling getting weaker the groggier she gets until eventually, her eyes hesitantly close and her body goes limp. Before he does anything, he needs to make sure that one guy—probably her grandfather— went back to bed after using the restroom. Jack knows he was, indeed, in the bathroom because he heard the toilet flush from the other side of the wall, though he didn't hear any footsteps.

Stealthily, he stands to his feet, walks out of the closet, and looks out into the hall just in time to see the bedroom door close softly. Perfect. Now hopefully it will all continue going as smoothly as it has been so far. He returns to the closet, taking her hands and pulling her motionless body up, and wrapping his arms around her torso before she can fall back down. Making sure he has a firm hold on her waist, he bends down, allows her body to drop over his shoulder and across his back, before standing back up, tightening his grip around her and quickly adjusting to the extra body weight as he turns and steps out of the closet.

Hoody never told him to grab any of her things, so he assumes that he'll take care of that himself, even though he's not sure how. Is he going to sneak into her house to take them, or just get one of the girls to pick up a whole new wardrobe? Those questions are meaningless right now, he supposes, and he doesn't let it take up too much of his time before dismissing them altogether and making his way cautiously down the staircase, the girl slung over his shoulder making it a little more difficult than it normally would be.

His hand slides down to her thighs as he comes up in front of the door, and he uses his other one to soundlessly unlock it, not willing to go back through the window with the unconscious girl and take a chance on alerting the other members residing in the household of his presence, drop her, or both, so he opts to go harmlessly through the door. Twisting the knob, he eases the door open, then the screen, inwardly wincing when it lets out a rather loud and obnoxious squeak.

Not wanting to stick around and take any chances on being heard, he hurries out onto the porch, softly shutting the door and screen behind him, and quickens his pace once he's out of the yard and through the gate. He scans the treeline, making sure there's nothing insidious waiting for him inside, before taking his original path and pulling out his phone. He clicks on Hoody's contact and presses the phone to his ear, waiting for the ringing to stop.

"Did you do it?"

"Yeah, I got her. I'm coming back now."

#Creepypasta #Marble Hornets #reader #Creepypasta x reader #Eyeless Jack #Hoody #Brian Thomas #Jack Nichols #Slenderman #the Operator #Operator symbol #Eyeless Jack x reader #Creepypasta fanfic

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proxylynn · 4 years ago

Text

Underfell: File Name not Edgy Enough #26

Chapter 26: Misery

WARNING: I WANT NO RESPONSIBILITY OVER SPOILING THINGS FOR OTHERS. THAT BEING SAID, THIS IS HOW FILE NAME NOT FOUND WOULD FUNCTION IN THE AU OF UNDERFELL. BEFORE YOU READ THIS, UNLIKE THE NICE TIME OF UNDERTALE, THIS WORLD IS KILL OR BE KILLED. THIS STORY WILL BE GRAPHIC, GORY, USE SWEARS LIKE NOBODY'S BUSINESS, AND DEAL WITH SENSITIVE SUBJECT MATTERS. FOR EXAMPLE, THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVE READ THE FILE NAME RELOCATED SPOOF WILL KNOW HOW I PICTURE THIS VERSION OF LYNSIE COMING TO THE UNDERGROUND. IT IS NOT AN ACCIDENT. IT IS NOT BECAUSE OF SOMETHING DUMB. IT IS BECAUSE SHE CHOOSES TO END HER LIFE. SO TAKE THIS WITH A GRAIN OF SALT. I MADE IT BECAUSE I NEEDED TO LET SOME OF THIS EDGINESS OUT OF MYSELF. WHICH I GUESS MAKES UNDERFELL LYNSIE EVEN MORE TRUE TO WHO I REALLY AM. ANYWAY, ENJOY. ^_^

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[HOTLAND: LEVEL 2 MOMENTS BEFORE GOING LIVE]

Mettaton zooms through the air, the speed makes it hard to try to look for anything I can lock-on as a potential landmark. The worst part, I can't tell if Flowey is able to follow or can reach this far safely. Who am I kidding? Flowey has the best odds of making it around here without a scratch. Unlike my dumbass.

"THIS WILL DO."

He lands faster than expected. The shock shacks my insides uncomfortably. I gag trying to keep my stomach from flying out.

"SORRY, DARLING. I'LL ATTEMPT TO BE GENTLER IN THE FUTURE."

He puts me down, my legs buckle like a baby calf's but I manage to stand.

"N-No worries. Just...Just give me a moment."

He chuckles and gets ready to blast off again.

"SO CUTE. NOW LISTEN UP...HOTLAND IS LEVELED OUT IN THREE PARTS. WE WERE ON LEVEL ONE. THIS IS LEVEL TWO. FROM THIS ROOM, MAKE A RIGHT AND CONTINUE ONWARD. YOU'LL NEED TO REACH THE ELEVATOR TO PROCEED. THINK YOU CAN DO THAT?"

I wave at him.

"Go right. Got it. *heavy sigh* Um...Are there more vents?"

He doesn't say anything.

"Metta?"

"TOODLES!"

He blasts off and I roar our swears. Oh well. No point fussing on that. If I'm lucky Flowey will have heard my shouting and come to help me. But this room...The path leading out is glass. The land isn't connected. Flowey would have to dive deeper to find a joining point, most likely it would be too deep and the heat harmful. I need to leave and not look down. I take a step but fumble, grabbing a random signpost to stop the fall.

"Damn it...Is this what jet-lag is?"

The sign's writing makes me curious.

[Art Club: Meet here! Next meeting: October 10th, 8PM]

Huh? Wait...What is the date and time? Argh! I have no sense for time anymore. Toriel has an out-of-date calendar that she refuses to change which doesn't help and the cellphone had the closest thing to a clock yet there's no telling if it was on time.

"Ahhhh!!! I'm late!!! I'm late!!! I'm so sorry!!!"

From seemingly out of nowhere, a doughy butterscotch colored monster in a black fedora and vest comes rushing towards this spot with papers fluttering away from him. He's in such a damn hurry that he trips and ends up crashing, skidding to a stop inches from my feet.

"*grumble* Son of a..."

He picks himself up and quickly grabs what papers he can. He looks odd. I'm getting weird neck-bread vibes off him. It's probably the fedora. Maybe if he took it off and let his brown hair free...What the fuck, am I thinking like a girl? Ewww! Stupid girl thoughts! That's my once per month. No more.

"So stupid! Why am I so clumsy? I hate being such a klutz!"

Poor guy.

"Need some help?"

He flinches. Did...Did he just realize I was here?

"W-Who are you? This is my spot! Get out!"

"Whoa! Chill. No need to be so harsh, kangaroo-boy."

His eyes widen.

"Kangaroo..."

Ah...shit. I know that look by now. My blue soul comes out.

"I'M A BUTTERDRAGON!!"

[WRONG ENEMY !? begins to play in the background.]

...Fuck my life. Wait...What the fuck is a butterdragon?

[You're blocked in angrily!]

"I come here to find something to draw. And what do I find? Some ignorant bitch that wouldn't know a masterpiece if it smacked her in the face!"

Is he referring to himself?

"It's time someone taught you a lesson! Consider it a gift. Let me look in my vest!"

He spins around and swings at me with his tail. It's coated in light blue magic. Fine. I don't move. It turns orange. I jump over it. It turns blue for two more swipes before turns around.

[HP ██████████████████████████████████████████ 40/40]

"Oh! Whoops! That had to hurt! So sorry, I must have..."

He freezes seeing nothing happened to me.

"You...You're fine?"

I shrug. No point opening my mouth. He talks enough for the both of us.

[The enemy looks nervous.]

"Ummm, I...I couldn't find anything I want to give away. *softer* Not that I wanted to give you anything. *normal* Wait, wait! *laugh* I've got my notebook! I can draw you a picture in it! I'm quite the artist, you know. I'll draw you a GREAT picture!!!"

"It's not your turn."

He flinches.

"Oh...Right."

I look at my options.

[FIGHT]

[ACT]

[̴͝SP͜͞E͡L̵͜L͟͠͏]͘͢

[ITEM]

[MERCY]

What even is that button? Eh...I don't need it. Not with this guy.

[ACT selected.]

[New options available.]

[CHECK]

[SOMETHING]

What's with all the weird shit? Just be simple damn it.

[CHECK selected.]

[SO SORRY (REAL NAME, SAMAEL "SAM" D. BUTTERDRAGON) – HP: 1100 ATK: 9 DEF: -6 – This creature is definitely in the wrong time and space!]

Time and space...How the hell does he have negative defense?! That's a thing?!

"My turn!"

My thoughts are broken. He turns around to draw in his notebook, attacking once more with his tail. Blue swish. Orange swish. Blue swish. Blue swish. Orange swish. Orange swish.

[HP ██████████████████████████████████████████ 40/40]

Again he doesn't understand how I got away with no damage. Dude, I can't help that you're attack is obviously telegraphed.

[The enemy looks anxious.]

"S...sorry...The drawing didn't come out very well. Wait! I know the problem! I just have to find a better piece of paper for it!"

"I'm not sure that's how drawing works. But you do you."

[MERCY selected.]

[SPARE selected.]

"I don't want your pity."

Was worth a shot considering the way this fight's going.

"I'll settle on a draw-ing if that's better."

I emphasize the pun with a teasing wink. He gets a little frazzled.

"Uh...Don't do that again. Like...ever."

Screw it. I want to have some fun.

"Why? Are you gonna pun-ish me?"

His right eye twitches.

"Stop it."

"I have an ink-ling this is getting to you. But trust me...You paint seen nothing yet."

Getting frustrated he yanks at his hair before turning around and chucking crumpled balls of paper at me from over his shoulders. Finally, something I need to dodge that will take effort. Each toss has three balls and he does this ten times. The dude's wasting perfectly fine paper. Shameful.

[HP ██████████████████████████████████████████ 40/40]

I'm starting to think he's getting bothered by his inability to hurt me.

[The enemy looks perturbed.]

Called it.

"N-None of my papers are good enough to use..."

[SPARE selected.]

"It's not the tools. They don't create. They are but aids. It's the artist. Their skill and heart. That is key. Anyone can draw. It's as easy as breathing. But if you stress out and push too hard, if you forget to enjoy yourself...Then even what you'd call your masterpiece will never be good enough."

He looks at me funny.

"My advice, Mr. Butterdragon...Don't try to make something as others expect it to be made. Create something as you want it to be. Only then will you be happy with it. I would know. I'm a dabbler at doodling and there's something so...interesting...in being able to take a pencil and transfer an image that you only saw in your head to paper. Though I can never seem to get hands just right."

I look at my hands.

"Weird flesh sticks. Why are you so hard to draw?!"

He thinks for a moment. But then...

"THAT'S IT!!! I know what I can do!! I'll use my magic pencil! It has to be under some of these papers somewhere!!!!"

I take it he's still bent on attacking to prove he can draw. He goes back to tossing paper and by this point, I found a spot to just stand in where nothing falls near, so I wait till he's done.

"Here! I got it! My magic pencil is amazing! Everything I draw with it looks..."

[HP ██████████████████████████████████████████ 40/40]

This fight is so boring. I mean, I'm grateful to not have my ass kicked or beaten within moments of death's door, but...Is he really trying? Froggits try harder than this.

"Why aren't you hurt?!"

I cover my mouth in a yawn.

"Dude, can you let me spare you already? I need to get to level three before Mettaton has a fit."

[SPARE selected.]

He didn't like hearing this.

[The enemy taps his fingers together like jackhammers.]

"I'll show you. I'LL SHOW YOU ALL!! I AM A REAL ARTIST!!"

With pencil in hand, he scribbles into the air and much to my understanding of reality he adds two horned demons doodles to fight on his side.

[DOODLEBOG – HP: 100 ATK: 8 DEF: 999 – Art lets your wildest fantasies come to life!]

"Like I was saying...Anything I draw with this pencil becomes COMPLETELY REAL! But in your case, a little too real!"

I can't help the odd smirk that crawls across my lips.

"Finally..."

I stretch and pop some joints.

"I was starting to fall asleep. Show me what you've been holding back. Let the creativity flow!"

Both Doodlebogs launch eight doodle orbs in circle formations at me. The good news, there's room to move and enough spacing to do some fun maneuvering. The bad news...It's still freaking easy! They shoot this move twice before their turn ends. And still...

[HP ██████████████████████████████████████████ 40/40]

I'm disappointed. And so is he.

"What...How...?!"

[The enemy is confused.]

I shake my head. Seems that's all he's got. Though, to his credit, those drawings need to go. But how do I do that? Hmmm...Maybe...

[ACT selected.]

[New options available.]

[CHECK]

[DRAW]

[SOMETHING]

What's this? Oh...Oh hell yeah.

[DRAW selected.]

"W-Wait...You can't..."

I grab my soul, not sure what else I'm to use, and trace out a large cat that glows like my soul.

"Sketch-kitty, pounce the Doodlebog on the left!"

The cat does as commanded, pouncing at the Doodlebog and they tussle off the side to the heat death below. He panics.

"How dare you use art against me! Don't just stand there, kill her!"

The remaining Doodlebog fires the same attack as before but done three times in rapid secession. I harder move yes, but one that still leaves spots open wiggle on through.

[HP ██████████████████████████████████████████ 40/40]

[The enemy is desperate.]

"H-Hey now...There's no need to do anything crazy. I-I shouldn't have attacked you. That was dumb. W-We good?"

Huh...I don't know if he's being truthful. I try to use MERCY but the button doesn't push in. Something is locking it. I wonder if it's because of the doodle? Is it affecting the battle conditions? To be safe, I'll return things to how they were.

[DRAW selected.]

"You're cheating! You have to be! No one can be this good!"

I roll my eyes while tracing out a massive snake.

"Sketch-snake, put the squeeze to the Doodlebog."

It strikes with the speed of a viper and coils the doodle like a constrictor. The doodle fights back, clawing at the sketch. The sketch knows what its mission is. It throws itself and the doodle over the edge, so now it's only the two of us. He is at a loss what to do.

[The enemy uses a hypnotizing 3D-tush-wiggle attack. Smells... furry.]

I think he's freaked out and out of options. His strongest move, an insane trump card, and I not only countered it but bested it.

[The enemy is apologizing to its visions of the Reaper.]

...What?

"I've messed up. I've really messed up. Oh no. I'm so dead! No...No. I won't let you kill me."

"Dude, I'm clearly not trying to kill you."

"I won't let art die!"

"And you're not listening."

"I'll use this regular pencil! I'll use 100% of best! There is no way you'd kill the maker of such a fine piece!"

He turns around and scribbles furiously. His tail swipes quickly and paper balls fly like crazy. This creates difficulty because trying to dodge the balls is made harder when trying to either stand still for light-blue attacks or move for the orange ones. Orange tail, orange tail, blue tail, blue tail, orange tail, and blue tail. This is how he should've been going at me from the start. It's a good attack.

[HP ███████████████████████████ 27/40]

"Are you ready!? I just finished! Here's your picture!"

He's so proud of it that he doesn't even notice that he finally did damage to me. The picture is a heart.

"What do you think!? It's a representation of your deepest essence... It's great, right!?"

I don't say a word. What did he mean by that? How is a heart my deepest essence? Is it a picture of my soul and souls are the essence of life? How the fuck did he being about so much thought with a heart?! My silence has him become uncomfortable.

"... (They think my art is terrible.) Well! I'll leave you with that thought! Goodbye! See you later! Sayonara! Nice knowing ya! Hasta la vista. ... I should leave."

He attempts to leave but he freezes when I quickly grab his tail.

"Um..."

"That image...You poured your heart into and it shows. It made me think. Art does that. It makes you think and feel. You did that to me. ...10 out of 10."

His eyes widen.

"R-Really?"

I nod and let his tail go...only to get a sappy hug from the butterball.

"Thank you!"

I made his day. He was trying to kill me and is now hugging me over a compliment. I think this is over.

[MERCY selected.]

[SPARE selected.]

[YOU WON!]

[You earned 0 XP and 318 gold.]

Holy shit! I'm rich!

The battle music fades out as he lets me go. My soul returns to me.

"Did you...Did you really like it?"

I nod.

"You gave it your all. That makes it special. Keep that spirit and don't be afraid to try other styles. You'll be amazed at what you can do if you try."

"Like your animals?"

"Animals have always been easy for me. It's people that are my weak-link. Um...Can I see that pencil for a sec?"

He hands me his notebook and normal pencil, to which I make two different drawings. One, a traditional European dragon spouting flame. This is my specialty, I can make these almost with my eyes closed. But the second one is my try at an anime version of myself. I use the eraser a lot on the face, hands, and chest. It never looks right to me once I'm okay with another part of the body. Yet I know I can't spend ages on this so I hand it over when I believe it looks okay.

"See what I mean now?"

"What are you talking about? These are great."

"Exactly..."

He's confused.

"Even when it's good, I still think I suck. But it's that negativity that spurs me to try harder. One day, I shall get those parts down and be happy with it without erasing whole bits out of frustration or doubt in ability. So...yeah...Keep those. Let them help you. Inspire you to be better in spite of others and yourself. Refuse to give up. And never surrender."

He gives me a funny look and I rub the back of my head with a nervous laugh.

"Heh...I have no idea where I was going with that. I tend to ramble when trying to be positive."

A small smile comes to him as he takes a few steps past me.

"I think I get what you're saying. If it's all the same to you...I think I want to be alone with my thoughts for a bit. Might see what ideas come."

I smirk.

"Take care, buddy. May the Muses inspire you to greatness."

I leave the butterdragon to his thoughts and not look down at the glass path that must be crossed. Yet it's doing so that alarms my brain. The land is not solid rock. The land is being supported by thick metal pipes and trussed beams that don't look like they're meant to be used here. I'm conflicted, I feel safe and unease at the same time. It also doesn't help I don't have Flowey with me. I need him. I don't like proceeding without my bro. So...

"Flowey! Bro, I'm up over here! Hurry up!"

Not expecting a response, least of all right away, I aim to head out slowly in hopes that he'll catch up to me before I really need him. But the path actually branches like a 4-way intersection and I get confused. Left is probably back to level one but what's the forward path? I shrug and check it out. Not like I have a killer robot to appease because I'm on TV. Thankfully, it's an empty spot of land. Scratch that. An empty spot of land with some trash on it.

[There's an apron lying on the ground.]

Really? That scrap's an apron?

I inspect the ragged thing and find it's in better shape than it looks.

[Will you take it or leave it?]

This option leads me to believe it's a human item. Probably pairs with this frying pan. Yes, I want it.

[You got the Splattered Apron.]

...Do I wanna equip it? Ugh...I tie the apron around my waist but backwards so it covers my ass.

[You equipped the Splattered Apron.]

[You gain 11 Defense.]

[Are the splotches from food, an enemy, or the former wearer? You don't want to know. Heals 1 HP every other turn.]

Wait...Did it say...?!

[HP: 40 ATK: 45 DEF: 38]

Holy shit! Score!

"So...Does that only work in fights?"

[HP ████████████████████████████ 28/40]

Huh. Guess not. Yet it said every other turn so who knows what that counts as.

I leave to continue all while paying half-attention to my HP. 1 point healing is better than nothing, though it's gonna be a while before I'm healed completely.

It's warm on this level. Still hot but not as bad as level one. Digital cords pulsate with energy from deep down to high above me. And in the distance...a massive mechanical structure. It sits in the lava like a slumbering leviathan. Imposing, mysterious, and giving off the vibes of "STAY THE FUCK AWAY". I better not have to go there.

After a short stroll, I come upon an obstacle or, as monsters put it, a puzzle. There are two conveyor belts, one going forward and the other back towards me. The forward one has three of those thick metal pipes near it and each pipe has a switch. At the end, there's what looks to be a Tesla Coil set up to prevent safe passing. Putting the bits together is easy. I step on the belt and keep walking, flipping the switches as I go. The third flip turns the current off and I can progress.

I regret this.

Literally forty feet away I'm met by those fucking vents. However...beside the vents is a large conveyor belt made of three merged ones. That's moving at the same speed as the one I was just on. Idea time. I dash jump across the belts. Leaping just in case someone somewhere decides to mess with the speed. Lucky me, no dick moves were made and I avoided doing my scarier backup plan of climbing on the support trusses. At least the path is clear now, which is good.

The heat begins to climb as I approach pumping stacks of hot gas. It makes the air thick and hard to breathe. The sooner I get past these things the better. Part of me questions why I don't hoof it on a crawl and then I have to remind that part that the land is inclining upward so it's bloody pointless. My throat is drying out, my lungs burn, and my eyes sting even with the tears trying to soothe the pain. Even the sounds of gears grinding in the background is starting to irritate my senses. But all this just makes me strive forward more to get back to some form of normalcy. Augh...What's my HP at now?

[HP ████████████████████████████████ 32/40]

Not bad. Not bad at all.

"Keep moving, slowpoke."

My blurry eyes spy a white speck among all the orange-brown.

"Bro?"

Something wraps around my wrist and pulls me slowly, leading me like a child helps an elder cross the road. Soon the air is clear and wiping my eyes lets me see Flowey. A very welcoming sight indeed.

"Bro!"

"Good to see you too."

"How did you get up here? The land is broken."

"Not all of it. I pretty much climbed up one high point, crossed over to another, and repeat till I got here. Did you forget how nimble I can be?"

I smack my forehead making him snicker.

"Sometimes it scares me to think how you've managed to not die."

He gets a chuckle out of me.

"Same."

We move on...only to be blocked by two heavily armored guards. One is a rabbit or hare and the other is more of a dragon than butterball was. Adorning fierce, brutal, and intimidating black armor bearing the blood-red Deltarune insignia. On their helms, shoulders, and wrists are jagged threatening spikes. But the real danger that has my attention are the very large swords.

"Are you shitting me?"

"They...aren't supposed to be here."

I look at Flowey funny and he flinches.

"I mean...They don't usually..."

"*mumble* Timeline bullshit. *normal* Fuck it...Yo! Can you two move? We need to reach level three...please?"

I'm sure that saved it from all my attitude.

"Human..."

Nothing good has ever happened to me when someone says "human".

"You're late."

Oh. Well, that's different.

"For...?"

They point their swords at me.

"Your funeral."

"Really? Was that the best you could come up with?"

The rabbit shrugs.

"I thought it was pretty tough."

The dragon punches his arm.

"I told you it was weak."

"It's not like we had a lot of time to come up with something better."

"Right. All the direction Mettaton gave us was 'stall her' while he does stupid crap."

"Let's just get this over with before the Captain finds out."

They rush towards me...then stop. But not a normal stop. They're frozen in place. I look at Flowey, he's stuck in mid-sink into the ground. The hell is going on? It's as if...as if time stopped?

"Sans? Sans, is this you? Where are you?"

White noise, like static on a TV. It pierces my ears as if it were stabbing my very brain. Covering my ears does nothing to stop it. I drop to my knees.

"Sa҉ns͏..̕."

A voice barely solidifies in the sounds assaulting my hearing.

"H͞è's n̢ot he̡r͠e,͟ l͡i̡ttl͡e ͜on̴ę.̨ He ͞can'͏t ̸in̵tęr͜f̛ere҉ w̧i̧th o͝úr̨ f́u͟ņ."

I muster the strength to turn my head and am confronted by a grayed-out monster with a blacked-out face holding a smaller face in its hand. The face looks at me with a small creepy smile. My eyes widen. The face spoke. And it speaks in rhyme. What the fuck?!

"What the hell are you?"

"M̛e? I̕'҉m͠ ͡a ̨f̡o͢l͜l͘ow̵er ̡of̶ ͘the g͠rea͝t Royal͏ ͟Sc͞ien͘t͝i͝st͟,̢ D͜ơc̢tor̕ ̵W̛.D. ̵Gast̀e͞r̀.͘ On̵e day͞,̨ h́e ͝va͝n͞i͡sh̀e͜d͘ w̷itḩou̕t̡ a҉ t́r̶ąc̛e.͝ T̛hey͞ ͠s̡a̢y҉ ̷he ҉s̡hat̕te̶r̷ed ͝ac̛ross̡ ti҉m͠e̴ an͘d̢ ҉s̨pac͘e. Ha H̷a͞.͝..̡ho͠w ̧c̸án I͞ s͠ay̢ s̸o͏ wit͟ho̴u͘t ͘f̶e͟a̸r͘?͝ ̸I'm h̸o͜l͘ding͞ a ̴p̵ie͘ce҉ ͜of̡ h͡im ̶r̶iģht͢ ͢her͞e."

This...This shit right here triggers something primal in me...I get genuinely freaked out. Fleeing like a puppy that just met the big noisy vacuum for the first time. And yeah, this was an overreaction. I've dealt with some insane shit at this point, you'd think I'd be hardened like a soulless speck of dirt. But no. That made me too unsettled and any tough wall I had crumbled. I zoom past the few other frozen in time monsters along the way till I reach the elevator. I spam hit the button, praying it will ignore the fact time is dead and let me in something that I can pretend is safer than out here.

*BING*

A sound other than static? There is a god!

The doors shift open and a grayed-out bird monster with terrible posture along with a grayed-out small humanoid monster stop me in my tracks.

There is no god!

"D͏r.̡ G̴as͝t̶e͠ŕ..͝.͡H̛i͞s brìllia͢n͝cé w͡a҉s̸ ͞irr̷e̶p͞l͞ac͢eabl̨e̶.̷"

"҉W͢hat͏ a̡n ̢áct to ̴foll̕o҉w͟! T́h͘e̷y ̨s͠ay̨ ͏h̶ę c͢r̨eat̛e̴ḑ t͜h͜e͜ ͞C̕O͜R̷E̶."

"Hoẁe͘v͢e̕r, h͜i͏s ͞life҉..͝.̸was ͠c͡u͡t s͘hort."

They say ominously together.

"O͡ne̕ ͟d́a͢y̕,͝ h̵i͟ś ҉ex̵pęri͜m̨e̵ntś w̧ent̡ ̸wr̢on͜g̢, ͡an̡ḑ..̀."

"He̴ fe̸l̢l̡ ̕i͞n̴t͜o ̀hi̵s͡ cr̷eat̀i͢ón̢."

"Węll,̴ ͝w̡e҉ needn̨'͡t͠ gos̕s̕i҉p.̧ A̷f͢t͠e͟r al̵l͏,̷ ҉i̸t'ş ̧rude to ̀tal͡k̨ ab͏o̢u͠t̛ s҉o̵me̢o͘n҉è w̛h͢o̕'s l̷i̕s͢te̡n͢ing.̸"

They grab me and pull me in before my body chooses to run.

"*snarls* Let go you creeps!"

"D̵o̵n't ̕st͠r̴ưg̷gle̵,̧ l͡i͞t̕t̛l҉e o͟n͡e.́"

"̸Yo̷u ͝d͞o͠n͏'t̴ w͡an̸t ̴harm to co͢me̛ to̷ ̡t̀h̢e̵ flo͜wer͞.̡"

Oh fuck...I left Flowey with the creepy face-hand thing. I cease my fighting.

"G҉o͡od͞ ̷ģir̡l."

The doors shut with a quickness.

[SNOWDIN: Skeleton House in present time]

They watch as the human and flower are confronted by the two Royal Guards. And of course, they do as they've been trained. Attack the human. But something weird happens. The guards begin to attack and the screen of the TV glitches into static before the picture returns. Only now the guards have stopped their action and the flower, which was retreating from danger, pops back out in confusion along with everyone else. The human is gone. It happened within the blink of an eye. One second she was there and the next she's not. And now the screen cuts to a "We Are Experiencing Technical Difficulties" image. What is going on?

[HOTLAND: LAB]

Undyne and Alphys are equally as perplexed as everyone else that's tuned in.

"Alphys, where did the human go?"

Undyne irritatedly asks through her teeth. On her end, Alphys is switching through camera feeds like crazy.

"I'm looking! I'm looking!"

The screen swaps from camera to camera and multiple different angles. But there's nothing. Sure, there are monsters. Some just going about their lives. Some slacking around. Even an embarrassing shot of a Pyrope shoving a sandwich into the top of a Vulkin. But no sign of the human on level two.

"Where are you, damn it?!"

"Stop!"

Undyne's shout makes Alphys jump.

"Go back five clicks."

And so she does. The feed is an odd far shot from the gas stacks. It can just barely view the guards let alone the flower who suddenly ducks away. The guards seem even more confused.

"What are we looking for?"

Undyne points at the screen and Alphys sighs.

"If I can't see it on my end, you pointing from a distance does nothing for me!"

Undyne growls.

"Look up, genius!"

Alphys leers at the fish-woman before leering at the view she has on her monitor. Due to the far away placement of the camera, it can see up to the platform of level three. And there, dangling over the side, is a pale white arm that stands out over the red platform and gold LED lights scheme.

"The hell...?"

She switches to the level three cameras.

"Ha! I knew I saw something."

With the better view, they now see the human face-down just a few feet from the elevator.

"How the hell did she get up there?"

Alphys gets out her phone and sends a quick text. When there's no reply she presses a button and a moment later is sent a reply. A few messages are sent as Mettaton zooms on screen.

"What? Why's the tin can there now?"

Undyne is out of the loop as usual.

"Who else do you know can zip over there as fast?"

Mettaton pulls the human to the center of the path, away from a stupid falling to death, and checks over her seemingly lifeless body. Her eyes are open and empty as if someone replaced her peepers with billiards cue balls that glow. Marks on her arms look like bruising but weren't there before nor gained in her earlier fight. Then...Alphys gets a text.

"Hmmm..."

"What's up?"

"Vital signs are still going but her breathing has stopped."

She texts back to Mettaton.

"So...She's dead?"

"No. Not yet at least. According to Mettaton, her HP is full and not depleting. However, if she doesn't start breathing, her HP should drain and she will die."

"Then wha...?"

"Look at the TV, dear."

Undyne looks back at the screen to see Mettaton performing chest compressions in patterns.

"With her heart still pumping it means all other functions are still working. It's likely something happened in whatever event that caused her to get up there to give her trauma. The trauma probably made her brain fail to send the right signals to her lungs and thus, she's in respiratory arrest. So I've instructed Mettaton to force her body to restart her breathing manually with basic CPR."

They watch the robot press into her chest for a good couple of minutes before the human suddenly bolts up violently. Mettaton restrains the hysterical woman as the life returns to her eyes, sight restored settles her down some but she appears terribly shaken.

"Ask him if he can get her to tell him what happened."

"Already sent and awaiting reply."

Mettaton appears to speak with her but she either says very little or nothing at all. She merely holds her self in an attempt to cease her trembling and looks out at what bit of the CORE is still visible from that point.

"Huh...He says she isn't telling. At most, she said it's nothing and it just happens sometimes."

"Super vague and avoiding the subject? That kind of shit ain't normal."

Alphys agrees but it's not like they have the human in custody to interrogate for answers. She sends the text.

"The hell?"

Mettaton offers some concern and encouragement before blasting off, leaving the human alone.

"Why's he leaving her?!"

"He did what was needed. Now the show can continue as planned."

Undyne glares.

"That's twice now. You could've let her die."

"I still need more data. Something odd happened and I need to figure it out."

Undyne huffs softly.

"Fine. You know...You can only string someone along for so long before that string breaks, Alphys."

The lizard-woman chuckles.

"Worried about the human? That's cute."

"I wasn't talking about the human."

Undyne guzzles her remaining ramen and Alphys isn't sure how to respond.

"For your sake, the human better be worth all this effort."

She lifts her bowl.

"More."

[HOTLAND: LEVEL 3 BEFORE GOING LIVE]

Static. Everything is static. Static is all I see and hear. I can't feel anything. Am I dead? Is this what death is? If it is...It's incredibly boring. At least Hell would have a wicked soundtrack to drone out to while being tortured. Suddenly, I feel something. And it hurts. Like something is bouncing on my chest and pauses a bit before doing it again for longer.

Please...Leave me alone...Let me be...I don't want to go back...Don't make me go back...Please...

"*gasps and coughs*"

My lungs burn in this reawakening but my sight is still static. Purgatory. Pain before Heaven. The sins must be suffered away. This must be what's happening. Hands. I feel hands and panic, stress levels at critical. I take a swing at where I think they are.

"D̕͡oņ͟'̕͝t ̨̀͝to͝͏uch̷́͝ ͘me͘͜!̴̵͝"

There's hesitation before more force is used and I'm pinned to what I assume is a floor. I thrash harshly.

"L̸̀e͢a̡͜v̴͟͢e ͘m̵e͞ ͝al҉̀o̷̴n̴̨e̶̢!̡͞ ̡͡Ḑ͞o͝n̶͝'̨̕t ̢͏̡I ͜s̸̛u͜͜f̵͝f̷͠͝er̛ ̧e͏͜n̢o̵u҉͢͢g̶͡͡ḩ?!͏"

"CALM...I...LYNSIE."

A voice? A normal voice?

"DON'T...ME...RELAX."

The struggling I was doing ends. And as I settle down the static that had blinded me subsides. My location is unknown. But I know the one holding me down.

"M-Metta?"

Seeing I'm normal, Mettaton helps me get back on my feet yet I'm unsettled by...things.

"ARE YOU ALRIGHT, DARLING? WHAT HAPPENED?"

Flashes of memory flicker in my head. Those...things...Followers of Gaster...The things they did...

I hold myself and fight the tears trying to come to my eyes. I don't say a thing.

"LYNSIE...HOW DID YOU GET UP HERE? WHY DID I FIND YOU NOT BREATHING?"

I rub my eyes.

"I need my phone. *shaky inhale* I gotta talk to my mom."

"YOU KNOW I DON'T HAVE IT. AND IF I DID, I'M STILL UNSURE YOU WOULDN'T CALL OUT TO YOUR FRIENDS."

He's not wrong. I wasn't going to call Toriel. I was going to give Sans nightmares with the shit done to me.

"NOW COME ON. YOU CAN TELL ME WHAT'S WRONG."

"...N-Nothing's wrong. This...This just happens sometimes."

He's not buying it. I'm doing a piss poor attempt to play off that I'm fine.

"DARLING, YOU'RE OBVIOUSLY NOT FINE AND ABOUT TO CRY. JUST TALK TO ME. WHAT HAPPENED? YOU VANISHED FROM SIGHT AND ENDED UP HERE AT THE START OF LEVEL THREE COMPLETELY UNCONSCIOUS."

I don't say a word.

"DID SOMEONE USE MAGIC ON YOU? IS YOUR SOUL OKAY?"

I flinch at the mentioning of my soul and refuse any further interaction.

"LYNSIE...?"

I refuse to look at him. He sighs.

"IF IT MEANS ANYTHING, DUE TO TIME CRUNCHING, THE THIRD ACT WAS CANCELED. BETWEEN YOUR STALLING FROM HEIGHTS, ALL THESE RANDOM FIGHT ENCOUNTERS, AND EVENTS OF THE FIRST AND SECOND ACT...CHANGES IN THE PROGRAM HAVE BEEN MADE. HEH...ORIGINALLY, THE THIRD ACT WAS GOING TO HAVE YOU DEFUSE A SERIES OF BOMBS PLACED AROUND THE AREA WITHIN A TIME LIMIT. YET EVEN I THOUGHT THAT WAS UNFAIR. THAT AND THE SCRIPT FOR IT WAS JUST AWFUL. NO WAY AM I DISGRACING MYSELF WITH SUCH A POORLY DIRECTED SHOW."

I guess that is some good news. It's probably why he had those guards posted there to stall me.

"BUT...I DO HAVE SOME BAD NEWS."

This gets me to look at him.

"FROM HERE, IN THE NEXT ROOM YOU WILL FIND A SEEMINGLY CHARMING SPIDER NAMED MUFFET. SHE'S A CUNT."

Well, that escalated quickly.

"SHE'S THE LEADER OF THE SPIDERS IN THE UNDERGROUND AND RUNS A SUPPOSED BAKERY. IT'S A FRONT. SHE'S AN EXTORSHINISH. SHE'LL SAY AND DO ANYTHING IF IT MEANS SHE'LL GET GOLD. CLAIMS THE MONEY IS NEEDED TO SAVE THE SPIDERS IN THE RUINS OR SOMETHING STUPID LIKE THAT."

"It sounds like you don't like her very much."

"NO, NOT REALLY. I COULD CARE LESS WHAT SHE DOES. THE THING THAT PISSES ME OFF IS THAT SHE PREYS ON MY WORKERS, KILLS THE ONES THAT CAN'T PAY HER OUTRAGEOUS FEES, AND, WORST OF ALL, SHE REFUSED TO DEAL WITH ME!"

I tilt my head.

"I HAVE TRIED TIME AND TIME AGAIN TO GET HER TO SELL FOOD UNDER MY BRAND. BUT SHE SAYS MY NAME WOULD ACTUALLY MAKE HER LOSE GOLD. SERIOUSLY? THE AUDACITY OF THAT BITCH. I PRACTICALLY OWN HOTLAND AND SHE HAS THE NERVE TO UTTER SUCH SHIT!"

His screen flashes for a moment before he calms down.

"YET DESPITE THAT...KNOWING YOU AND HOW YOU HANDLE DIFFICULT MONSTERS, I'M CONFIDENT YOU CAN GET BY HER WITH LITTLE ISSUE."

"...You have that much faith in me?"

He spins on his wheel.

"WOULD YOU TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED IF I SAY I DO?"

My dower expression answers him for me.

"WELL, IT WAS WORTH A TRY."

His wheel retracts to fly.

"WE WILL MEET AGAIN FOR THE FOURTH ACT...PROVIDED YOU SURVIVE THE SPIDERS. YOU'RE NOT AFRAID OF SPIDERS, ARE YOU?"

"I was when I was a kid. I got over it."

"GOOD. YOU SHOULD BE FINE THEN."

He comes over and, to my surprise, gives me a small embrace.

"I BELIEVE IN YOU, LYNSIE."

My throat tightens, I couldn't speak even if I wanted to. He takes off and I wait for when he's out of sight to breakdown.

[SNOWDIN: Skeleton House in present time]

The "We Are Experiencing Technical Difficulties" screen cuts away. The human has been located. She appears to be on a different level and is a wreck. Down on her hands and knees, sobbing intangible pleas. Something has happened and it wasn't good.

Toriel gasps softly.

"tori? what's wrong?"

She covers her mouth and points. Sans sees it now. Papyrus even spies it before Grillby. The hands. The harsh imprints darkening the snow colored skin.

"Those marks...They would sometimes appear in her sleep. Why are they there now?"

Grillby shoots a look at Sans and he decides to get his buddy off his back.

"she had those marks while with us too. but if you look closely, these marks are different. there's no hole in the palm. plus...there are two sets."

"HMMM...AN AMBUSH PERHAPS? BUT WHAT KIND OF MAGIC CAN ALLOW FOR SUCH A SNEAK ATTACK AND THEN VANISH ELSEWHERE?"

Grillby continues to leer at Sans.

"what?"

"Sounds like teleporting to me. Anyone you know can do that?"

Sans glares.

"no. only i can teleport."

"Are you sure?"

"yeah. i'm sure. knock it off."

Papyrus cocks his brow. This might require his attention if things escalate.

"I'll knock it off when you come clean."

"i ain't hiding shit."

"Bullshit. You've been holding back so much that even your brother doesn't know just how much you do. If you don't know, then you don't know, but if one thing we've figured about you tonight...It's that you hide what you know all the damn time. So you've got to give us something better if you want us to believe you."

Sans balls his fist.

"us? or you? don't start connecting dots to points that don't exist because you want answers that no one can give to make yourself feel better."

"Then tell me who it was that hurt her before. Maybe they know who did it this time."

That line. That line got heads to turn.

"Sans? You know who has been harming my child?"

It's times like these Sans wished he was able to RESET.

"no, i don't."

"That's not what you told me."

"i only said what i did to get you off my back. ya were all upset about the marks and..."

"Of course I was upset about the marks! What guy wouldn't?!"

Papyrus snarkily lifts a finger, admitting his lack of concern but not wanting to get involved in this.

"maybe instead of pointing fingers, you should question why she didn't tell ya about'em herself. because if she doesn't even tell her mom about shit like this, what makes ya think she tells me?"

Grillby had to pause at that.

"Is it that one of them hurt you?"

"What?"

"You're ignoring them, but that doesn't make them invisible to anyone else. Did they do this? Papyrus I can believe, but I have doubts on Sans. But if they did this to you..."

"They didn't. This is a whole different issue."

"Don't defend your abuser."

"I'm not defending shit. It's my problem, I can deal with it. Don't make this a big deal."

"It is a big deal!"

"*wince* You're hurting me."

"..."

"Like I said...That's a different issue that I will deal with. Not you. Are we clear?"

"Y-Yes."

Maybe Sans had a point. Knowing how others would react keeps one from talking about such things, especially when it's not a reaction that is easily dealt with. Toriel and Grillby have proven to overreact when it comes to the human. She probably thought it best to keep such pain to herself to avoid added damage. But still...Something didn't sit right with Grillby. Sans knew something. What it was he knew not.

"IF YOU'RE DONE WITH YOUR POINTLESS BICKERING, THE HUMAN IS ON THE MOVE NOW."

Attention once more fell back to the television.

[HOTLAND: LEVEL 3]

My body aches. The crying did little to ease me. Sure I vented, that's always good. But I don't feel any better for doing so. My arms stings. My soul throbs in agony. My every nerve demands relief that will never seem to come. I look at the bruises. I can still feel their hold. I don't know how long it happened for or how long after till I was found, yet I can still feel their filthy hands. It's too much. Make it stop!

I take my gloves off and dig my nails across the full stretch of my arms. I don't care about bleeding. I just want to stop feeling their hands. The strange energy begins to crackle around me as it did once before.

[HP ████████████████████ 20/40]

It...It finally went away. That's good. Now if only the memory could be removed. Can't claw my brain unfortunately. Oh well. Perhaps I'll find something to bash my head against. Won't that be fun?

I take my leave. Flesh under my now gloved nails and blood trickling down my arms, making a trail behind me.

A few short steps have me in a more inhabited spot. The monsters here give me strange looks. Maybe it's because of the self-mutilation. Or maybe it was spine chilling wailing. Or both. Or random other shit. Either way, I keep to myself and press onward.

"Oh, yoohoo, human~..."

Ah, fuck my life with a thirty-nine and a half foot pole!

"You look like you can use some healing items. Come, I don't bite...well...maybe ONE little nibble~."

...Why do I attract the kinky weirdos?!

This is the spider-lady Mettaton was talking about. She has periwinkle or lavender skin, five eyes, six arms, and two legs. She wears red rompers with yellow buttons in the front, a red ribbon across her chest, as well as large wild twin pigtails in her black hair tied by red bows. She is also holding two teacups with her top pair of hands and two teapots with her middle pair, her bottom pair of hands hide under her little table.

"Welcome to our parlor, dearie~. Interested in some spider pastries? All proceeds go to real spiders~. Check out the webs to make a purchase~."

I'm so not in the mood for this.

"Ms. Spider..."

"No need for formalities, dearie~. Call me Muffet."

"Muffet...I'm gonna be nice yet blunt. So I apologize in advance if I tick you off at any point because that's not my intent. *shaky inhale* I have been battered, beaten, abducted, blasted, and brought near death more than usual today. And normally, I'd roll with it and let you do this 'thing' it is you're gonna do...But not now."

She opens her mouth to speak and I slam my hands on the tabletop.

"I have just spent an ungodly amount of time trapped in that elevator over there having my soul violated by people that don't even exist anymore on this plane of reality. I have clawed my skin off to stop feeling their hands on me. So, please...Not now."

I can feel that energy get stronger. The odd display bugs her yet she continues.

"My, how dreadful. That's a terrible tale you tell, human. And such a silly one to explain your disappearing act."

My eye twitches. Does she...Does she think I made that up?

"That Mettaton is certainly putting more effort into his effects for this show. It's about time too. That metal moron can't act to save his batteries."

I want to hit her.

"Anyway...Can I interest you in some of my 100% all-natural treats? Food made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders!"

...Wait a second?

"Of spiders? So...You're killing your own kind...for pastries?"

She simply smiles innocently.

"...Are they at least dead or dying ones?"

Her giggle is not reassuring.

"Go on, dearie~. Have a nice donut and wash it down with some cider. You'll heal faster than ever before. And all for the low low price of 9999G...each."

My nerves are shot. Were they always called donuts and not doughnuts? What the fuck?!

"Lady, that is the biggest crock of shit I have ever had the misfortune to step in."

All of her eyes glare at me.

"Beg your pardon?"

"This same 'bake sale' is being done by the spiders in the Ruins. Do you wanna know what the prices are there? Donuts are 7G and Ciders are 18G. Where the hell do you get off charging that much for food that works on cannibalism?"

I point at her in judgment.

"You're sick, lady! This is fucked up."

She hisses at me.

"Seems humans are awfully stingy with money. Don't know a good deal when it's in their face."

I look at her cockeyed.

"Stingy with money? Bitch, did you not hear the words coming out of my mouth?!"

She laughs in my face.

"Ahuhuhuhu...You think your taste is too refined for our pastries, don't you, deary?"

"...Sure. Whatever. You're not listening anyway."

"Ahuhuhu...I disagree with that notion. I think your taste...Is exactly what this next batch needs!"

She stares at me creepily and licks her lips.

"Oh hell nah!"

I flip the table on her and run. She's not happy.

"Get back here!"

"Fuck you!"

I look back to see if she's following and crash into a guy.

"Hey, watch where you're going."

"Sorry. I was just..."

My blood runs cold seeing the monster I've bumped. This guy...This guy is a dead ringer for the creepy gray dude with the face in his hand. The only difference being he's in color.

"*scoff* Weirdo."

He walks to where Muffet is but I can't move. My heart begins pounding. Flashes of memory play before my eyes. I can't breathe fast enough. Gaster, for all the shit he does, isn't as bad as the Followers.

MAKE IT STOP! M̴A͝KÉ IT͜ S͢T͡O͜P!!͘ MA̡̛͜K̶͢E͝ ̢I̡͝T̡҉̧ ́͠S̷͡T͝OP̵!!̛͏! M̢̡A̸̧̛͞͝K̢̨҉É̶̡̢͏ ͜͝͡I̸̧̨̕T̴ ̶̕͞S͜͢T̵͡Ǫ͝҉҉҉P̨̛͞!̶!̕͘͟!̷̨͟͝͡!̕͟

[WARNING]

[SOUL destabilization detected]

[HEARTBREAK immanent]

W͏ai̕t̸.̀.̢.̸Wha̧t doe̴s̛ t̨ha͝t ̨meàn̶?͡

[HEARTBREAK is the condition in which the SOUL will damage itself due to instability or loss of HOPE]

[There are three levels of the HEARTBREAK condition]

[Level ONE: the SOUL forms a crack, it starts small which can be healed easily]

[Level TWO: the crack on the SOUL spreads, damage taken is increased and needs intensive care to be repaired]

[Level THREE: the SOUL shatters and death accrues]

...Serious?

[Current status: PENDING HEARTBREAK]

[PENDING HEARTBREAK: the SOUL weakens and its color dulls]

[Most MONSTERS in the UNDERGROUND have this state due to a loss of HOPE which is the main trait in MONSTER SOULS]

So...I can die from my soul hurting itself because of my inability to cope with the shit that happened?

[Correct]

...Fuck. Well...I should make a last will. Because I'm gonna die.

*STATIC* DARLING? ARE YOU OKAY? YOU NEED TO KEEP MOVING.

Mettaton's voice in my ear causes the shackles of trauma to release me...for now.

I slap myself. Gotta focus. Do this and get to go home. Concentrate. Don't fuck up! The energy around me slowly dissipates.

"Human!"

Looking back I see Muffet coming at me.

"Someone's stealing from the register!"

Her concern for money outweighs her need to kill me and I use this to escape. Much to my annoyance, this part of the path ends with more of those damn vents and they of course split off into three ways, one being a big as hell closed door.

"...I fucking hate Hotland."

I sigh. Taking in the vent platforms and noting that the gap between them is the smallest size ever. No need to run, jump, or use them. I merely walk onto the next platform and can do so for all of them. I choose to take the right side first. Why not? Not like it makes a difference. It leads me to a conveyor belt that has three blue lasers. I ride it to the end without harm. I guess Metta's budget for puzzles is running low if this is what I have to deal with. This leads me to a familiar room with, what a surprise, the same shooting puzzle from the last time I had to unlock a big fucking door.

"Now this is just lazy."

I look for the instructions.

(Shoot the opposing ship!)

(You have just one shot.)

Well...Maybe that's something.

This puzzle has the blocks in a four by five state. Eleven blocks are solid and four can be moved around. The four moving blocks move all at once like they're connected. The open spaces are pretty fair if I have to give it some credit. I move to the right, up, right, down twice, right twice, down, left, down, and finally end it by firing through the clear path.

(CONGRATULATIONS!)

"Don't tell me it's the same on the other side."

I head out and take the other conveyor belt back to the vents, passing a random cactus in the process. I swear if this shit keeps up I'm going to lose my mind. No! No...I need to calm down and relax. I don't need the stress. My soul is in rough shape as is. Now it's at risk of damage without my conscious input. I wish I had my music. That would really help. Maybe a little Green Day or Linkin Park. Oh! My Chemical Romance!

*BONK*

It would seem I didn't pay attention and walked into the puzzle room, kicking the machine by accident.

(Shoot the opposing ship!)

(You have just one shot.)

"God dingle damn it bull honkery."

I hate copy & paste design. The board is larger, five by five. Ten solid blocks and six movable ones, everything else is empty space. Right, up, right, down twice, right, right/up, up/right, up twice, right, up, and fire.

(CONGRATULATIONS!)

"...I'm so sick of this crap it ain't even funny."

I shove my hands in my pockets and leave...only to see two diamond-headed monsters just hanging out, one light-purple and the other a super light-green. Did I really walk by them?

"I've been thinking about getting a sick skateboard."

"Really? That's cool I guess. ...So...What's your fave Mettaton Moment(TM)?"

"My fave Mettaton Moment(TM)? Right when everything looks the baddest, he poses dramatically. Like when he's on a cooking show and the eggs don't turn out right. But! Then he says...Even if you suck at cooking, you can always buy an MTT-brand Glamburger! Then he eats one! Everyone loves it!"

"...How does he eat it without a mouth?"

"Uhhh...well...Watch the show!"

"Well, my fave Mettaton Moment(TM) is when he beats up the heel-turning villains! Even if it's during what's supposed to be a quiz show. Oh! And I like when he tries on all kinds of different fashionable outfits! Even if it's during what's supposed to be a newscast."

I wonder if I can get a chuckle out of these two.

"Sounds like you two really know your stuff about Mettaton."

They turn to look at me, they look like teenagers based on their clothes.

"Totally."

"No one's a bigger fan than us."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah! He's currently broadcasting live. And with a Human! We can finally get to the surface!"

"On the surface, we'll be able to watch all kinds of TV...But, I bet none of those shows are as good as Mettaton's!"

"You don't say. Then...Could you describe this human? I don't want to miss seeing it."

The green one goes for his phone.

"Let me see if it's back on and we'll show you. Some crazy stuff happened and the feed cut off a bit ago."

I smile and wait for it. I can't read their faces, but it's very clear when the green one goes to his buddy and shows him the screen. Looks are shot at me. I merely give a friendly wave.

"Dude..."

"We're on TV!"

At least someone's happy about it.

"Wait...Then that means..."

"You're the human?"

I shrug.

"What...What happened to you?"

"You're like all messed up and junk."

I shrug again.

"You know...Messed up crud. Being human ain't all that and or fun. But don't worry about it. Just enjoy the show. Metta's doing his best to make it epic as hell."

I walk past them.

"Oh! Before I go...Don't copy any of the stuff aired at home. You'd probably get in trouble if you blast people for getting trivia wrong or use chainsaws while cooking."

I give a thumbs-up as I go. Vaguely hoping to look badass. With the door open it shouldn't be long till all this nonsense is over and I can go home. I wonder though...Can Flowey get up here? The floor is artificial, so I don't know if he can traverse it. I hope he's okay. Poor fella's probably losing his mind wondering where I went. Then again, he's a clever cookie and knows his way around the Underground better than anyone.

[The smell of cobwebs fills the air...]

Huh?

*sniff*

"What smells like freshly baked tarantulas?"

...Oh shit.

The room past the door is littered with webbing and spiders are dangling from the ceiling.

"...Fuck my life."

Smelling a trap I attempt to get through this room as fast as I can. But the webbing on the floor accumulates on my shoes and eventually, I'm unable to take a step. Struggling only made things worse.

"Ahuhuhuhu..."

Damn it! Damn it all to hell!!

"Did you hear what they just said? They said a human in tacky clothes will come through."

"Well, fuck you too."

"I heard that they hate spiders."

"What?!"

"I heard that they love to stomp on them."

"That is a bald-faced lie!"

"I heard that they like to tear their legs off."

"Slander! The levels of bullshit in here are off the charts!"

"I heard..."

Muffet comes down like a Charlotte's Web reject onto a large web. Smaller spiders dangle beside her and block the path ahead as well as behind me.

"...that they're incredibly stingy with their money. Ahuhuhuhu."

My fucks are all gone.

"You're mom was a hoe and ate your dad."

Her face blanks before burning with rage.

"You're fucking dead meat!"

[SPIDER DANCE begins to play in the background.]

My dull yellow soul comes out.

[Muffet traps you!]

"Oh, like this is fair. I can't move and you bring out a freaking gang. I mean, what are the damn rule anymore?!"

"Oh don't look so blue, my deary~."

She spins silk to entangle my soul then bites the end of a strand, her magic venom flows down the strand and coats the heart. Forcibly changing the trait and color.

"...I think purple is a better look on you! Ahuhuhu~."

This feels so wrong.

"Why is everyone messing with my soul today?!"

Her spider underlings draw webbing in strings in horizontal lines. These lines are also infused with the purple magic and attract my soul.

[You're trapped in a strange purple web!]

"Here's the deal, dearie~...A spider will appear to the right between each turn, holding a sign that presents the density and type of attack that will come after your turn. Now while you can't move, your pretty little soul can, and you'll have to move it along or switch between the three strings to avoid attacks. There will only be three strings. No more, no less. How's that for fair~?"

I mull it over.

"...Not bad actually. Who goes first?"

"You. I want to see what you can do."

She's a smart one, I'll give her that. Let's see my options.

[FIGHT]

[ACT]

[̴͝SP͜͞E͡L̵͜L͟͠͏]͘͢

[ITEM]

[MERCY]

That button is giving me weird vibes the more I see it.

[ACT selected.]

[New options available.]

[CHECK]

[STRUGGLE]

[PAY 10G]

Pay? Fuck that! I earned this gold. Mine!

[CHECK selected.]

[MUFFET – HP: 1250 ATK: 38.8 DEF: 18.8 – If she invites you to her parlor, excuse yourself.]

And she's better in the stat department than the butterdragon.

A spider drops down and holds a sign...It's a picture of a spider. The hell does that mean?

"Why so pale? You should be proud~."

"With the amount of blood I've lost today it would make me look like a corpse. But be proud of what?"

"Why...Proud that you're going to make a delicious cake~! Ahuhuhu~!"

Spiders begin crawling across the threads. It's like a weird form of Frogger minus hopping to safety. It's a simple move and I come out of it fine.

[HP ██████████████████████████████████████████ 40/40]

Sweet, my HP is full. I love this nasty apron!

[All the spiders clap along to the music.]

It is a catchy tune, no lie. But I need to get out of this. It's not like all of me is unable to move.

[ACT selected.]

[STRUGGLE selected.]

[You struggle to escape the web. Muffet covers her mouth and giggles at you.]

...Bitch.

A spider drops down and holds a sign...It's a picture of a spider. Okay, I know what that means now.

"Look at you. Trying to break free. It's so cute~."

"Would it help if I asked nicely? Please let me go?"

"Let you go? Don't be silly~. Your SOUL is going to make every spider very happy~~!"

Spiders cross the lines and it oddly seems like there was less this time. Making it easier.

[HP ██████████████████████████████████████████ 40/40]

[Muffet does a synchronized dance with the other spiders.]

"You know...Someone warned us about you...Offered us a LOT of money for your SOUL."

This gets my attention.

"What?"

"Oh yes~. They had such a sweet smile~ and...Ahuhuhu~. It's strange, but I swore I saw them in the shadows...Changing shape...?"

The hell? Wait...She can't mean one of the Followers...Can she? Stop it! Don't think about them! Don't!

"Oh well. It's not like it matters anyway. Your move, dearie~."

[STRUGGLE selected.]

[You struggle to escape the web. Muffet laughs and claps her hands.]

"Still trying, huh? Still thing. Don't you know spider silk is five times stronger than steel?"

I can not get a break today.

A spider drops down and holds a sign...It's a picture of two spiders. What?

Double the spiders come on the strings at the same time. It's somehow a new move yet works too similar to the normal attack to be tricky. I dodge it fairly well.

[HP ██████████████████████████████████████████ 40/40]

[Muffet pours herself a cup of spiders.]

...I didn't need to see that. No one needs to see a large spider drink smaller spiders like they were tea.

"*sip* With the money from you SOUL, the spider clans can finally be reunited~."

I tilt my head.

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't heard? Spiders have been trapped in the RUINS for generations!"

Obvious thing is obvious.

"Can't they, you know, squeeze out through the door?"

"*scoff* Even if they go under the door, Snowdin's fatal cold is impassable alone."

It is pretty cold there. Then they'd have to travel through two zones to get here. Damn, that sucks.

"But with the money from your SOUL, we'll be able to rent them a heated limo~. And with all of the leftovers...? We could have a nice vacation~! Or even build a spider baseball field~!"

What little sympathy I was gaining dies at that.

"Now you're just spending to show off."

"But enough of that...It's time for dinner, isn't it? Ahuhuhu~."

*Growls*

I look around and see nothing. I don't like this.

[STRUGGLE selected.]

[You struggle to escape the web. Nothing happened.]

"Don't struggle too much. You'll make yourself all sweaty. No one wants a sweaty donut."

A spider drops down and holds a sign...It's a picture of a spider and a donut?

The spiders come crawling faster than before even if their numbers aren't as much, then they are followed by random donuts being thrown by the spiders blocking the pathways. This almost had me. Came close, but no cigar.

[HP ██████████████████████████████████████████ 40/40]

I'm proud of my dodging skills. I've come a long way.

[Muffet tidies up the web around you.]

If you don't like crumbs, don't throw food. It's very simple.

*Growls*

There's that sound again. I really don't like it. Muffet does though.

"You look concerned."

"Are you saying you don't hear the growling?"

She giggles.

"Oh, how rude of me! I almost forgot to introduce you to my pet~."

I'm puzzled. What kind of pet does a spider have?

"Oh, my pet~...Looks like it's time for dessert~."

I can hear rapid heavy skittering. Not good! Not good!

[STRUGGLE selected.]

[You struggle to escape the web. Muffet is so amused by your antics that she gives you a discount!]

"Tell you what...If you survive my pet, I just might consider sparing you."

"R-Really? That might actually be the f...Holy fucking shit!!"

*Roar*

An abomination appears. A hideous cupcake spider thing emerges from the webs.

"What the fuck is that thing?!"

"This is my pet. Have fun, you two~."

A spider drops down and holds a sign...It's a picture of a cupcake. I don't like this at all!

So many spiders speed by in an unchanging pattern of fear and with good reason. The freaky food beast climbs down and begins eating the strings, pulling my soul towards its hungry maw. This causes spiders that were already on their way to fall prey to this creature as I desperately do my best to not get hit or be dragged to what I assume is instant death. But I'm too panicked to be perfect in my dodging.

[HP ████ 4/40]

Six...I took six hits. I'm gonna die.

[Your soul can't take much more of this.]

No? Really?! Like I couldn't fucking tell!

"You're still alive? Ahuhuhu~...That's impressive~."

She calls her pet to her side.

"Got way too worked up...*gag* I think...*gag* I think I'm gonna puke. *hic*"

"...Please don't. Do you know how hard vomit is to clean out of webbing?"

I take a moment to settle down.

"*sigh* Don't lie...Spiders eat their webbing when it gets messed up."

She cringes.

"Yeah...I don't know everything about spiders. But I do know random gross stuff like that."

I shake off the impending dizziness.

"So...Are you going to spare me?"

She thinks for a moment.

"I will..."

Maybe there is a god?

"For the small fee of 500G~."

Nope. God's dead.

"Are you kidding me?! I'm fucking broke! "

I ain't telling her I have money.

"Then I guess we're going to be spending more quality time together, dearie~ I do hope you're feeling comfortable trapped in that web. Ahuhuhuhu~! Because I don't mind keeping you here for as long as it takes~!"

Damn it. I don't have time for this crap. Wait a second...Time? Heh...This gives me an idea.

"Say, Muffet...Who's watching your bake sale stand while you're here?"

She folds her upper arms.

"A loyal family member. Why do you ask?"

I chuckle softly.

"Oh, no reason. Just checking."

Her eyes cock.

"Checking?"

"Well, we've been here a long time. At least, you have because you got here before me. And we're far from your stand too. It would be a real shame if someone took your 'donations' while this fight was happening."

She sneers.

"Dearie, you're not going to fool me again with that trick. No one would dare steal from me."

I smirk.

"That's the thing...It's not YOU they'd stealing from now is it? It's some other weaker spider."

Her expression gains some worry.

"Even if that spider is loyal, can you honestly say it can defend the money if, let's say, a group stormed the table?"

Concern crosses her face and her pet nudges her as it picks up the vibes.

"Then...Then I'll kill you quickly and return before some fool even tries!"

I shake my head at her.

"Yeah, that would be a thing you could do. But...You can't."

"Wha...What do you mean I can't? You have four HP left! One more hit and your SOUL is mine!"

I put my hands in my pockets and rock on my heels.

"True. So very true. Yet...It's not your turn."

Her eyes widen, finally picking up on my little plan.

"Here's the thing...I've been in enough fights to understand how they work. It all functions on a turn-based system. It's a very fair means of doing combat. No one can attack at random, only when it's their turn. Heh...But the kicker is, and I think you know where I'm going with this...There's no time limit on turns. So if I want to...as long as I don't do anything...my turn will never end. And we'll be stuck here, locked like this...forever!"

Now it's her turn to feel panic.

"You're bluffing."

I grin.

"How much are you willing to bet on that? Because I wager your clan won't take losing all their hard-earned gold due to your negligence very well. They may think a new leader is needed if that happens."

I yawn and stretch to get cozy, showing I'm more than willing to stay put. She twitches with nervousness.

"So tell us, Muffet...What's it gonna be?"

Based on my understanding of Muffet, she's a greedy, stingy, intimidating, malicious, and somehow hypocritical monster, although having a courteous and sweet way of speaking. She won't stay. The odds don't favor her.

Her pet looks at her, the spiders turn to her, the pressure is almost visible as it smothers her. She balls her six fists and stomps her foot in a fit.

"Fine! I'll SPARE you!"

"For free?"

She grinds her teeth.

"Yes, for free! Just quit stalling and confirm it!"

[Muffet is sparing you and refuses your money.]

I can be super evil when I have the chance.

[MERCY selected.]

[SPARE selected.]

[YOU WON!]

[You earned 0 XP and 0 gold.]

The webbing around my soul dissolves. As does the stuff around my feet. My soul turns a dull orange and returns to my body.

"There, you're free. Now get lost!"

"I'm glad we could have such a fun time together, dear."

She snarls and hops onto her pet.

"Next time, you won't get away so easily."

"And maybe next time you'll be paying me for my amazing entertainment skills."

I think channeled Mettaton for a moment. She bites back some harsh unladylike remarks and rides off. I look at the spiders that block my way out.

"Move...please."

They're hesitant but do so.

"Thank you."

I take a few steps but stop near them, pulling out a small handful of gold.

"I don't know if what she said was true, but...here."

I put the gold on the ground and take my leave, pulling a bottle of cider from my inventory to heal.

"Consider it an addition to the amount I've already paid in the Ruins."

The spiders are confused but I hear them take the gold. I can be evil, yes. But it's not true to my nature. I drink the whole bottle as I enter a new, hopefully lacking in spiders, area.

[HP ████████████████████████████ 28/40]

Not bad. I'll fully heal up soon. This new area appears to have the same material as the Ruins. I'm getting homesick. I miss Toriel. I miss Flowey. I miss my bed. I want to go home.

My melancholy blinds me to my current surroundings. I only come out of it once a spotlight hits me.

"The hell...?"

Things look funny. No doubt it's a setup by Mettaton. But I'm unsure what this act is. I mean, it looks like a receptionist's waiting room. A desk and some random chairs.

"GOOD EVENING, LADIES AND GENTS...!"

Mettaton zips in wearing a red suit and shoves me in a chair as he takes center stage.

"FIRST AND FOREMOST, WE HERE AT MTTTV WOULD LIKE TO APOLOGIZE FOR THE LACK OF ME OVER THE COURSE OF THE PROGRAM. DUE TO THE LACK PREP WORK WITH MY COSTAR HERE, WE SADLY HAD TO FORGO A THRILLING ACT BACK IN LEVEL TWO INVOLVING HUNDREDS OF EXPLOSIVES!!"

I so freaking called it. I should let him have his moment...Nah!

"I thought you said that act was shit anyway?"

He extends an arm to cover my mouth.

"FORGIVE HER. SHE'S LOST A LOT OF BLOOD AND NOT ALL THERE MENTALLY."

I leer at him flatly.

"BUT...DARLING HERE IS GOING TO MAKE AMENDS WITH US ALL RIGHT NOW. IT'S TIME TO ANSWER SOME BURNING QUESTIONS."

I'm so confused as he lets go and leaps onto the desk, posing dramatically.

"IT'S TIME FOR..."

A large neon sign shaped like him drops from the ceiling.

"BURNING THE MIDNIGHT OIL WITH A KILLER ROBOT! THE LATE NIGHT TALK SHOW HOSTED BY YOURS TRULY."

Huh. Not a bad title.

"I thought you were working on a courtroom trial program?"

He scoots to now sit behind the desk.

"UNFORTUNATELY, WHILE I DO HAVE THE FUNDS, I DON'T HAVE AVAILABLE WORKERS TO MAKE SUCH A SET. SO...WE'RE DOING THIS INSTEAD."

"Heh...Must be hard to meet your expectations."

"DARLING, YOU HAVE NO IDEA."

A tense dramatic score plays.

"SO, DARLING...ARE YOU READY TO TELL ME EVERYTHING?"

Ah. I see now. Fine, Metta, have it your way. Just be careful what you wish for. You may not like it. Now don't get me wrong. I know my limits. I'm not about to tell him EVERYTHING. I'm not that stupid. But if he wants truth, he's going to get a version that's missing some characters and other junk.

"As you wish. You wanna know the truth? You want to scar the entire Underground? Sure. Why not. What else do I have to lose at this point since you exposed me? So congratulations! I hope you like the prize you've been longing to get. Because I sure as hell don't."

Let the show commence.

#undertale #underfell #Lynsie #Anomaly #sans #papyrus #gaster #grillby #grandpa semi #mettaton #napstablook #toriel #Asriel #flowey #asgore #chara #frisk #undyne #alphys

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spicykoreantatertots · 5 years ago

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Spine Breaker

Pairing: Jimin x Female Reader

Word Count: 959

Rating: PG

Genres: SFW, College AU

Summary: You have to team up with dance student Jimin on your art project.

Warnings: Taehyung says mean things about Jimin bc he doesn’t know him. :(

A/N: This is part of my new drabble series that I’m doing for ficswithluv’s Bulletproof Bingo! 24 drabbles in 12 days so I can get that blackout before the deadline. See my challenge post here and the master list here! Message or send an ask to be on the taglist!

This has not been beta read, please be kind. 💜

~~~~~~~

Today is the most excited you’ve been to go to class all semester. As a freshman in art school, you aren’t actually creating as much art as you thought you would be. There’s so much history and theory to learn before they even hand you a set of paints.

The only class that actually lets you create, Drawing 1, is starting a new unit today. Moving on from Still Life to The Human Body. It’s not easy to capture the curves and lines and life of a human body, but that’s why you love it. It’s a challenge.

“I heard they’re pairing us up with students from the Dance Program for the unit project.” Taehyung, the boy who usually sits next to you, sits down and leans over to continue talking. “Do you have any friends in dance?”

“No... why?” Students continue filing into the class, chattering about the upcoming project.

“I heard we get to choose our partners. I’ve got a friend, Hoseok. He’s an amazing dancer and he’ll be fun to work with.” Taehyung is already doodling vague human-like shapes on his notebook.

“I don’t know anyone in dance.” Taehyung waves you off, everything will be fine. Surely not every art student has friends in dance. Right?

Wrong. After a brief introduction of the Human Body unit, the professor ushers in the dance students. You eye the line of students at the front of the room, trying to find someone who looks friendly. You see a few familiar faces from around campus, but most people seem to be avoiding eye contact.

When the professor allows everyone to pick their partners, the room becomes chaotic. Everyone makes their way quickly to their friends. Unfortunately most students immediately match up and before you can even catch your breath, you are face to face with the last dance student.

He is the most stunning man you’ve ever seen. His body is lean, muscles visible under his form fitting clothes. His eyes are hidden behind a pair of designer sunglasses that are probably worth more than your entire wardrobe. His face somehow has a sharp jawline and beautiful full cheeks. And his lips...

“I’m Park Jimin.” He says, handing you a slip of paper with his name and phone number. “Text me to set up a time to work on the project. I spend most of my time in practice room 13, so we’ll probably meet there.”

“I, uh, okay.” You were about to introduce yourself too, but he’s already walking away. Taehyung approaches you once Jimin is gone. He pats your shoulder, comforting you.

“Park Jimin, huh? Good luck with that...” He trails off.

“What do you mean by that? Do you know him?” You question as you make your way back to your seat.

“No, but I’ve heard he’s a brat. Did you see his outfit? He’s rude and entitled and I’ve also heard his poor parents work two jobs each to pay for his school and yet still he spends his money on designer clothes.” Taehyung explains. You turn the slip of paper Jimin gave over in your hands. He can’t really be that bad, can he?

You: Hey, this is Y/N, I’m your partner for the art project. [1:57pm]

You: I’m fine with meeting you in your practice room, but what time and day is good? [4:31pm]

You: Hello... [8:32pm]

Jimin: I was practicing, sorry. If you’re free tomorrow stop by anytime between 2pm and 11pm. [9:02pm]

You: Okay, I’ll stop by after class. Around 4? [9:05pm]

There’s no response after that. Are you really supposed to believe he was practicing for seven hours without checking his phone. Maybe Taehyung was right about him after all.

Standing in front of practice room 13 in the dance building, you’re feeling a weird mix of nervous and annoyed. Jimin seemed very disinterested in this project. All he has to do is hold a pose and let you draw, but apparently that’s asking a lot.

You take a deep breath and knock on the door. After waiting about thirty seconds, you knock again a little louder. Then the door opens quickly and Jimin pokes his head out. He’s sweating.

“Oh. It’s you. Come in.” He opens the door and steps aside so you can enter. Jimin is wearing some sweats, still looking like a greek god. His face is clear of sunglasses, so you get a chance to see his eyes. Much like the rest of him, they are beautiful. And surprisingly kind.

He walks over to his bag and jacket in the corner near the stereo system. He grabs a water bottle and wipes the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. You find a spot near the door to sit down.

“Do you have any poses in mind?” You question him as you get your sketch pad and pencils out. When you look up, Jimin is watching you carefully.

“Why don’t you watch me dance and then we can discuss.” Before you can respond, he cues up a pop song and moves to the center of the room.

He begins by moving his arms slowly, delicately. But as the music builds, his dancing becomes more intense, using his whole body, hitting each beat with precise movements. He twists, spins, jumps, and pushes his body to the extreme. The passion in his eyes makes you second guess everything negative you’ve heard about him.

The song ends, Jimin is breathing heavily.

“Did you find any inspiration?” He’s wearing a smirk across his face and you notice that your mouth is hanging open, you’re amazed and it shows. Working on this project is going to be even more challenging than you thought.

~~~~~~~

Stay tuned for part two! (Filter 😉)

~~~~~~~

A/N: Thank you so much for reading. Check out my masterlist here and the series masterlist here. I’m always looking for betas and friends so send me a message! :)

#ficswithluv #fwlbingo #magicshopnet #bangtanhq #park jimin #jimin #jimin x reader #jimin fan fic #jimin fan fiction #dancer!jimin #bts #bts fan fiction #bts fan fic

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ohblackdiamond · 5 years ago

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little t&a (gene/paul, nc-17) (part 27 of 29)

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 part 13 part 14 part 15 part 16 part 17 part 18 part 19 part 20 part 21 part 22 part 23 part 24 part 25 part 26 part 27 part 28 part 29

Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort levels, and Gene’s libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter: Gene and Paul draw each other, and Gene makes his confession. The sky is falling and we’re getting pretty near the end.

It felt like a shorter lunch than it really was. Paul ate all of his soup, but only half his sandwich, while Gene dove into both with as much relish as usual. In fact, he ate two sandwiches and Paul’s leftovers.

“I hope you didn’t want to do it right after we ate,” Gene said awkwardly. Paul was looking at the plates and silverware, debating cleaning things up. In the end, he just wiped off the counter and stuck all the dishes in the sink.

“Nah. Give it awhile.” He shrugged. “The only trouble is, we’ve pretty much exhausted all our entertainment options at my place.”

Gene smiled.

“Paul, are you really telling me all you have over here is a T.V., an album collection, and some self-help books?”

“I’ve also got sketchpads. And painting supplies.”

“You still paint?”

Paul shrugged again.

“It’s not great. I don’t have time to really…”

“Let me see.”

Gene was actually a pretty fair artist. He never drew cartoons of his bandmates like Paul was prone to, in a bad mood, but he liked to sketch out comic book characters. He’d never taken any classes that Paul knew of, but he was talented. Talented enough that Paul was a little wary of showing him any of his efforts.

It occurred to him how stupid that was. He was about to fuck this guy—had spent the last four nights in bed with him, even—but somehow showing him some acrylic paintings was making him nervous. Somehow what passed for his body of work was more vulnerable than his actual body.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Cool.”

“C’mon, they’re in the guest bedroom. I’m surprised you didn’t find them earlier.” He’d had aspirations of having his own studio, or at least using one of the rooms for that express purpose, before the reality of nine or ten months on the road at a time hit him. He didn’t even paint enough while he was at home to justify that kind of expense.

Gene followed him over to the guest bedroom. Paul leaned over, dress hiking up as he yanked some cardboard and canvases out from under the bed.

“Here we go.” Instead of holding the pieces up for Gene’s inspection, he just set them out on the bed. He hung back a bit, heart thumping, not quite daring to want to watch Gene look at his work. Actually showing it to Gene felt a little like hearing his own voice on the answering machine, or the echo from a microphone, all the flaws bouncing back at him, magnified a dozen times.

The pieces didn’t have too much meaning behind them, nothing really far out or deep he was trying to convey. Bright streaks of color, some of it in splatters, but most of it in strokes, with no consistent pattern. Purples and pinks tended to dominate. There were points where he’d tried to layer on the colors, fooled around with it, only he’d half-forgotten the proper technique to do it the way he wanted. Most of the art didn’t really have a focal point, except for an odd one-off where he’d tried to paint a sunset while it was still in the air. That one was on a piece of cardboard torn off a refrigerator box. It had maybe a found art, rustic quality to it or something. And the color scheme wasn’t too bad, either, the red sun spilling over a hasty backdrop of orange and pink clouds and trees instead of his neighbors’ houses.

“I like this one a lot.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Superman couldn’t fly with that sun.” Gene picked up the piece of cardboard carefully—too carefully, a piece of paper that had been beneath it starting to flutter towards the floor. Paul snatched it before it got there.

“What’s that one?”

“Oh, it’s only a sketch,” Paul tried to dismiss, but Gene seemed curious enough for him to hold it up for Gene to see. Part of him wanted to hide it back under the bed like a child, for all that it wasn’t particularly incriminating. Just a sketch of his own face. The hair was probably the most accurate part, hopelessly unruly; he didn’t quite think he’d gotten his own nose right, or eyes, but…

“In the makeup.” Gene’s finger touched the edge of the star on his eye.

“Well, sure. It kept me from having to shade much.”

“You look depressed there.” Gene still running his finger down the sketched-out lines of his face made Paul feel stupidly warm, like he was touching him by proxy.

“I don’t look good?”

“I didn’t say that.” A pause. Paul could always recognize when Gene was about to start a critique with him. He’d hesitate, which was kind of funny, because he never did it with anyone else, just plowed through with whatever comment he had. Paul would usually get offended anyway, but he was trying not to, at least for today. “Hey, would you do me a favor?”

Not a critique at all. Paul was vaguely surprised.

“What’re you wanting?”

“Let me try my hand at it.”

“Gene, I’m not letting you go over my drawing—”

“No, no. Let me borrow one of your sketchpads.”

“You wanna draw me right now? What for?” Paul could feel himself tense up slightly as he reached over, gathering up the paintings and stuffing them back under the bed. Despite himself, he was yanking out another pad of drawing paper from there as well. “If you wanted your album photo, all you had to do was check the newspaper.”

“I don’t want your photo. Just you.”

Paul handed the sketchpad over. There was an odd sting somewhere in his heart.

“You can’t want what you’ve already got,” he said quietly. He didn’t wait for Gene to respond, clearing his throat hastily. “I make a terrible art model.”

Gene’s expression, a little unreadable earlier, quirked a little.

“I’ll let you draw me, too.”

“I feel like you’re hard to draw.” But he’d gotten another piece of cardboard to bear down on after tearing off a page of the drawing paper for himself. Then Paul was gathering the rest of the supplies—pencils and gummy erasers—from where they lay in a coffee mug on the nightstand. It wasn’t exactly the most put-together setup. He just wasn’t around enough for any extra effort to be worth it. The guest bedroom’s only real use was as another place to stash his tour and art stuff. He could count the number of times anyone had slept there on one hand. “You don’t… really have one feature that really stands out—”

Gene stuck out his tongue.

“Oh, God, I’m not drawing that. Just your face. C’mon, sit down.” Paul gestured towards the bed, scooting up on it himself, sitting cross-legged on the pillows, dress bunched up. The cardboard and piece of paper were resting on his thighs, one of the pencils in his hand. He gave Gene the mug and sketchpad, scrutinizing Gene’s face. “Let me try first, okay?”

“Go for it.”

He’d never really studied Gene’s face before. That sounded a little stupid, given everything. Gene still wasn’t exactly attractive, though he looked a lot better now than he had when they’d first met. That hadn’t been the draw. It still wasn’t the draw.

Paul didn’t ask Gene to try for any particular expression as he started in, drawing the circle, the center line, mapping out the sections of his face in the half-remembered way he’d learned back in school and trying to adjust from there, only to, as usual, abandon the mapping about two minutes in. Gene’s eyes weren’t quite as dark as his, and his nose was bigger—you can’t hide the hook, Totie had said, back on their stint on the Mike Douglas show, and Paul remembered snickering with everyone else about it backstage. She’d had his number. Gene had struck up a friendship with her after that, excited to get to know another Jewish entertainer. Paul privately hoped he hadn’t banged her in the process.

He was distracting himself. It was hard to do the expression lines around Gene’s mouth without making him look forty-eight instead of nearly twenty-eight, so Paul abandoned all but a light insinuation before skipping over to his hair. He thought he could get that right, at least. Gene’s hair was somewhat coarse, and tended to frizz even worse than Paul’s own did, and it wasn’t as thick. All of the teasing and backcombing and tight ponytails had done a number on it. Paul pursed his lips, trying to approximate the texture with his pencil, and the sheen with his eraser.

“How’s it coming?” Gene asked, after about fifteen minutes. He’d been pretty patient, not shifting around much, even stopping himself the few times he tried to scratch his face.

“I think I did a damn good job on your eyebrows.” Paul turned the sketch around with a slight groan. “Everything else is a little…”

“You made me look really sad.”

Gene wasn’t wrong. Paul hadn’t quite figured out what to do with Gene’s lips when he’d drawn them, so he’d had them sink down a bit. The eyebrows really were pretty good, to his own estimation, and the hair was okay, and he’d at least started with the proper face shape, but—he hadn’t really caught Gene properly. Whatever his essence was, it hadn’t transferred onto the page.

“Frowns are easier to draw. Smiles, you have to get just right, and get the light in the eyes…” Paul shook his head. “Not a lot of room for error, right? And if you mess up, your drawing ends up looking like Norman Bates.”

Gene laughed, shaking his head.

“But you’ve got me looking like myself. It isn’t just the eyebrows. The chin and the mouth are right--”

“But it’s not great, either. I’ll try again later on.” Paul set the drawing down. “You can do me if you want.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

“Oh, shut up.” Paul shifted, suddenly antsy. He’d only ever seen Gene draw his own fanzines and doodle on napkins. He knew Gene wasn’t going to take this as a serious art study, but… but on the same token, letting Gene draw him felt--revealing. Almost too revealing. He wasn’t as bothered by the face Gene was going to draw as what it signified. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what Gene saw when he looked at him. What stood out to him.

If he drew a pair of tits, Paul grimly promised himself he’d keep denying Gene at least until tomorrow.

“Tilt your chin up a bit,” Gene said, and Paul did so. His fingers worried unconsciously at the straps of his dress. Paul waited for more instructions, but they didn’t come. Just the scritch of the pencil against the sketch paper, and the occasional fuzzy sound of the eraser rubbing back and forth on the page. Gene kept such direct eye contact on his face that Paul was getting a bit intimidated.

“You took art in school, right?”

“Only a couple of terms. I liked it, but I wanted to get in all the electives I could.”

“Even weight training?” Paul scooted to the side.

“Your art school had weight training?”

“God, yeah. We even had a football team.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I never said we won anything.” Paul paused. “Do you want me to pose?”

“No. You’re fine like you are.”

“Should I smile?”

Gene looked like he was considering it for a second, and then he shook his head.

“Just relax.”

Paul tried to, but he kept fidgeting. Not getting any direction was making him nervous. He wasn’t gutsy enough to try to look alluring without the makeup as a shield. Gene had stopped talking as he’d gotten more into the drawing, only responding to Paul’s attempts at conversation with a few “yeahs” and “uh-huh”s. He was taking longer than Paul had, too. But he seemed pleased with himself far before he signed the bottom and held it out for Paul to see.

“Here you go.”

Paul was a little stunned.

He was nearly right there on the page. Big dark eyes greeted him. Full lips, slightly parted, revealing a little of his front teeth. High cheekbones. Gene’s portrait of him was more thorough and detailed than Paul’s attempt, stopping at the shoulders, where the dress straps drooped. More attractive than Paul knew he actually was; Gene had, oddly, been kinder about Paul’s nose and jaw than was accurate, but all the same-- he’d captured something of Paul on the page. Some facet. Tenseness or intensity or both. The sketch was clearly of a chick, sure, but-- it was him.

“Gene, this… shit, this is really good.” Part of what impressed him was the self-assured pressure and definition of most of the lines. Paul’s own tended to fade out, like he was mentally erasing them after committing them to the page, but Gene went into it with a much heavier hand overall. The contrast was interesting. “And I thought all you could draw was Batman. You’ve been holding out on me for years.”

Gene shrugged.

“I had someone cute in front of me. That makes all the difference.” He paused, moving to sit beside him, pointing at the sketch. “You’ve got pretty eyes.”

“Since just lately?”

“No. Since always.” Gene seemed to hesitate. “Paul, in a way, you don’t really look all that dif--”

“Peter told me they made me look like a beagle,” Paul stumbled out before Gene could finish. He wasn’t sure why he interrupted that way. Gene snorted, reaching over and draping an arm behind Paul’s shoulders. Paul let him.

“Maybe more like a moppet. You remember those posters.”

“Yeah. Julia had them in her room when we were kids.” But he wasn’t displeased at the comparison, somehow, reaching to put the sketches and supplies on the crowded nightstand, before leaning back against Gene’s arm and shoulder. He could feel Gene start to tense, so Paul turned his head, impulsively, pressing a kiss against his cheek. “One of them was a harlequin or something, I don’t remember.”

“Paul.”

“What?”

“You didn’t let me finish. You don’t look all that different.”

“Come off it.” Paul could feel something cold and odd trickle up his spine, something he was almost afraid of. “I’ve had tits for a week and a half, don’t try to kid me.”

“I’ve been kidding myself.”

“Gene, what’re you talking about--”

“You’re the same as you always were. You’re beautiful.”

Paul sat there stunned. The icy feeling up his spine seemed to melt and dissolve in an instant. He didn’t want it to. He wanted to hold onto it. Use it as something to protect him, something to chase away any hurt, any vulnerability. His face was going florid, and all of a sudden, he couldn’t look directly at Gene, staring instead at the hem of his dress.

“I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep. But I think… I think there might still be something there after we break the curse.” Gene’s hand found one of the shoulder straps on his dress, fixing it back up, though his gaze was still firm on Paul’s face. Completely unwavering. Paul’s heartbeat felt like it could smash straight through diamonds. “I know that’s not enough for--”

“It’s enough.”

“Paul, look--”

“It’s enough.” Paul was surprised at the slow strength starting to rise from his voice with every word, like a newborn foal wobbling to its feet. “Even before all this happened. Any time I’ve ever gotten to have with you is enough.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” He was able to look at Gene now, right in the face. The warmth he’d tried to avoid was blazing inside him. It felt funny, somehow, to feel so sure, so certain, in the face of a maybe, that things would still be all right, one way or another. It felt like the bulk of the burden, the fear, was really, truly beginning to dissolve. “Gene, I…”

He couldn’t say it. Gene was waiting on it, face so near his own he could feel his breath. He kissed him instead, reaching his arms around him half-blindly, clenching tight. Paul was panting as soon as Gene broke the kiss, pressing another and another against his cheek and chin and throat, climbing into his lap as though he belonged there, and maybe, for just a little while, he did.

Gene was so warm, so unbelievably warm. Paul could swear he could feel Gene’s own pounding heartbeat against his. His breaths were coming only a little bit better than Paul’s were, his dark eyes dilated. Gene’s mouth was back on his before Paul could think clearly, needy and wanting, and it was all Paul could do to pull back and manage one last request.

“Hey. Before we-- do you think you could take me back to o-- my bedroom?”

Gene had him gathered up in his arms in seconds. Paul held tight, pressing his face against Gene’s shirt for all of the minute it took to cross from one room to the next, taking in his scent as he finally dared to hope.

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #paul stanley #gene simmons #gene simmons x paul stanley

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starryviolentine · 4 years ago

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Camp Paya (A Pre-Apocalypse Story): Chapter 3/?

Part three of the “Pre-Apocalypse Adventures” Series

Chapter 1 (here) Chapter 2 (here)

Strangely enough, Violet, who insisted that she was feeling sick and had been rushed to the infirmary by Therissa and tagalong Brody, makes a miraculous recovery right after Sam drops by to let them know that the tour has ended and they have a bit of free time before having to meet at The Pit. It’s too coincidental, but because Violet keeps dismissing their concerns, insisting that she’s okay and that there’s nothing else wrong, Brody and Therissa drop it, deciding that it’s not worth the fight. Besides, Violet really does seem to be feeling fine again—the color has returned to her face and she leaps energetically off the cot, grabbing her roommates by the arms and pulling them towards the door.

At the meeting, all of the campers and cabin leaders are given a seven-day time schedule with blank boxes for each time slot that they’re free to choose their own activities. Ms. Pam gives them their first assignment. They’re to spend the next hour thinking about which activities they want to try and plan out their schedule for the first week of camp, starting with their very first activity slot happening later that afternoon.

Brody, who has always taken her work seriously and is ready to get right to work, unzips the fanny pack around her waist, pulls out two pencils—one blue and one purple—and hands the latter to Violet. “So, what are we gonna do this week?”

Reluctantly taking the pencil, Violet slides off the log bench onto the ground, stretching out her legs and leaning her back against the wood. “Do we have to do this now? Can’t we, like, take a break or get a snack, or something?”

“We have our first activity this afternoon,” Brody reminds her. “I was thinking, maybe we could learn how to make those friendship bracelets. Remember? The really pretty ones they showed us in the art studio?”

Violet scrunches up her nose. “Really? There are a billion cool things to do here, but you wanna sit in a room and do arts and crafts?”

That hurts Brody’s feelings a little, but she tries not to show it. “Well, okay, what do you wanna do first?”

“The rock climbing wall looked pretty cool.”

“But… didn’t you think it seemed kinda scary? It’s so high up,” says Brody, wearing her fears on her sleeve. “What if you fall?”

“They tie you to a rope, Brody. You’re not gonna fall.”

This isn’t going quite like Brody had imagined. “I just, I thought that we could start off with something simple and relaxing, you know? Since it’s the first day and all. Like, arts and crafts, and then tomorrow we could—”

“Simple and relaxing? More like lame and boring.”

Before Violet can stop herself, the words slip from her lips. She didn’t intend to sound so mean, but she’s getting a little annoyed at the thought of being stuck indoors making jewelry instead of literally any of the other, way more exciting activities.

Unfortunately, the damage has already been done, and Brody, balling her fists, responds in a defensive tone that’s just as sharp as her friend’s. “Art is not lame or boring, Violet!”

“Oh, sorry,” Violet says crossly, voice dripping with sarcasm and making her sound an awful lot like their older roommate when she’s in a bad mood. “I thought this was supposed to be summer camp, not bummer camp.”

Brody narrows her eyes and bites her tongue to hold back a frustrated yell. “Well, we have to agree on something, or else… or else we won’t get to do anything together this summer!”

“Yeah, well, then maybe we shouldn’t.”

Before Brody realizes what’s happening, Violet slams the pencil down on the seat of the bench and gets to her feet. Without another word, she storms away in a huff and doesn’t look back, leaving Brody to fume and froth all by herself.

And she does, for a while.

With burning hot in her eyes and trembling fingers, Brody furiously shoves her pencils back into her bag and folds her schedule in half, tucking it inside the cover of her diary. A walk and a change of scenery should help clear her head. In a few minutes, Brody finds herself standing on one of the docks overlooking the lake. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, filling her belly and lungs with each breath of fresh air. As she breathes, she focuses on the heat of the sunshine on her skin until her arms and legs tingle under the warmth of the sun’s rays.

Shedding her shoes and socks, Brody takes a seat at the edge of the dock and lets her legs dangle over the side, submerging her feet ankle-deep into the cool water below. Ever since she was a baby, Brody has loved the water. The way it soothes her and puts her heart at ease even on the worst of days is almost magical. Before long, Brody is calm enough to continue working on her schedule, and she fills each box with the activities she wants to do the most. Arts and crafts. Swimming. Hiking. Gymnastics. Horseback riding. Just because she might be flying solo doesn’t mean she can't have fun.

Violet isn’t her only friend, after all.

Brody finishes her schedule right on time, then stops to double check that her handwriting is neat and perfectly centered in each of the boxes, erasing and rewriting where needed. After careful consideration, Brody has decided to start in the art studio after all. She hasn’t figured out what, exactly, she wants to do yet, so she starts off by wandering around to see what there is to see. The first room she peeks inside turns out to be the jewelry station, and all the supplies to make those colorful, woven bracelets that Brody admires so much are spread out across a table in the corner of the room. As much as she wants to make one, however, in her eyes, this is something that best friends have to do together. There’s only one person she wants to exchange friendship bracelets with, and even though she happens to be upset with said person at the moment… and even though said person might never agree to make one with her at all, Brody’s not going to do it without her.

During her search for something else to do, Brody finds herself in the doorway of a spacious room with a row of paint-splatted easels along one wall and matching paint-splattered tables in the center of the floor. Stretched out on one of these tables is a long, blank piece of banner paper, and the way the edges are curling inward is a telltale sign that it has most likely been cut from a giant roll. The paint studio is empty except for one other girl, who is so absorbed in whatever she’s doodling in her sketchbook that she doesn’t notice Brody come in. Curiosity getting the better of her, Brody creeps toward the girl, inching ever so slowly her way, until she’s close enough to peer over her shoulder at her drawing.

Finally feeling someone’s presence, the redhead’s hand stops, pencil hovering about an inch above the page. She holds her breath, already expecting whoever’s standing behind her to comment on her art, maybe ask what it is or what it’s for, and then, without fail, ask for a self portrait. The life of an artist sure can be troublesome sometimes!

“Wow, that’s so pretty! You’re really good.”

“Thanks,” the girl replies softly. And then she waits for it. The inevitable “Can you draw me?”

But it doesn’t come. Instead, the auburn-haired girl takes a seat in the chair next to her and gives her a warm smile. “I’m Brody. What’s your name?”

“Sophie.”

Brody’s smile lingers even after their exchange comes to an end, although it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. After a moment, it fades and a tiny flicker of sadness appears on her face. “Is it okay if I sit with you?”

“Sure,” says Sophie, shrugging. “The paint stuff is in the cupboard by the sink if you need it. They said we could help ourselves as long as we don’t make a mess. And the paper’s in those drawers.”

For the third summer in a row, Sophie has been entrusted with the important task of designing the banner for the Camp Paya Talent Showcase. She really enjoys working with the drama department and getting to witness everything that happens behind the scenes. But most of all, she loves getting to see one of her original creations hanging right above the stage for everyone to see. It’s her own way to shine without having to step into the spotlight. Unlike her sister, who sings in the show every year and usually gets the most enthusiastic round of applause out of all the performers, Sophie prefers to display her artistic prowess in subtler ways—just enough for people to appreciate and admire what she does without being the center of attention.

After several more minutes of erasing and adjusting her sketch, Sophie lays her personal set of colored pencils out in front of her and picks out a few different shades of purple, red, orange and pink, already having a color scheme in mind. Ever since Ms. Pam mentioned that this year’s talent show was going to be in the evening instead of after lunch like it had been in the past, Sophie’s been unable to get the image of the gorgeous sunset she saw a few days ago out of her head. Her godparents had taken her and her sister out for a birthday weekend treat. They went to the mall to see a movie and even got to play around in the movie theater arcade afterwards. They ended the day with dinner at their favorite restaurant, and, as they walked through the parking lot back to the car, the sun was setting and the sky was the most incredible palette of colors Sophie has ever seen.

While her sister has been recreating the opening scene to the movie they watched every morning since then, dancing and lip-syncing to the catchy song playing in her head while getting dressed, Sophie’s been thinking about the colors of the sky. And it’s the greatest feeling to know that she’s going to get to paint with them very, very soon.

Just as soon as she copies her sketch onto the banner, of course.

“Hey, do you think this looks okay?” Sophie stands and turns to her left, wanting to show her sketchbook to Brody and get her approval, but she stops when she realizes that the other girl is just sitting there, resting her head in her arms on the table and looking really upset. “Oh, um…”

“It’s beautiful,” Brody says, complimenting Sophie’s drawing nonetheless. “You know what it makes me think of? Sitting in the sand on a tropical island… and looking out at the line where the ocean touches the sky… and it’s that time of day when the sun’s going down and everything’s just glowing in the low light. Sunset halfway underwater… Silhouettes of palm trees against the clouds...” Even though she sounds a little sad, there’s a soft, dreamy half-smile on Brody’s face as she runs her fingertips across the colors. “I imagine the sky would look just like that.”

As Sophie listens, the girl’s voice turns into the bubbling of salty waves rolling onto the sand and the gentle rustling of leaves in the breeze. The young artist’s face starts to feel warm, as though she was actually there on that island, basking under the setting sun on that beach in Brody’s imagination. “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, too.”

“Are you gonna make a big version of it on that?” Brody points at the large, white sheet of paper on the table. Sophie nods, and Brody’s smile grows wider. “Oh, it’s gonna look so nice!”

“Do you wanna help me?”

Eyes widening, Brody shakes her head fervently. “Oh, I couldn’t! I’m not that good. Not like you. What if… what if I mess up and ruin it?”

Sophie grabs her pencil and sketchbook and moves around the table to the opposite side. “Don’t worry, it’s not like I’d make you do anything hard. Just easy stuff. That’s why you’re here, right? ‘Cause you wanna make art?”

“Yeah, but I’m not really an artist...”

“Anyone who makes art is an artist,” says Sophie, smiling reassuringly. “I’m gonna outline the letters first, but then you can help color them in.”

The other girl is still worried. “Are you sure?”

“It’ll be fine. I promise,” Sophie insists. “Can you hold a brush?”

Brody slowly nods her head.

“And can you do this?” Pretending that she’s holding a paintbrush, Sophie sweeps her hand back and forth in simple but exaggerated brush strokes. The redhead tries her best to keep a straight face but ends up dissolving into giggles.

“Well… yeah, I suppose.”

“Perfect! You’re hired!” Sophie holds out her hand for Brody to shake. “Just think of it like a giant coloring book. All you need to do is try to stay inside the lines.”

Maybe it’s because she really loves coloring books, or maybe it’s because there’s just something so kind and sincere about Sophie that makes Brody feel right at home, but that’s all the convincing she needs. After everything that happened today, Brody doesn’t know if she’s going to get a chance to make friendship bracelets with Violet, or if she’s even going to spend any time with her best friend while at camp. But she does know one thing, at least. She very well might be the luckiest girl in the world to have already found a new friend.

#twdg brody #twdg violet #twdg sophie #twdg #the walking dead game #brody twdg #violet twdg #sophie twdg #fanfic #camp paya

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plagueofchaos · 6 years ago

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Ich tu dir weh - Metalhead Vincent Sinclair X Reader - Pt. 1

Hi. This is for me. This is 100% just to prove to myself that I can do this. Here’s my spiciest Vincent to date and it’s only part one. I broke it into parts because one massive long ass thing gets overwhelming.

It had been an eventful afternoon for Vincent Sinclair. He’d managed to sneak out of the house without Bo noticing and take one of the spare cars out of town. Bo would have his head later, but if he didn’t get out of Ambrose he was going to completely snap and turn his brothers into the latest additions to the house of wax.

The perfect excuse had come up too, one even Bo couldn’t fault him for. A music festival so close he could hear the bands the night before. As if that couldn’t be any better it was a staggering collection of metal artists.

He found metalheads to be a very accepting group so while normally the mass of humans around him would give him crippling anxiety he felt more like he was surrounded by loving family at their events. When he’d been jostled mask less on accident instead of being the local freak show he was the coolest guy there.

“Brutal” They called him and been the first to compliment him since his mother died. Accepting him as he was with no question other than “What’s your favorite band?”

“Holy shit, Vince?!” Ah, the One. This particular metalhead he’d been seeking had spotted him first shuffling his way through the crowd and were absolutely over the moon to see him. They were the one who’d saved him from the wall of death his first show, they’d recognized him as “baby” as they put it and yanked him from certain bodily harm just as the wall crashed together.

“Where were you last year?!” They opened their arms to him. “Y/N.” He rasped with a stinging smile under his mask. “I missed you!” Someone missing him? That was new. They hugged him tightly and he melted like a bee’s wax candle.

Y/N gave the best hugs, the all enveloping sincere kind where he could feel their heart beating against his chest for a few moments before they pulled apart.

“Oh shit, I must look like a fucking disaster!” They said with a laugh trying to do up their riot of a hairdo. He shook his head, to him they looked like a little messy angel. “Wanna come with me to get ready?” Vincent nodded vigorously. He loved watching them transform from a frumpy mom friend into something kin to the blood god’s avatar on earth. A little face paint and hairspray made a shocking difference.

How they’d talked him into this was beyond him. Probably something to do with how excited they’d been when they asked to paint his face after they’d finished with their’s in the first place or perhaps it was the honey sweet smile he got after acquiescing that kept him leaned up against the bathroom counter.

“Ok, now,” Vincent trembled with bated breath as they took the eyeliner pencil to his already grease paint coated half a face while he held the hair in place over the cicatrix he refused to let them see even now. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, right? This is basically just sketching out what you want. You can clean the lines up later.” They held up a handful of q-tips. “This is where coloring in the lines since kindergarten comes in handy.” He smiled weakly. Not that he wasn’t enjoying being taught the ins and outs of corpse paint, to the contrary, it was more he was liking it too much.

Their hands touching what face he had fearlessly, leaning in so close he could smell the minty scent of their breath, but if they used their grip in his hair to move his head one more time he was going to make a ghastly noise very much against his will or at least that’s what he told himself. He was a gulping squirming mess telling himself that he was doing this for them over and over and not for himself at all.

“I’m giving you a sort of Gorgoroth circa two thousand eight look.” Y/N mumbled cleaning out the area that would be black with the q-tip. “Like lighting punched you right in the face.” His eyebrow rose, that sounded intriguing.

He looked over them as they flitted about doing what needed to be done and felt the blood rise to his cheek. They were stunning. Maybe not by anyone else’s standards according to them, but to him something was so special about Y/N.

“Done!” They chirped moving away before he was ready for them to be all those painful inches farther from him. “You look fucking amazing! I told you that you had the face to pull it off!” They bounced on their toes. “Do you like it?” He couldn’t bare to tell them he couldn’t look in the mirror. His reflection was a caustic thing he avoided like a plague. Vincent gave them a nod and a big smile that tickled him with pinpricks of pain, but was well worth it. .

“Whoa,” Their eyes got big causing him to jerk to attention his smile quickly dropping. Had they seen his ruined side of his face through his hair? “I’ve never seen you smile before.” He heard while trying to pat down the locks hiding the disfigurement. Vincent tilted his head.

“Not to be weird, but you’re…” They fidgeted unable to look at him. “You’re really… You have a beautiful smile. Is that weird to say?” They laughed hoarsely rubbing their arm smearing white paint up and down it. “Of course it is, I’m sorry-”

He gently pressed the tips of two of his fingers to their lips pushing himself off of the counter. Anymore words would make it impossible for him to do what he’d been yearning for since they pulled him out of the pit the first time they met. Vincent cupped their cheeks and stooped down pressing his painted lips to theirs. It was like someone dumped one of the kettles of wax on his naked body. White hot emotion that was nearly painful washed over him making his eye roll back in his head. He whimpered into their mouth and they shivered against him reaching up to tangle their fingers in his hair as the kiss deepened.

He couldn’t help himself as they pulled him closer. His hand moved to their neck while he unabashedly moaned into their mouth while his back arched. They broke apart for air as Y/N’s back hit the wall. “The door.” They whispered. “The door, get the door.” Door? It took him a moment to get enough blood back into his brain to understand. He stumbled back pulling them along with him to elbow the press lock shut while Y/N fastened the bolt lock.

#skulls for the skull throne #fuck #vincent sinclair #vincent sinclair x reader #house of wax #slashers #horror #metal #i will not let you take my creativity from me #you will not take the thing i love most from me #i am not afraid of you #MHV

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wavesmp3 · 5 years ago

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let’s make a trade: the sun for the stars; platonic jihoon x reader artist!jihoon, nude model!reader (so warning: mentions of nudity) wc. 2.1k

a/n: this fic is just a complete mess of a piece, absolutely no plot and was meant to be part text fic, just mainly a lot of random dialogue that came to me at 2 am tbh, also basically an ‘i’ll give you the sun’ fanfic because i love jandy nelson’s writing a/n 2: really read at your own risk, this isn’t even a fic this is like a half-baked outline at best

—

Jihoon thinks there’s something profoundly odd with nude art. What’s the purpose of nude drawings and painting and sculptures anyways? He knows of course what he’s been told the purpose is, in fact the instructor is rattling on about the purpose of nude drawings right now. It’s to capture the emotion, the stress, the lines, and the contours that would normally be hidden behind layers and layers of polyester and cotton clothes. It’s to capture beauty; take the fascination humans have with each other and mark them down forever. It’s to showcase the skill of the artist. Of course, today, with the nude model in the center of the classroom, the exercise is meant to bring out the latter purpose. But jihoon thinks there’s something more to drawing someone nude. There’s a vulnerability in it. It’s a vulnerable place for you, the model to be in. Because it’s more than just being naked. It’s subjecting yourself to be picked apart, piece by piece. It’s letting yourself be seen by a million different lenses. It’s letting the artists convey the little things, like the way you sit, or the way your bones come together, or how you have that one vein in your neck and forehead that sticks out a little more than the others. It’s putting on display the birthmark in between your collarbone and shoulder, the tattoo under the curve of your hip and the other one on your wrist. Jihoon knows he’s supposed to draw you as you’re seen, work from the inside out, bone blood then skin. But then why is it that he takes his pencil and sketches your vulnerability. (Portrait: The Naked Model Wearing Vulnerability As Clothes).

—

“Smoking kills,” Jihoon scowls exiting from the art building a little earlier than normal, “you know that right?”

You squint up at him. Sitting on the doorstep of the classroom and taking an extra long drag. Just in spite.

“Yeah,” you mumble, driving the cigarette straight to the earth's core, “I know.” You stomp your foot against the bud, and the entire world shakes a little when you do. You stand up and look at Jihoon. You look angry. You didn’t hold this emotion in between your brows before. Maybe it’s new. Or maybe you’re just good at hiding it. Jihoon isn’t good at that. He wears his emotions on his sleeve and in his knees.

You exhale, rolling your eyes. “Is class over then?” You ask pointing towards the closed double doors.

He shakes his head. “No, I got kicked out.”

“For what?” You chuckle, but it comes out like a scoff.

Jihoon shrugs. “Not completing the assignment.”

You suck in your bottom lip. “Let’s see it then.” He blinks at you. You nod towards the sketch book he has tucked under his arm. Jihoon mutters a silent ‘oh’ before opening the book and flipping to the page where he drew you. You take it from him wordlessly.

He supposes he should be scared by this. But he isn’t. It feels more like returning a favor. Because now he’s the one in a vulnerable position. But you take a long time to look at the drawing. You take years to dissect each line and shading. You burn over every inch of paper until the entire book is bursting into flames in your hands. He lets you take your time. You look up at him, something indescribable in your eyes. Something like fear or awe or wonder. You look at him like you would running into an ex-friend. Jihoon feels more than just vulnerable now. He feels like you’ve ripped behind his skin straight to the muscle and bones. (Portrait: A Bundle Of Muscles In The Outline of Person). He feels naked. He wants to feel no more.

“So—“

You shush him immediately. Accidentally silencing the entire world. And after another lifetime of you staring at the one page, the one singular drawing, you’re finally done.

“It’s really good.” You breathe. Jihoon senses a but. “But it isn’t me.”

He says it plainly. “It’s a version of you to me.” (Portrait: The Way You See Yourself Looking In A Mirror; The Way He Sees You Looking Out). “Don’t most models leave after the modeling?”

“I’m waiting for my boyfriend.” You hand him back the sketchbook. “Well, see you around I guess.” You turn back towards the double doors of the art building. And right before you’re swallowed whole by the red brick and air conditioning, you lift up your hand in a silent goodbye without looking back. And you do it in an almost cocky manner as if you know he’s watching you go. In your defense, he is.

—

The next time he sees you is in the same class later that week. Apparently, nude sketching is a week long lesson. Your pose is a little different this time. Hands covering certain parts, head turned away. Today, the instructor wants them to focus on conveying emotion through the body alone, no face. He does as he’s told. He draws you as you are, as others would see. He draws something that won’t get him kicked out of class. And on the next page, he draws you the way he wants. Something more abstract. Focusing on the strain in your neck and arch in your back. He highlights the insecurities you’ve dropped by your feet and creates a shadow around the confidence you wear around your head.

—

[unknown number, 17:12]: hey it’s the nude model [unknown number, 17:12]: lol that’s probably not a normal greeting [unknown number, 17:13]: but anyways, this might be weird but I was kinda wondering if i could see what you drew in class today, you didn’t get kicked out so im curious. [unknown number, 17:15]: oh alos i got your number from mingyu lol hope thats not creepy [unknown number, 17:15]: *also

[jihoon, 22:37]: oh mingyu is your bf, yeah i’ve heard about you [jihoon, 22:38]: i can’t say it’s not creepy but here [jihoon, 22:40]: image.0315

[you, 23:04]: only good things i hope, also i can see why you didn’t get kicked out this time it’s nice [you, 23:04]: but [you, 23:04]: from what i can tell, it doesn’t really seem like your style

[jihoon, 23:54]: image.0316

[you, 23:57]: yeah that’s more like it

—

The third time he sees you is at the end of the semester party. In truth, Jihoon is partly avoiding you. You text him a lot. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t getting mildly annoying.

He’s talking to Jeonghan and Soonyoung when a tipsy you and an even tipsier Mingyu make your way over to the couch and fall into the cushions. And something about the way you look at each other as if you’re kissing with your eyes. Something about the way you whisper something in his ear and he laughs. Something about the way he whispers something back, taking your hand in his and playing absentmindedly with your fingers. Makes Jihoon think that the two of you are so caught up with each other. Too focused on swallowing each other whole. That the walls could fall and the sky could come bursting into the room and neither of you would bat an eye.

(Portrait: You And Mingyu Tearing Down The Walls And The Clouds)

Jihoon’s taking out his sketchbook and a pencil before he realizes it himself.

—

“Hey let’s play a game,” you say while you and Jihoon are waiting for the movie to start playing in the movie theater. “where we each claim pieces of the universe for ourselves.”

(Portrait: You And Jihoon Each Holding Half The Universe In Your Palms)

“Sure.” Jihoon waits a moment, thinking which part of the universe he’d like to claim first. “I call the stars.”

“Fuck,” you whisper into the popcorn, “I want the stars.”

“You snooze you loose.”

“It’s my game.”

“Okay and?”

You roll your eyes dramatically. “Anyways I call the sun.”

Jihoon: “Moon.”

You: “Earth.”

He takes a sip of his cola. “And everything in it?”

“No just the planet.”

“Okay… I call the other planets.”

“That’s a lot at once but I’ll let it slide as long as I get to have Pluto.”

Jihoon shakes his head in a laugh. “Plutos barely a planet but yeah, go crazy.”

“Bet. And next…” you tap on your chin in thought, “next I want the asteroid belt.”

“I want the Hubble Telescope.”

You squint at him. “You’re weird.”

“Says the one who just called the asteroid belt.”

You press a finger to your lips. “The movies about to start.”

—

[you, 9:23]: btw I call all bodies of water [jihoon, 9:32]: that is such a catch all [you, 9:33]: hey you can have rain [jihoon, 9:33]: bruh [jihoon, 9:33]: fine i’ll take rain but i call mountains too [you, 9:34]: i want flowers [jihoon, 9:34]: i want trees and beyonce [you, 9:35]: no way you can’t call ppl [jihoon, 9:35]: so you can call ALL bodies of water but i can’t call beyonce [you, 9:35]: my game my rules [jihoon, 9:36]: it was worth a try [you, 9:38]: oh i got a good one [you, 9:39]: i call music [jihoon, 9:40]: N O [you, 9:40]: we can stop here for today [jihoon, 9:41]: this game is so biased [jihoon, 9:41]: I WANT MUSICCC!!!!!! [you, 9:41]: whine about it more and i’ll call art too [jihoon, 941]: icallarticallarticallart [you, 9:41]: ur welcome [jihoon, 9:42]: u suck

—

“Hey,” you greet coming into jihoon’s apartment, with a frantic text about needing to escape for a bit. Luckily, you explain so jihoon doesn’t have to ask. “We broke up. Mingyu and I.”

“Oh.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine though. Really.” (Portrait: You and a Lie Detector Flashing Red)

Jihoon opens and closes his mouth trying to figure out the best way to comfort you without coddling you. He settles for, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

You inhale sharply. “No. Not really.” You sit on his couch and turn on the tv. After a moment, jihoon joins you.

And it’s 20 minutes into whatever program you’ve chosen to watch that Jihoon finally knows what to say. “Hey,” he whispers, you turn your head towards him, “you wanted the stars right?” you raise a single eyebrow. “Take them.”

“Really?” you say suspicious.

“Yeah,” he nods, then with a smile adds, “but it’s gonna cost you.” you roll your eyes knowingly. “I want the sun.”

You purse your lips in thought. Then after a minute, agree. And so a trade is made: the sun for the stars.

—

[a/n: undeveloped bit of dialogue that would have gone somewhere] Reader: Are we about to kiss Jihoon: What ew no Reader: Ew? I mean I agree but ew? That’s harsh Jihoon: don’t make it personal Reader: Okay you know I have a bf right Jihoon: Oh my god I’m not into you Reader: Not even a little bit Jihoon: No Reader: Not even like last two people on earth into me Jihoon: No Reader: Ouch Jihoon: You’re the one who asked Reader: Still hurts to hear

—

[a/n: for context before this reader was supposed to give jihoon music] “Do you know how to play?” you ask, fingers ghosting the keys of the piano in jihoon’s apartment.

“Of course. Why would I have one if I didn't?”

You shrug. “Play me something.”

He sits down on the bench and plays a tune he memorized years ago. One that starts happy and shifts key into something almost unrecognizable. Not sad, not angry, but a fireball of emotions. Or at least, that’s how Jihoon’s old teacher described the piece.

“Hey, jihoon,” you say as he holds out on the last note of the song.

“Yeah”

“I’m glad I gave you music.”

“Oh,” he says, voice turning mischievous, “me too.” He starts playing a new song.

“Is that-” you sit up slightly “Is that the Wii theme music?” Jihoon hums along. “I take it back.”

—

#unfinished wip #mine #wip.svt

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headoverjojo · 6 years ago

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Can I ask for BucciG with an artist S/o who really likes their features and uses them as reference or inspiration, and one day asks them to 'pose' for a draw/Paint, (Maybe, escalating in a nude, or something that catches more their essence?) Lol, I bet one of them is going to say: 'Paint me like one of your french guys' 'But… I have never gone to france...'🤣

Hello there, darling! Oooh, sure! And as a person who has taken classes of drawing with models, I apologize if it’s not even a bit winking, reality is live drawing is stressing if you don’t have the right model who can stay still for a minute straight, lol. Here we go!

Bruno’s gang with an artist s/o who loves their features and uses them as reference or inspiration

(Under the cut for length!)

Bruno Bucciarati

Bruno’s s/o always admired their boyfriend’s traits. His face is regular and harmonious, his eyes maybe a little bigger than what would be perfectly “proportioned”, his lips are plump and have a so soft texture… they’re dying to draw him and immortalize his traits on paper.

And so, at the start, they draw him while he’s doing something else, almost secretly. While he’s working, when he’s reading something, frowning for exasperation, or when he’s sipping a glass of water… when their sketchbook is full of casual drawings of him, they go to ask him if he can be their model for a drawing. In the beginning is something casual, like “Stay up, lift your right arm, sit like this, watch over there” and so on. But then they wanted to draw more.

They ask him, so, to be their model for anatomy studies. Bruno feels a bit flustered when their eyes study with extreme attention his muscles and body. He never felt so exposed… nor appreciated. In their eyes he sees they love to draw his body, sometimes going for a full body drawing, sometimes focusing on specific parts, the torso, his collarbone, his hands… when they’re done, they let him watch their drawings, while he dresses himself, and he’s astonished by them. He’s like this for real? Or maybe he’s so in their eyes. In any case, he feels extremely honored to be their model! And it’s also time to relax a bit. It’s a win for both!

Leone Abbacchio

Leone’s traits are like the ones of the ancient Greek statues: elegant, definite, serious. The almost perfect regularity of his traits -almost: he broke his nose, once, and so it has a small hump- and his intense gaze immediately captured his s/o’s attention and still now they marvels them.

Not knowing how he’d judge their almost obsession for his traits, they start to draw him without he knows it. They observe him from afar, studying his face while he listens to his music or reads the newspaper. A couple of time they catched him with a gaze so intense and melancholy to feel their throat tighten and tears pooling in their eyes. They love particularly to draw his profile, so definite to really seem one of a statue. This until he finds it out.

He’s not angry, as they feared, just… curious. It’s nothing harmful, why haven’t they asked him? At least, now, they can draw without staying hidden. And now they can ask him what they really want: drawing him full body. He’s surprised, but accomplish, taking off his clothes and moving as they want. While they’re all focused on their drawing, he studies them, curious, staring at their small frown, their focused pout, as they mumble to move like this and like that… he never feels uncomfortable, even when they slowly walk around him, searching for the best angle to draw. Sometimes they let escape a muttered compliment and this fills his heart with pride, to the point that he has to contain a small smirk. They usually end those sessions with a good tea and some chats, nestled in each other arms.

Guido Mista

What immediately catches someone’s eye, about Mista, is his wide range of facial expressions. His face is not the most regular around, nor it has a sort of Greek beauty, but it’s so damn expressive that it doesn’t go unnoticed. He has a beautiful smile and even more beautiful big, black eyes which immediately caught his s/o’s attention and heart from day one.

His facial expressions, so, are what his s/o first draws, without hiding it. They just sit around and watch him; they don’t have to wait long to see his face twisting in various expressions -even more if he’s watching a movie or a football game-, all equally wonderful. They love in particular his big eyes, the particular and almost esotic shape they have, and his mouth, especially when he pouts so cutely. Mista is aware of his s/o’s attentive eyes and sometimes he turns a little to wink at them, grinning, making them huff a laugh and blush a little.

When they’re alone, they ask him if they can draw him without his clothes. A bit surprised, but also with a smug smile, Mista takes off his clothes and hat, laying as they say so. Soon, however, realizes that live drawing absolutely hasn’t a sexy tension or something like it: it’s like when they draw him normally, just that now their focused eyes can roam on all his body. He has to admit that he likes the appreciation note he sees in them, like they’re watching a good piece of art; he can even make them crack a laugh, when, dramatically, he asks them to draw him like their French girl, earning a small smack on his chest and a kiss on his cheek. Drawing with Mista as model is funny, in the end, and he’s a good model: he’s used to stay perfectly still, not to be discovered, while waiting for his target to be in a good shooting position, so he can keep a position for all the needed time. Their drawing sessions usually end with some deserved cuddles for Mista!

Narancia Ghirga

Narancia’s face, even if he’s a grown ass young man, has preserved something almost childish. His traits are soft, sweet, his eyes big and full of joy, his mouth almost always bent in a big smile; his s/o loves so much this peculiarity of his and the need to draw it down, to catch that joyful smile on paper becomes more and more pressing.

And so, in the end, they give in, choosing him as their model. They don’t hide it, sitting at his same table and studying him, carefully, as he twists the pencil from finger to finger, trying to resolve a math problem, his face scrunched in a deep, perplexed frown. They draw down his pouty lips, his nose, so cute when it’s scrunched, his frowned eyes… and they also draw him when he beams in joy the times he can guess the right answer! Narancia is often so focused on his homework not to even notice that his s/o is drawing him.

Until, one day, he finally notices and oh boy, he’s embarrassed. They really think he’s worth to be drawn? Wow!! And he’s even more embarrassed when they ask him if it’s ok to draw him without his shirt on. He’s a bit hesitant, at the start, but then he goes on, moving as they ask him to. He’s so nervous, however, that he can’t stay still for long, making them huff and grunt when he loses the pose. In the end, they surrender, at least for the first times, to draw just details of him: his hands, how his raven locks gently brush his shoulders, the thin but toned muscles of his arms and torso… then, he let him see the product of so much work and he’s amazed! Their work is so detailed, so beautiful… it’s strange to see himself from their point of view. He feels… honored. As he blushes like a tomato, they giggle, bringing him in a hug and kissing all his face, for some deserved and warm cuddles.

Pannacotta Fugo

Fugo’s traits are particular. They’re sharp, regular, but harmonious. Too sharp to be considered a “classical Greek beauty”, but they have a sort of grace, of appeal… his strong points are his eyes, light, attentive and sharp, and his lips, plump at the right point, that can change completely his face when they’re bent in a smile. His s/o has to draw him, he’s the perfect model for them!

They’re, however, a bit shy, so they don’t show openly that they’re drawing him. Sometimes they lose themselves in watching his face, his profile, so elegant… he notices, ho, he really notices, as he notices that, after this “contemplation”, they scribble down their sketchbook. Are they.. drawing him? For real? So weird… there’s nothing special in him, why they do that? He approaches them asking them so, sincerely curious. He’s surprised when they say he has a face perfect to be drawn and they show him their sketches. He feels… warm, inside. There’s a bunch of sketches of him, his profile… often while he smiles or laughs. He feels… happy, for once.

Since he feels more comfortable -and confident too-, they finally ask him if it’s ok for him to pose for them. He’s baffled, but he accepts, if it’s them it’s all ok. He’s a bit troubled when he has to take off his clothes, but their reassuring smile helps him to relax. They don’t ask him anything extreme, just to move around in specific ways to better study and sketch his thin and defined muscles. He loves when they gently brush their fingertips on his arms or back, as to better understand how his muscles are working and so draw them; he loses himself while watching their focused face as the sketch down his hands or torso, also watching their sketches, finding them simply amazing. It’s… strange, to see himself through someone else’s eyes. For once he feels… worth. Even beautiful. He’s so thankful to them: posing for them is a nice break, it relaxes him and makes their bond even stronger than before. Even more if then they hug him tightly!

Giorno Giovanna

Giorno’s traits can be summarized in one word: regal. Even when he has not his usual serious face, his traits have something regal that almost put in awe. Everything in him seems perfect: his stunning blue eyes, his plump lips, his straight nose, not to talk about his golden hair… his s/o feels the impellent need to draw such beauty. They can’t lose a chance like this!

They know Giorno is a busy man, so they don’t openly ask him to just stay still and pose for them, preferring, instead, to “steal” some sketches while he’s working or doing something else. Still, in this way, they can catch him in various interesting poses and expressions. They particularly like to draw him when he’s relaxed, his eyes closed, loose hair, his cheek smashed on his fist, giving him a cute and innocent pouty expression… they have tons of sleepy Giorno in their sketchbook. He seems an angel when he sleeps, how can they miss the chance?

Still, even if he doesn’t say anything, Giorno is not a fool. He’s always aware of his surroundings and of everything his s/o does around him, as their sketches. One day they found him as he’s browsing their sketchbook, amazed by their talent and touched by the evident love they have poured in their sketches. He smiles at them and, finally, they find the courage to ask him to be their model, when he has time. And so Giorno immediately becomes their model, softly watching them as they study his bare muscles, all the pale freckles on his shoulders, sketching how his hair gently flow on his back, how his fingers flex, how his muscles relax and tense… it’s fascinating, for him, to see them working and be so focused. Those sessions are very relaxing, for him, giving him a break from the crazy gang world, a quiet moment where they can be together and bond through an amicable silence, sometimes some chats, sometimes some quiet and low music. In any case, every session ends with a kiss and a gentle hug, in which Giorno basks more than happily.

#jjba #vento aureo #bruno's gang #bruno bucciarati #leone abbacchio #guido mista #narancia ghirga #pannacotta fugo #giorno giovanna #neutral s/o #artist s/o #the boys pose #headcanons #sfw #anon ask

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porkchop-ao3 · 6 years ago

Text

A Thrill I’ve Never Known (Chapter 39)

Country Pursuits

Reader’s art dealer job has some unfortunate (but is it really unfortunate..? You’ll see) results. Arthur starts making plans. The bank job is looming on the horizon, y’all... Enjoy!

(All chapters tagged with #ATINK and also posted on Ao3, username PorkChop)

The men were out doing the art dealer job. My art dealer job. I felt full of nervous energy, sitting by the campfire with my sketchbook and pencil, tapping the end of it against the page as I looked around for something to draw that'd take my mind off of it.

The day had been pretty uneventful until then. Arthur and I had returned to camp with a pair of pronghorns for Pearson and the gang, so nobody commented on the fact that we'd spent the evening away from camp. I thought that was a nice trade. Food for their silence. Not even Dutch had anything to say, only stopping to tell Arthur that he had been thinking of how to deal with Bronte, and that he'd need to talk to him once he, John and Lenny returned from stealing those paintings.

That was so long ago, it felt like. The boys had only been gone a couple of hours and realistically it was going to take a few with how far they'd be travelling to Valentine, then Emerald Ranch provided everything went correctly (Hosea had spoken to a friend of his over there, Seamus, who'd be taking the art off our hands). Even so, I was restless the entire time.

I focused my attention on Javier's guitar where it was leaning up against a barrel, and started drawing it. I sketched it to fill up a page, giving it plenty of detail in a bid to stretch out the process, have it consume more time before the boys got back. I could only pray that the job went well, considering I'd brought it to them. If anything went wrong, I wouldn't be able to stomach it.

"You, uh, you ever drawn me in that book o' yours?" The log I was sitting on shifted unsteadily as someone dropped in beside me. Micah. I froze for a moment, eyes going wide with shock.

Micah hadn't been particularly friendly with me as of late, given our quarrels and the whole Arthur kicking his front teeth in thing. He either didn't speak to me at all or he barked some order at me, got me to do something for him. A lot of which, I simply didn't do. I wanted to be useful, not a damn servant.

"Why, you gonna demand that I do so if I say no?" I asked, not taking my eyes from the guitar, carrying on sketching. Micah chuckled, and my throat itched from cigarette smoke as he exhaled it, not bothering to direct it away from me.

"Well, would be nice if you did. Show a little friendliness, make out like you might just be able to stand me," it was all spoken in jest. I finally looked at him.

"I stood you for a long time, remember? More than that, thought you were a decent feller if you tried."

"Well, I told you you was wrong, that this is just who I am."

"Yeah and I never believed you. Though, that was 'bout the only thing that came out of your mouth that's true, so I should've."

"You saying I'm a liar, princess?" He questioned and my mood withered further, eyelids lowering in irritation.

"I ain't gonna waste my breath asking you again, Micah. You know I don't like you calling me that," I deadpanned, and I heard him exhale a drawn out breath. "And lying might not be the right word for it. Twisting things, though, that you do plenty of."

"Still think I was going 'round trying to convince people I'd fucked you? That's all rather conceited of you, don't you think?"

"Perhaps. Not half as conceited as you thinking me showing you the barest of kindnesses means I must want you to kiss me," I quipped back, and there was a pause before he made an unconvincing chuckle.

"Whatever," he breathed, sucking on his cigarette hard enough to hollow his cheeks, the end glowing bright before ebbing again when he exhaled the smoke; once again in my direction. It made my eyes water.

"I don't wish to be unfriendly with you, Micah. I never was one for conflict."

"Then I guess you chose the wrong business, this ain't a life that comes free of conflict. That pretty gash in your neck's some pretty solid evidence of that," he muttered, gesturing to my throat.

Every time someone mentioned it, it burned.

"I can't argue with that. I guess I could be more clear; conflict with people that once upon a time I got along with, dare I say liked," I replied, snapping my sketchbook closed when I became too distracted to carry on.

"You liked me?" He smiled and spoke in a sickly tone that was completely condescending and not in the least bit pleasant or sincere. "First time I've ever been told that. Truly, I am touched."

"Maybe it'd happen more often if you didn't go 'round treating people like crap."

"I've never treated you like crap," he told me in all seriousness, brow forming a heavy line above his eyes. I cocked a brow at him and snorted.

"You ain't? How about dumping all your shit on me, telling me to wash this, fix that, I stood in horse shit, scrub my boots? And saying all those dirty things to Arthur right in front of me?" I provoked and he laughed, shaking his head. Anger fizzed up and over inside. "And telling me that all I'm worth is my unsullied body, and you only wanted to fuck me 'cause I'm a virgin?"

Micah's eyes snapped to me at that, and it was a fair bit of time before he responded.

"If I'd've buttered you up real good, would you have been up for it? If I whispered sweet nothings in your ear and called you beautiful and scattered rose petals on the bedroll? Would you have fucked me then?" He levelled his gaze to me, looking directly at me after flicking his spent cigarette away.

"No!"

"Then what's your problem? So what if that's all I wanted you for, if I weren't gonna get you anyway?"

"Well, I suppose you would look at it that way."

"What way do you look at it? Educate me."

"It just weren't nice having that spat at me like I was nothing, like I was completely useless to you since I weren't gonna give you what you wanted. Especially with how well we worked together, how we got along whenever you weren't in one of your moods."

"Well, I guess I figured I owed you the truth. Otherwise you'd be walking 'round thinking you'd hurt my feelings, feelin' guilty, and we can't have that," he shrugged and I rolled my eyes, looking away. "You got an attitude somewhere in you," he added at that. He was smirking.

I didn't respond, opening up my sketchbook again and flicking through it absentmindedly, opening it to a blank page.

"Well, you should know," he began, "I ain't got no hard feelings. It's pretty clear the ship has sailed, anyway."

"I'm sorry?" I questioned, looking at him.

"You think nobody notices when you walk in here with Morgan, acting like he ain't been pokin' you all night? The bags under your eyes are as tellin' as they are unflattering, my dear," his tone was low and dirty and I screwed my face up in distaste. "You ain't no virgin no more."

"Whatever," I hissed, though my face felt hot.

"Those marks on your neck, too, you didn't get those from that O'Driscoll's knife, did you, sugar plum? Likes doing that, does he? Marking what's his," he added, and I stared at him, mouth agape. He was unbearably audacious!

"I don't know. But he sure liked kicking your teeth in," I reminded him, narrowing my eyes. His lip curled up, revealing the gap in his teeth, and he wriggled his tongue between them crudely. I wrinkled my nose. "Just leave me alone," I eventually sighed.

His nasty little laugh petered off as he surprisingly did as he was told.

I must have dozed off at some point when I was supposed to be darning a pair of socks, leaned up against the large tree by the fire. I woke with a start when something tapped my arm; for a moment I was ready to receive a lecture from Miss Grimshaw for sleeping on the job, but instead a hand holding a bundle of cash was in front of my face. My eyes travelled up the arm it was attached to and settled on John.

"Here's your share, sleepy head. Get up before someone sees you, I know Hosea don't take kindly to people doing what you're doing," he advised me, and I took the cash from him, my brows raising.

"Wow, this is my cut? Just for setting it up? You must've got a lot."

"Yeah, we didn't do too badly at all," John nodded.

"Did it go okay?"

Amusement twisted his features.

"Yeah, went off without a hitch. We all rode off without having to fire a single bullet, no one was hurt on the job," he began, and I was about to voice my relief when he continued, "didn't stop Lenny from fucking his leg up somehow on the way back."

"What?" I balked, sitting up. John stepped aside and gestured to where Arthur was helping Lenny down off his horse. Well, dragging him off of it with control while Lenny clung to him, wincing at every jostle of his leg.

I bolted up and raced over there, John hot behind me.

"Lenny! What happened? Are you alright?" I asked uselessly holding my arms out towards him and Arthur in some vague attempt at offering to help. Arthur managed to get him on the ground, balancing on one foot.

"Sure," Lenny said, face frozen in a grimace, "don't worry, ain't nothing to worry about."

"The kid's horse threw him," Arthur informed me, mild amusement on his face too. Neither Arthur or John seemed too concerned, which brought me some relief.

I looked at the horse in question. Little, tiny Maggie.

"She threw you?" I murmured.

"She saw a snake and got spooked, that's all."

"Was pretty impressive, the way he landed on his feet," Arthur mused.

"Till he hit the floor, screaming bloody murder," John added and they both chuckled.

"Glad it's so amusing," Lenny sighed, looking nothing short of mortified.

"We just robbed a whole bunch of valuable artwork from a serious collector without a single problem, but you can't manage to ride home? Yeah, it's a little amusing. Don't worry, it don't look broken, you probably just sprained it," John said. Lenny shook his head, leaning heavily on both Arthur and John as they helped him towards the house. Arthur called Hosea over, who immediately joined us.

They set Lenny down on a chair inside, and Hosea kneeled down in front of him. He inspected the injured ankle, asking him about the pain; where it was, how bad it was, if he felt anything snap. Hosea seemed satisfied after some investigation that no bones were broken, but he needed to rest it. He sent me off to fetch some medical supplies, and when I returned he bandaged up the ankle firmly to support the joint, and Arthur gave Lenny some whiskey for the pain, patting him on the shoulder.

"Now, you just take it easy for a few days, keep your foot up. You keep moving around on it, you'll make it worse," Hosea explained, tying off the bandage before pushing up to his feet, leaning on Lenny's good knee for support as he did.

"What about the bank?" Lenny queried, and Hosea went quiet for a moment. Arthur and John looked to him for his response.

Bank?

"Well, I'm sure we can manage without you, son," Hosea started, and Lenny sighed and leaned his head back, face a picture of disappointment. "Hey, don't be like that. How irresponsible would it be of us to have you along on a bank job when you can barely walk?"

"I know," Lenny grumbled, "I just wanted to be along for that. Show you fellers I can do a good job."

"I trust you would. Don't worry, there'll be other opportunities, I'm sure."

"'cept Dutch keeps saying this'll be the last big score," John noted with a humourless chuckle. Hosea looked at him, unamused and with a certain look in his eye.

"Well, I ain't got much to say about that," Hosea replied, his tone abrupt. It was clear he believed as much as they did that their scores were numbered. "Anyway, you stay here, Lenny. Rest up. Can we bring you anything?"

"If I'm gonna be sat here on my ass for the foreseeable future, some books would be nice," Lenny snorted, slumping glumly in the chair as Hosea dragged over a crate and had him rest his foot on it.

"Books," Hosea repeated with a nod, "certainly."

With that, he headed off. John left too, with a parting sympathetic pat on Lenny's shoulder, leaving just the three of us behind. I immediately turned to Lenny, fiddling with my own fingers, chewing on my lip a moment before speaking. I felt Arthur's eyes on me the whole time.

"Lenny, I'm so sorry," I began, and Arthur laughed.

"I was waiting for that," Arthur said, and I frowned at him in confusion.

"Huh?" Lenny simply grunted, looking at me cluelessly.

"I'm sorry about your ankle, I was praying all day that none of you'd get hurt, but…"

Lenny looked at Arthur, a hint of a smile curling his lips.

"Is she for real?" Lenny shook his head and I flushed a little, feeling foolish. Was I missing something?

"Just tell her it's okay," Arthur put an arm around my waist and carefully began leading me away.

"You think this is your fault?" Lenny called to me, then laughed, "hey, don't worry about it. I forgive you for making Maggie throw me, I don't appreciate it, but at least you're sorry," he teased.

I stopped in my tracks and turned back to him, resisting Arthur's tugging.

"It was my job you got hurt on, that's what I meant. I mean, obviously, right?"

"Listen, somethin' I came to learn real quick. Shit happens. Sometimes it's somebody's fault, but most of the time? It's just shit," Lenny snickered, shaking his head and grinning at me.

"You're speaking to the lady who felt bad over killin' an O'Driscoll who was about to slit her throat, just let her say what she's gotta say," Arthur explained and I frowned deeper.

"Hey, don't tease me for having… morals and– and guilt. You were the one blaming yourself for that O'Driscoll ordeal just 'cause you didn't make me leave the gang, Arthur, so you're one to talk," I snapped.

"That was a whole different thing," Arthur frowned, going serious, "I still think about that, you know."

"Well, don't!"

"How long you two been married?" Lenny asked and we swivelled our heads to look at him, observing his mischievous grin. Hosea walked back in then, a bundle of books in his hands.

"Here you go, son. These were by your tent, but I can ask around, see if anyone can lend you something different?" He began, putting the books down next to his foot on the crate.

Arthur took the opportunity to lead me off again, with that marriage comment ringing in my ears I didn't try to resist. Oh, to be married to Arthur Morgan… I stopped myself before I got carried away.

He led me outside and we took a seat at the front of the house, on the edge of the fountain. He groaned as he sat down, sighing in exhaustion. He looked about as tired as I'd felt all day.

"You alright?" I asked. Arthur nodded, yawning. "Wow. I hope last night was worth it," I said light-heartedly, smirking.

"Oh, it definitely was. Much better than a restful night, princess," he chuckled. "That job went well, John give you your cut?"

I nodded. "It's a lot."

"Yeah, we did real well. I'll tell Dutch… I gotta speak to him at some point. Wants to talk about Angelo Bronte. Dutch is on about robbing a bank in town, so something's gotta be done about him; the man who seems to run the whole damn city."

"You're gonna rob a bank in the middle of the city?" I balked, eyes going wide and bile rising uneasily in my throat.

"Apparently. Hosea thinks we can do it, couple of the girls have been out scoping the place. Doesn't look too heavily guarded," he explained, though it didn't quell my fears at all.

"Yeah, but what about after? Fleeing through the city? It ain't like Valentine, where you run for thirty seconds and you're out on open plains," I exclaimed and Arthur shook his head, agreeing with me.

"It's a risk. I know. But Hosea says the place is full of cash and gold, so if we get away…" he trailed off, looked up towards the house. Hosea and Dutch were sitting up on the balcony above us, talking.

With a sigh, Arthur took my hand and led me away, over towards the edge of the water, out of earshot from any of the camp. I went along with him wearing a concerned frown. He turned to me, then, taking both of my hands and looking down at them.

"If we get away," he continued, not yet meeting my eye, "we should have a lot of money. Enough for the whole gang to get out."

I stared for a moment, wondering why he needed to tell me that in secret. "That's great, but–"

"Not only that, my cut… my cut would be big enough that – put together with what I have saved – you and I might just be able to– to– we could get away," he finally met my eyes at that. "You and me, princess. We could leave, we'd have enough to support ourselves. I could keep you safe."

My lips parted. I had to admit, that all sounded rather wonderful. A totally fresh start, far away from Dutch and the Pinkertons and the O'Driscolls… with Arthur. Just him and me. I must've started smiling a little because Arthur smiled too, pulled me into a hug.

"We could do it. We'd see that the others made it out alright; Charles, John, Mary-Beth, all those people you've grown close to. We'd have peace of mind and then we could leave, be done with all this getting shot at and knives held to our necks. Start leading a proper life," he whispered against the top of my head, swaying me from side to side in his arms.

"You gotta do the bank, first," I reminded him, "oh, please be careful, Arthur."

"I'm always as careful as I can be," he told me, then pulled back to look at me, "I want this. I'm so certain of that."

"Me too," I nodded, cupping his cheeks.

"All that's holding me back is not knowing what'll happen to these people. I want to make sure they're gonna be okay," he whispered and I nodded in understanding. "This bank could be it, princess."

"Arthur!" Dutch yelled across the camp. I looked over Arthur's shoulder to see him leaning over the edge of the balcony, waving him over. Arthur held a hand up in acknowledgement, then let out a soft breath.

"I'll see you later," he said, kissing my forehead and squeezing my hands. I watched him walk back to the house, a feeling in my stomach a bittersweet combination of hope and dread.

I awoke the next morning in my bedroll, laying on the floor of Arthur's room. I knew he'd be returning at some point in the night after heading out with Dutch, so I'd left his bed free. I had to smile to myself, then, when I felt his presence behind me, a hand softly resting on my hip.

The next thing I registered was the smell. Wet, stagnant, musky… unpleasant. I shifted, looking over my shoulder at Arthur to see him lying asleep in just his union suit. His clothes were in a pile nearby, and I realised they were the source of the smell; his jeans and shirt sodden with filthy water, his boots caked in mud. What on Earth had he been doing last night?

I laid back down, lacing my fingers with his on my hip, lifting his hand from me as I rolled to face him, replacing it on my other hip. Arthur woke up a moment later, either stirred by my movement or sensing my eyes on him. His eyes creased with a smile when he saw me, but before he could say anything, I couldn't help but ask;

"Have you been swimming around in the swamp?"

Arthur only paused for a moment before answering. "Yes."

I quirked a brow, utterly perplexed.

"Dutch had us helping out some feller with a boat, reckons he'll get us to Bronte's house so we won't have to go in through the city," he told me sleepily. He started to appear more alert until it all seemed to come back to him in a rush and his face shifted to urgency. "You should'a seen the goddamn alligator out there. Big as a damn bison, I swear."

I nodded in understanding. "Yeah, some big ones out there. You couldn't pay me to set foot in the water, and I grew up there, what on Earth were you doing out there?"

"It's a long story. Ended with me in the water saving some kid, almost had his leg torn off. This alligator… there's big, and then there's big,” he shook his head in disbelief.

I stared at him, a little bit horrified. "You were in the water with a bloodthirsty gator?"

"I still got all my fingers and toes, don't worry," he chuckled, but it quickly faded off, "this kid weren't so lucky. Well, everything's still attached, I just hope he don't get gangrene. Could be pretty bad…"

"Goodness. And where was Dutch during all of this? It was his thing, getting the boat, right?"

"He was in the boat, yelling, but otherwise being unhelpful," he said drily, moving to sit up with a groan. He stretched out his back and I watched the muscles work through the clingy material of his union suit, my head propped up with my arm. "Still, I reckon he was shittin' himself. Course he weren't getting in to help."

"Course," I tutted. "I'm so glad nothing happened to you. Gators, they can be real vicious."

"You're telling me," he snorted.

"When I was a kid, my closest neighbour's son met his end that way," I started, Arthur looking to me with widened eyes, "was out there fishing, waded in too deep and didn't see this big guy in the water."

"Shit…"

"Yeah… all I know is, his dad started firing his gun at the gator, but ended up aiming at his son just to– well, it was the kindest thing to do, apparently," I murmured solemnly.

"Jesus. This ain't filling me with confidence about getting back in that boat, heading out into the swamps again tonight," Arthur breathed, shaking his head.

"Just make sure everyone keeps their limbs inside the boat this time. You'll be fine," I offered him my most comforting smile.

"Noted. I don't particularly feel like watching someone get torn limb from limb by some dinosaur-looking bastard," he sighed. "Anyway, I best get dressed."

"Me too. And I'll wash those nasty clothes of yours. They stink," I laughed, sitting up and reaching for my suitcase, pulling it over to me and retrieving my corset.

"They do? I'm sorry. I can't smell it, must be used to it. Either that or I stink too," he snorted.

I leaned over and sniffed him, amusement worming its way onto my face. I held my thumb and index finger an inch or so apart and gave him a sheepish smirk. He dropped the clean shirt he was about to put on before nodding.

"I'll wash up first."

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #fanfiction #arthur morgan x reader #atink #arthur morgan x female reader #reader insert #rdr2 fanfic

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