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starlessea · 3 years

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𝙎𝙩𝙚𝙥 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙨 - Chapter 2. Manic Pixie Dream Bitch

A/N Make sure you read the prologue and other chapters first! Things are starting to pick up - I hope you stick around for the ride.

Series Masterlist: Step on the Gas

Summary: A dishonourable discharge from the military results in you being hauled off to live with your grandparents in the boonies, otherwise known as the middle of nowhere Georgia. After running over a nail on the road, and pushing your grandpa's vintage Camaro to the nearest auto-shop, you meet Daryl Dixon - the local mechanic. At some point, the world ends, but that stubborn man never gives you a chance to slow down. His smile gives you whiplash, but he still insists that you to step on the gas.

Words: 5374

Chapter Warnings: Language, Injury, Domestic abuse mentions

The evening was cool, and a breeze hung in the air.

The midday Georgia heat had all but melted away, leaving behind tepid winds that rustled leaves on the trees — and the canvas tents. They fluttered around you as you walked, like the beating of butterfly wings, or ripples atop the ocean.

It was peaceful. It felt safe.

All eyes were on you as you followed Daryl to the firepit, taking a seat on a low log beside him — but not too close.

The night was still too young to turn in yet, so the man had begrudgingly led you out of his tent when the silence became stifling. For some reason, conversation didn't come as naturally to the two of you as it once had.

There was tension there. You could feel it.

But you didn't have the slightest clue why. The last time you had seen Dixon, it was in the midst of a tremendous thunderstorm. The two of you had laughed, and ran through the rain until your clothes were soaked through, and your skin was cold.

It was one of the best nights of your life.

Yet, here you were — sitting beside the man in stagnant silence as he kicked at coal embers with his boot, and pretended not to feel your stare seeping into the back of his head.

Across from you were the people you had briefly met earlier — the two officers by the names of Shane and Rick, or helicopter boy — the asian man named Glenn, and Carol who was sitting beside her husband. Their individual conversations were low, barely audible against the crackling fire, but one-by-one they seemed to filter off, until there was nothing but silence once again.

Shane stood up.

He stoked the fire a little with a branch, careful not to let the flames rise too high. "So, tell me," the man spoke, his voice wide and assertive,"how's a sweet young thing like yourself figure out how to fly a Sikorsky Hawk?"

His presence was big.

It made you shuffle in your seat as his eyes dragged down you, resting on your arm — which was bound by a sling. "Well, minus the landing part," he murmured below his breath.

You didn't like the way he smirked when he said that, like it had been amusing to him — funny to him that you'd almost died. Daryl let out a sound beside you, a low rumbling noise from the back of his throat that only you could hear. But you didn't bite to his words.

After all, men like that could only bark.

"I was in the military," you answered, meeting his eyes and not breaking the stare.

Your throat was still sore, but your words rang out clear, atop the thrum of the evening air, and flickering flames. Shane stuffed his hands in his pockets, and rocked back on the balls of his feet — as though he was putting on some type of show.

"Air force, then?" he questioned, but it was starting to feel more like an interrogation.

You caught the whites of Carol's eyes across from you, as they darted between the officer and yourself, and to her husband, then back to the other officer. She seemed as skittish as a person could possibly be — just watching, waiting, for something to happen.

You cleared your throat and forced a smile. "Training to be," you clarified.

For some reason, the exchange didn't feel like a conversation. The mood was too tense, too untrusting. It reminded you of the few minutes you'd spent alone with Dixon, back at his tent.

Something felt wrong.

Shane stalked around the firepit, his police boots crunching against the leafy bed, and kicking up dirt where he walked. He stopped directly in front of you, looming a shadow down onto you and Daryl — and making the other man scoff as he looked up.

"So not actually a pilot yet?" Shane smirked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Your smile faltered, he was asking too many questions.

The other officer, Rick, took off his sheriff's hat and tracked his partner's movements with his eyes, as though anticipating something that hadn't happened yet. It made you feel a nervousness you were ashamed of.

You never did play well with men like Shane.

"And tell me this," he said, lowly, as he crouched down to your level, "why aren't you at Fort Benning?" He looked back over his shoulder, at Rick who was sitting stiff as a board, before cocking his head back to you."Or were you part of the group that showered Atlanta with napalm?"

The word hung heavy in the air — even though he had practically whispered it.

Your mind flickered back to the day it rained fire down upon the city, to the sounds of screams, and the charred remains you'd stumbled across on the occasions you wandered too close to the centre.

You shook your head immediately, feeling the pain shoot up your shoulder. "I had no part in that," you hissed — much more viciously than you anticipated.

As soon as the words left your mouth, you curled in on yourself. You didn't miss the way the man recoiled slightly from your face, and you'd even caught a fleeting glimpse of your reflection in the blacks of his irises.

You wore a look of pure disgust.

"I was discharged," you whispered, after taking a few moments to collect yourself. "Couple months before all this." You glanced to your right, to where the former mechanic was sitting — trying to pretend like he wasn't watching you. "Got sent to Georgia afterwards, which is where I met Daryl," you explained, noticing his eyes narrow at your words. "Briefly."

He looked away. He didn't seem to like that choice, either.

Shane stood back up, stretching out his knees, and then his neck. He rolled his head back in a circle, before glancing to and from you and Daryl with a smirk.

"Makes sense," he murmured, before turning on his heels to walk away, "dropouts tend to stick together, no?"

And for the second time today, Dixon went wild.

The tension finally snapped, like an elastic band having been stretched to its limit, and Daryl shot up to his feet, lunging for the man.

But you reached out for him at the same time, trying to grab his hand so that the night didn't end in the way you were almost certain it was going to end.

After all, you'd only seen Daryl go off once before — back in the old world — which had left an aftertaste of bloodstains over your bar, and maroon-tinted bruised knuckles that needed tending to well after your closing time.

But now he seemed even worse — more tightly wound than a coil beneath your boot, always ready to jump up and spring.

He was playing the part of a man far more angry than you had ever known him to be.

Although you still couldn't figure out why.

The ticking of the wall clock was stark against the silence. Joe's Bar had been cleared out more than an hour back, but the two of you remained — like ghosts haunting whiskey bottles and looming around the jukebox until it played a song you liked.

Dixon hissed as you tipped alcohol over his knuckles, watching as it seeped into the cuts and spread over his bruises like a clear film. They weren't that bad, really — only a purplish hue to them.

After all, you'd seen the other guy.

But you'd never seen Dixon get so riled up before. He'd always been a cocktail of shy glances and dumb wonder around you. That was until tonight at least, when a drunken customer slapped your ass at the bar, and the mechanic beat him bloody.

He'd probably seen how rattled it had made you, and how you looked ready to either snap or break.

"Ya don' have to do this," the man rasped, purposefully avoiding your eyes. "Save the vodka."

Your hand stilled over his knuckles, as you breathed in the strong, sharp scent which made your lungs burn. You laughed, pointing back over your shoulder at the shelves atop of shelves — stacked with an array of bottles, all different shapes and sizes.

"We've got plenty to spare, don't you worry," you hummed, before tipping more Smirnoff onto a cotton pad. "And you didn't have to do that, either," you chided, narrowing your eyes at a particular cut — which had already begun to crust over. "I could've handled him."

The mechanic scowled, glancing back over his shoulder to the place where it had all gone down — as though watching the scene play out once more in his mind.

He shook his head. "Ya could'a lost yer job."

"I'm used to that by now," you bit back, not once looking up from his bruise-splayed knuckles. "But Dixon," you cautioned, "don't go doing that again."

A car drove by outside, its headlights streaming in through the window and illuminating the dark husk of the bar — the pool tables that had been otherwise cloaked in shadows, and the expression of the man sitting opposite you, studying your every word.

"Joe might bar you next time," you whispered, screwing the lid back onto the bottle.

But Dixon only laughed.

"Barred from a bar?" he scoffed, stretching out his fingers to inspect your work, "he ain't gonna do tha'."

The stool squeaked as the man stood up, dusting off his jeans and retrieving his jacket. It was long past midnight, and you knew you'd be catching a ride back with him as he sped down the streets, reminding you to hold on tighter.

"What makes you so sure?" you teased, untying your apron and leaving it at the end of the counter.

Daryl held the door open, and fished around in his pockets for something that jingled — pulling it out to show you.

It was a set of car keys, with a tacky coke-bottle charm hanging from them.

"Still got his truck sittin' in the shop," he smirked.

The scuffle between Shane and Daryl was interrupted before blows could even be exchanged. Rick grabbed a hold of his partner, whilst you pulled the former mechanic back down to his firepit seat, trading places with him until you were face-to-face with the other asshole — a few inches shorter but a whole lot more pissed.

Daryl tried to stand back up again, but you flashed those eyes at him — the ones that made him immediately second guess the action.

"Sit down," you seethed, punching out each word as you spoke them.

And surprisingly, Dixon did as you said.

You weren't angry at him, exactly, but you didn't want him fighting your battles for you anymore — especially not whilst he had a chip on his shoulder more noticeable than the sling on yours.

Then you turned back to Shane, looking up at him as he stood with his chest almost flush to you, completely ignoring Rick's pleas behind him. He knew exactly what he was doing. That comment wasn't off-handed — he made sure you could hear it.

"I don't like you," you said lowly, not backing down from the glare he shot your way.

You didn't want things to turn out like this. There was nothing more you hated than making a scene.

Well, there was one thing, you thought.

You couldn't fucking stand men who abused their power.

"Don't have to like me, princess," Shane retorted, reaching out a hand in your direction. "I'm just here to keep you alive."

You smacked his palm away — as though it were a fly buzzing much too close — before he could make contact with your skin. And you saw red.

Daryl would have punched a man for less, if you'd so much as given him the right look. But this time, you shot a warning glance at him, telling him to stay put.

"Don't fucking touch me," you whispered, but your words held more weight than if you'd screamed them — and Shane retracted his hand. "I can take care of myself."

Except, he made a point of letting his eyes drag over your injuries, lingering on the makeshift sling, before settling on your stomach — as though he could see your stitches underneath the material of Daryl's shirt.

"Clearly," he remarked, before turning on his heels once again.

Nobody stopped him this time — not even Rick — as he stalked around the fire, and into the night. You caught a glimpse of his metal dog tags as he did, glinting off the light of the flame and jumping around his neck with every step he took. You thought it was ironic for him to even wear them.

Or maybe not.

After all, he seemed the same as every other military man you'd encountered — a goddamn animal.

"Make sure you take care of your manic pixie dream bitch," he yelled, probably directed at Dixon. "Wouldn't want anymore helicopters fallin' from the damn sky."

And so Shane disappeared into his tent — into the shadows you couldn't quite make out — and Daryl stood up straight after, heading in the opposite direction. The remaining group was uneasy, tentative almost, as they watched your head whip back and forth between them and the mechanic as he left.

Dixon stalked away into the brush, despite the shouts and warnings not to stray too far from the campsite.

And you followed him.

With each step further from the flickering flames of the bonfires, it became harder to navigate the night. Your injuries had slowed you down, and you flinched every time a twig snapped, or leaves rustled near your ear. You didn't even have a weapon anymore — since it had burnt up with the rest of your gear in the crash.

But it didn't take you long to track down Dixon. After all, his smoke trail gave him away.

He was sitting on a grassy bank, over facing the quarry waters. There was a full moon out, and you could now see it peering above the tops of the trees — ghostly white against the stark, black sky. And cigarette smoke swirled around it, leading back down to the shadowy figure on the ground, legs tucked up to his chest as he breathed deeply.

You approached, wincing as your shoulder caught on a low-hanging branch.

"Yer gonna bust ya stitches messin' 'round like tha'," Dixon spoke, not even turning around to confirm it was you. But still, he outstretched a hand, helping you sit down beside him.

The moonlight was beautiful. It drizzled over the treetops in the distance, and the spindly branches that reached up to the sky. It even reflected off Daryl's skin as you glanced at him in the corner of your eye — watching as the smoke poured out from his lips and settled in the air.

You tucked yourself into his side just a little, missing the heavy feeling of your jacket which smelt like him — and was almost just as warm. Part of you expected him to shrug you off, or make some remark in-keeping with how withdrawn he'd been throughout the day.

But, he didn't.

He let you sit beside him, as he blocked you from the breeze — as though you weren't the one person who would be used to it.

"Got a spare?" you asked, eyeing his packet of cigarettes.

Dixon hesitated for a second, before placing them down in the space between you. "Thought ya didn't smoke," he replied.

You shook your head and laughed. "I don't."

In truth, you'd only recently taken up the habit — smoking much too scarcely to even call it a habit, really. It had all started when you'd stumbled across a rundown convenience store, and looted a packet of cigarettes without thinking — just because they were the brand that Dixon smoked.

The first time you lit one, you'd cried. They smelt like him.

They'd smelt like your only friend, and reminded you of just how lonely the end of the world was. So, you started to smoke — only when you missed him — and you continued because, even though he was now sitting beside you, for some reason you still felt empty.

Neither of you said anything after that, but you could hear his thoughts — those questions he wanted to ask but didn't. After all, he'd voiced them once before, back before the world ended. Except, it was you who wasn't willing to answer.

"What'd ya do tha' got yer ass sent here?" Dixon asked, one day whilst you were hanging around at the auto-shop, watching him scrub down that Honda bike. "Y'know, locked away in rural Georgia."

You laughed at his words, taking a swig from the ice cold cola you'd skimmed from Dean's fridge.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I was training to be a helicopter pilot," you admitted into the air, answering that question truthfully for the first time.

But he'd already guessed — after the day you'd both had.

"Why didn't it work out?" Daryl mumbled, the cigarette bouncing between his lips as he spoke the words.

You watched as the smoke formed white clouds against the black night, before finally reaching for the packet yourself.

"Fear of heights," you told the man, letting out a breathy chuckle that blew out the lighter's flame.

It was a lie, but the truth was much more bleak.

Though, perhaps that was what nights like this were for. Out here, there was no one else to hear you speak your thoughts, or even see the two silhouettes sitting in the dark. Maybe you could even start trusting the man called Daryl Dixon, since he'd done nothing but pick you up and set you back onto your feet ever since you fell from the sky — and even some time before that.

"No matter how long I would fly for, I always had to land at some point," you explained, though it didn't really sound like much of an explanation. "But the people on the ground made me wish that I never had."

Daryl met your eyes, and in that moment you swore you saw a glimpse of that former mechanic — the one who was street smart but still clueless to people.

"That was until I met a man at a garage who promised to show me the world on his bike," you smiled, before letting the smoke trail from your lips, "but we ended up watching the stars instead."

Dixon didn't smile back.

And somehow, the smoke on your lips tasted more familiar — felt more like Daryl — than the man sitting beside you.

"Ya can take the tent tonight," he mumbled, snuffing his cigarette butt out on the grass.

You pulled a face, but he didn't retrieve it like he normally would — he probably thought there was nothing left in the world worth preserving anymore.

"And what about you?" you asked, making an expression he couldn't even see. "You should rest up before tomorrow."

But the man shook his head in the dark, pushing back on his knuckles to stand up — and offering you his hand once more.

"I ain't none of yer concern," he dismissed, whilst his palm was still warm in yours, "'m gonna sleep out under the stars."

The stars were bright overhead, with no light pollution, or mysterious blinking flickers that could have been mistaken for planes of satellites. But somehow, you didn't fully believe his story.

You laughed, but it wasn't the warm kind. It was the kind that felt foreign on your tongue, because it was a far cry from the fits of giggles the man normally had you in.

"Well, enjoy the view," you replied, shortly.

But you failed to notice the way Dixon watched you the entirety of the way back to camp — as though he already was.

Once Daryl had walked you there, and left you at the tent doorway, he did indeed roll out an old blanket over the grass, to lay back underneath the stars — just as promised.

He was far enough away that he didn't feel like you were right beside him, but still close enough to make out your silhouette against the lamp-lit canvas walls of his tent. That way, he didn't have to worry about walkers — but he didn't have to worry about you, either.

The night was quiet. The full, bright moon beamed down on him like a streetlight and the stars blinked in the sky like peering sets of eyes — staring back at him whilst he looked up. Daryl sighed, and crumpled his packet of cigarettes in his fist, crushing any left inside.

He needed to stop smoking them, because now they'd become tainted by you — and had become another thing that inescapably reminded him of you.

The lingering scent of them on his fingertips alone made him remember just how intoxicating you were. It made Daryl feel like he'd gotten a high from the scent of unbottled moonshine, or from that smile of pure starlight which could make a man go blind.

Though, he'd only had the pleasure of seeing it once today. The rest of the time you'd been pissed, confused, hurt.

He'd probably caused a lot of that — he wasn't that oblivious.

But you were the type who could break his heart without even knowing, and then offer to mend it like it had been someone else who'd done the damage.

He didn't understand how you could act so nonchalant, so blasé, as though you hadn't nearly died, and as though you hadn't just come back from the dead — where Daryl had thought you'd been this entire time.

He laughed, and it almost sounded as cold as the one you'd directed at him earlier.

Merle always called him naive, but Daryl often overcompensated for the fact with blind curses and bruised knuckles from butting heads those who suspected him of being as much.

But it had been the truth.

He was naive — especially when it came to you.

But, Daryl was also angry and hurt. And he didn't know how to fix that without bruising his knuckles — or his ego.

He bit his lip, wetting away the dryness with his tongue, whilst trying not to focus on how dry his throat felt, too. Then, Daryl rested his arm over his eyes.

He didn't feel like watching the stars anymore.

When you awoke, light had filtered into the tent through the mesh netting, speckling over your face like glittering gold as you blinked.

But when you awoke, the man was gone — leaving only another shirt behind in his place.

It almost made you cry, because of how familiar it felt. It smelled like Joe's Bar, of Marlboro cigarettes, of Georgia, and of home.

But you couldn't cry; you hadn't done since the day everything fell apart. So instead, you pulled on your big-girl shirt — the one belonging to the man twice the size of you — and grit your teeth as you threaded your bruised arm through the sleeve, and caught your stitches on the buttons.

You spent the whole morning trying not to notice the glaringly obvious absence in the camp — the men who'd left in search of Merle Dixon. But at the same time, you grimaced at the sight of the ones who hadn't left, the ones like Shane, and Carol's husband — who leered at the women as they washed his fucking underwear.

"Carol, why don't you ask Ed to come and help us," Andrea remarked, glancing towards the man resting languidly by his jeep, "make himself useful instead of just standing there smoking cigarettes."

Beside you, Jacqui laughed a high-pitched laugh, as she wrung out another damp t-shirt in her fists. You had only been formally introduced to her this morning, but her smile was infectious — and for a minute, it made you forget about the anxiety deep in the pits of your stomach.

Carol was quiet, but eventually chirped up once she mustered enough confidence.

"If I knew how to get him to do that, I would have done it years ago," she muttered, and shyly rolled her eyes.

Andrea boomed out a laugh, whilst the others chimed in at the appearance of Carol's unexpected humour. You tried not to let the chuckle wrack up your body, since every slight movement sent shockwaves to your injuries. But at this moment, you didn't really mind.

Carol had a pretty smile, and an even nicer laugh.

Except, her husband didn't seem to think so.

He stalked over with the same bravado Shane had mastered the night before — probably taking inspiration from the other man who wore boots three times his size. You could make out the sneer on his face before he even got within a few steps of you all. It was just that deep.

The man flicked his cigarette in your direction, and it barely missed the toe of your boot.

"What's so funny, hmm?" he jeered, but his tone was anything but light. You didn't have to hear them twice to recognise those words as a threat. "Gotta be somethin' if it's got you ladies so distracted."

Each of the women stayed silent as a grave — as though in some secret pact Ed was unaware of. He sauntered around, weaving in between Jacqui and Andrea, until the latter eventually snapped.

"Is it really any of your business?" she remarked, frustration clear in her voice. "After all, we're the ones doing your laundry."

She thrust the damp clothes she was holding at the man's chest, before letting them fall to the floor. The moment you heard them hit the ground, your hands were already shaking with adrenaline. You knew that look — the one Ed wore — and nothing good ever came from it.

He stepped up to Andrea, his pride damper than the shirt at his feet. "Know your place, little bitch," he hissed, shoving her back with his shoulder.

And chaos broke out.

Jacqui's screams sounded very much like her high-pitched laughs had done, and Lori called for Shane like a broken record that only knew a single name. You wanted to get everyone to calm down. You wanted to diffuse the situation like how you'd been trained to do.

But all you saw was red.

Carol interjected, lacing herself around her husband's arm as she begged for him to stop. "Ed, please don't-"

The man backhanded his wife, sending her to the ground with a single strike.

And that was your queue.

You rushed over, feeling your feet sink into the pebbles deeply with each step. You had a dozen stitches in your stomach, but you would rather pop every damn one open than let him get away with that.

"You dare lay your hands on her?" you roared, approaching the man — the monster — from behind as he loomed over Carol like a shadow of cowardice.

Ed reacted out of instinct, flailing his arm backwards and hitting you across the jaw with his elbow as you tried to pull him away. Immediately, your mouth pooled with the taste of copper, and you spit it out onto the pebbled stones beneath your feet.

You looked over at Andrea, who was dumbstruck as she watched blood drizzle from your lip, before you wiped it away by the sleeve of Daryl's shirt — with your one good arm.

"Get Carol out of here," you said, so quiet that it might as well have been a whisper.

You looked at the man, sizing him up as he stared you down.

"She isn't gonna want to see this."

The evening sunset was a vibrant salmon, tinged with deeper, darker hues the further you got from the sun. Those parts of the sky were the same maroon colour as your jaw — you'd caught glimpses of it in Andrea's compact mirror.

You'd spent the latter part of the day avoiding Shane's lectures, and the women who meant well but fussed over you far too much. So, you retreated back to Dixon's tent — icing the ripe bruise on your chin with a pack from Dale's RV cooler.

The scent of Marlboro cigarettes lingered around you — faint but still present in the fibers of the blankets beneath you, and in your shirt which was now bloodstained. You tried to ignore the pull of it, not wanting to smoke.

The tent puckered as someone fumbled with it, and soon the entrance flap was unzipped — revealing Carol, who timidly ducked inside.

"We meet again," you greeted her, thinking back to how she'd tended to your wounds in this very spot, not even a full day before. "I was going to apologise for beating your husband into the ground, but I couldn't bring myself to say that I'm sorry."

You grimaced as the words left your mouth. They sounded a lot more sharp than you'd intended.

But she still smiled warmly at you, a smile that you didn't think you deserved, and shook her head. The woman sat down on her knees opposite you, coaxing the ice-pack away from your skin for a second to inspect the damage.

"I don't blame you," she said, as gentle as her touch. She smelt like citrus, and summer days as her palm ghosted over your face. "I came to thank you, actually. For being the first to stand up for me."

Your gaze dropped down to where her sleeves had risen up, revealing the yellowish bruises dotted over her arms — in the shape of fingerprints.

"Well, someone had to," you noted, sadly.

She caught the way your eyes lingered, and quickly adjusted her shirt, pulling it back down to her wrists.

"Was it really that obvious?" she chuckled, nervously.

But you felt like she already knew the answer.

Her stance was practiced, even sitting down. She wasn't at all relaxed, hovering on her knees like a small rabbit, ready to dart to safety at a moment's notice. You felt like you were looking into a mirror — one that only reflected the past.

You nodded. "When you know the signs, it is," you admitted, sitting back against Dixon's pillow. "I had my suspicions before."

She hummed in return, acting much more casually around you than she had done a mere moment before. "What gave it away?" she asked — curious more than anything.

Light streamed in through the little plastic windows on the tent, falling in a stream between you — warm against your lap.

"Your hair, for one thing," you confessed, gesturing with your free hand. "You shave it yourself? To stop him grabbing it during fights?"

She remained silent at the accusation, but her eyes gave her entirely away.

You nodded. "They always tend to stoop that low."

And Carol bit her lip in response, not pointing out how you'd done the same with your braids — keeping them tight to your scalp, not even a strand out of place.

She excused herself then, making some remark about how she best ought to go check on her husband, before letting you catch a glimpse of the brave scowl which made its way onto her face as she said it. The sun hung high in the sky as she ducked back out, almost as bright as that full moon had been the night before.

"Hey, Carol," you said, loud enough for her to still hear it, "if he gives you trouble again, don't hesitate to come find me."

The woman nodded once more, and waved you off.

"Just you wait until my good arm heals," you called after her. "My right hook's even better than my left."

Then, you winked — watching as she debated letting out the laugh she had stifled — as you recalled the actual reason that got you hauled off to Georgia in the first place.

Dishonourable discharge, my ass.

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smells-like-mettaton · 3 years

Note

soriel, 1 (chocolate) for the ask game?

Like a Box of Chocolates

Rating: G Word Count: 2734 Read on AO3: here

---

"Ok. I brought a few choices," Sans said while sitting with his back to the door. He pulled a plastic sack full of chocolate and chocolate-adjacent treats out from under his shirt.

"Oh, you did not have to do that." The voice behind the door sounded embarrassed.

"It's no big deal." He shrugged instinctively, though she wouldn't be able to see it. "Not like I candy things like this for you very often."

The lady laughed, even though the pun was a stretch. She was a great audience like that.

"I cannot argue with that. After all, it is the choco-thought that counts."

Sans let out a wheeze. Man, she had him beat in the bad jokes department. He needed to up his game.

"What can I say, I'm a sweet guy." That joke would work better if she could see his wink.

"You certainly are, my friend."

Sans blinked. He hadn't been prepared for the genuine warmth in her voice. Now he felt something like a melted chocolate himself.

"Uh. You'd better wait and make sure I didn't pick out garbage before you say that." He chuckled nervously and spread out the chocolates in the snow.

"Alright. Hit me with your best choco-shot."

He laughed out loud at that one too. She could really squeeze some mileage out of chocolate puns.

"First off we have the MTT-Brand Chocolate Mettaton. Which is exactly what it sounds like. Chocolate in the shape of everyone's favorite robot superstar." He scanned the back of the wrapper. "Contains sequins and glitter, but it's still monster food, so probably won't cause any more indigestion than Temmie Flakes. Still, wouldn't blame ya if you passed on that."

The lady laughed. "I do not know this 'Mettaton,' but he sounds like someone…"

Her voice trailed off, the way it always did when she neared a personal topic. It seemed to be happening more and more often lately. Sans didn't know if that was a good sign, or if he needed to do a better job of distracting her.

"Someone I know would have liked that," she finished clumsily.

"Welp. It's yours, then." He attempted to slide it under the door.

Attempted. The thick block of chocolate wouldn't fit through the narrow space.

"What are my other options?" The lady asked, not seeming to hear his failure.

(Or just ignoring it. The way they always ignored things they didn't want to acknowledge.)

Oh well. He'd deal with that later, if she wanted to.

He picked up the next box and rattled it. It looked thin enough to fit under the door.

"I think this one's called, uh, pocket?” He couldn’t tell for sure, since the box was labeled in a language he didn’t recognize. Where did Alphys get this stuff? “A pal gave it to me. They’re like chocolate-covered sticks, I think."

"Not precisely what I was looking for, but I would love to try it regardless," she said. "If I am allowed to have both options, I mean. If not, I should probably stick with the Em-Tee-Tee."

Sans bit back a snort. So she hadn't heard after all. That made this a lot more awkward.

"Do you wanna hear the other options first? Wouldn't want ya to have any regrets."

"Oh! There are more?"

She sounded as surprised as a kid finding an extra fry in the bottom of their Grillby's bag. He couldn't help grinning.

"Yup. Next up is a chocolate spider donut—”

“Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders?” The voice seemed on the verge of laughter again.

His eyesockets widened. “Uh… welp. Guess you don’t need the whole spiel, huh?”

“There is a spider bakesale right around the corner from my home,” the lady explained. “I believe they are saving for a… ‘heated limo’? To travel safely through Snowdin. I wish I could help them, but I did not think to take much gold when I…”

Another dead end. That was fine, Sans could piece together enough. Not that her personal life was any of his business, anyway.

“If it makes ya feel any better, they really raked me over the coals for this one.”

“It does not!” came her quick reply. “I only asked for a chocolate bar. Not for you to spend money that you need on me.”

Geez, this lady was too good for him. As if Sans ever really went out of his way for anyone.

Except Papyrus, but he was family. And sometimes Grillby, if he felt bad about failing to pay his tab for too long. And Alphys, but he owed her for screwing off after space-time blew up in their faces.

And now, the lady behind the door. The lady he didn’t owe anything to, except a few good laughs.

Who was he kidding? Those laughs were more important to him than anything.

“Eh, it just cost me one day of selling ‘dogs. Donut worry about it.”

“Very well. Since it was for a good cause, I will not grill you any further. But please tell me that was the last chocolate you purchased for me.”

“It’s the last one I purchased.” He grinned. While she couldn’t see his expression, she must have heard the but in his voice.

“Please tell me you did not steal any chocolate for me.”

“Geez, lady, what do you take me for? I’d never commit petty thievery.”

“Well, that is reassuring.”

“Yep. Gotta save room for the real high-dollar crimes. Like the illegal hot dog stand.”

The voice behind the door went silent. He wished he could see her face now more than ever. His own grin slowly slid from his skull.

“Everyone knows about it,” he reassured her. “If the King really wanted to shut me down, he’d have done it a long time ago.”

“Oh, I am not judging you for that. I am sure the law is rigged against you if the King has any say in it.” Her voice was surprisingly bitter.

His real problem was that he couldn’t ever find the necessary documents to get licensed in food preparation. His birth certificate was presumably in whatever alternate dimension his old man had blasted them out of.

“You are judging me for something, though,” he realized. The chill of the snow seeped into his bones, but he didn’t dare adjust his position. Somehow he felt that if he moved, she would disappear.

“I am not. I was only thinking about…” She sighed. “It is complicated. There was a time when I could have helped you, but it is long past.”

“Help me? Look, lady, the ‘dog stand is fine. Promise. Better than fine, since I don’t gotta pay taxes on it.”

She chuckled at that.

“Very well. Forgive a silly old lady for worrying.”

“Done.” He smiled, settling back against the door more comfortably.

He should’ve known she’d have a problem with his illegal activities, though. She was a classy lady, and he was… him. Why had he even brought it up? It wasn’t a great joke. Did he really just want her to know?

Eh, whatever. She wasn’t mad, so no harm done, right?

“I would like to know how you acquired this other chocolate, if it was not through your sticky fingers.” She sounded like she was grinning.

“Huh? Oh.” He blinked and dug out the last chocolate of the bunch. Blue dusted his cheeks. “QC—that’s the lady who runs the shop in town—gave ‘em to me for free. They’re called, uh, kisses.”

QC had a knowing look in her eyes when she’d offered the bag of chocolates to him. It was his own fault for implying they were for a girl. Everyone already thought he screwed around in the woods on his shifts, and with the way gossip travelled in a small town, everyone at Grillby’s would be asking about his girlfriend tonight.

“Kisses,” the lady behind the door echoed. “This is not one of your jokes, is it?”

“Not this time. Sorry to disappoint.” His grin felt too tight. “They’re, uh, tiny chocolates. Kinda cone-shaped? QC makes ‘em herself, so they’ve gotta be good.”

“Oh.” Oddly, the voice did sound disappointed. Sans couldn’t imagine why. Not like he could kiss her through the door, even if he had lips. And even if there was some unlikely timeline where she wanted a kiss from him.

He wanted to thump his skull back against the door, but there was no point in worrying her like that.

“In that case, I will take the kisses. They will be perfect for…”

He was sure she would leave it at that. Cover up with some non sequitur.

So his eyesockets went wide when she said, “for the anniversary of my child’s passing.”

“Oh.” He let out a strangled little laugh. “I—geez, I’m sorry. If I’d known—”

“You would have what? Spent even more money on this silly old lady, who cannot even leave to buy her child’s favorite chocolate?” Her voice was firm. “No. I thought you deserved to know, after the trouble you went to, and because you shared your own secret with me today.”

“My ‘dog stand is hardly a secret,” he said, still feeling a little shaky. She had a kid? A dead kid?

Well, who in the Underground didn’t have skeletons in their closet? Metaphorically or literally. She was still his best friend. If she wanted his pity, she would’ve said something sooner.

“Regardless,” she said. “It is in the past. Forget it, if you wish. But please do not treat me any differently.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said sincerely. If there was one thing he was good at, it was maintaining the status quo. “So, uh. These chocolates. I kind of wanted you to have all of ‘em, if that’s alright with you.”

“It would be rude to refuse a gift, would it not?” She sounded like she was smiling again, to his relief.

“There’s just one problem. Uh. Don’t think they’re all gonna fit under the door.” He rapped on the stone surface with his knuckle for emphasis.

“I did not assume they would. The recipe I gave you before hardly passed through.”

Sans blinked. “Then you—huh?”

“I will open the door just a fraction. It can only be done from the inside.” She paused, like she was gathering a breath. “I would ask that you do not look. I promise I will not peek, either.”

Sans’s ribcage tightened. She was going to open the door. She would be right there, with no stone between them.

The thought opened a desperate floodgate within him. He hadn’t realized just how badly he wanted to see her, to know her, to live off of more than just scraps and unfinished sentences.

She once had a child. She had some kind of beef against the King. She wanted to give charity to spiders, but didn’t have enough money. All these facts he filed away, tucking them into the grooves in his ribcage.

It would be enough. He’d duct tape those gates shut again, if he had to. He wasn’t going to betray the trust she’d shown him.

“Got it. You don’t wanna be smitten by my good looks, I understand,” he joked.

(He had a feeling it would be the other way around, if anything. Not that quality of jokes translated to quality of appearance—he would know. If it did, he’d have biceps like his brother.)

“It would be tragic. Much too high a price for you to handsome chocolate to me.”

“Heh, I’m sure you’re a door-able too. But I’ll keep my sockets shut, since our friendship hinges on it.”

That got a raucous laugh out of her, the kind that started off high-pitched and quickly became something of a snorting bleat. That sound was sweeter than chocolate to him.

...Man, his pals at Grilby’s would be right to dunk on him. He was a massive dork.

“Alright,” she said once she caught her breath, “if you are ready, my friend…”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Better choco-late than never, huh?”

That one only got a snort, but he wasn’t sure if that was because the pun fell flat, or because she was nervous. As far as he knew, she hadn’t been outside of the Ruins in years. And here she was, trusting a sentry—someone whose job it was to keep a look out—to turn a blind eye.

It was a good thing he’d never been good at his job.

Stone ground against stone with a dramatic rumble. His eyesockets stayed shut. Warmth emanated from somewhere near his shoulder, and he lifted the bag of chocolates.

His small hand brushed a large fur-covered one. A shiver trailed down his spine. One small touch shouldn’t have done so much to him, but—but she was real. She was more than just a voice behind a door. Which he knew, but knowing and feeling could be worlds apart at times.

She took the bag, and the moment was over. But the door didn’t close.

“My dear friend,” she whispered, her voice sounding closer than ever. “Would it be presumptuous to ask another favor of you?”

“‘Course not. Glad to do a favor for my favor-ite person.” He kept his tone light, unaffected by the swirling emotions inside him.

“If I could… oh, dear, this is embarrassing.”

He resisted the urge to open his eyes, to see what look might be on her face.

“It has simply been so long… may I hold your hand a moment longer?”

He felt the marrow heating within his bones.

“That all? I gotta hand it to ya, you made me think you needed an arm and a leg.”

She chuckled before awkwardly fumbling to grasp his hand again.

Heat poured from her palm into his phalanges. Aside from the fur, there were several spots of soft skin—probably paw pads. Was she a dog monster, like the Canine Unit in town? She didn’t make nearly enough dog jokes for that to be the case. Her laugh sounded more like a goat’s, but she obviously didn’t have hooves. Maybe she was some kind of chimera? You didn’t see those often nowadays, but then again, no one saw monsters from the Ruins, either.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice as soft as the snow that began to drift around him.

“Not disappointed?” He asked, only half-joking. “My hand can’t be as comfy as yours.”

“Ah, but it is all your bone. And that is wonderful to me.”

“Geez, old lady.” He was grateful she couldn’t see his blush. “You’re pretty fur-fect yourself.”

When she laughed, her body shook all the way down to her hand. The feeling more than made up for all the G he’d spent on chocolate and donuts.

Suddenly his hand was being lifted up, and then something soft pressed against his knuckles. His soul flared erratically, and his eyes nearly flew open. If they had, he was sure his left eyelight would have been blue from shock.

“A kiss for a kiss,” she said slyly. “It is only fair.”

“Heh heh…” His voice shook with more than laughter. “Technically, that was one kiss for a bag of kisses. Pretty sure that math doesn’t square up.”

“Oh, you are quite right! One day we will have to circle back and rectify that.”

He practically had to cast gravity magic on himself to keep his eyes from flying open.

“You—huh?” He said intelligently.

“Perhaps not soon,” she clarified. “This has all been… a lot, for me. But thanks to you, my dear friend, this day has not been so bitter as I am used to.”

“Uh, no problem, then. With all that chocolate, I hope it’s sweet.”

Sweet as the anniversary of a death could be, anyway. He grimaced. Maybe that joke was too soon, but she just squeezed his hand before finally letting go.

“I do think it will be,” she said softly. “I will look forward to hearing more of your punny jokes tomorrow.”

The door scraped shut, and he hesitantly opened his eyes. He couldn't help inspecting the door to see if anything changed. Pressing his still-warm hand against the smooth stone.

“Heh. Good luck getting rid of me now.” He grinned.

Then he tucked his hands in his pockets, where her kiss remained like a tattoo on his bone.

#tali writes #safeutdr #soriel #sans #toriel #fic tag #very happy with how this one turned out :D #hope you like it and thanks for the request!#prompt requests

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pynkhues · 4 years

Note

Howdy! Remember that scene in 2:06 where Annie is going on about Beth's dong fog? Well, she says "I can't stand watching them together" (might be paraphrasing). Had me wondering what they have been acting like in those off camera meetings after the girls found out about them. Head canon maybe?

Anon! This is such an old prompt, and I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to get to it, but I hope maybe this little ficlet is worth it. Hope you enjoy it :-)

So they’re boning.

Bumping uglies, thumping thighs, rubbing wet spots, doingthe horizontal tango, shaboinking, shagging. Screwing.

Her perfect housewife, total nerd, maybe criminal mastermindsister, and their terrifying, violent, definite criminal mastermind gangfriend,and honestly, maybe Annie should be less surprised. After all, it’s not likeeither of them have been subtle about their eye fucking, and hell, even beforethis latest development she swears she could smell it on them, the pheromonesjust like, radiating off the two of them like a skunk funk.

But god, that bar the other night had been a totally newtype of embarrassing. The way he’d swaggered on over, his eyes on her like he knewexactly what he was doing, a set to his shoulders that was all mating dance –peacock feathers up, and Beth just like, staring right back at him all - - intoit, like she was ready to make a nest and start laying eggs for him or somethingand just - -

It was gross, okay? And Beth had been like, a zeroon the embarrassment scale when she should’ve been a solid 98 million,storming out of the bar like she wouldn’t have murdered Annie for even entertainingthe thought of doing what she’d done, and Annie had spent the night in ateary fury imagining every possible outcome for this - - this development -- and never seeing a situation that didn’t end up with her sister dead or –worse – hurt.

(“And you think dragging her over the coals is going to stopeither of those things?” Ruby had asked her over the phone later that night whenshe’d called to check in, and Annie had frowned, topping up the vodka in herchipped mug.

“Yes,” she insists. Then: “No. Maybe. God, Ruby, you can’tseriously think this is a good idea?”

“Of course not, but making Beth feel bad for gettin’ somewith someone who isn’t Dean for the first time in her entire life is not a goodidea either.”)

Anyway here they are again, sitting in the back of BolandMotors, waiting for Rio to deliver a truckload of unwashed cash to theirdoorstep and blab on about how much he’s looking forward to his sixty percentwhich is frankly bull, because they’re doing all the hardwork and surelythey should be getting a better cut since Beth is like, literally blowing thedude.

And isn’t that an image? Annie scowls, gagging briefly, legjittery underneath her.

She can’t even imagine Beth like - -

Ugh.

She bets he has a big dick.

He’s got that total vibe after all, that energy, and- - huh.

Annie squints at Beth.

She’s always kind of figured Dean had a micro penis, so thatmust be an adjustment and a half.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Beth hisses suddenly, ablush having creeped up her neck, and Annie blinks, folds her arms over herchest, gives Beth the best ‘Beth Look’ Annie can manage.

“Like what?”

“You know like what,” Beth insists, and Ruby groans besidethem at the same time Annie loudly scoffs.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sister, if you’re inferring somethingin my look. You know, maybe that’s more a reflection on your guilty conscience,not my feelings, because I –”

“Yo.”

Beth sits up straight suddenly, pink dusting her cheeks nowtoo and Annie scoffs again, looking sideways at where Rio’s materialised infront of them like he’s just beamed down from the USS Enterprise, or - - no, hewould never get into Star Fleet. He’d be like one of the Klingons or something,sure, the most handsome one to ever exist, but that’s irrelevant.

He’s bad news through and through, and Beth is like somesacrificial virgin or something and just - -

“Is that all of it?” Beth asks, and somehow she’s managed toget the bag off Rio and count it out in the time it’s taken Annie to catch up.She glances quickly over to Rio, at his stupid handsomeness and his sharpfeatures and his raised eyebrow and his eyes all up in Beth’s business.

“Little early to be uppin’ drops, darlin’,” he says, andugh, darling?

Annie scowls, gaze shifting back to Beth who doesn’t even reactto it, just powers through.

“We washed all your cash in record time last week.”

“Yeah, but you were,” he looks at her, purses his lower lipin a way that feels frankly obscene, and adds. “Motivated.”

And yes, Annie thinks with a scoff, motivated by theprospect of the cops finding the body he’d ordered them to kill, but - - wait,is that what he means?

Her gaze flicks between the two of them in horror. Did theymake some sort of sex deal on top of that?

Ugh.

She looks at Ruby, who’s just staring at the ceiling so shedoesn’t have to look at them, and Annie would do the same if she thought shehad it in her to miss this.

“Well, what if we did it again?”

He grins and recollects himself so quickly that Annie almostthinks she’d made it up, the sharp tug to his lips like something he couldn’tquite contain in the moment of it, and it’s enough to make her reel back alittle. To watch the neon security lights catch the angles of his face, andmake him look like some sort of impossibly handsome demon you could hang thenext hit spooky-style franchise on. When he speaks, his voice is husky.

“Well then we could have another conversation, huh?”

“Right,” Beth says immediately, a little breathless, and shepuffs out her chest a bit which is just - - god, mortifying, and Rionods, eyes flicking down to her boobs like he knows exactly what they look likebeneath her grandma’s-curtains-blouse, which he must now, turning on hisheel to leave and Beth watches him, a look on her face that Annie doesn’t thinkshe’s ever seen before, like she’s - - hungry almost, and just - -

“Ugh,” Annie squawks and Beth swivels around, her eyes wide,like she hadn’t been two seconds away from climbing on his dick.

“What?”

“UGH,” Annie squawks louder, waving a hand at Beth before stormingaway towards her car.

The music is too loud.

Which feels, y’know, kind of like a big deal, because Annieloves loud music, but this bar isn’t playing Train or Sheryl Crow, it’s playinglike, cool music, because it’s a cool bar, and absolutely not Beth– the least cool person she knows.

“I hate this place,” Annie says, and she can feel Ruby rollher eyes beside her, taking a sip of her fire engine, which is franklyridiculous, because even Annie is too mature for fire engines, or - -hmm. Maybe not. She eyes it off. Maybe that’s her next drink.

“You’ve been telling us to go here for months,” Beth says acrossthe booth, and Annie gapes, because, okay, she had, but - -

“Yeah, well, that was before gangfriend decided he wanted tomix up our vibe, okay? Whatever happened to the park at midnight, huh? Brunchat Cloud 9? Okay, I know what happened to brunch at Cloud 9, but what about, y’know- - your back patio?”

Ruby snorts at that, waggling her eyebrows suggestively andtaking a sip on her straw.

“Think we know what happened to Beth’s back patio too.”

It’s enough to make Beth turn about eight different shadesof red, and for Annie to spin around to Ruby in disbelief, spilling her own drinka little in the process, which - - whatever, this is categorically more important.

“Was that an anal joke?”

The question immediately makes Ruby’s eyes open dramatically,her lips parting in horror around the straw in her mouth, cheeks flushing.

“No! I just meant those French doors open up onto Beth’sbedroom, oh my god, Annie.”

Annie scoffs dramatically, shoving her drink in Ruby’s face ina theatrical gesture of punctuation.

“Please, you know what you said.”

“Can we please stop talking about this,” Beth saysdesperately, and just - - Annie swivels around in her seat, back towards Beth,squinting at her sister, trying to read her expression, because that insistenceis pretty interesting.

“Did you guys do anal?”

“No,” Beth hisses, furious. “There was no - -”

And because the universe clearly hates them, Rio choosesthat exact moment to slide too easily into the booth beside Beth, and y’knowwhat? The thing is wide, deep even, but he slides in so close his arm is pushedagainst hers, and just - - god, it’s embarrassing, the way Beth’s eyes widen,the way she sort of lurches sideways before steeling herself, and sort of like –half pressing back into him? It’s really fucking awkward, but Rio doesn’t evenflinch.

“Ladies,” he says, gesturing to the bartender for a drink,who apparently drops every other customer in a five foot radius instantly to serveRio, and Annie glares at him because she waited twenty minutes for her drink,dammit. “You good?”

Ruby’s eyebrows are high up her forehead as she stares betweenthem, and god, Annie can’t blame her. Beth’s so red she could be used to stop traffic,and the air just feels weird and thick, and it’s that whole pheromonething again, and Annie just doesn’t even know how to begin to unpack that.

Luckily she doesn’t have to as Beth suddenly grabs the sportsbag from next to her in the booth, pulling it over herself to pass to Rio, onlyRio stops her, drops the bag to her lap and unzips it there, making neat workof counting through the cash, shifting in his seat enough his back can shield whatthey’re doing from prying eyes.

“It’s all there,” Beth says, her voice all girlish and breathyas Rio goes through the bag on her lap. He doesn’t even reply, but Beth jumps suddenlyand Annie blinks because the only explanation for that means that he must’ve gottento the bottom of the bag, which means the only thing between his hands and herthighs and - - vagina - - is the thin waterproof material of the bag itselfand her sister’s jeans.

“Cool,” Rio says suddenly, zipping up the bag and lurchingto his feet. He swings it over his shoulder, giving Beth a final, loaded look,and says: “See you next week. I’ll bring the funny money.”

He’s barely out of the bar before Annie lets loose a long, strangledscream.

She’s been staring at Beth for the last few minutes, tryingto place what’s different when her gaze drops to her sister’s breasts and she justthinks - -

Ah.

“Is that a new bra?”

It’s enough to make Beth spin dramatically around on thespot, her eyes wide, a little wild, her cheeks bright red, and whatever, Anniethinks, rolling her own eyes. That sort of feels like a given these days.

“What? No,” she flusters, flailing her arms, gaze dartingsideways to where Rio’s clambering out of his car a little further down the lot.He looks like he’s on his cell, talking to somebody or other, even as he pullsa bag off the backseat of his car. “How would you even know that?”

Annie just looks at her.

“I know all your clothes, including underwear. Plus youhaven’t worn a push up bra since like – ever – it’s not like you need one – andno offence, but your tits look like they’re about to become sentient, suffocateyou and take over your body.”

Beth just stares at her, and god, Beth really needs to learnto embarrass less easily. She’s like, nine different shades of red right now. Sheexhales sharply, looking irritated, gaze going sideways towards Rio and thenback to Annie, and then - -

“It was on sale,” she says quietly, and Annie snorts, but -- okay, maybe she feels a little bad when Beth slips a hand below the collar ofher shirt and starts surreptitiously fiddling with the strap on the thing. It’sjust the two of them tonight anyway – Ruby had had a shift at Dandy Donuts shecouldn’t quite squirm out of, and Annie had kind of hated the thought of seeingthe Beth and Rio show without her, but at least she didn’t have to deal with Rubyjudging her either.

So instead they both just stand there, watching Rio acrossthe lot, and he must know that they’re watching him, but he doesn’t acknowledgeit. Doesn’t even turn around to look at them, which honestly - - rude. Annieglances back at Beth, ready to basically tell her that she’s managed to landherself another asshole, only - -

Only Beth’s gaze is fixed. Her focus unwavering, her lips slightlyparted, like he has her hypnotised across the parking lot and that hunger’sthere, plain on her face, but there’s - - something different there too. Somethingthat runs a little deeper, that holds a little firmer, and Annie’s mouth closes,her forehead furrowing, and suddenly she needs to look away, uncomfortable, butnot for the reasons that she has been.

She hears the car door slam shut, and glances back up toRio, and the sound seems to have jerked Beth out of whatever had her in it’s griptoo, and well, at least the anger’s easier to hold onto again when Rio’s gazelaser focuses on Beth’s pushed up boobs.

“Hey, ladies,” he drawls, slipping the bag off his shoulder,but not quite passing it over yet. “Gonna invite me in?”

And Annie just watches.

Watches Beth flush, exhale, smile – just a little.

Watches her let him in.

#beth x rio #annie marks #beth boland #annie + beth #annie + beth + ruby #ruby hill #rio #my fic #gg 2.05 #gg 2.06 #welcome to my ama

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crooked-sleep · 4 years

Text

Day 1 - 'Tis the Season

“Fuck you, you big old red son of a bitch!”

“That’ll be coal in your stocking, you evil bastard!”

The rotund old man dressed in red delivers a rather impressive uppercut to the ugly faun-looking guy. Bizarro World Mr. Tumnus ducks, and growls threateningly from between teeth clenched tight and stained old-blood brown.

“Is this really happening?” Dean asks, disbelief coloring his tone.

“Kinda asking myself the same thing,” Sam replies, and then flinches when the faun thing screams and launches itself at – fuck me, that’s Santa fucking Claus, thinks Dean hysterically.

Santa moves out of the way with surprising speed for a guy his size and age, and uses the faun’s own momentum against him, grabbing one of his horns and pushing him into the nearest wall. Dean watches, only dimly aware of his mouth hanging open, as Santa pulls out a glinting silver knife from his belt and stabs the goat thing. It howls, loud and shrill, and Sam jumps a little again before pressing himself into Dean’s side, not lowering his weapon even a little.

“Why don’t you just die?” Santa roars. It’s weird as fuck. The man – or whatever he is – doesn’t look jolly at all. Then again, it’s kind of hard to pull off the whole adorable-old-grandpa schtick when you’re brandishing a knife, thinks Dean.

“Santa stabbed Mr. Tumnus,” Dean tells Sam, as if Sam’s not watching the whole thing with wide eyes too.

“That’s not Mr. Tumnus, that’s Krampus,” Sam tells Dean, only half paying attention to the conversation.

“Oh, look, he stabbed him again.”

“Should we help?” Sam asks as Santa stabs Krampus a third time. The howling is getting deafening now. “I feel like we should help.”

Dean casts a contemplative look at the scene before him. Krampus is still shrieking, and Santa looks more and more pissy with each futile stabbing attempt. “Nah,” Dean says in the end. “Let’s leave them to it. Not a big fan of getting my ass handed to me by Santa. Or the goat thing.”

“Krampus.”

“Whatever.”

Finally getting tired of the whole thing, Santa lets out a frustrated “Ugh, fuck my life” – and isn’t that the weirdest thing Dean’s ever heard – before grabbing Krampus by the horns and stuffing him face-first into the large sack he’s been lugging around. Dean opens his mouth to point out that there’s no fucking way that 8-foot tall Krampus is going to fit in there, but Sam elbows him to keep his mouth shut – and anyway, whatever mojo Santa’s got on his sack (and there are a million puns Dean could be making here but is choosing not to, a fact for which Sam should be thanking him on his knees) seems to apply to Krampus too.

“I’m not sure that I’m not dreaming right now,” Dean admits to Sam as they watch Krampus’s hooves vanish into the sack.

“I honestly wondered if we’d been drugged at some point,” Sam says. “Don’t think we were, though.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m real,” Santa cuts in, looking grumpy as all hell as he drags the sack to the honest-to-God sleigh parked next to the Impala. He swings, powerful and sure, and the sack lands in the backseat with a loud thump and even louder “FUCK YOU!”

“FUCK YOU TOO!” Santa yells back.

“Fuck me,” Sam whispers, in an uncharacteristic display of disbelief.

“Later,” mutters Dean.

“Merry fuckin’ Christmas,” Santa grumbles, dusting his hands off and then his clothes. “Thanks for all the help, by the way.”

“You were doing fine on your own,” Dean points out.

“Yeah, this is nothing new,” sighs Santa. “Fucking Krampus. Told him a million times to stick to his territory and stay out of mine, but does he listen? Fuck no. Who the hell even tortures kids these days, anyway?”

Sam and Dean share a look, and simultaneously arrive at the decision not to comment.

Santa continues ranting. “I mean, coal’s more than enough. Gets the message across, doesn’t it? Screw you, little Billy Bob, you were a little asshole the whole year, so now you don’t get presents while everyone else does. That’s punishment enough, in my opinion. Torture and all that is totally uncalled for.”

“Totally,” Dean echoes. “So old school, right?”

Santa glowers at him, unamused. “Watch your mouth, or it’s coal in your stocking, too.”

Sam disguises his laugh with a cough.

“Joke’s on you, we don’t do Christmas,” Dean informs Santa squarely.

“Not what happened in 2007,” Santa retorts.

“Well, that was different,” Dean snaps.

“I think what Dean’s trying to say is that it’s a good thing you defeated Krampus,” Sam says hurriedly, when it begins to look like Santa’s considering tossing Dean in with Krampus too. “Since, you know, we probably couldn’t have done it on our own. And he was, you know. Torturing little children.”

“You’re welcome,” Santa says after a pause.

Sam gives him an awkward little smile, and to Dean’s surprise, Santa returns it. Fricking Sam, he thinks with a glower. Charming the pants off everyone around him with those damn puppy eyes. Including fricking Santa damned Claus.

“What are you going to do with him?” Sam asks, nodding towards the wriggling sack in the sleigh. Krampus, it seems, is not taking well to his imprisonment.

“Keep him locked up for a while, or something,” sighs Santa. “I’ll figure it out. Before that, though, I’m getting drunk off my ass.”

Dean blinks. “Is that allowed? I mean, don’t you have, I don’t know, presents to deliver?”

“Sack’s empty, genius,” Santa reminds him. “Means I’m done with all that. It’s happy hour now, and Lord, I deserve a drink or ten.”

“Think I kinda wanna get drunk too, honestly,” Dean tells him.

Santa snorts. “Don’t blame you. This is why I don’t talk to people, see. You humans have this weird image of me and it does not jibe at all with my thing.”

“Your thing?” Sam asks.

“Vodka,” Santa answers bluntly. “Lots and lots of vodka. And weed. All the weed.”

“I… see,” Sam says, looking like he can’t figure out how to process all of this. Dean can’t really blame him.

“Yeah, little kids probably don’t wanna find out Santa needs AA,” he comments.

“Pfft, I’m good,” says Santa. “Anyway, I better get going now. Since you two have not been entirely useless, I guess I’ll give you guys a little souvenir.”

“We get presents? Sweet!” Dean grins.

“What kind of souvenir?” Sam asks, ever practical and wet-blankety.

Santa reaches into the backseat, plunges his arm into the sack – “You bite me again I’ll rip your face off, Krampus you fugly sumbitch!” – and withdraws it a few seconds later with two small boxes in the palm of his hand. There are bite marks in his forearm, which Sam stares at, while Dean focuses on the boxes.

“What are those?”

Santa tosses them in his direction, and he catches them. “See for yourself.” With that, he ties the sack closed again and then gets in the front. “Right, I’ll be going then. My weed and booze awaits. Come on, Rudolph, get going, boy, I don’t got all year!”

And with that, he’s off. Sam and Dean watch him leave, both of them staring at the sleigh literally takes off and flies into the sky, until it’s barely a speck against the moon.

“What the fuck just happened?” Dean asks once Santa’s gone.

“We got upstaged on a hunt by Santa Claus,” Sam answers, sounding a little dazed. “And then he gave us presents.”

“Oh yeah, lemme check these out.” Dean puts one of the boxes down on the trunk of the Impala and then begins unwrapping the other. There is a smaller velvet box inside, and Dean’s heart almost stops when he sees it. “Holy shit.”

“What?” Sam asks, crowding in for a closer look.

“I think Santa gave me a ring,” Dean says, and then realizes that this is probably the weirdest thing he’s ever said out loud.

“A ring?” Sam repeats, and then grabs the other box. “Why would Santa– oh. Mine’s a ring too. What are we supposed to do with these?”

Dean’s taken the ring out of his box and is examining it in the dim moonlight. It seems to be made out of silver, plain except for a carving on the inside. “It’s got my initials on it,” he tells Sam, squinting at the D.W. on the inside, exactly like the carving in the Impala and on the bunker table.

“Yeah, mine too,” Sam tells him. “I don’t understand, though.”

“I–” Dean stops short as something clicks in his brain. “Wait. No way.”

“What?” Sam asks. “What is it?”

“Dude, I think Santa wants us to get married,” Dean says, and looks up to see Sam’s expression of disbelief. “No, really!” he insists. “I mean, why else would he give us matching rings with our initials on them?”

“Why does it matter to Santa if we’re married?” Sam asks, brow furrowed.

“Who cares?” Dean asks, shrugging. “I mean, it’s not a bad idea!”

“You want to get married?” Sam asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I mean, it’d be cool,” Dean says, trying to appear unaffected. But the truth is, it’s something he’s always wanted for himself, something he’s always wanted with Sam, hard physical proof of how much they mean to each other. And now that it’s literally in his hands, he can’t do anything to squash the rapidly-growing seed of yearning in his chest. He wants Sam to say yes, he really does.

“You want to get married because it’d be cool?”

“Are you just going to repeat everything I’m saying?”

Sam looks indignant, opening his mouth to retort, but then Dean raises an eyebrow and Sam shuts his mouth again. “You know what?” he says a second later. “Let’s do it.”

“Wait, seriously?” Dean asks, not sure if he’s heard Sam right.

Sam nods. “Yeah, why not?” He’s trying and failing to look casual, and it occurs to Dean that he probably wants this just as badly and irrationally as Dean does.

Then again, nothing about the two of them has ever really been logical, has it?

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says. “Sure. I’m not getting down on one knee, though,” he adds. “It’s cold as shit and I’m not getting my knees in the snow, okay?”

Sam laughs, cheeks and nose pink in the December air. “Yeah, wasn’t expecting you to,” he says. “Look, let’s just–” He grabs Dean’s hand, and slides the ring on.

“Oh. Okay, yeah, I can do that,” Dean says, and takes Sam’s hand, reciprocating the action.

The rings fit perfectly – of course they do – and for a moment both of them are completely quiet, looking down at their hands and then each other’s. It looks like the rings have always been there, Sam’s initials on Dean’s hand, Dean’s on Sam’s, and – Dean lets out a slightly hysterical laugh – real, physical proof.

“So that’s it? We’re married?” Sam asks.

“Well, not like we can get a priest and do the whole church thing,” Dean points out. “And we’ve always done things our own way. Why should this be any different?”

Sam smiles at that. “Yeah, okay, makes sense.”

“I still want my kiss, though,” Dean adds. “And we should totally consummate the marriage.”

“Somewhere warm,” Sam replies, cheeks reddening further as he flushes.

“Yeah, of course,” Dean says with an eye roll, and then grabs Sam’s face in both hands and brings him in for a searing kiss.

That’s just how their lives are, he thinks as he puts his arms around Sam and lets Sam melt into him. They watch Santa beat the everliving shit out of Krampus, and then they impulsively get gay-incest-married in a snowy motel parking lot.

Dean wouldn’t change it for the world.

—

hi there! i really hope you enjoyed the story in all its cracky glory, and i can’t wait to give you more presents! merry christmas, and i hope you had a lovely one <3

–wincestmas anon

***

Oh my goodness! I got a fight, Santa crack and a wedding. You are TOO good to me, anon! ❤️ Thank you for putting in all this work. I find fight scenes SO hard to write, but you’re so good at them! I love it!

This made me LOL: “Vodka,” Santa answers bluntly. “Lots and lots of vodka. And weed. All the weed.”

Same, Santa. Same.

#wincestmas #wincest fic #that good crack #sam and dean get a front row seat to santa vs. krampus #12daysofwincestmas #submission

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nightmareonfilmstreet · 6 years

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SILENT HILL Still Burns Strong 12 Years Later

Video games have had a major impact on popular culture within the last 30 years, paving the way for countless film adaptations. These sort of films usually leave the audience (fans of the gaming franchise) to carry the weight of disappointment. In the case of Konami’s Silent Hill, the game-to-film adaptation thankfully has not succumbed to the same fate.

Silent Hill (the film) is far from perfect. Yet the film’s director, Christophe Gans, shares his passion for the survival-horror series by recreating an experience that nearly mimics the tone and atmosphere of the original games; and as a result has created a beautiful, stylistic film in the similar vein of its source material. On this day, April 21st, Silent Hill was released theatrically in the United States, Canada and the United Kingdom twelve years ago, in 2006.

Prior to the film’s development, French film director Christophe Gans had been in pursuit of Konami to obtain film rights to Silent Hill. After nearly five years of attempts, Gans decided to submit a video interview directly to Konami, describing in detail his plans for the Silent Hill film adaptation. In an interview with About, Gans describes his experience in reaching out to Konami at great lengths stating, “what was very long is to reach the people of Konami and convince them that we’ll make something very true to the game because the team of Silent Hill is a team of three or four guys and they are very, very conscious about what they achieve. And they didn’t want anybody to screw their work. So it was like a long work just to convince them to accept that we’d do the film very carefully.” Impressed with Gans’s dedication in delivering a faithful, and careful, adaptation to the Silent Hill universe, Konami granted him the film rights.

Under careful consideration in providing a well written script, Roger Avary (Pulp Fiction/Beowulf) was brought on board as co-writer for the film. In describing his efforts in delivering the spirit of the game onto the script, Avary states, “They [writers Gans and Boukhrief] wanted me to come up with completely fresh material and somehow stay faithful to the game, which is not as easy as it sounds. If you’re remaining precisely faithful to moments in the game and coming up with new themes, it’s difficult to do.” Being a longtime fan of the Silent Hill series, Avary was able to find inspiration in drafting a script devoted to bringing the feel and atmosphere of the game onto the big screen. In elaborating on the history of Silent Hill for the film’s script, Avary drew inspiration from his father’s stories as a young child about a mining town in Pennsylvania called Centralia. The mining town succumbed to coal fires, which continue to burn today after 60 years, leaving Centralia uninhabitable due to toxic gases released from underground. The fate of Centralia was used as a means to fuel and expand on the mythology of Silent Hill.

Centralia, Pennsylvania has been used as a means of inspiration for other stories prior to the Silent Hill film. In 1995, Dean Koontz released Strange Highways; a collection of short stories and a novel in a single print. In the novel, also titled Strange Highways, Koontz discusses the mine fire in Centralia, Pennsylvania as inspiration. The town has also influenced writer David Wellington in his 2008 vampire novel, Vampire Zero, where the final act of the novel takes place. The history of Centralia has also been featured in countless documentaries recounting the mining fires and its effects on the state of the town today.

In maintaining the spirit of Silent Hill, film composer Jeff Danna arranged the musical score for the film by remixing (or recreating) Akira Yamaoka’s original compositions taken from Silent Hill 1-4. Yamaoka, whose musical compositions are considered a staple to the Silent Hill series, served as the film’s executive producer as well as supervising musical arrangements.

Under the umbrella of Sony Pictures Entertainment, Silent Hill was distributed by TriStar Pictures and released on April 21st, 2006. The film’s final script borrowed elements stemming from several games in the series, such as Silent Hill, Silent Hill 3 and Silent Hill Homecoming; with heavier influences taken primarily from the original Silent Hill video game storyline.

As the game’s description of the plot recounts, “After a car accident on the outskirts of the resort town of Silent Hill, you regain consciousness to find that your [adopted] daughter, who was previously asleep in the backseat, has left–or has been taken–from the scene. To find her, you must go into town and unlock the secrets that linger seven years after a tragic fire scarred the town.”

Similarly, the film’s premise follows, “a desperate mother who takes her adopted daughter, Sharon, to the town of Silent Hill in an attempt to cure her of her ailment. After a violent car crash, Sharon disappears and Rose begins her desperate search to get her back. She descends into a fog of smoldering ash and into the center of the twisted reality of a town’s terrible secret.”

Silent Hill’s opening weekend grossed $20.1 million in the domestic US market, ranking at the #1 spot. The film’s theatrical run came to a close in July of 2006 with a worldwide gross of $97.6 million against a budget of $50 million. According to Box Office Mojo, Silent Hill ranks at #13 as the highest grossing video game adaptation films. The financial success of Silent Hill eventually led to a sequel in 2012 titled, Silent Hill: Revelation.

Silent Hill stars Radha Mitchell (The Crazies), Sean Bean (Game of Thrones), Laurie Holden (The Walking Dead), Deborah Kara Unger (White Noise), Kim Coates (Sons of Anarchy) and Jodelle Ferland (Cabin In The Woods). Ferland’s character in Cabin In The Woods is none other than the zombie daughter of the Buckner family, Anna Patience Buckner.

To celebrate Silent Hill’s release on this day, you can stream online on Netflix, or perhaps dust off the old console and play the original Silent Hill. Either way, you’re in for an enjoyable ride. Are you a fan of the film or the games in the Silent Hill series? Let us know and tell us what you love about them. If you haven’t seen the Silent Hill film, or played the game, you can enjoy the trailers below.

For the latest in horror news, you can follow Nightmare on Film Street on all social media platforms, such as Facebook and Twitter. You can also support the NOFS Podcast through Patreon for discounts and goodies. Stay ghoulish, friends!

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crawldepth-blog · 5 years

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Commodities of Humans

Here’s how it works.

The government issues a notice for services needed in something called an RFP, or Request for Proposal. Depending on the source and the services, this could go out publicly for competition or it could get targeted at only a few preselected companies. Federal agencies, particularly the Defense Department, do this all the time to limit the amount of work they have to do in reviewing proposals. What the government needs is called a requirement. This entire process is known as acquisition or procurement.

Worked great in the olden days when the only thing the government bought was airplanes, bullets, screw-on tops, widgets, and doodads. They could define the requirement in extremely specific detail and review proposals that conformed to those details. As usual, federal agencies tend to award to the lowest bidder because who the fuck wants to explain to taxpayers about spending a tit more cash on a doodad that could potentially perform better whereas, fuck it, let’s just see if Captain Kumquat and his F-84747349 stays in the air today.

Estimates vary in how many contractors work for the government these days. The practice of farming out contract labor to private companies has grown exponentially in the past 40 years. Every possible task from HR to personal security can be and often is outsourced by Name Your Government Agency. Political persuasion often dictates how one feels about this. Conservative administrations tend to rely on huge swathes of contract labor, easily terminated and without the long-term cost of government employee pensions and care. Liberals tend to favor fewer contractors in their federal fuckery, going as far as to “in-source” contractors sometimes for lower pay and shittier conditions in poorly-considered cost-reduction efforts.

Labor has been commoditized in this day and age. Huge contract swings get let and protested for hundreds of jobs supporting Name-Your-Agency. Imagine the pre-union days of miners struggling to stay alive while working themselves to death hauling coal out of dank holes in a mountain. Labor unions formed to protect the rights of labor forces so that they could not be exploited by their employers. Or at least, not exploited as bad as they could be. How many miners do you know these days that can’t wait to get back in on that Black Lung action?

For most federal contractors these days, there are no unions and few options for labor protections against mass layoffs in the wake of a lost competition. Sure, you can find a posted for the Fraud, Waste & Abuse hotline in every dust-caked coffee mess on every government installation. Even if you have the gall to call it though, counsel comes only for demonstrable instances of government misconduct...not unfavorable outcomes in acquisition. Companies go bankrupt when they lose some contracts, their workforces decimated and laid off in bulk with nary a concern. That’s what the government’s paying for though: the ability to award to that lowest bidder and walk away easily, with no hard conversations.

Now filter back up to the top. How it works. Oft times, the requirement that the government is trying to fill came from a contractor in the first place. Maybe that contractor got picked up by another company to put together a proposal to knock out the incumbent. Maybe they know the government guys personally or have enough influence with them to know that if they get the right people’s resumes on the proposal, they’ll win.

Oft times, those reviewing the contractors’ proposals barely comprehend the skills required to fill positions and default in their reviews to lowest bidder. The acquisition review process becomes so unwieldy that other government fuckers get to make the decisions on awards. The right contractor could have wired those relationships too.

The right contractor can also nail that requirement by underbidding market labor rates. Salaries for various contractor positions are no secret. A little bit of Googling can reveal plenty of historical data on contractor workforces for various departments and their cost to the public. Some assholes will even hang unprotected spreadsheets with contractor salaries on unsecured websites. Government service and military pay schedules are completely public to an intrepid investigator. Data driven capture teams at contracting companies seeking to win-win-win - because you can’t NOT - know exactly how much they have to underbid to knock out an incumbent, an incumbent whose own rates likely had to inflate over time anyway to retain talent. Companies like these ignore the quality of the labor forces they intend to provide to the government, focusing always on the underbid so they can capture the work now and potentially inflate rates later. As a result, skilled labor often gets overlooked for cheap, poorly skilled labor...chumps who can do the job, sure, or at least deliver a minimum viable product in the form of 9-to-4 workdays and lots of coffee breaks.

A few years later, the cycle begins again.

To use a cliched piece of contractor jargon, it’s the ultimate self-licking ice cream cone.

Worse, smart folks have righteously criticized the federal acquisition process for decades with questionable success. No one pays full price for anything anymore. It costs too much to fly first class. So we devalue human performance, human skill...humans. To need things at scale means devaluing those things to some shitty degree. Even commercial businesses have figured this out. Look at any international retailer seeking to cut costs by moving its production capabilities overseas. Look at domestic companies contacting labor forces at scale to avoid paying expensive benefits like healthcare or pensions. Look at the rise of “the gig economy,” itself a false promise of big cash and freewheeling where it’s merely one more way an organization scales labor fast and cheap with low overhead and responsibility.

We’re all just skin jobs moved into egg crates for easy selection. Whores chasing rewards we believe we earned while the johns wipe their ejaculate on our faces, our necks, our backs. Livestock crowding into pens of our own volition, oblivious to the cost of the slaughter. Shadows on the cave walls illuminated for the distraction of our peers.

Labor is a commodity.

So are you.

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wordatlas-deactivated · 6 years

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Take Me To Church - Short Story

For Mr. Dumbrille’s ENG3U - “Man’s Potential for Evil” project [10/29/17]

Outside, the town was dead.

The sliver of sun creeping above the horizon gave away how early of an hour it was for Darion to be walking. He appeared to be the only living thing awake exploring the crisp, autumn dawn of Blackwood. Pine trees towered to the heavy rain clouds, stretching vast and endless, swallowing the silent cabin-village whole.

Another gust of wind urged him forward a step, causing him to tighten the grasp around his middle, hugging his jacket. A tussle of dead, dark gray leaves bounced around his black shoes for a moment, before dancing on their way. He looked up, sucked a big breath of cold air in, and sighed.

This whole town was hit-and-miss. “Blackwood Pines, hideaway treasure of Oregon state!” A cheap lodging hole until I drive up to Portland tomorrow morning and waste away in a 9-to-5. I’ll return home to a jungle of boxes and lonely, empty rooms. What a new, fresh life you’ve gotten for yourself, Weiss. Darion dragged a hand over his face, scowling at a blackbird drifting across the sky. Who knows, you may find someone to f--

Hands hard and cold as rocks crashed down and squeezed around Darion's neck. The being's elbow connected with his face as he was spun around. Wide eyes met crazy eyes attached to a hysteric and deranged man who looked like he was dragged through the forest. The man's lips ferociously collided with Darion's, keeping him in a death-lock of a lover's embrace. Darion's scream was muffled between their pressed faces -- he yanked his body back, a hand flying up to his mouth to aggressively wipe his ruined lips.

"Whathe- What the hell is wrong with you?" Darion was shaking and felt like throwing up. The stranger looked like he was about to throw up also with the effort of getting his frantic words out. Being this close, Darion would see strings of spit cling to the man's grizzly beard. "I'm alive - oh God, I'm alive. I spat Hellfire in the face and it felt so good." He shot Darion a knowing look before hacking a cough into his sweater sleeve. "You have to get me out of here. They can probably already smell my tracks like the pack of blood-thirsty hounds they are."

Darion took a trembling step back. He could feel his heart thumping away like a rabbit in his throat, hindering him from forming a sentence. "Who th-the fu-"

He cried out in pain at the sudden clawing grip to his arm.

"I've already branded you with the Forbidden," the man seethed, "so they're tracking you too. Take me, or you die."

Darion stared at the person with huge, terrified and watering eyes, as he tried to squirm away.

"What are you talking about?!" He tried to rip his arm from the man's grasp, crying out again. "I don't know what you want with me-!"

"I want you - I need you to come with me," breathed the man, still clutching Darion's forearm. He began pulling Weiss towards the empty street, wild eyes scanning the rows of dull wood cabins. "I haven't seen someone daring to walk on the road in years."

Darion looked at the log houses passing too, trying to figure out what the stranger was searching for.

"This place does seem like a ghost town..." He shook his head, and ripped his arm free from the man. "At least tell me your name before dragging me off somewhere."

The man took his eyes off of the cabins and for the first time, gave Darion a leveled gaze.

"Elliot. Daughter, My name - that's my name," he seemed unsure, but sounded sincere nonetheless.

Darion pointed from his chest to Elliot's. "Elliot, Darion. Darion, Elliot. That's how you introduce yourself to people, not by breaking their collarbone and making out with them."

Elliot, with his head down in shame, almost cracked a smile, but his expression quickly turned grave.

"I'll explain everything when we get to where we're going. C'mon."

---

Frankly, it never surprised him how well human flesh and dead tree branches acted as flame starters. Putting out said fires, however, was a different story. Father Maverick Luciano had found himself in the squinting early minutes of dawn, in the middle of Blackwood's dense forest, close to shouting aloud in frustration. A melting, yet still burning fire stood before him, spread out in a perfect and massive pitch-black circle on the grass. The ashes, coals, and other things within the fire were still blazing merrily, which only made his temper rise. Smoke was billowing out from it in massive clouds, rising and disappearing over the treetops.

He had tried all he could to get the fire from the night before out -- no matter how enjoyable it was starting it. He threw water from a nearby steam onto it. Apparently, that just made the smoke hungrier and hungrier. Trying to smother it with more branches was definitely not a good idea. This wasn't supposed to be his job anyway! He created the fires, threw thrashing and screaming things into the fire, and had other people put said fire out.

Yet, alas, Father Luciano was close to catching his shoes on fire, angrily stomping a few stray coals into a crumble with his heel. If he kept this going any longer, he was going to start a forest fire. Or worse, have his cover blown. Just by some damn smoke by some damn fire.

Ironic in a not-so-ironic way, Maverick grounded his teeth, and spat on the fire. "Screw you to hell."

A mass of black curls appeared from behind a tree trunk. A timid step into crunching leaves gave away her hiding place.

Maverick wiped his hands down the front of his button-up black suede jacket, the coal on his hands disappearing into the fabric. Without looking up, he spoke powerful and clear: "Come here, Miss Torrance."

Attached to the curls was a tall and thin young lady named Pansy Torrance, who was dressed eloquently in a black Sunday dress. Head bowed in shame, eyes locked on her shoes, she appeared by Maverick's side. The heat of the fire on her face made the corners of her eyes prick with hot tears.

"As you can see," Maverick started, taking a deep breath and motioning to the still-roaring fire in front of them, "some children of the Church are rather neglectful when it comes to their cleaning up. It was quite a surprise, waking up to find the reminiscence."

He tilted his head, turning away from the fire and shooting a look laced with snake venom towards Pansy.

"Reminiscence of the meeting that was held last night -- that you didn't appear to. Care to explain?"

Pansy's head shot up. "Forgive me, I swear I didn't forget, I promise, I had to b-" "Forget it," Maverick sighed. He looked much older than he was, all heavy eye-bags and hollow cheeks. "I am by far not proud of what occurred last night. As you know, four dear sacrifices were captured and set for the ritual. The initial three complied with little struggle, but the fourth fought back. Elliot, I believe his name was. For the first time in a long time, we had a vittima escape."

"Elliot - Elliot Daughter? He left Blackwood years ago for the Army. He hasn't walked these streets since he was still in school."

"The man was found of committing an atrocity," Maverick recited off, his tone growing more stone cold. “I'm here to build a society, not make friends with the criminals."

"But you plan on capturing him, right?" Pansy tentatively asked.

Father Luciano's cutting stare made her shrink even more.

"I never believed you to be the type to doubt me, Torrance. And to think -- once my duties were done, I had thought that would fill my position at the Church with pride in your heart. You haven't been displaying lately the conviction we promote here. However, to make up for it, I will put the task of recapturing this Fallen man into your hands."

Pansy went pale. She knew she wasn't able to refuse it, but the nauseating idea of having to hunt down and kill her old friend made her throat knot up. All in the name of the Church.

She chose her words carefully. "You will not be disappointed, sir. If you reason that I am capable of this, it must be true."

"I know it's true," Maverick retorted, turning his attention back to the fire. "It has been long overdue for your taste into how this Church really works, Pansy. You will be able to take credit for helping change the world -- one life at a time."

"You want me to kill him, sir."

"You will do more, so much more," he turned his face back to hers, his eyes reflecting pure hellfire. "You will cleanse, and purify."

"Sir, I-"

"You will add to the count, you will watch, and hear, and taste, and you will see how life is truly meant to be lived..."

With his back turned to the roaring fire, he looked like the Devil himself, stepping out from the Inferno.

"Being a Child of the Church, you will hunt, and capture, and burn, and kill, and rise, and....."

-- "....that's how I ended up here."

Darion watched Elliot dry his unruly hair from the comfort of the couch. The house that Elliot had dragged them to was quaint and tidy; if he hadn't known that anyone lived here, it could easily pass as a staged living room for a home improvement commercial. No dust inhibited any surfaces.

Pansy was the name Elliot kept mumbling on the way there. He had explained as he pulled up the corner of the welcome mat to reveal a house key that this was his old friend's house - she lived in Blackwood her entire life, and wouldn't move away for a million dollars. Elliot had spent a substantial chunk of his life in this house, and knew it inside out, making it the perfect haven.

Darion was settled into the couch with a mug of lukewarm coffee. Elliot had showered and shaved, transforming himself from the grimy homeless man in the woods into a mature-looking man with dark, broad features.

"So, this Maverick guy," Darion started, taking a sip, "he's just crazy and hates people who fall in love?"

Elliot shook his head. "To fall in love in love here is a sin -- the Church sees it as a lethal crime. They're trying to wipe out everyone that Fall, so they can make the ideal society: where intelligence isn't hindered by petty emotions. If they can control all of Blackwood, they will try to control the state, then the country, and the world."

"I wonder what this guy's resume must look like," Darion mumbled into his cup, "seasoned people-burner?"

"I -- I don't even know what it's like to fall in love," Elliot whimpered, dramatically tossing himself onto the couch beside Darion. Darion's eyes grew at how close Elliot was - their thighs touched, and he could smell Elliot's clean hair. Cue the internal screaming.

"I was captured falsely! It was a one-time thing. I've heard so many stories and rumors about what happens when you fall in love, and I did not feel any of that. No lights, no colors, no fireworks, shit and null. It's like a goddamn witch hunt, they don't even check if you've truly fallen in love yet, you can do anything and you're branded by the Forbidden--"

Elliot froze, realizing that during his rant, his face had become an inch away from his new friend's. Their wide yes reflected in each other's. Darion looked like a deer in the headlights.

A sudden bang across the room made the two jump a foot in the air. Tumbling through the door came a panting girl with a wild mane of black curls. Elliot tore himself away from Darion and stood up, causing the girl to lock her eyes on him. They held a quick staring contest before the girl broke the silence.

"Elliot."

"Pansy," he replied, duplicating her hushes and shocked tone.

"I thought you were dead," she whispered, almost scolding, and crossed the room to give him a hug. Elliot clung to her waist, burying his face in her hair.

"I escaped. I was so close, but I escaped. The Church is still looking for me though -- I didn't know where to go. I thought your house was the safest place."

Pansy pulled back. "You can't stay here, in Blackwood. You know they're capable of finding you. I've got to -- who's this?"

Darion's head popped up. "Oh - eh, hey, I'm Darion. He, uh -" he motioned to Elliot, "kinda attacked me and dragged me here. You have a nice house."

Pansy's hard stare was making Darion wilt like a flower. She turned her eyes to Elliot, who stifled a flinch.

"It was his fault for walking on the road in the first place. I sort-a kinda needed to get out of the forest to avoid the homicidal religious maniacs, sue me," drawled Elliot.

"Christ," whispered Pansy, shaking her head. She ruffled Elliot's hair, baring a smile that was more fangs than fancy. "I'm just relieved that you're alright. For now."

Elliot returned the sarcastic yet sincere smile and sat back down on the couch. He suddenly began coughing into his elbow, then hacking doubled-over, heaving for breath. Darion frantically patted his back, offering his drink to help.

From all the smoke, Pansy thought, her stomach feeling sick. The stench and the smoke were the worst things during a Burning, second to the screaming. She'll be dead by 40 from the overwhelming secondhand smoke she endured while being part of the Church.

She took a step back. The view of Darion virtually cradling a weak and broken Elliot, patting his shoulders with the gentleness of a lover made bile involuntarily rise to her throat. From day one, she was told that to fall in love was digging your own grave. And Elliot already had one foot in.

The image of Maverick with his back to the fire, reenacting Satan guarding the gates of Hell appeared before her eyes -- an ominous and eternal reminder that he will stop at nothing to gain justice. And justice was giving up Elliot to the Church. She wouldn't be able to live with the fact that Elliot was a criminal, but also couldn't risk the chance of Maverick deciding to throw her into the fire too for keeping such a secret.

"Excuse me -- I'll be right back," she mumbled, making a beeline for the door and stepping outside. She collapsed against the closed door in relief, sucking in the cool air.

Placed delicately before her on the concrete step was a wooden gravestone cross, ablaze with fierce gray flames. She shrieked, pressing her back further into the door to shrink away from it. She immediately knew it was a gift from Maverick and the Church -- a sign that he knew all. Her whole body was trembling with fear. Her secret had been found out.

Elliot's a goner no matter what I do, the thought echoed in her head, the sensible thing would be to save yourself, instead of trying to protect someone who can't be saved. Right?

The towering black trees called to her from across the road. She knew within the depths of the forest the Church would be waiting for her. It was her choice if they were going to accept her with open arms or hungry flames.

She broke out into a run.

-- "Is that smoke?" Darion asked Elliot, concerned eyes on the treeline in the distance. He was yanked to Elliot's side, and began matching the jogging pace of the other.

"So what if the forest burns down," Elliot retaliated, the wild look returning to his face that Darion was met with only a few hours ago. "We have to find her. I know this town like the back of my hand, but Pansy knows all the secrets."

Darion nodded. The two had left the house after Pansy had disappeared and now trekked the back paths to find where she had run off to. He didn't think much about her, but for some reason had a gut intention to protect her. With how much she meant to Elliot, it was only nice to tag along and help search. They were his only friends in this weird-ass town, anyway.

The search continued on for a while. Elliot warned Darion not to call out her name like a lost cat. That would only make him hated by everyone in town, and blow Elliot's cover. They tried weighing everywhere she could have gone -- the library, work, the school, Elliot's old cabin -- but she left no trace.

"God, oh God," Elliot breathed, turning in a circle, hand clutching his hair. To him, the towering trees all looked the same, and like they were beginning to close in. "Maybe the Church got her. She had a panic attack and ran off into the deep part of the forest, she's easy prey, oh, shit--"

"Hey," whispered Darion, reaching out for Elliot's hand, "you're about to have a panic attack yourself if you don't breathe. It's okay, we're going to fi--"

All at once, Darion's world turned upside down. Fireworks boomed in his ears, white-hot flashes burned before his eyes. He almost screamed -- with pure fear rather than pain. He crashed back down to earth, hand clutching onto Elliot's for dear life. He could see how pale his knuckles were from becoming on his peach-toned and freckled hand.

He could see the smooth fabric of his forest green jacket. He could see the dirt and blood still embedded under Elliot's nails. He could see the wondrous shades of autumn bloom all around him, gold and amber and bright orange. He could see the fear in Elliot's bright blue eyes.

As fast as it came, all the color and light drained from Darion's world with an earth-shattering blow to the back of his head. He staggered, hit the ground, and crawled into unconsciousness.

-- The stinging heat to his left side was what awoke him. Darion blinked his bleary eyes, clutching his splitting headache. Slowly, a large and dark figure stepped before him, silhouetted by a wall of flames. He looked beside him, and saw Elliot's limp body begin to wake.

"Gentlemen," a voice laced deep with poison rung out before them. As the figure's edges became sharper, Darion saw he was laying at the feet of a tall and slender, snake-like man. His head was upturned, and his eyes bore down into Darion like razor-sharp daggers.

"I truly appreciate how you've both had the audacity to vile your own lives, here today, on the day of our Lord."

Elliot groaned and began to rise up onto his knees. Maverick, striking like a cobra, lifted up his black leather shoe and forced it into Elliot's chest, sending him back down to the ground in a heap.

"Those who have Fallen remain on the ground," Maverick snarled. He turned and made his way to the shadowed guard flanking the Burning Circle. Black curls surrounded her crying but solemn face.

"Pansy!" Darion cried, his body lurching forward. She just blinked back at him, her tears ceasing to stop, as Maverick looked over his shoulder at Darion. The knife that he accepted from Pansy glinted against the fire's glow.

"I appreciate Miss Torrance's gracious work on helping the Church find you two, so justice may be served, and Blackwood may remain pure," purred Maverick, a sinister smile curling onto his face.

Darion heaved himself up onto his weak feet -- Elliot clung to a tree to help him stand. Elliot stared at Pansy with pure hatred and betrayal. His hair was whipping against his face, the trees surrounding them, swaying and creaking, over the rising, howling wind.

Maverick lifted his arms to the sides, presenting himself like a crucifixion. With the flames behind him licking at his hands and ankles, he bellowed over the roaring wind and fire:

"We are gathered here today, under the gaze of our Lord, for the slaying of Elliot Daughter and Darion Weiss -- two men brought together by love and holy abomination. Now that they have given themselves to each other by their immoral acts, I pronounce these men dead, dead, dead, in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost."

His lowered his hands, flaming eyes wild with madness. "You may now kiss the groom."

Darion made eye contact with Pansy for a split second before she launched out from her post, tackling Maverick to the ground. Her scream was mixed with his roar, as they battled on the ground. He looked from the fight to the shadowed chapel hidden behind the darkened trees.

Darion spun towards Elliot, who immediately clutched Darion's shoulders for support. Darion's shaking hands frantically worked at Elliot's neck, ripped off his tie, as Elliot appeared to be close to fainting. Their tear-filled eyes met, then their mouths connected, and Darion ripped away from the scene.

He sprinted towards the Burning Circle, catching the bottom of the tie clutched in his hand on fire, and ran as fast as he could to the abandoned white church awaiting in the shadows.

Elliot watched the attack unfold before him, while still clinging onto the tree. Pansy and Maverick spat vile and hatred at each other, faces inches apart as they tumbled and thrashed, screams harmonizing. With a massive blood-curdling screech, Pansy lifted her hands and crashed them down into Maverick's chest, earning a yowl in pure, horrific pain from him. She yanked herself back onto her staggering feet, wild hair and eyes glowing from the fire.

Maverick slowly rose to his feet, desperately clutching his stomach, his long black coat billowing out to reveal a river of blood flowing from his abdomen and a sparkling silver blade embedded between his fingers. He stumbled on his feet, looking like a corpse brought back to life, dragging himself towards Pansy.

"Oh, dear," he seethed, baring his teeth at her, "I thought you loved me. To kill me, to reach the top, is low. So low."

He reached out a bloody hand, and traced Pansy's jawline, smearing his blood across her petrified and hate-filled face.

"Oh, how it hurts to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all."

Pansy grasped his wrist and pulled his hand away. She took that same hand and placed it on his chest. With no remorse in her face and no love in her eyes, she shoved Maverick backward into the fire. The fire hungrily accepted him with open arms.

A deafening boom exploded 50 feet away, causing Pansy and Elliot to shoot their heads up. Flames erupted from the chapel, sending fire in all directions. Darion came running wildly, trailing the fire behind him. The trees, grass, and everything in between went up in ravenous inferno.

The three printed away with the flames licking their heels until they reached a safe enough distance. They stood there, gasping for breath, watching with a euphoric feeling of horror and massive relief as the entire Church, and Blackwood with it went up in hellfire.

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