#or dig around in his eye socket with an ice pick if they might get the tadpole out

[bibliocratic]

clear the area jonmartin, post-MAG200 content warnings in the tags

They earn their ending. A happy-ever-after beyond the gaze of any eyes.

Jon endures his abdication. This world has no Archivists, has need of none, the thankless crown of Knowing finally unburdened from his shoulders. The blood washes off Martin’s hands with soap and scrubbing and scalding water. They live.

The end. In conclusion. Fin.

-

Jon’s new scar, the packaging of his skin split ragged from collarbone to sternum, fades like sun-caught paint. A maw of red pursing to a gummy primrose pink, settling into a rough cartography of white.

The first few months are hard. Brimstone flare-up silences and ice-pick shouting, open-handed forgiveness and closed-fist weeping. They drain themselves to husks with anger and worry and grief until there is enough space for better things to grow there in their stead. Jon’s nightmares were a nightly stormfront to bear, sweated sheets and dawn fanfares of panic and dread, but he is learning now, with the space for his ribs to expand, that it is ok for them to breathe here.

Jon digs up the garden with a rusty trowel until it is a bumpy canvas of mulch and soil, dirt tucked under his fingernails and decorated with smudges up to his elbows. He hums while he irons their shirts in front of the television, thoughtless and senseless with tune.

Martin has tried to, but the sound goes down the wrong way.

-

Martin is happy.

-

It isn’t the sight as such, that might sit as a film over his vision to tinge his waking sepia. The reddest thing they own is a terracotta plant plot brimming with raggedy thyme that lives a precarious cliff-top existence on the kitchen windowsill. He observes Jon’s face in all its variations, even pained – when he snags splinters in his fingers, when he stubs his toe on the stone front step and swears damnation – and his response is sympathy tempered by admonishment.

It’s not the sensation, not really, that might tremble on his skin. Martin’s palms tend to dryness inside their homely bubble of creaky central heating, hemmed in by boisterous coastal winds. He handles bread knives and butter knives and steak knives and carving knives without the muscle memory of other blades, and he thinks he might be getting pretty handy with his oven experimentation.

It’s the sound. It wakes him, the noise lingering like the echo of a slap.

The slick punch of metal into muscle. A tooth-bared, tense-jawed gasp.

Resurfacing to shocked consciousness, he would be seized by a frenzy, to know, to check. His scattering hand scrabbling for the lamp with such force he hit it off the nightstand to roll in a giddy clatter, throwing off the covers to rapidly pollute both of them with the outside air. Jon would be rocked from sleep, groggy, panicked, and Martin’s words would not come, a train of thought trying to race full steam where no one had laid tracks, so it would be just the two of them, exhausted and upset and amping the other up in misery.

Now, upon his rousing, Martin knows not to turn on the light. He does not check. The aftermath of punch-gasp curls in his ear, and he inhale-exhale-inhales with the ferocity of mantra, and clamps the threatened tears in the clench of his teeth.

He does not wake Jon.

-

“How did you sleep?”

“Oh, you know me. Like a log.”

-

He is happy. He is. Why wouldn’t he be?

--

Jon rumbles like a rusty mechanism with snoring whenever he drops off on his back, and he mumbles accusatory when Martin coaxes him to his side. Martin finds black hairs on his pillowcase, in the shower plug. Jon is a vista of experience since the Eye left him, who gets hungry and tired and grumpy and drunk and silly and fed-up and giggly. Jon searches him out with the surety of magnets, and loves him, loves him, loves him. He seals kisses to Martin’s new landscape of extensive scars. Their disagreements, when they surface, are as meaningful and lasting as stones skipped on water.

Martin wanted this. He wants this. The rhythms of domesticity fading to foam on an untroubled shore.

He is out of practise with happiness, that’s all. It doesn’t come to him like breathing. He needs to till the earth of it, shelter its seeds from a thousand circling crows until it bears harvest.

He just has to try harder.

-

Night-time.

An episode or two of something simple, Jon nodding off like a capsizing ship before the credits. Encouraging him up in grousing, unwilling increments, rubbing out the nettle sting of pins and needles up his own arm. Check the locks, the light switches. Brush teeth. Pyjamas. Put his phone to charge, read until Jon succumbs to sleep. Click the light off, pushing Jon onto his side so his mouth doesn’t dry. Jon squirming around like a fastidious octopus until he has at least half his limbs hooked over Martin.

The dark creating shadow play. In the absence, Martin colouring in the gaps with lurid shades of disaster.

A creak – the rattle of a door downstairs, an intruder unfastening the back door, transferring their weight upon the staircase. A unfamiliar scent – the recollection of smoke-stench in his nostrils, the acrid promise of gas, the ferrous pungency of blood. The rain will flood their house to drown them. The wind will blow their roof in. Jon hooks his leg around Martin, the skin void of hair where Daisy’s mouth had almost torn it off, and all he can envision is the ways this could be destroyed as he watches.

Bundle Jon close. Ignore the rain, the itch at the bottom of his stomach, the queasy roil of his fear. Drift into unkind sleep populated with its garden of earthly terrors.

-

Martin is… not happy. Not exactly. And that’s fine. It’s fine.

-

Jon is happy.

-

Jon, rubbing at the compression lines around his hips, the accusatory splay of the top button refusing to budge closed:

“I can’t fit into my jeans.”

Martin enfolds him from behind, planting his palms over the slight paunch of Jon’s stomach, filled out through sensible eating and small indulgences and a hunger that will never be ravenous but has restored its human qualities.

“Hmm. It’s a good look on you. Healthier.”

“Or it’s middle age.”

“Or it’s eating things that aren’t tea and meal-deal sandwiches.”

“Or other people’s terror.”

“Oh yes, you’re right, I completely forgot about your subsistence diet of eldritch and unbidden horrors in a luscious wholegrain wrap, forgive me.”

Jon laughs at that. The sound has not yet lost its novelty for either of them.

He shifts, turns, his arms a buoy around Martin’s stomach.

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Must be all the clean air,” Martin quips. “All that healthy living.”

-

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

When his heart has wound down from the pace of its gallop, he extricates himself from Jon’s grip. It is a laborious task to find the places where they’ve joined in the night and pull them apart, like separating fabric snagged on rosebushes.

He gets some water from the cold tap in the kitchen. Sits heavily on the sofa, the room cossetted by the gloom.

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

His hands shake.

He doesn’t go back to bed.

-

He isn’t happy, but he could grow to be. He could. He could. He just isn’t trying hard enough.

-

Some days, he feels like he’s waiting for the ice to give under them.

Check the passers-by as they walk. Anyone familiar, any teeth filed too sharp, anything animal or blood-shot, any eyes that glance too deep.

Check the oven. The gas knobs are angled to off but a leak is not impossible in a house this old, their alarm might malfunction, they might fall asleep and some spark from a plug socket could catch and incite a conflagration.  

Check the window latches. The opening wide enough for a body to squirm through, the claws of a Hunter marring the sill. Wriggling infestations that invade through the letter box, the keyhole, the gap under the door where the wind can whistle through.

Check. Check. Check.

-

Jon is happy. Jon has a job, work friends, a hundred small luxuries that he has struggled to earn. Jon is happy, so why can’t he be? He went through so much less, the blood washed off easily with soap, what the fuck does he have to cry over –

-

Martin has always crafted his masks from scrap, tongue out in concentration, piecing things together in low light, a make-do-and-mend of his own devising. His early efforts, the paper mâché and glue easily cracked before he learned to shore up his constructions. He has a small collection garnered over years.

The quiet-voiced, muffled-stepped, muted-smiled creation of a Good Son.

The zipped-mouth, no-refusals-no-complaints-yes-of-course-how-high earnestness of the Good Employee, the desperation sanded off the edges so no one could see.

The I’ll-get-the-first-round friendliness, the open-handed, open-hearted, too-naïve Good Colleague.

This new mask forms in increments, in the same way a rising mound of dirt marks the extent of a grave being dug.

He doesn’t mean to. It’s just he’s better at not talking about things. He always has been. And it is an ugly, easy comfort, to slip back into bad habits.

And Jon is happy.

All the things Martin does not wish to permit the light to touch he compresses inside like shaken soda. The rot in him deepens structural, the places where he papers over moulds and fungal speckles with the distraction of their new life. His smile parades simple, contented, cheeky, teasing, and there is a meticulous artistry in each. He sketches interest, paints joy, manufactures irritation out of the clay of nothingness that he allows himself to feel instead of the overwhelming rush of everything else.

I love you, his mouth murmurs, laughs, sighs, groans, and that at least is always true.

The mask of a Good Partner slips on tailor-made.

-

They find their nine-to-fives. Jon’s job is uneventful, boring, and nowhere near an Archive. He works in a registry office for the council, filing and organising and he’s cheerfully lied on his CV in order to get it. He gets the bus and texts Martin grumpy faces and GIFs summarising his mood when he gets suck in the commute or some idiot parks in a bus lane, he has a couple of colleagues he likes and a greater number that he tolerates, he gets a hot chocolate from this universe’s overpriced multinational chain on his lunch hour. When he gets home, he complains with delight at the mundanity of his dissatisfactions, regales Martin with tales of meagre drama.

Martin gets a cleaning job at a school. It is monotonous, dull and safe. Martin loses track of the time easily, quagmired in his musings. The children are wary of him and his visible scarring but it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. The teachers are friendly enough, as well as the other cleaning staff, but he does not make friends. They’ll have to move anyway, if anything finds them here, if the Fears emerge again.

Martin tries not to feel like he’s waiting.

-

He wants to have a good night’s sleep.

-

“I’ll have breakfast at the school, don’t worry.”

“There were some leftovers from the canteen, so I’m kind of full.”

“It was one of the teacher’s birthdays, you know, Denise? Heh, might have had a bit too much cake. I’ll pop this in the fridge for later though, it’ll keep till tomorrow.”

“I’m just not that hungry tonight, Jon.”

-

He feels sharper when he doesn’t eat. It is uncomfortable, a scratched-out, hollowing sensation, but things focus more. He can control nothing else but this, and it feels good, to have this mastery over himself when so much is beyond him.

He drops down notches on his belt and tells Jon it’s all the walking he’s doing.

-

The world continues to happen to them. He goes to the cinema with Jon and picks at popcorn and encourages Jon’s outraged opinion. He meets Jon’s mildly interesting work friends and plays nice and excels at small talk, and he drinks half a cider that he nurses over the evening because it’s making his head fuggy. His body communicates its sharpness to him and he gains grim satisfaction from ignoring it. He goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep and goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep.

Martin does his best at living, and his mask doesn’t slip.

-

“You seem tired,” Jon pries his words out carefully, picking them out of his teeth as one would scraps. “Is… is everything ok?”

“Yeah, sure it is. Why?”

“…  you seem a bit down today. Recently. Is anything… is there anything you want to talk about?”

“I’ve just been working too hard. Been a while since I had to do double-shifts, heh, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“If you’re sure?”

Jon shifts to a different position where he’s sat on the sofa, his legs tucking up under him. Martin endures his questioning gaze with practise.

“Yeah, I’m all good.”

Martin delivers a hand-crafted smile that’s gilded heavily with guilelessness and reassurance. He watches as Jon believes him and hates himself.

-

“You know… You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you can – you know you can talk to me, Martin?”

Martin’s eyes focus on Jon’s chest at the point where a knife once sunk in, and doesn’t reply.

-

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

Jon has twisted over onto his back again, rattling like a chain-smoker’s cough with his snoring. They were quiet that evening, tangled up in their own thoughts, but there is none of that distance in sleep. During the night, Jon’s wormed himself out of the covers with a single-minded determination, his restless legs squashing the duvet to the bottom of the bed on his side, encouraging Martin’s to follow suit.

He’s shirtless, his top chucked off to pile unceremoniously on the floor. The temperature is ripe with a burgeoning summer heat, and Jon tosses and complains if he’s overwarm, and Martin didn’t think he’d get to feel the drudgery of another lived summer. He’s shirtless, and the room is palled in sweltering dark that softens the vague shapes of the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the knickknacks of the life they’re building together. He’s shirtless, and Martin cannot see where the scar is, the only scar of Jon’s he has ever thought ugly, but he knows it is there. That he put it there. That he could just as easily be waking up alone.

His body pains him to live in it. His stomach tight and bottomed out empty.

He is so so tired.

Martin’s heartbeat does not slow down. His chest constricting, and he swallows, a sharp sound hiccupping in his throat. He stifles it with a forceful sniff but more come as a painful spasming wave, and he has to sit up if any air is to dribble into his lungs.

He should get up. He has to get up, do this in the bathroom, doubled-over the sink, stifling his weakness where it cannot be witnessed. He cannot do this here.

Punch. Gasp.

His burning face is soaked as he bunches up his sleeves against his reddening eyes. A calming exhale drains out shaky, moulds itself into another loud sob. He plants his hands over his mouth, screwing his eyes closed, and this will pass, he’s fine, this will pass…

“Martin?”

I’m sorry to wake you, he thinks to say. It’s nothing, go back to sleep, stop looking at me Jon, I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s nothing, it’s nothing…

His shoulders start to shake.

“Martin?” Jon repeats slowly. And the ice creaks and cracks and Martin gasps and then it breaks, and the force of his damned-up grief is tidal, catastrophic and he sobs into his hands.

“It’s… it’s alright – it’s… it was a nightmare, that’s all, ‘s alright…”

“It’s not!” Martin bubbles out, the words mashed to a wail in his hands. “It’s not, it’s not, it’ll ruin this…”

“Hey.” Jon brings his arm around Martin and he buries his head in the bony crook of his shoulder because he does not want to meet Jon’s eyes. “What do you mean? Martin?”

Jon rubs at his back. Martin’s body betrays him in a hundred ways as it collapses around him. His weeping wrings him out, dry-mouthed and headachy and trembling when he subsides into shivery breaths.

“Talk to me,” Jon says. “Please.”

“You’re so happy,” Martin sniffs out. “I-I want you to be happy, god, o-of course I do. Things are, they’re good, they’re good and we won, s-s-so why does it feel like I’m still holding my breath? I-I go to bed and I’m frightened of every noise, and I wake up and I’m terrified that someone somehow could take this all away, and I can’t sleep, and I-I’m tired, Jon, I’m tired of holding my breath, and it’s all – it’s all so much a-a-a-and I can’t – ”

“Oh, Martin – ”

His words fail him then. Jon holds him up and his arms do not loosen.

“We-we’re going to fix this,” Jon says after a long while. “I promise you, together, we’ll – we’ll talk to someone. You aren’t alone in this. Together, alright, we’ll do this together. We’ve survived – everything else, we can get through this too.”

“I don’t know if I can believe you,” Martin says, too drained to avoid honesty.

“…Maybe not yet,” Jon says after a pause. “That’s OK. I can wait.”

I’m sorry, Martin attempts to say but Jon presses a kiss to his forehead.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Jon says. He strokes Martin’s sweat-soaked hair.

“… Can we talk? Tomorrow? You don’t have to tell me everything, but… I’d like to be there for you, if you want me. If you’ll let me.”

Martin nods because he doesn’t trust his gummed-up throat. Jon takes that as an answer.

Dawn comes in slowly enough but they see it in together.

[essenteez]

Scenarios & edits : Ateez as || horror and thriller psychos

Genre: horror, thriller, criminal, psychological

Warning: mentions of blo*d, m*rder, de*th dismembering, physical ab*se, torturing, parts of bodies, explicit language, mention of knife and being tied down. I guess I also kind of mentioned a pedo*hilia BUT DON’T WORRY IT’S A CRIME OF ONE OF ATZ’S VICTIMS, NOT ATZ’S. Horror mood in general. Edits also contain blood, skulls and some knives and creepy faces but they’re not that scary.

Words count: 2.7k

.•°•.

Hongjoong || ᴀʟᴄʜᴇᴍɪsᴛ

❧

You hated the place the moment you entered it. There were jars filled with eyeballs; every vessel contained different colored pupils. Your own eyes started to itch just from the sight. 

“Detective”, you were called by one of the officers accompanying you on the scene, “No doubt, it’s him”. 

“You don’t say” you gulped, seeing even more disgusting discoveries. 

The apartment didn’t even closely resemble the other in the building. The walls were filthy, almost black. The whole room was filled with shelves of different sizes and heights. Eyeballs, bones, muscles…tongues. And the smell.. God the smell.

“Jesus Christ” you said louder, covering your nose from the growing stench. 

“Y/n!” Your colleague yelled out. 

You craned your neck to see your partner in the next room. The small space was surprisingly filled with only books. But of course, even those books were horrendous. You noticed a few pages as your coworker was skimming through it all. 

“Look, detective! How to remove a whole spine” the younger officer seemed very amused with what he read.

“Funny as fuck, Summers”, you commented, passing him by. Your attention went back to your other partner, who stood with a black leather bound book, “What is that?”

“I guess his diary” he replied with disgust on his face and passed you the notebook, “Look at this. And the worst part is we have no idea where he fled”.

Your faced frowned at the first sentence, “Kim Hongjoong, you sick fuck”.

“Why do they scream? Why do they cry and wail everytime? Why do they continue to beg for their lives? I keep telling them their sacrifice will bring mankind closer to nature. They do not listen. They do not listen. Fighting, fighting me. I purify their bodies. I release all the minerals caged in their blood and bones. They merge back with the universe. They should be grateful and proud. It’s an honor. Why do they call me a murderer? They should celebrate and laugh. Loud like me”.

Seonghwa || ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪsᴛ

❧

There was no trace of the beautiful and nice young man you met in the church that evening. It was like the sweetest dream turning into the worst nightmare clothed in horror. At first his warm smile and then all of sudden his hands grabbing you and taking you away from the lights. You were surrounded by darkness.

“Where is your God now?” he grimaced, his cold voice made the fear creeping in you grow. A black mask hid his perfect face completely. All you could see was a pair of ice blue eyes, observing you intensively. Your tears and trembling seemed to satisfy him

“Where is he?” he growled, “He’s gone now. He left you all alone, Y/n”.

You wanted to muster the strength to tell him he was wrong but the cloth stuffed in your mouth forbade your words. The touch of the cold blade startled you, making you cry even harder while struggling to get free. Your wrists and ankles hurt from being restrained.

“Shhht”, he silenced you, putting the knife to your throat. His voice deep and reverberating through you.

“Don’t wait for a miracle. I am your god now”.

Yunho || ʟɪʙʀᴀʀɪᴀɴ

❧

Last flicks of the brush and it was finally ready. He had done it an uncountable amount of times. No stains of blood, no muscles. Pure bone.

That was the goal. Of course he couldn’t skip the prevention part. You need to take care of your trophies if you want them to last long. 

He entered the chamber, holding his new skull and stroking it gently.

The darkness was consuming until thunder hit nearby and following lightning illuminated the overwhelmingly large space.

The ceiling, extremely high, dominating over two floors on two sides of a long hall.

At first you’d say it looked like an impressive library until you realized that instead of books there were thousands, if not millions of skulls, lurking at you with their empty eye sockets.

“1876, letter M… November”, he mumbled to himself, running his eyes through shelves. He smiled as he finally found the right spot, “Here it is!“ 

He put the new trophy beside another skull with metal tag that said "Charlotte Madley, Nov. 5th 1876”

“Look Charlie, I brought you a friend. Meet Emma. You know, you two have something in common. She died the exact same way you did”, He grimaced, brows frowning,“My hands took her last breath”.

Yeosang || ғʟᴏʀɪsᴛ

❧

You were looking at your sister, as your heart felt like it was slowly being crushed. A red rose in her hands, so vivid and fresh, contrasted with her pale, lifeless body. She looked like she was just sleeping, but deep wounds on her neck and the crimson color of her own blood said something else. She was really gone and you were all alone in the morgue with your dead sister. 

“He dressed you for your own funeral” you sobbed to her as tears were streaming down your face. The dress that the murder put on her made you feel uneasy with its blackness. She hated black color. You wanted to rip it off the laced veil, covering her beautiful face but were too scared. You were scared that the moment you touch her, she’d break like fine porcelain. 

“That’s his thing” a sudden voice caused you to flinch and return from the darkness corner of your thoughts. You looked over to the officer that just entered the room, holding some paperwork. 

“He seduces them, then dresses them in all black..”, he said, trailing off, “He either uses a thin knife to precisely cut these holes or his teeth and then he drinks their blood”.

“Drink-?”, you mumbled, feeling more sick, “Wh- what do you mean?”

“Look at these bruises around the wounds, Miss. Those marks were made by sucking on the skin. I don’t know why he calls himself Florist when he’s just some vampire wannabe” he sort of chuckled.

“I guess maybe because he picks the most beautiful flowers”, you looked at the red rose that the monster put in your sister’s hands. You cleared your eyes, feeling the rage flooding your vision, “He should be careful, many of them are beautiful but poisonous

You scuffed, full of determination, "The next flower he’s going to find…will be his last”.

San || ᴄʜᴀʀᴏɴ

❧

Hidden behind the marble column, you knew you had to be as quiet as possible. Your hands tightly covering your mouth as you tried to mute your sobbing. Your eyes, trying their best not to look down at all the bodies laying at your feet. Tears were streaming down your face at the thought you might be the only one left alive out of all the guests at the banquet. 

You knew exactly who that man was, the killer that terrorized all of Italy. People called him Charon or “Death of the Rich”. He preferred to be seen as God of death himself, Thanatos, leading the path of the death for his victims.

Laughing and screaming hysterically, “Call me Death itself!” as he spun around, slaughtering everyone in his path. He was lost in his true self, engulfed in his own desire for blood.

Suddenly you heard his words fade, slowly you put your hands down and leaned over to peek to see if the murderer was there. Your eyes widened at the site. He was dancing gracefully in silence, blood spatter glistening on his beautifully crafted face. His eyes were closed but never stepped on any of the bodies. It was almost hypnotizing.

His body seemed to float as he was performing his Danse Macabre. How could one be so beautiful but such a monster. You slowly moved back to your hiding spot. You just wanted him to leave and disappear. You wanted to run as far away as possible. You wanted to live.

“Shall we dance?” his deep voice made your heart drop. Your eyes slowly gazed up to see that he was bent over, staring at you. Amused smirk decorated his perfect but terrifying face. As your eyes met, he grasped your wrist and pulled you to the floor for the last dance. 

Mingi || ᴍᴏᴜʀɴᴇʀ

❧

It was the most difficult and unusual case your father was ever assigned to investigate. In the 37 years of his detective career he had never been this dumbfounded. You watched your father reading the same reports all over again and drinking cup after cup of coffee. You, who suffered insomnia, witnessed all the painstaking hours.

“Are there really no trances of this man?” you once asked your father, handing him a hot cup of tea. 

He let out a hagged sigh and nodded, thanking you for the beverage, “All we have are reports and missing bodies. It’s not enough for me and my team to even go out and search”.

“What do the reports say” you couldn’t hide your curiosity.

Your father took a sip of the hot liquid and again signed loudly, “Tall, young lad, in his early twenties. He drives black caravan carriage, led by two black horses. He takes fresh buried coffins and then leaves disappearing in the fog”.

“Aaaalright” you frowned at the lack of helpful information, sitting down next to your father at the table.

“Why don’t you wait for him at the cemetery? He’ll surely appear there again?”

“There is something else people reported”, he gulped but then cleared his throat loudly, “They say that there was a horrid face peeking out at them from the window of the carriage. An ulgy, bloody smile. They say they saw a real demon…”.

It’d been 6 months since you and you father laughed at the reports. But tonight you weren’t laughing. You saw him, with your own eyes while visiting your grandparents’ grave. Hearing the sound of digging and loud sobbing, you followed it. You hid behind a tomb and peeked. You expected to see a quiet funeral taking place but there he was. A beautiful man, all dressed in black. Within few minutes he had dug and pulled up a freshly buried coffin. Alone with his bare hands, crying heavily at the same time. You were too scared you had to pinch yourself to move. You ran as fast as you could towards the gates. You turned around to see if the creepy mourner was following you.

Turning your view forward again you all of sudden saw the black carriage right in front of you. You had no chance to slow down and collided with the side of the caravan. Bouncing to the ground with a thud, vision blurry you looked up at the window to see a pair of hollowed eyes fixated on you.

Wooyoung || ᴍᴀsᴋ

❧

“Can I show you something?” Wooyoung asked, looking curiously into your eyes. You could feel your face growing warmer and looked away. 

“O-of course” you stuttered, biting your lower lip. He was standing so close to you that you could feel his warmth radiating off him. You’d always been the saint of your entourage but this man awoke the worst in you. You knew that sneaking out at night to meet up with him was a bad idea but it was also exciting and new to you. 

He gently grabbed your wrist, stirring you up from your thoughts. Your eyes couldn’t help but examine his beautiful face and soft plump lips. You wished nothing more than to feel them on every part of your body.

“Show me, please" 

His smirk caused you to gasp a little. He pulled you down a small hall near the back of his mansion. You were ready, you hoped that tonight would be the night you got to taste that man. He stopped in front of a black door and looked at you. You watched him smile at you before continuing to open the door. Behind the door you noticed a long, wooden staircase leading downwards. You didn’t even hesitate to follow when he walked through the frame. He was only holding you by your wrist but you felt as though your entire body was on fire. You hadn’t realized how long you had been walking due to being fixed on him and lost in your lude fantasies.

"We’re here” he said, halting suddenly causing you to slightly bump into his back. You looked up to see a humongous double-leaved door that chained up with a heavy iron lock. Was that his secret room? He lived alone so what was the purpose of this place?

“You’re special to me, Y/n” he whispered and let go of your wrist, You watched him pull out an old looking key, putting it into the lock, “That’s why it’s really hard for me to give you to her”.

“Her” you asked dumbfounded ‘What are you talking abo-“

Your words interrupted as you heard the lock click. The door swinging open, revealing total darkness.

"Eeemilyyy?” Wooyoung called into the void, “Your brother brought you your new toy! Come take a look!” he bellowed, vividly amused.

Suddenly a little girl's giggles emerged through the air. You wanted to run but the fear enveloped your legs keeping you in place. The creepy laugh was getting closer and Wooyoung’s smile became wider, more sinister.

“Please be gentle with Miss Y/n, all right?” he warned his sister, a face emerging from the dark.

You kees grew weak at the terrible sight, “I also want to play with her” he breathed, as an invisible force pulled you into the darkness, doors slamming shut. Your screams echoing into the abyss.

Jongho || ʟᴏʀᴅ

❧

The heavy rain had kept the entirety of Oxford in their homes for days. The rainfall’s intensity blinded and paralyzed the entire city. Not a soul was about the streets. All expect for two. A man was fearfully attempting to escape from the horrid one who trailed him. The mysterious Lord slowly walked after his prey, squabbling before him on the cobblestones. His black shoes sloshed through the puddles that were colored with the fearful one’s blood. The sound of rain and the rush of water surpassed all that could be heard to others.

“You know what's funny, William?” asked the loud and vividly amused male voice, “The same storm happened exactly a year ago, I recall. You know what else also happened then?”

The injured man refused to answer. This wasn’t supposed to happen, it was all wrong. He just wanted to meet the young miss who he had a planned date with, on this awful day.

“Help” the crippled man screamed.

“Oh William” the cloaked Lord chuckled.

“Hel-” his second cry got cut off as a sudden weight pinned him to the wet stones.

“A year ago William”, the figure hissed, demanding the answer, “What happened a year ago?”

“I don’t know!” he shouted as the result of the figure pulling back on his arms.

“Let me refresh your memory then. Y/n, do you remember her?” the attacker asked.

William’s face went pale as his past fiance flashed before his eyes. The woman that suddenly disappeared.

“Do you remember how you made her trust you, how you stained her honor and betrayed her? How she lost everything? he snarled.

"I remember!” William screamed as the pain began to become unbearable, “What do you want from me?!”

“Oh,” the Lord exclaimed, “I want you to suffer” an evil grin crept on his face.

The pain suddenly faded. William relaxed a bit, looking over to see what the thump he heard was. His eyes widen at the sight of someone’s arms and legs lying next to him. Terror took over him as he attempted to crawl away but there was nothing to crawl with. Realization settled in as he was bleeding out. The limbs were his.

The monster before him laughed, giving an evil chuckle before sinking his glistening fans into one of dismembered man’s gushing arteries, draining him of life. William only had seconds left of his wretched life.

“I’m leaving you to rot just as you left her that day, you scum”, the monster wiped his mouth before continuing, “Y/n is happy. I took care of that. Just like the 13 year old girl I saved from your hands today will be as well”

William watched as the mysterious lord stood and brushed himself off, turning to leave him to die. The light faded, all he heard was the vampire laughing with excitement until he couldn’t hear it anymore.

[Bonus to this scenario 《 Jongho Vampire smut 》

.•°•.

So my hiatus is finally over. I’m relaxed and I feel full charged again! Hope it means that many good ideas are coming to my one braincell 🤣

Hope you enjoyed my horror scenarios and edits!! (edits were made much earlier that’s why some it them have my other watermark)

♡

@necteez on IG - new account with edits

[fusrodie]

ash & soot

Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him.

chapter 1 - grisly reunions

SFW, canon-typical violence, blood, mention of death. 2K words.

link to ao3 (or read down below)

Nothing ever happened in this boring old village. Every day he would wake up to the same dull sky, the biting cold on his skin, the smell of blood in the air. And the chanting, for fuck’s sake, the goddamn chanting. In the silence of night, you could hear them if you listened close enough. Even cooped up in his factory, trying to focus on bringing his latest creation to life, through the humming of engines and rattling of pistons, he could hear their voices pleading forgiveness and salvation.

It paints a perfect picture in his mind: a bunch of old farts holding hands in a circle, standing over a creepy-ass painted crest of an unborn baby, pouring their heart and soul into their prayer, accepting death and giving glory to their murderer. The prayer itself never made sense to him, not really, but he had to admit it was a damn good way of justifying their atrocities. Nobody batted an eyelash when someone was taken away, went poof overnight to never return. Something about the sacrifice having been made, fate had led them to the light at the end or some shit. It used to fascinate him back in the day, when he was just a child watching everything unfold hidden behind his mother’s skirt. But he was no longer a child, and after almost a century of bullshit, it was hard not to impale every single fucker who talked about devotion and destiny.

Not that anyone would care about it, of course - sister dearest routinely kidnapped girls from the village and no one seemed to notice the Castle was a death trap. Boxes and boxes of wine would make their way into the village and out into the world, the truth right there in the label, and no one seemed to put two and two together. Dimitrescu had offered him more than a few bottles as a courtesy, an attempt to bridge the gap between them - even he had limits, however, lines that he would not cross. The very thought of bringing a goblet of blood-infused wine to his lips made his stomach turn; he had never been one to experiment much with food. He drew the line on frozen pizza and energy drinks.

It’s a wonder the village still had people in it, really; between Alcina’s obsession with maidens, the poor sods taken to Moreau for Cadou experiments and the failed vessels Miranda would discard like common garbage, he figured at this point there were more lycans than people around. More for him to experiment on, he figured, though digging up corpses in the dead of night had done a number on his back. Haulers could only do so much, and more often than not he would have to get his hands dirty. Not having a proper bed, sleeping on a bare metal cot and decades of living on borrowed time had nothing to do with it, of course.

The Castle drawbridge lowered as he approached, hammer thrown over his shoulder, one last peaceful drag of his cigar before he was thrown into yet another boring council meeting. The vineyard greeted him with the bleak vibrancy of a cemetery, scarecrows drained of color, barely recognizable but eerily preserved in chunks of ice. A waste of perfectly good specimens, really.

The halls were quiet for a change, no tormented screams and blood-curling wails, no giggling sisters running around in the hallways. It all smelled of death and old people, expensive perfume and a good dose of arrogance.

He flashed a charming smile at one of the Castle’s servants, laughing when the girl turned a bright shade of red and scrambled away from him. Heisenberg could hear the bickering as he pushed the doors open, Angie’s joints clicking incessantly as the doll moved about. Moreau’s breathing sounded as loud and disgusting as ever, yellow teeth and the smell of a polluted riverbed with a hint of fish. There they were, his beloved little family, waiting patiently for him, staring at him like he had fucked every single one of their mothers.

“You are late, Heisenberg.” Alcina began, as she always did, eyebrow raised in contempt. “As always. Mother,” she turned to Miranda, gesturing towards him with her hoity-toity, stupid cigarette.

“You are obnoxious, Dimitrescu.” He replied without sparing her a glance. “As always.”

He could practically hear her seething as she finally placed her humongous backside on her chair, having given up on chastising him when Miranda paid both of them no mind. Mother sat at the end of the golden-trimmed table, looking awkward in her great black gown and modly crow wings. Dimitrescu’s finest china was laid perfectly for their little afternoon tea party, cup handles that were too big to fit his fingers, minuscule spoons that were fit for Angie’s creepy hands. The servant that had scurried away at the sight of him had come back with a tray of hot tea, biscuits and blood - the house’s specialty. Miranda began speaking as the girl poured her drink, some small chitchat about the state of the village, the influx of foreigners and progress on her grand resuscitation project.

“Thank you darling, but I brought my own.” He started as the girl circled around the table to serve him, pointing down towards his belt buckle to the whiskey flask he always carried around. She couldn’t help but look down, and then up at his sly smile, the blush returning to her cheeks in full force. Dimitrescu’s reaction was swift, a well placed slap with the back of her hand square on the girl’s cheek. He felt sorry for her for a moment, but it was good training - if she wanted to survive the Castle, she would have to learn that it was better to be blind and deaf, and that she had much more provocation coming her way than his harmless flirting.

Heisenberg tuned out of the conversation as he poured his whiskey, pinching the teaspoon between his index and middle fingers, swirling it slowly, scraping the sides of the porcelain. Alcina’s displeasure at his use of her china for such vile beverages made it all the better. He slurped it loudly to add insult to injury, savoring the drink for a second, sloshing it around his mouth before swallowing, a satisfied “ah” escaping him when the liquor burned down his throat. If Alcina didn’t already look like a corpse, he felt like she would have turned purple. When he unceremoniously shoved an entire biscuit in his mouth, crumbs falling all over the tablecloth, he thought she would vomit.

“The latest vessel, unfortunately, has been a failure.” Miranda announced with sadness in her voice, which prompted all of his other siblings to sigh collectively in sympathy. What a bunch of morons. “However, we have made some progress. It seems my theories were correct - younger subjects are far more receptive to the Cadou.” Kidnap babies, got it. There was no limit to how low Miranda would get to fuel her quest for a daughter that had been dead for longer than she was alive. “I regret to say there are no suitable infants at the moment,” she stopped to sip at her tea. “We can only hope the harvest fares better in the coming months.” Had she seen them as nothing but guinea pigs back then, too? No doubt in his mind she did. The only reason she kept them around is because she might not be able to kill all of the monsters she created - better to keep them close than risking losing it all.

“There is but one more matter I would like to discuss, Mother Miranda,” Dimitrescu began, a lilt in her voice, the telltale sign that whatever would come out of her mouth next would be positively foul. “My girls have brought me troubling news.” Troubling, he repeated to himself, but she had a smile on her face as she said it. Miranda gestured at her to continue, which she gladly did, excitement rising with every new word. “It would seem a monster prowls near our blessed haven. There is talk among the villagers of bodies being found drained of blood, organs harvested, but without a single cut left behind.” She stood up to pace the room, one of her favorite displays of grandiose that made her look like the world’s biggest buffoon. It suited her. “At first I believed this to be a mere rumor, a lycan attacking the livestock, a corpse refusing to rest. But then,” she clapped her hands, the doors to the room promptly opening to give way to Crazy, Dumb and Ugly, giggling in their flowing black dresses, dragging a corpse along like it was a treasure they had found in the forest. Angie tagged along with their excitement, pushing Moreau away to get a better look at the stinking body thrown onto the hardwood.

There was no mistaking the lycan, all teeth, claws and complexion of the finest of silver poisonings. It smelled just as bad dead than it did alive; bruises and injuries and gums that stuck out of its mouth. How, pray tell, was this thing still in one piece? Heisenberg rose to take a closer look, pushed its stringy hair away from its face to reveal glassy eyes poking weirdly out of their sockets. He tested its consistency with a slight kick, stabbed it with the butter spreader, shoved a gloved hand in the cut to pull it apart and open. It looked fresh enough, but nothing but a foul vapor oozed out of the body. Crystal dust lined its insides, shards poking out of muscles. He pushes his arm deeper, feels around the chest cavity to find nothing.

“No cuts, no holes,” he begins as he pokes and prods. “No bites, either. Heart’s missing. This your handiwork, Alcina?” Heisenberg quips, suspicion seeping through his stoic facade. For a moment, he swears he can see the lycan’s flesh pulse, the smallest contraction of a muscle. This whole situation got weirder by the second.

“The technique is truly admirable, is it not?” She offers with a gleeful smile, picks up her cigarette and places a hand on her hip. Here we go again. “I simply must have it. Besides, we must know if it poses any threat to us.” She was right, this time. After decades of experimentation, none of them had ever managed to keep an infected subject whole after death.

His shoulders slumped as she spoke, head bowing to hide his discontentment behind the brim of his hat. He knew what this meant: being sent on a stupid adventure in the ass-end of the woods, because he was the only one out of this freak show with the brain and brawn to venture out into the world in broad daylight, without dying to the cold or stopping every five seconds to infect and pet wild animals. Some of these missions he did enjoy, like being sent to nearby towns for special supplies - or special victims. He was never gone long, nor would he stray far, but those escapades never failed to serve as a reminder that he had a reason to keep going, that maybe one day he would be free and the world would be his to explore.

The four of them eyed Miranda quietly, waiting for the verdict that was certain to come. Moreau cut the silence by volunteering to investigate, the pathetic pitter-pat of his feet filling the room when Mother smiled at him.

“I would not risk you in such a way, my son,” she patted his head without a hint of affection. “Not when we are so close to answers. You must continue your research - Heisenberg will look into this… Whatever it is. You are dismissed.” Her tone was nonchalant, her confidence rock solid. This was merely an obstacle, not real danger. At least, that is what she wanted them all to see; if one looked close enough, they would notice the slight furrow in her brow through the slits of the golden mask.

“As you wish, mother.” He tipped his hat before taking his leave, chewing on his unlit cigar, feet pressing hard against the gravel underneath.

Heisenberg never thought he would come to regret having a proper spine and a functional pair of legs.

[soulwillower]

buttercup • richie tozier

(richie tozier x reader)

requested: Would you mind writing a Richie Tozier X reader soulmate AU where Richie is VERY self conscious and he finds out that the reader is his soulmate and the reader is well known and very pretty, so he’s just like djjdjfgjjcbvnfnf but once they actually meet she really likes him? :0 thanks if you consider!

warning: swearing, angst, richie being edgy and also a bit unstable (king shit), neuroatypical richie!!!, fluff, soulmate au!! <33 also sorry this may be rough, i havent edited it at all

[reader + losers are in college]

lmk what u guys think of this one,... idk LOL

4.1k words

♡

richie was about to be sick. yes, he really, really was going to vomit in approximately ten seconds and he didn’t know what he was going to do. the room, full of barely-adults chugging jungle juice was sweaty and bustling and the walls were closing in on him quick. those people who weren't in the main rooms were doing sniff in the bathrooms and blocking his pathway to heaven (the toilet) so he quickly stumbles towards the sliding-glass door.

he passes a guy who claps his shoulder and says in a deep voice, "you good, bro?"

no, no. he's not good, bro. thanks for asking, though.

as he finally breaks free of the plastic, out of the crusty balloon that was holding his body hostage, he takes a deep breath and sprawls himself on the back deck, staring up at the clouds in the nighttime sky. maybe he should go home and mull this over, before he crams it down his own throat and chokes to death, alone and broken on the back deck of a 22 year old business major's rental house.

he laughs to himself - an image which he's sure would be a full on maniacal scene to an onlooker - as he lights a cigarette with very shaky fingers. even if he chooses to give this situation some thought, he will end up being forced regardless because this is, quite literally, richard tozier's destiny.

y/n y/l/n is richie's destiny, and it makes him feel like complete shit.

you see - his whole life, richie knew about the fucking soulmate tattoos. of course he did, everybody did - it was, like, one of the first things you learn, ever. he knows that there's basically a soulmate for every person and often times the soulmate marks were different, the ways of finding your soulmate were wide and far.

for most of richie's life - actually, almost all of it up until the last month - he'd had a big, fat 0 tattooed on his arm and below it a humiliating phrase that was quite the epitome of richie himself.

yet it never changed, which led him, his friends, and his parents to determine that he'd gotten a time-counter soulmate mark, which he likes to pride himself on believing he did not give a single fuck about.

the number is supposed to count the amount of time that you've spent with your soulmate, and there's usually a sentence or phrase that's associated with your soulmate's first thoughts of you below it. and yeah, of course the first thing the lucky guy or gal thought of richie is 'wow, those are the ugliest socks ever.' pretty fucking on-brand, if richie says so himself.

so yeah, he never really paid attention to his soulmate mark - partly because the thought of emotionally opening up to someone enough for them to know his whole and true self was repulsive and terrifying enough to make him physically ill, enough for him to develop a crazy sense of humor as a less-than proficient coping mechanism for the insecurity and fear that lives in his mind rent-free, 24/7 365. but mostly he didn't pay attention to the mark because, you know, he thought it was lame.

that is, until it changed from the 0.

it happened on the first day of classes fall semester of this, his freshman year of college.

which, honestly, was a huge fucking bummer, because he literally came into contact with almost 800 new people that first day through classes, dorms, walking around campus, and the dining hall. and yet, as he got back to his dorm and smoked a bowl with bill, he'd noticed that his arm had said 00:51:26.

bill had been so excited he'd almost lifted richie through the roof, because 'holy sh-shit, rich, y-you did it!'

it was hard to believe someone was out there for him, though. and yeah, he didn't give a fuck about it, but he also kind of did.

richie, now thinking back on that day, groans a bit. if he'd just known, if he had just fucking looked at the thigh of the girl in front of him with the soft-looking grin and the alluring scent of orange creamsicle shampoo, who'd smiled a bit when he borrowed a pen - if he'd just known then that y/n was meant to spend the rest of her life with him, he could've... well, he's not really sure what he could have done.

he thinks to that moment in time, as he was blowing smoke out the dorm window with bill and giggling as he ate an entire bag of cheez-its, and how much he wanted to know who it was back then.

but tonight, it had become a nightmare when the information practically fell into his lap. he's at this house party in late september, and about five minutes ago it was just boring enough to warrant sitting on the rug in the living room and just fun enough to actually stay.

“-yeah, she said the first time you guys met was in microeconomics, right?” ben says, and richie huffs in agreement as he picks at the skin on his nails. ben was talking about her again, and richie's heart was beating stupidly hard. y/n, one of his closest friends that he'd made outside of the losers, never failed to make his heart run a goddamn marathon.

“-she told me the first thing she noticed was that you were wearing socks with sandals. and she thought that your socks were really ugly.” he finishes with a laugh and richie’s head snaps up at that. he feels chills spill over back as if he’d been doused with ice water and he gapes at ben. “wait, what?” richie shudders, the words escaping his lips quietly enough that his friends mistake it for a forceful exhale brought on by offense at the word 'ugly.'

“well she was right to think that.” stan says from behind his solo cup, carefree, as if richie’s life wasn’t crashing to an alarming and unbelievable halt. eddie giggles faintly somewhere from the floor where the losers are sitting, but richie’s mind is reeling too much for him to react to or even comprehend anything.

“rich, i th-thought i got you to st-stop wearing socks and sandals so long ago.” bill adds, laughing into his hand. but richie’s barely registering any other fucking information because he’s staring at ben, who is finally noticing his friend’s perplexed face. “you good, rich?” ben asks carefully.

“wh-er, wait. what exactly did she say?” richie asks, really not wanting to know the answer and yet wanting to know more than life itself. it can't be her. he’s getting odd looks from everyone now, but he's starting to breathe quickly and he thinks he might vomit. he kind of regrets never showing anybody but big bill his soulmate mark, because he's suffocating right now in embarrassment and bill is a little too drunk to assume what richie's assuming right now.

“wait, y/n y/l/n, right? from my dorm. she’s here tonight, she told me- oh, y/n!” stan calls, looking directly over richie’s shoulder. it happens so fast. y/n, in the flesh, walks past at just that moment, breaking out into a breath-taking, world-halting smile. richie's chest hurts worse than it ever has before as she waves and bustles over to plop herself next to richie. and holy shit, she's wearing shorts because even though it's cold out, the house is warm and richie can see dark ink on her thigh. a soulmate tattoo. he can't draw his eyes away even though his brain is screaming to knock it off because there's going to be something there he doesn't want to accept, but he then does it anyways.

he almost hyperventilates as he reads the words emblazoned on her thigh,

27:36:08 and right below it: "holy hell her hair smells like orange creamsicle"

he almost sobs right then and there as she greets him with a soft hand on his shoulder, completely unaware of their fate and richie has to stand up abruptly because he can literally feel the numbers changing on his arm as the seconds go by with y/n at his side.

and now, mere minutes later he's out here, laying in self pity as anxiety claws at every inch of his body and fear tingles on him like the slight presence of snowflakes falling on his skin - briefly he wonders if, as an older man, he'll wonder how he never got cold wearing nothing, vulnerable as he welcomes in that falling snow.

he would be totally daft not to wonder how he ended up with a soulmate like her, someone not only so fucking attractive but so kind and undeserving of a monstrosity of a human like him. she is, in every place he isn't, a complete and utter success of a person; he's a hurricane where she's whitecaps in the sea, he's loud and abrupt while she is kind and outgoing. maybe they do work well together, hell - they spend enough time on study dates outside of class for him to know that he does really like her. but richie also knows his standoffish, happy-go-lucky and untamed personality paired with his unwillingness to make himself appear vulnerable to most people will probably have a very large impact on... whatever it is that happens with y/n.

because that's really the point, isn't it?

she is stuck with him. bucky beaver, the trashmouth, mr. i-can't-keep-my-trap-shut-for-three-seconds. y/n, the most incredible person in this world, is the kind of person that was designed for richie to admire from afar, as he is so willing to suffer through. because as much as it hurts to watch her and to love her without loving her, it is a thousand times safer for both of them than the inevitable look of disappointment that will befall y/n’s angelic features when she discovers who her burden of a soulmate is.

the thought makes richie choke out a weak sob, sitting up and digging the heel of his palms into his sockets, trying to scrub out the image of himself from his brain. awful, awful, bad.

he takes a long drag from his cigarette and for a brief moment he wonders if, just maybe, she’ll love him back eventually. the thought makes him feel like crying all over again.

huge nose, big teeth, awkwardly skinny and too tall. maybe he's got nice hair, but he sometimes wakes up too late and can only brush his teeth and swipe on deodorant before he's sprinting out his dorm with his pickle socks and stan's old sandals, trudging to class and getting in the way of y/n's future.

but he is her future, after all - how can that be right?

he doesn't have enough time to take another drag from his cig as he hears the glass door open, the noise from the party bursting through the gap in the foundation of the house and sending him back to five minutes, ago, inside. he cranes his neck and can't bring himself to be surprised when he sees her, backlit from the party inside and figure in his mind standing like the only being in the world.

she thinks he looks devastatingly beautiful tonight. she loves the awkwardness in his bones, the way he carries himself with confidence although she's not sure he always really has it. he's wearing some dumb socks again as usual, though they're mostly covered by his black pants and red high-tops this time. it makes her smile softly.

she wants to know him, really know him, as more than just a classmate, a crush, a boy who's friends with stan uris from the floor above her own room. she wants to feel his large hands on her in more than just fleeting greetings, knucks to the shoulder or jaw. she wants the sharp taste of nicotine and mint from those life savers he was always sucking on in her own mouth as he holds her tightly against him, she wants to know everything about him and be with him, even if they aren't somehow destined to be forever. which, she thinks with an array of wild animals tumbling around her chest, they might be.

after all, someone at this party is her soulmate, and she's almost 99.8% sure it's richie. it gives her the most beautiful butterflies she's ever had, even when he stares at her from the deck with glassy eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

"what’s up, buttercup?” is all she says, in her mind because he's stunned her to near-silence once again by just existing, and in his mind because she is the most perfect being.

he doesn't respond despite being completely charmed by her, because he's breathing in the nicotine and its making his fingers twitch and even though he's sober by now, he thinks he may be tweaking a bit, mostly from the overwhelming set of information that just smacked into his face when y/n walked over into that room.

he watches as suddenly she's dropping herself so she's sat next to him, her legs swinging off the edge of the deck. she eyes his cigarette. "that's so unhealthy, rich." she says softly, teasing but with a lacing of truth behind it that really makes richie itch to never smoke ever again in his life. but he's a stubborn ass, so he instead takes a deeper drag, maintaining eye contact. he can feel one tear slip from his eye and he feels so fucking melodramatic as he does so, but he's at the lowest he's been in a while, so he gives himself a bit of credit.

she reaches out and pulls the cigarette directly from between his lips, sending him a pointed look as she presses it out on the finished wood of the deck. he wipes the tear away when she's not looking. and as she turns back he smirks, unsure what else to do, as he blows the smoke out of his mouth towards her face.

"hi, toots." he says in what he hopes is a normal tone, despite his blotchy and tear-trailed face. she blinks her eyes owlishly at him but just shrugs, "you left a little prematurely back there. what, do i smell that bad?" she jokes. no, he thinks, you smell like orange creamsicles.

it's bittersweet, the irony in her statement. because he knows that she probably knows what she smells like every day, as it's literally tattooed right on the meat of her leg, on display for her and whoever else lucky enough to find themselves being acquainted with the skin of her upper thigh. the thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

maybe if he were feeling a little less in-the-dumps, a little less like a complete and utter disappointment and failure that ruined this sweet girl's life, he would have ribbed her back a bit. you know, grind her gears in typical tozier fashion.

but he's exhausted and so distraught that he can't bring himself to even look at her. "i'm not in the mood" he grumbles, his heart pounding. she frowns, tilting her head.

"okay, what's wrong, richie?" she asks, and it's in that caring voice that she uses that isn't pitying but simply solicitous in nature. her calming force on him is obvious and immediate and his teeth stop rattling around in his head

he wants to scream because she's burning warm and perfect while he's frigid cold inside his body; a wasteland full of broken slinkies and half-formulated 'your mom' jokes that are melded to the crust of him with the tar that's been sucked straight from those damn ciggies. for crying out loud, if he were to so much as touch her, she'd get corrupted.

she notices as he scoots a bit away from her, and her heart hurts. he's so upset, clearly, and yet it hurts her that he can't trust himself or her enough to open up; no fault of his own surely, but heartbreaking all the same. "i care about you, and i really want to be here for you." she says it like there's going to be more, but the words kind of die in her throat as she realizes the extend of her words.

holy shit, she thinks, i'd go to the ends of the earth for him. if richie asked me to, i think i'd probably kill the queen.

"i stubbed my toe, and it really hurts." he says then, and the absurdity of his excuse makes her laugh out loud, head tilting back towards the moon as the bubbly giggles tumble from her lips. she looks at him after and his face is a twisted mix of affection and utter pain, a combination that hurts her to her core but lights a fuel in her that makes her want to help him.

"it's true." he mutters, motioning to his shoe limply, and she looks at his foot, the tip of his converse scribbled in sharpie with the word 'half-brain' and then a bunch of hearts.

"i like your socks." she says absentmindedly, grinning at him as she says it, voice teasing. but the reaction she was hoping for was nowhere to be seen as richie suddenly heaves a hiccup-sob, one so upsetting and quiet that she thinks she misheard it.

but he's keeling over and clutching his face with his hands, shaking his head, and her heart breaks. "richie, honey please tell me what's going on. or i can just sit here, if you'd rather-"

her sentence is cut off with richies own rushed words, expelled from his mouth so quickly that it's almost as if they were trying to escape while his lips tried to hold them in.

"-you're going to have to spend the rest of your life trying to force yourself to love me, and that terrifies me.”

as he says it, his stomach twists itself inwards at his admission and he thinks he's going to be sick. he doesn't deserve you, you're going to resent him for it. she's silent for a few moments, and he doesn't dare look anywhere near her as tears trail down his solemn cheekbones and drop onto the black corduroy that wraps around his jittering legs.

"richie, please, what are you trying to say?" she says quietly, sounding scared, nervous, upset... richie did that. it's his fault. he tilts his head back, his brain buzzing in guilt. "fuck," he says, and it comes out broken, "you... i- you're my soulmate." he says, looking down to where his chest rises and falls almost unnaturally, a consequence of muscle memory being tampered with by the lethally college combination of nicotine, alcohol and marijuana on an empty stomach.

earlier he was afraid that if he opened his mouth too wide he would lose control of his tongue and then the words would come out without him wanting them to, but he knows he's basically sober by now, as sober as y/n is next to him - he's just neurotic, but he doesn't want her to know that, because oh god, what if she hated him for it?

she wouldn't, right? isn't she supposed to find a way to love him?

this was a really stupid idea, but in his mind it was one that had to be done. shutting his eyes, he tugs the sleeve of his left arm upwards, taking a shaky breath. again, it's silent as she reads the words written there. wow, those are the ugliest socks ever.

she stares at the words, and the number above it, then she looks at her own thigh, where the exact same number counts on in time with his.

he wastes no time, though: "-don't worry, doll. i've got it figured out, we can just- maybe we can get yours covered and you don't have to think about it anymore. fi-find someone better, like, oh, bill - he'd treat you nice i think. just- we don't have to think about it, i'm sorry." he says in one breath, not looking at her at all.

"richie, how can i be yours if you're not mine?" she says thickly because she's fighting off tears wondering how someone so incredible and full of life could feel so undeserving.

"you can't want me, you can't." he insists, not looking at her as she gapes at him because if he were to look at her expression he may lose it. it's quiet again in their own little world here, the air silent and numbing as y/n takes a breath.

"oh my god, wait richie how are we this stupid?" she asks, perking up and lightly slapping his arm. he looks at her in shock as she begins to laugh, "we've been alone together so many times. how did we not notice?" she asks, and he chuckles a bit, shrugging.

"maybe we're not the sharpest crayons in the drawer, toots. all i'm sayin' is that i figured it out first." he says cheekily, and secretly both of them are shocked to see how quickly they fell together, as if the knowledge that they were made for each other made all their insecurities fall away.

her face softens again. "you know, i saw my timer counting tonight and i was hoping more than anything that you'd be here. that we'd be-" she adds softly, a hand landing lightly on richie's thigh, sending licks of flames up his body. she takes a breath and restarts. "do you know how fucking bad i wanted it to be you?"

and just like that, y/n unintentionally provides a luscious mix of words and tricks that fill him with barely enough confidence to let him bet when he knows he should fold.

what's life without a little risk?

he meets her eyes for the first time in a few minutes and hers are large and hopeful as they wait patiently for him to give her something. but he still can't speak without running his mouth, so instead he cups her cheeks. her lips part slowly and he stares in awe at her raw beauty, unable to hold it in longer.

he presses his lips to her quickly and to her it feels like he is trying to prove something. it makes her heart soar as he comes alive against her, pressing as enthusiastically as she is into him. he tastes, as she'd guessed, like nicotine but mostly like a mint and it makes her grin as he pulls back.

"is this okay?" he's asking then, his thumb soothing over her cheek sweetly and giving her the same butterflies she gets when he smiles; the very same butterflies that release when he says anything to her, when he comes to her dorm for a study date with two red bulls in his hand, and when she realized their tattoos beat the same.

"yeah, of course." she whispers against his lips, the feeling of his teasing lightly making her sniffle. she presses their lips together again, this time warmer, more comfortably and his hands move to her hips and tug her closer, her hands winding to his neck as his own hands explore her body, caressing her sides gently. he pulls back and holds her softly.

"your hair smells nice." he says sheepishly, and she grins so widely she thinks she may split in two. her heart flutters as she looks into his eyes, finding nothing but love. "orange creamsicle, huh?" she asks with pink cheeks, and he laughs lightly, nodding his head. "best smell ever, babe."

"you make me happy." she says it onto his lips again, and the shiver that runs down his spine is a feeling he wouldn't mind feeling forever. his heart soars because he believes her, he trusts her. she wouldn't lie to him.

"we're so dramatic, aren't we?" richie jokes, his walls sliding back up a bit, but as y/n cuddles into his chest, head against his beating heart as she presses kisses to his neck, he realizes she accepts him.

"yeah, well. we're made for each other, aren't we rich?" she asks gently as his hand falls to brush over her thigh, right over the words. "that's right, toots." he says softly, looking down at her hairline softly, still in disbelief that it worked out for him. she turns to look at him, cheeks dusted a bit as she leans up to press a kiss on his lips.

tag list: @gabiatthedisco @blisshemmings​ @stenbrozier​ @simplesammyx​ @dickology64​ @clownsloveyou​ @baby-yoda-a @moon-shine-baby​ @daughter-of-the-stars11 @lets-vibe-bro​ @trashedfortozier​ @oceandog13​ @finnskindofwoman​  @kait-tozier​ @upamongthestarss​ @fiantomartell @beverlyparkerr @beauregard-s @diorbubs 

[spidernana]

In regards to your Papyra craving, what about Chara taking Edge to an ice cream place on the surface for the first time?

“ABSOLUTELY NOT.”

Chara let out a long and weary sigh, tilting their head back to stare exasperatedly at the glaringly bright sky. The sun was blazing high overhead, overheating all it looked down on and some of those attempting to hide in the small splotches of shade the trees lining the busy street offered, and though it had been mere minutes since the pair had left the cool of the embassy, desperate for some sort of entertainment, a sheen of sweat stuck to the human’s forehead already.

Papyrus was pristine in all his meticulous, edgy glory, not a drop of sweat on his cracked ivory skull, but that wasn’t really a surprise. They honestly hadn’t ever seen him less than immaculate.

The ice cream shop they had stumbled across was the exact answer to the problem of the late summer heat, the thoughts of chocolate brownie fudge goodness nearly making them salivate, but, as usual, the prickly, picky skeleton monster was digging in the heels of his tall, spotless boots.

“Papyrus, please. I haven’t had non-magical ice cream in FOREVER, I might just die if I don’t.”

Unsurprisingly, he looked vastly unimpressed, raising a haughty, bony brow over his scarred and slitted sockets with near condescension, gloved arms folded across his broad chest immovably. He snorted through his nasal cavity, tapping a single, clawed phalange against his arm and sending another short, disgusted look at the little shop they stood in front of.

“I HIGHLY DOUBT THAT, MY LIEGE. BESIDES, THAT PARLOR IS FILTHY, AND I WON’T BE SEEN IN IT. I WILL BUY YOU SOME AT THE STORE.”

Chara lowered their gaze to glare at their bodyguard/constant shadow/boyfriend (“heh, more like ‘bonefriend’.” “Shut up, greaseball. Don’t you have a wife to drool all over?” “yeah, i do, actually. a sight better’n watchin’ you two fuckin’ moon over each other.”), jutting a hip out and pouting dolefully. The tall skeleton monster merely chuckled, his near-perpetual scowl cracking to reveal a handsome, fond, and mocking smile, and Chara tutted, hands now propped on their hips.

“Come on, that’s part of the fun, numbskull. Will I get tetanus? Maybe food poisoning? It’s all a mystery… and, it comes with rainbow sprinkles!”

It was Papyrus’ turn to sigh, the intensely bright scarlet of his magical gaze rolling in his sockets, but his small smile lingered around his fanged mouth, indulgent, as ever, of the little human’s wants. Perhaps more than he should be, as often as it drew them both into trouble, but he considered himself capable of anything they could throw at him, and acquiesced to their tiny, goading whispers of “Please please pleaseeeee…” with a tsk of a hidden tongue and a hand pressed to the small of their back, urging them towards the shop with a look of long-suffering patience on his sharp face.

“IF WE MUST, BUT IF YOU GET SICK, IT’S YOUR OWN FAULT AND I REFUSE TO PITY YOU.”

Chara lifted a fist to the sky in victory, and danced away from the monster’s lingering touch only to take his much larger hand in theirs, squeezing it and sending him a wink when he shot them a look askance.

“Liar~”

Several minutes, a fairly long line, and two scoops of slightly melty ice cream later (“YOU DO NOT NEED THREE, YOU’LL SPOIL YOUR DINNER.” “You’re not my mother, Papy dear.” “CERTAINLY NOT. YOU’D BE BETTER BEHAVED IF I WERE.”) found them seated outside the little shop beneath an aged plastic umbrella, Chara ferociously digging into their ridiculously sweet and chocolatey confection and Papyrus sitting stiffly on his bench of their table, doing his best impression of someone that had sat on a cactus.

“See? This is great!”

Papyrus looked as though he couldn’t disagree more, arranging the hang of his scarf around his neck primly and precisely as he looked around them, the cracking plastic table, and the stained pavement with an upturned nasal ridge and all the offended dignity of a slighted cat.

“MY SEAT IS STICKY, THERE ARE BEES AND TRASH EVERYWHERE, AND I HIGHLY SUSPECT THIS “ICE CREAM” WAS FOUND IN A LANDFILL AND REPURPOSED. I COULD PROBABLY MAKE YOU A HIGHER QUALITY PRODUCT IN ONE OF SANS’ SNEAKERS.”

Chara wrinkled their nose at the very thought, shuddering and shaking their head, before reaching out and lightly slapping one of the monster’s arms with the back of their hand, scowling at him playfully when he turned to look down on them huffily. 

“Shush, you grump.”

He scoffed at the very thought, picking an invisible piece of lint from the pristine surface of his shirt and flicking it expertly into the overflowing trashcan at the edge of the small, cracked parking lot beside the shop.

“MY BROTHER IS A GRUMP. I AM HIGHLY CRITICAL TO BRING OUT THE BEST IN THOSE AROUND ME.”

Sounded like bullshit (not the part about his brother; they honestly didn’t know how Frisk put up with the bad-tempered monster), and they weren’t one to let that slide; Chara prodded their dripping plastic spoon at the prideful skeleton, arching a brow over their clever gaze and smirking broadly.

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you ever criticize me then.”

Papyrus looked unimpressed by the brandished spoon, pushing it away with a single claw and near distaste wrinkling his nasal ridge, and folded his arms across his chest firmly, tilting his skull and letting out a soft, quiet huff.

“YOU ARE BEYOND MY REPROACH, HIGHNESS.”

It was Chara’s turn to scoff, rolling their eyes, shaking their head, and looking back to the puddling remains of their treat. Damn… that hadn’t lasted long at all. They dug at the rounded edges of the paper bowl they’d been given, trying to scoop the last bits of chocolate from it while glancing back at the silently observing (and judging) monster beside them, fluttering their eyelashes in mocking.

“Are you calling me perfect, Papyrus~”

He smirked at that, the hard line of his furrowed brows softening, and he extended a hand to take the empty bowl from them, shifting it to the side to be disposed of later. His hand replaced it, taking theirs in its palm, and raised it to his fanged mouth to press a kiss to their knuckles, holding their gaze with his as he did so.

“YES.”

Chara blushed so deeply and profusely that their freckles disappeared completely, tilting their head to hide their gaze beneath the fall of their red hair. They only blushed deeper at the sound of his quiet chuckle, the feeling of his thumb stroking across their knuckles, and kicked a hanging foot against the umbrella pole beneath the table, flustered and short of breath.

He was ridiculously good at that, for such a rigid, cantankerous monster…

They glanced at him from beneath the fall of their hair, biting their lower lip and fiddling with the edge of their napkin.

“...you know, there are people that don’t believe that you know how to flirt.”

He snickered at that, his smile stretching wider across the sharp ivory of his face and the magic in his sockets softening. He shifted the hold of his hand to lace their fingers together, his hand nearly engulfing theirs, and leaned his jaw into the palm of the other, watching them fondly from beneath lowered lids.

“HOW UNFORTUNATE FOR THEM. I SUPPOSE I WILL HAVE TO SAVE ALL MY CHARMS FOR YOU.”

Chara smiled shyly in the face of the only one that ever been able to make them do so, and squeezed his hand gently.

“I suppose so.”

[translations-by-aiimee]

Dig a Grave to Dig Out a Ghost - Chapter 2

Original Title: 挖坟挖出鬼

Genres: Drama, Horror, Mystery, Supernatural, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 - Ghost Encounter

Before that incident occurred, Lin Yan didn't believe that there were ghosts in the world. He studied history during his undergrad and continued straight into doing his master's in archaeology. When he was on an expedition with his professor, he picked up the bones of a dead body and plucked a jade cicada from the mouth of a mummified body. Ghost stories were always something joked about in their dormitories. If something happened to people after they died, then the world would know about it. For example, if someone picked up the imperial blue bowl of the emperor, the old man would notice and stand up, shouting: "That's mine!" How interesting.

The dead should just let the dust from the past settle and stay quiet.

Lin Yan had just finished dinner when things changed. He didn't live in the school dormitories. He had moved into the apartment his parents had set aside for him when he got married because of the fights his old roommates in the dorms had with their in-laws on the phone. This apartment was much closer to the school, and he had been living alone since then. He cooks alone, plays games alone, and travels halfway across the city to visit his parents on the weekends. Lin Yan is one of the tens of thousands of small researchers in dozens of colleges and universities in this city. If he makes great accomplishments, his future will be bright, but if he's average, then he will be lost in the crowd.

That day, he made himself Fried Sauce Noodles. Once the minced meat was boiled, it was mixed into the sweet stir-fry noodle sauce. The noodles were drained out of the pan, topped with the sauce, and it was delicious. Lin Yan took the bowl and sat in front of the computer, watching "My Old Memories of Old Beijing" and eating the noodles.

The air was humid and stuffy in the early summer weather. Suddenly, halfway through the movie, a clap of thunder rang out outside. It didn't take long for large raindrops to pour down, and the thin lines of water on the window glass became a curtain of rain, pattering against the windows.

Lin Yan was busy turning off the video. Before his computer had fully shut off, a bolt of lightning flashed across the night sky. With a snap, the computer went black.

Afraid that something might happen, Lin Yan complained and unplugged the computer from the socket. He used a desktop computer specially equipped for 3D restoration renderings of cultural relics. As soon as the power came back after the thunderstorm had passed, he would have to submit a repair request.

Tomorrow, he'd have to trouble Yin Zhou to repair the machine again.

Suddenly, a strange feeling washed over him.

Cold, inexplicably cold, sending a shiver up his spine.

He didn't know when the temperature of the room started to drop. He didn't even notice it while he was watching the movie. Now it feels like he was inside an ice cave. The cold is coming out from all corners and enveloping his body. The sweat on his body turning cold, his t-shirt sticking to his back.

Lin Yan vigorously wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans, thinking about how the weather must be cooling down because of the rain, and decided to get up to find a long-sleeved shirt. Before he could get up, his eyes glanced at the computer screen and nervously sat back down.

With the lights on in the room, the situation in the room was clearly reflected on the dark computer screen. In front of the screen was Lin Yan's face, and behind him was the window, which opened wide inward, and the curtains were swept around by the wind. It was the "person" standing in front of the curtain that made Lin Yan frozen from head to toe.

That's not it; it was more like the shape of a person - a person wearing a strange hat.

Lin Yan stared blankly at the things on the screen, a sense of panic slowly creeping up his spine.

It must have been a clothes hanger that he forgot to move, there's no need to jump to conclusions. Lin Yan pulled at the corner of his clothes, took a deep breath, and swung his head around.

Nothing was there. Everything in the house looked normal. The only difference was that the raindrops were coming even larger, the rainwater twisting into small streams on the glass and flowing down.

His suspenseful heart began to calm down.

No! Lin Yan went numb all of a sudden. Not only was there no one there, but the windows were clearly locked, and the curtains were tightly tied on both sides. How could they be blown by the wind? What he saw in the reflection on the screen just now. . . what was going on?

An illusion! It must be an illusion! Lin Yan clenched his jaw. He couldn't help but pinch himself to keep himself sane.

There was a small electric crackle. The power went out, and the whole room fell into silent darkness.

Almost at the same time, the indicator light of the computer monitor suddenly flickered. The two small red lights looked like blinking eyes, accompanied by the squeaking sound of the whirring motors. The screen that was in a completely power-off state glowed green as if the screen saver had been switched. It's like a procedure.

No. . . Wasn't there a power outage? Lin Yan was completely speechless. His whole body was pushed back into the chair by the sudden and weird atmosphere. Then the screen flashed and, as if someone was typing, large characters appeared one after the other on the screen, piercingly red.

"The first day of the month of Wushen; the death date is approaching."

Another clap of thunder boomed outside the window.

Lin Yan swallowed hard and stared at the line of words on the screen. He tried his best to calm himself down, but his mind went blank.

It must be. . . It must be Yin Zhou pranking him.

He was a professional programmer and technical expert. Messing with the program to mess up the power grid. It must be boring to try and scare yourself or something.

"The first day of the month of Wushen; the death date is approaching."

The line of red letters flashed on the screen twice and disappeared. The computer then powered back off. Only Lin Yan's heavy breathing remained in the dark room. He took out his cell phone from his pant pocket and tried to call Yin Zhou. Before he pressed the call button, there was a heavy and repetitive tapping on the windowpane.

"Taptaptap. . . taptaptap"

He couldn't see anything in the heavy curtain of rain.

Lin Yan suddenly jumped up and leaned against the computer desk, staring out the window. This. . . this was the twelfth floor, what could be knocking on the window?

"Taptaptap. . . taptaptap"

The knocking increased as if someone were waiting impatiently.

Materialists couldn't stand immediate losses. Besides, creatures always have the instinct to avoid danger. The atmosphere was so strange. Lin Yan grabbed the car keys from his pocket and rushed out of the house without looking back.

The rain fell harder and faster, and the normally bustling three-ring road was empty. There was only the heavy rain curtains and thick fog. Lin Yan turned on his headlights lights all the way. He hoped to find an exit that was bustling with life and filled with a large crowd. In one night, his normal life was completely messed up. There was no signal from his cell phone and no signal from the radio. He seemed to be isolated in a corner of the world and was just driving around endlessly.

Lin Yan glanced at the fuel gauge. He was running out of fuel as he went further down the road, but he had not found the exit of the overpass. He was a native to this country and yet he was trapped in the city that he had been living in for 22 years. Just saying it was absurd enough to make anyone laugh.

The low-beam light couldn't illuminate the road very far. Under the warm yellow light, only the dense lines of rain could be seen falling diagonally, washing down his windshield. There was a wide road in front of him, turn after turn. There were no people, no cars, and even the sound of the GPS reporting how many kilometres were left was inaudible and his speed on the speedometer was barely visible. Lin Yan looked straight ahead, for fear of missing any fork in the road.

After travelling on the highway for nearly three hours, Lin Yan finally began to panic after passing the IKEA billboard multiple times over.

A deep thought came to mind.

The ghost was making him go around in circles.

The arrow on his fuel gauge was almost at 'empty'. Lin Yan slowed down. He thought he couldn't keep driving forward. Obviously, there was a force trying to stop him. What he should do is to sort out his thoughts and find a solution instead of continuing to drive around aimlessly. He didn't dare think about what would happen if he ran out of fuel.

Lin Yan pulled the car over, leaving only his hazard lights on, then sat in the car and began to think about what happened at night.

Power outages, computers that suddenly freaked out, strange reflections.

The first thing that came to mind was that someone was playing a prank, but he immediately denied it. If it was just the problem with his computer, he might still suspect the unreliable programmer Yin Zhou, but the knocking on the window, preventing him from getting off the highway, and blocking his mobile and radio signals; none of that was this guy's style. Lin Yan searched his mind for a long time to find a candidate that might want to scare a friend like this, but he came up with nothing.

He himself was a very good person. He was a good student from elementary straight through his master's. Apart from skipping classes to play Warcraft, and handing notes to his classmates during an exam, he basically had no blips on his record. He has never even played any tricks on girls, let alone his immediate friend group. Even if someone wanted to play a prank on someone as revenge, that wasn't how Lin Yan handled things.

Lin Yan was a person who, even when he ate toothpaste and cookies on April Fool's Day, still believed that he was just eating something mint-flavoured. To understand what was going on, Lin Yan could only find the solution by going through his process of elimination. By the time he can go through his hilariously incompetent system of thinking, he has probably already vomited up three litres of blood.

Lin Yan rubbed his temples and thought hard. Someone was threatening him in an inexplicable way, or was outright declaring war.

Lin Yan turned on the cell phone's calendar and entered the date of the first day of the Wushan month. The small square immediately jumped to the corresponding date: July 15 and the gates of hell would be wide open.

Something is wrong, Lin Yan thought.

When he looked up again, there was suddenly something that hadn't been there before that appeared in front of his car.

A figure stood near the side of the road as the heavy rain poured down. The figure didn't seem to notice Lin Yan was there, neither holding an umbrella nor wearing a raincoat, quietly standing with his head held down under the dim street lamp. The fog everywhere made Lin Yan unable to see his appearance. He could only make out that it was tall and he was wearing weird, oversized clothes. The caring Lin Yan wanted to offer the figure a ride. Even though he can't really protect himself right now, but he can at least provide some shelter from the rain.

An empty highway, rainy night, a strange individual on the side of the road, this unfortunate picture seemed suspicious at first, but Lin Yan saw something a little more depressing.

The figure seemed. . . very lonely, like waiting for a resolution that will never come.

Lin Yan re-started the car after making sure all the doors were locked, and slowly slid forward along the roadside, thinking that after being trapped in this endless loop for so long anyway, it was more useful to see if this person might be able to help him break the cycle.

When he was less than ten metres away from the person, Lin Yan suddenly froze as though a gong went off beside his ear. He finally realized why he felt there was something wrong with this figure. This person had no shadow.

The streetlamp was casting light on this person, but there was no shadow at his feet. The place where the shadow should have been was just the shape of the streetlamp reflected in the puddle, which was shaken by the continuously falling rain, rippling and disturbing the surface of the water.

Lin Yan knew what he had encountered almost instantly.

He was covered in a cold sweat, he couldn't keep a grip on the steering wheel because of his clammy palms. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. He slammed his foot on the accelerator, not caring how much fuel he had left. He didn't even care if there was any road ahead, he just knew subconsciously that he had to get away.

40km, 60km, 80km, 90km. . .

Suddenly a car sped out in front of him. Lin Yan was stunned, and instinctively stepped on the brakes and jerked the steering wheel to the left!

"Squeel--" After the extremely sharp and piercing sound, the front bumper Lin Yan's Audi A4 was just a few centimetres away from the Buick's back bumper as he brushed past it. Immediately after, Lin Yan drove into the bushes and the car shook before getting stuck. After it stopped shaking, the windshield was covered with holly leaves.

The car had almost been totalled.

Lin Yan lay on the steering wheel, panting heavily, his whole body was frozen.

"Knockknockknock." Something harshly knocked against the car window

Lin Yan jumped nervously and stared at the glass in horror. When he could see the face of a man, he let out a long sigh, and then rolled down the car window.

"Who the hell taught you how to drive? If you were so desperate to die, just tell me and I'll beat you to death!"

A series of harsh curses about his ancestors gave Lin Yan a sense of joy, bringing him back to reality. He almost rushed out and hugged the Buick driver.

"No. . . I'm sorry, I've been on this highway for three hours. I just found my way. I was a little excited, sorry, sorry."

Lin Yan wasn't paying attention to what the other driver said, and couldn't help smiling bitterly since the driver must really consider him an idiot.

The Buick driver stared at Lin Yan for a while, then suddenly stopped the curse, and muttered, "You look like you've seen a ghost." He took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and handed one to Lin Yan: "Did you come across something weird? Smoke a cigarette to calm your nerves. You should bring out a protection charm next time. We all have strange experiences at night every now and again."

Lin Yan got out of the car, and the driver lit the cigarette for Lin Yan. The two stood side by side on the roadside. Strangely, cars began whizzing by on the road. There were rows of shops and tall buildings lit up on both sides of the street where there was originally only fog and dark shadows. Even the rain from earlier had stopped.

Lin Yan took a puff of cigarettes and calmed down, and said in surprise: "Have we met before?"

The driver smiled indifferently: "It often happens, especially in places with a lot of accidents. The more deadly the accident, the more evil will be left behind."

Lin Yan nodded. He didn't know how much his materialistic worldview changed from this information.

After sending the driver away, Lin Yan whipped the sweat off his forehead and took out his phone to check the time. The screen showed two text messages and three missed calls, one every half an hour on average within the past two hours. Lin Yan opened his settings; the phone wasn't muted, the volume wasn't very loud but it was enough from him to hear it. It confirmed that the signal had been blocked this whole time.

Message 1: "Will you come out for a drink? The regular place."

Message 2: "What are you doing? Answer the phone!"

Both the sender and the caller were Yin Zhou.

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

[spectralscathath]

What Does It Mean, To Be Unyielding

The sky was never meant to fall. Mountains were not meant to crumble to dust in moments. The end of everything was not meant to be silent.

And yet it is.

The world was dust and ash under hands unable to fix it, and Elm had endured. She was not built to buckle or bow. She was supposed to be unbreakable, even when everything else around her is broken.

She is not the only one.

Ao3 Link

-------

She wakes up and it is quiet.

Just silence. A pale sky.

She forces herself to take stock of the situation. Her head rang like a bell’s toll, staring up at the sky as she watched dark smoke eat at the edges of the yellow sky.

She forces herself to move. She forces herself to sit up. Her vision goes dark as she does, vertigo sinking its claws into her as she nearly passes out again. She breathes through it, her vision clearing slowly, a strange unbalance lingering. She realises her arm is broken,  her bones shifting in protest in her right arm, her shoulder thrown out of alignment and her forearm crooked in a way that it wasn’t meant to bend.

She stared dully at her shoulder for a moment before she strips her jacket off, the pain there but distanced from her, her head too foggy to register anything of substance. The bone protrudes from her back, her shoulder joint having popped out of its socket.

She takes a breath, holds it as she places her left hand on the dislocated joint, and exhales sharply as she wrenches it back into place.

The pain hits her and she lets it out in a yell that she can't hear. Tears well and they fall. She doesn't fight them.

She uses her jacket to bind her bones, refusing to let her gaze linger on the aged scars that warp and melt the muscles of her right arm. She forces herself to stand, another dizzying wave striking her. She rides it out, looks around. She expects her breath to fog in the air, but it doesn't.

There are fires scattered everywhere, and they are doing the job of keeping the lethal cold at bay. She is surrounded by rubble. On one side, there is nothing but destroyed cities and smoke. Behind her, there is a mountain of destruction. Atlas had fallen, half-into the pit it had been lifted from.

Elm’s cheeks are hot, devastated brown eyes staring at the wreckage that had been her kingdom. Robyn had challenged her about what the kingdom was, if it was the people or the land they lived on. As if the two could be so easily separated. If a house burnt down, people were allowed to grieve what they lost. Atlas had been home for so many, Mantle had been home for so many, and all that was left was carnage. Elm's home was rubble now. All that she had now were memories, and she could only imagine it was the same for so many others.

Was she not allowed to cry for what was gone? Even if everyone had lived? And what if they hadn't? She didn't want to destroy Mantle. She didn't want Marrow to be arrested and treated like a traitor. She'd never wanted any of this. She hadn't known what else to do, so she'd tried to trust James.

And for what? Rubble? Ash? Smoke?

Clover was dead. Marrow was a turncoat. Harriet and Vine had left her. Robyn had yelled about an evacuation, using the staff.

She could only hope it worked.

She walks through the bones of Mantle, the fires growing thick around her until she reaches the epicenter of the explosion. There was nothing. Not even the ship that held the bomb was left. Vine and Harriet, Robyn and Qrow- did they survive? She didn't know. She couldn't know. She could only fear the worst.

The worst was that she was the last one standing, once again.

She remembers how she got the scars on her arm, she remembers the Grimm, she remembers SBLE.  She watched her team, her friends , be torn apart and devoured right before her eyes. She remembers Centinel acid staining her arm as she fired Timber's missiles at the cavern roof, bringing the whole mountain down onto the Grimm nest.

She remembers the quiet afterwards as she woke up. A pale sky.

She couldn't seem to die.

Not then. Not now.

She wipes her eyes. She’d allowed herself too much of a breakdown, and she had to do something. Anything. She hasn’t seen Timber since her fall, nor Marrow after Robyn and Qrow moved him when he was unconscious. His aura had been broken. She hopes he had gotten out, that they all had. No one should have to die in a falling city.

She closes her eyes and focuses her attention inwards, reaching for the copper fires of her soul. There were a few barely kindled embers, not enough to last her. She shouldn’t be reckless and use her aura up now, the smart thing to do was to let the fires of Mantle keep the Solitas chill at bay until she had more to draw on.

So she walks. She doesn’t know what she was looking for, she doesn’t want to find survivors, she didn’t want to find bodies, and there wasn’t anything else worth looking for. She finds herself drawn out of Mantle, towards the wreckage that was Atlas, metal and earth twisted together.

This was her home . All this pain and devastation, all this loss, was it really how it had to go?

She begins to hike up through the mountain that was once a kingdom, the air too still and too quiet. She recognised this street. She’d walked it a million times on her way to work. She could see Atlas Academy from here, the spire split in two, crushing everything under it. She knows those streets. If she’s right- those are the streets she grew up on.

She moves in a daze as she finds her street, staring at the Academy that crushed Hestia’s Avenue, and so many others. Her parent’s bakery is in there somewhere, crushed to nothing. Did they get out? Were they safe?

She can’t even check. She almost buckles, there and then, but she can’t. She has to keep going. Even if there isn’t anything to keep going for, she has to. If only because no one else could, and she had to keep going for their sakes.

She walks along the fallen spire to Atlas Academy. If nothing else, she might be able to find medical supplies, rations, something to help recharge her aura faster. She doesn’t know how to keel over, she knows how to survive, and she needs to think logically and salvage what she can to do that.

The Academy doors are blocked by collapsed walls when she reaches them, and she has to take a second to stop herself from doing something foolish. She’ll find something else.

On the other side of the Academy, it’s like part of the earth has been ripped away, sheared off and fallen to the side. She can see the military base that wound through the landmass, too dangerous to traverse in her weakened state. One wrong step and she could fall or die.

She has no choice. She has to turn back. She remembers she fell from the hanger. She’d tried to catch herself on her semblance, root herself in place, but the floor had been so damaged that it didn’t matter in the end.

She should try and find the hanger, or the area around it. She might find her weapon, and if nothing else that would be a comforting weight on her back.

Away from Mantle burning, the cold bites and stings her skin, trying to dig under and nestle like a parasite. Elm shivers as she walks, her makeshift sling not helping to keep her warm. Perhaps she should have followed uniform regulations a bit more closely.

She walks off Atlas until she’s found herself back in the warmth of Mantle’s fires, many of them starting to burn out, and starts her hike, picking a direction she hadn’t been in yet and hoping that it’s the correct choice. If she looks beyond the city she can see the tundra stretch endlessly, untouched by the calamity. Soon enough the snow would set in, and Atlas would be gone, buried under ice and forgotten, like so many of the Solitas expeditions in the past.

Her legs burn from exertion, exhaustion settling on her shoulders like a cloak as her throat is dry, the sharp air harsh as she breathes, but she won’t let it stop her. She can’t. She has to find her warhammer, supplies, shelter, at least until her aura’s full enough that she can set out. She won’t die here. She won’t stay in a dead city. Maybe if she walks long enough, she can reach the ocean, find a boat, a ship, the long range radars had transports. She could find one and go to Argus. Tell everyone what happened.

She finds an airship crashed on the ground in one street, Atlesian Knights sprawled around it like bodies. This must be the ship that fell when Atlas tilted, when her team left her. When Robyn and Qrow had gone after them. Why did blowing up Mantle matter so much to Harriet? Why did any of this have to happen in the first place.

She finds Timber, and she nearly sobs in relief. The metal is scuffed and scratched, but as she clips Timber to the back up hook on her belt, the weight feels like home.

She’s in no real shape to wield it with any of her usual grace, much less to fire her rockets without her semblance to anchor her there, but Timber was her life, an extension of herself, and she felt incomplete without it.

She sees no sign of Marrow. He must have gotten out. There’s no signs of anything alive, except for her.

She walks around the base of Atlas, the smell of agitated dust filling her nose as she gets close to the crater that the city had fallen into. She supposes there must have been some sort of explosion on impact, it certainly looked like there was destruction galore.

She spots a flicker of blue light, during her hike, and it catches her attention. Is that Dust? A holoscreen? Her scroll was confiscated by Qrow, perhaps she could at least try and see if there was any way she could get a message out.

She walks and then she sees it, torches that still burn in their grates with blue fires, even in all the destruction the flames remain lit. She grabs one, she’ll need light when the sun eventually goes down, and if these are still burning, burning cold , then they’re a better choice than anything else.

She looks up, breath catching in her throat as she sees the gouge in Atlas’s side, hanging over her like a guillotine blade. Inside she sees geometric shapes and a glint of brilliant gold. The Vault.

The damage reached that far inwards? What had those kids done ?

She holds her torch high as she turns. There wasn’t much to be salvaged here. She had to go somewhere else.

She spots a gun on the ground. The metal is ebony, patterned with swirling silver filigree.

She drops the torch, the flames hissing gently as they remain lit.

One half of Due Process is light as she picks it up, and she starts searching. James. If anyone else could have survived the fall of Atlas, it would be him. He was just as sturdy as she was, maybe even more so. He’d been acting erratically, but they were still allies. She was still loyal to him.  

“James!” She yells, voice ragged and rough as it tears from her like a curse. “James, where are you?” Please, she didn’t want to do this alone.

The silence chokes her in response. She doesn’t have a holster, all she can do is hold Due Process as she looks around. She won’t put it down. Dread uncoils in her chest, fleeting hope at risk of being ripped away.

She sees the gun he had created, torn in half- no, cut in half, the slash was too neat for it to be an accident. She walks over with her hand clenched around his gun, her knuckles going white as it shakes in her grip.

Her heart shatters in her chest like a diamond hit at just the right angle, so thoroughly she knows she’ll never heal it again, and she crumples beside his body.

James’s face is finally peaceful, even with his body twisted in ways it wasn’t meant to. His dark blue eyes stare, reflecting the pale sky with an unseeing gaze. She doesn’t want to look too long, to take in the details, but her eyes are drawn to the white of his jacket, to the red that blooms over his heart.

That wasn’t caused by his fall. The stab wound is too thin, too surgical, too precise.

Winter had been by his side when he’d sent them away. If Marrow had turned on them, if he had been free to turn traitor… He wasn’t the only one.

James was dead, and just like her, he’d been left to rot.

Her hand shakes as she drops Due Process, reaches to close James’s eyes, and that is what breaks the final part of her. Ugly sobs tear claw their way free as salt stings on her face, and she is so tired of trying to get back up, of trying to keep fighting, because what is the point when there is no one left to fight for? Clover, James, SBLE, everyone was dead, or gone, or they’d left her, and maybe they were right to, if she was so useless she couldn’t even protect the people she loved more than her own life.

She kneels there until the pale sky goes dark, until the fires of Mantle have burnt out, until she has no tears left to shed. The sky is clear, and above her is a million stars, finally free to shine, unhindered by the light of Atlas.

Elm looks up at them as they paint stories in constellations, and she thinks about how James knew every single one by heart. She thinks about shared missions with Clover, tucked away in a tent in a blizzard, trading stories of their own as they wait out a snowstorm. She thinks about how they were gone now, how they’d been stabbed in the heart by people they thought they could trust, and she wishes that it was her instead.

She hears a whisper of fabric, a gentle rustle that drags over the ground, and she accepts her fate, bowing her head as she concedes. How could she be so foolish to think that she was the only one to survive.

“I respected him, you know.” Salem’s voice is soft as a shroud. “James Ironwood held a determination that comes around once in a lifetime. It was a shame to see my Ozma waste it so thoroughly.”

“If you’re going to kill me, kill me.” Elm spits, brown eyes vicious and protective as she glares at her, because she won’t have this witch say another word about James. She doesn’t deserve to say his name. “Don’t just stand there and talk.”

Salem raises a brow, and Elm doesn’t have it in her to be afraid. The Queen of Grimm looms large, her hands folded regally before her, a monolith untouched by time. There’s no word to describe her presence, she simply Is, and Elm wonders how they ever could have hoped to beat her.

“I confess,” Salem is studying her now. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else to have survived. I have been in devastation such as this countless times, and no one ever does. You must be very strong.”

The word dug into Elm like a barb, twisting and tearing. If she was so strong then why didn’t she stop this? “You’re wrong.”

“Then perhaps you’re lucky instead,” Salem muses, and Elm has to bite the inside of her cheek to ward off the grief that punches through her.

“Shut up.” Elm growls, choosing anger over pain. Her hand finds Due Process, weakened fingers wrapping around the gun. Timber would be too obvious.

“Dr Watts escaped, of course,” Salem converses as though they’re talking about the weather, and Elm hates it, she hates being toyed with like a cat played with a mouse. “He offered to give me a ride back to Evernight, can you imagine? How pedestrian, to ride in an airship. I’m almost curious.”

If snapping won’t work, Elm chooses silence, setting her jaw stubbornly as she glares.

Salem’s lips curve, her smile on the knife’s edge between dainty and alluring, and it makes Elm feel sick. “From what I recall, Cinder has chased Ruby Rose and the Winter Maiden through those portals to Vacuo. The staff is powerful indeed, it seems. It’s no matter. Vacuo was my preferred goal, originally. It seems I will be returning to my preferred plan.”

“So why attack Atlas?” Elm asks, trying to figure out what she was missing. Why was Salem telling her all of this in the first place?

“An attack of opportunity,” Salem elaborates freely, the hem of her dress dragging over the ground as she walks closer. Elm’s finger rests on the trigger of Ironwood’s gun as Salem continues. “When I heard that my Ozma had placed both the staff and the lamp in such close proximity, I couldn’t help myself. I try not to act in avarice, but it seems I succumbed to that particular vice. It’s no matter. Soon enough I will have what I desire.”

“You won’t win,” Elm snarls on instinct, but she wasn’t so sure she believed it. She’d believed in James, when he’d said he had a plan to stop Salem. She’d believed in a lot of things, and all of it had failed. Who was protecting the relics now? The Staff was in Vacuo, guarded by Shade Academy and a bunch of turncoats and teenagers. They’d protected the Staff, sure, but at what cost? A kingdom? If they continued on their goal, wreaking destruction in the name of saving everybody, then eventually all Salem would have to do was pluck the relics from the rubble of the four kingdoms.

Salem smiles wryly at her, gliding closer, and Elm strikes. She fires Due Process, the black gun barking as she pulls the trigger again and again. Salem soaks each bullet up, bone white skin splitting as the force of each shot knocks her back, but she doesn’t fall.

Due Process clicks and keeps clicking, the chamber empty.

Salem heals, because she can’t be killed, why was Elm even trying when she couldn’t be killed? “Are you done?”

Elm’s hand shook as she lowered it, her last stand futile. Salem wasn’t anything else but an inevitability, it seemed.

Salem hums in interest. “Even now, you fight, when you’ve lost everything. You refuse to die as much as I do, it seems.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Elm rasps, voice on the verge of giving out.

“Tell me, what would you do for him?” Salem gestures at James, and Elm can’t bring herself to look at him again. “He died, and for what? A few children’s whims? A meagre attempt to prolong what they cannot halt? He will be remembered as a monster, as a traitor. He will be the villain of the story those children will tell.”

“No,” Elm shakes her head in defiance of the thought. “He’s not a monster. He wanted to do what was right- he just lost his way. They betrayed him.” They betrayed her. She’d trusted them and they treated her like she was a mindless thug, an automaton with no thoughts of her own.

“They did.” Salem tilts her head. “So why is it that traitors get to live on and tell his story, when they were the ones who placed the sword in his heart in the first place? That’s not fair.”

It wasn’t. It wasn’t right. “If they had just trusted us from the start- we gave them everything, how could they lie to us like that?” Clover was dead because of them. James was dead, and they’d paint him as something he never was meant to be.

“You gave them your trust, and they broke it.” Salem draws closer, kneeling down to brush hair from James’s forehead. Elm doesn’t stop her. Why was it that an immortal nightmare showed more respect to him in death then everyone else had in life? “They killed James. They caused all of this. I certainly didn’t. All I wanted was the staff and the lamp. Everything is gone, because of them. And they left you behind to deal with it.”

Elm’s shoulders heave with a sob that had nothing left to fuel it. Her team, the ace ops, they’d just left her. Why? Wasn’t she worth even untying? They were meant to watch each other’s backs. Maybe it was what she’d deserved, leaving James alone with Winter.

“Perhaps they didn’t think you’d survive.” Salem contemplates, rising once more to her full height. “They certainly underestimated you, if so.”

“No one was meant to survive this.” Elm really was expendable, wasn’t she?

“But we did.” Salem extends a hand down, her porcelain fingers embroidered with dark veins. “You are like me, in that respect. You’re unbreakable.”

Elm stares at the offered hand, and she finally realises that Salem won’t kill her. Her brown eyes go wide as the implication hits, flicking up to Salem’s blood-red gaze.

Salem smiles like she’s giving her a gift. “There’s nothing for you here. Come with me, and we can rewrite the story they’ll tell of Atlas. You can show those children what their thoughtless actions have wrought.”

The thought is tempting in a way it shouldn’t be. Elm reaches, hesitates.

Salem’s eyes gleam with victory. “Don’t die here. Live on for those who have fallen. No one else will fight for them now.”

Elm takes her hand, engulfing cold fingers in a warm grip. Salem pulls her to her feet with strength that belies her slender frame, and Elm realises she’s taller, like always.

It’s almost funny.

Salem’s grip tightens on Elm’s hand and orbs of light swirl around their joined hands, sparkling in every colour of the rainbow. Elm feels something wash over her skin like water and air all at once, not quite warm and not quite cold, and for a moment she aches as it settles on her broken bones, but then the pain is gone.

She pulls her right arm from the sling she’d made, the warped scarring still there but the bend in her forearm fixed, as if by- oh. Magic. Obviously. Her aura feels full, like a blazing hearth as opposed to the few smouldering coals it had been, and she summons it forward, copper light rippling across her skin like waves as she becomes indestructible again.

Salem smiles at her as she lets go of her hand, her calm smile veiling what looks like delight. “I can do far more than merely destroy. Tell me your name.” It’s not a question.

“Elm Ederne.” She doesn’t list her rank. There’s no point in that now. The military she fought for was over. She’d made her choice.

Salem commits it to memory. “Well then, Elm. Shall we be off? There is much to be done.”

Elm reaches down to pick up James’s gun, her arms bare as she lets her makeshift sling fall to the ground. Due Process fits in her hand, and it feels wrong to hold someone else’s weapon but it feels right because it was James who carried it first. She can’t leave it behind. She can’t leave him behind. She won’t let him be forgotten.

The silver detailing is beautiful as it swirls over the ebony metal, and Elm nods to herself. She falls into step behind Salem, and it doesn’t feel like the wrong choice. She is going to make sure that everyone who left her, turned on her, that they’ll see that she won’t be brought down so easily.

“What are your orders, Ma’am?” She wouldn’t yield again.

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Status Change (baon)

Summary: Okay, so what, Red is sick.

Why the hell does that mean he has to be in Sans's house?

Notes: Let me apologize for the timeline being all over the place with these two. 😭

This is set not long after Monsters come to the surface, long before Red and Sans try on a little round of 'assholes with benefits' and waaaay before anything else. Hope that makes sense!

Tags: Kustard, Prequel to the series, Hurt/Comfort (kinda), Sickness. Pre-relationship

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

“what the hell is he doing here?”

The last thing Sans expected to find when he came back home from a trip to nap on one of the park benches was his Underfell clone in his bro’s room, snuggled up tight in Papyrus’s bed. The only reason the blasters weren’t coming out was that Paps wasn’t in the bed with him. Also, Red looked pretty unconscious but Sans wasn’t counting on that to stop him from pulling some shit.

Papyrus was dabbing at Red’s face with a wet cloth, the joints in his fingers still glowing faintly green from what must’ve been a wallop of healing magic. It was practically crackling in the air still, like the world’s kindest static electricity.

“He is sleeping,” Paps said, with enough of a ‘duh’ tone that Sans couldn’t stop a grin, “a state of being that I assumed you would easily recognize, since you practice it so often.”

“uh huh. why is he sleeping and why there?”

“From what I understand, he has been ill for days.” Papyrus tossed the wet cloth into a bowl and stood, and Sans frowned inwardly as his brother wobbled on his feet. Trying too hard to heal the asshole, for sure, like he deserved Paps’s personal attention. He had his own fucking brother to look after him, thanks, and if Edge didn’t want to put on the nurse costume that didn’t mean Papyrus had to start digging through his closet for one, even if he had the legs for it.

As if sensing Sans’s internal grouching, Papyrus said, quietly, eh, well, quietly for him. “Edge is still out of town and Red refused to go to the hospital, so I brought him here.”

Great, that was all they needed. Even after finding their strays a home, looked like some of ‘em couldn’t stop from coming back to check the ol’ food bowl. He and Paps had been about as helpful with the other skeletons as anyone could expect by Sans’s account; having four clones show up on their doorstep, two apiece, should’ve been enough to throw anyone off their game, especially when they worked through the data to figure out how it all happened. But not his bro, no, ‘course not. Papyrus was delighted for the game to go into overtime. He welcomed ‘em all in like they were long lost family, planning movie nights and summer barbecues with the ‘cousins’ before they’d even gotten up to see the sun.

Meh, it was easier for him, though. Paps got off lucky in that department, at least his murder clone kept mostly to himself while he got his new life into order and his mirror twin only wanted to smoke and lay on the sofa while Sans got stuck with the energizer rabbit version of Suzy Homemaker and the asshole.

None of that was Papyrus’s fault, though.

“yeah?” Sans barely gave the lump under his brother’s blankets a glance. “if you’d left him on the street, someone would’ve called an ambulance eventually and they coulda strapped him down. That’d save the two of us from playing pair-of-medics.”

“Sans! First, that would be rude!” Papyrus scolded. “And second, if you think for one moment I could leave a skeleton Monster who looks so much like you lying in the street, then we need to have another Brotherly Bonding Night, I believe it’s your turn to pick the game. And third, I think everyone knows he would have taken a shortcut to anywhere to avoid that whether it was a paramedics or more. They would have knocked on our door for help and we would be here anyway, so by bringing him here, I eliminated at least three steps! It was efficient!”

Guess Sans couldn’t argue that. He could damn well argue what came next, though.

“Now, sit with him while I make some soup! We still have some tomatoes on which I can demonstrate my might!” The way he pounded his fist in his hand didn’t bode well for the kitchen, but eh, at least the flavors were getting better. It was when he backtracked to the first part of that statement that Sans stood up straighter, appalled.

“why do i gotta sit with him?” Sans whined. His plan that he’d just come up with was to hide in his bedroom until the asshole was out of the house.

“Because of the two of us, you are the expert in seated occupancy.” Sans let his grin widen. Trust Paps to be able to sling some shade even healing-exhausted. His bro was the coolest.

He looked back at their uncool guest and scowled. “and why does he need a babysitter?”

“Because he is vulnerable and if he wakes, he will feel better if someone is keeping watch.” Pretty thoughtful, even if it was for a guy that didn’t deserve it.

A Check tossed his way might still show Red’s name as ‘Sans’, but that was about where the real resemblance ended. From the moment he’d landed in their living room, Red was all out proving he was an asshole through and through, nothing was holding his skeleton together but hot air and snark, frosted with violent tendencies. About the only thing that kept Sans from tossing his ass back out into the snow was Papyrus.

He’d toned back on the snark these days, a little. One might even suggest that lately Red treated Papyrus rather fondly, if one was crazy and/or an asshole, or somehow otherwise emotionally degenerate.

Sans wasn’t the emotionally degenerate one, so he flung himself into the chair, waving Paps off to the kitchen before he could ask for anything else that Sans wouldn’t be able to turn down. From this angle, he could actually see Red or what little of him wasn’t buried into the blankets.

Yeah, okay, Red looked like shit. His skull was chalky-pale where it wasn’t pink-streaked by sweat, sockets closed to hide those creepy red eye lights. Those sawblade teeth were parted while he drooled messily on Paps’s clean sheets. Who knew what the fuck the asshole was sick with, low HP made ‘em prone to catching any ol’ germ floating around. Probably Sans shouldn’t even be sitting here, he was gonna get the Ebott Mountain Spotted flu or something and—

“don’” It wasn’t more than a frail whisper, Red’s teeth barely moving.

“huh?” Sans leaned in, tilting his skull for a better listen. Red stirred a little, rolling on his back, but didn’t seem to wake. His brow bone furrowed, making the crack that ran through his one socket gape disturbingly wider.

“don’,” Red mumbled again, wispy low. “don’t. pap.” He started shivering, little unbalanced jerks rocking him, setting his bones rattling like castanets.

Sans frowned, leaning in closer. Nightmares he had some passing familiarity with, though he suspected the Fell bros had a hellava lot more viewing material. He wasn’t real sure about those two; he could see their souls, their sins, and still couldn’t quantify them. Oh, sure, he’d done a song and dance for Asgore about ‘em, how Edge’s LVL was caused by him being a soldier, not a serial killer and Red didn’t have any at all. But that was about all he got from a shallow peek into their souls and he hadn’t really wanted to take a high dive into the deep end of their sins.

Still, he’d never met anyone whose soul gave him so little damn insight and he morbidly wondered if it was because they’d learned to keep it pretty close to the chest, pun intended, ‘cause of the state of their world. Edge wasn’t the chatty sort but he’d told them enough about Underfell to make Sans pretty glad the Universes toppled the way they did.

Red was still shaking, kicking off the blankets and his bones were flushed with fever. He made a hissing, hushing sound, blurred and slurry, “don’ cry, baby bro, i gotcha. won’t let ‘em, shhhhh.” He struggled to roll over again, smearing crimson sweat on the sheets as those knifey fingers of his stabbed right into the mattress while he groped for nothing, letting out what was almost a sob, “paps!”

It was pretty fucking stupid the way those few words made Sans’s soul lurch. So fucking what, the guy cared about his bro. Didn’t make him less of an asshole.

And it didn’t mean shit when Sans reached down to pick up the wet cloth Paps’d been using, wringing it out and gingerly wiping off Red’s face even as he kept a close eye on those Edward Scissorhands of his. Yeah, he was gonna get sick, for sure, the germs were probably parading up his arm even as he dabbed away that trickling sweat.

Red quivered again, wracked with shudders, mumbling out their brothers’ shared name with disturbingly poignant despair and suddenly, Sans couldn’t stand to watch it anymore.

“paps is fine,” Sans said, softly, “he’s fine. he’s safe.”

’Safe’ seemed to be the magic work, Red sagging back into the sheets with a weak sigh. Sans kept up those low reassurances until Red settled a little more, leaning into the cloth as Sans wiped his face, those almost-sobs clotting into snoring. Sans dipped the rag into the ice water again, wringing it out some and setting the cool rag on Red’s forehead.

“fucking asshole,” Sans muttered, hopping down from his chair to pull the tangle of blankets back over Red before he could get a chill and make a stupid cold even more complicated. Sooner the asshole got better, the sooner they could kick him back to his own house.

Until then, Sans climbed back in the chair and settled in to keep watch. Didn’t mean anything, he’d told Papyrus he would, was all, and he’d done worse things before than sitting around watching Red sleep.

And when Red stirred again, calling weakly for his bro, Sans didn’t hesitate to tell him he was safe.

-finis-

[myouki]

The Second Time Around: Chapter 2

Happy Valentine’s Day or Singles Awareness Day, whichever you celebrate~

Chapter Warnings:

Swearing

Credits:

Lotus: @nekophy

Rurik: @angeutblogo​

***

"I'll be right back," Rurik announced, sliding out from his side of the booth.

Lotus set down his drink, his sockets creasing in concern, "Is something wrong?"

"No, no, I just want to ask the waiter something," the taller reassured his partner, "wait right here." Getting a nod from the smaller, the skeleton weaved through the tables and the multitude of people that had gathered in the past hour or so they had been in the restaurant. Spotting a woman at the server podium, he made a beeline for her.

She wasn't their server, but she could fulfill his request just as well as anyone else.

As he approached and they made eye contact, Rurik said, "Hey, do you guys have a dessert menu? I didn't see one on the regular menu."

The woman blinked owlishly, then started apologizing profusely, "I'm so sorry sir, we usually have a menu holder for our desserts set on each table; I'll get one for you right away."

"Cool, thanks," the monster replied with a shrug as she bustled off to find the requested item. Turning back toward the table Lotus was still sitting at, he watched his partner sipping on their drink and watching the room with a mellow expression while they waited; the meal had turned out really good and his companion had given their approval, so he would definitely keep the place in mind if they ever went out again.

"Here you are, sir," the woman's voice drew his attention to the podium once more. As he took the flip folder style menu, she asked, "is there anything else I can help you with?"

Thinking it over as he flipped through each option, he decided, "Actually, yeah; do you guys have any spicy desserts?"

"Spicy?" the woman repeated, getting a nod in response, "I think we have a brownie option that uses cayenne pepper." Gesturing for the menu, Rurik handed it over and watched her flip through before her expression brightened, "Here it is; it's called our Mexican Chocolate Brownie Sundae. You get a chocolate brownie square with cayenne pepper and cinnamon mixed in, topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, whipped cream, and a cherry."

Rurik leaned in, reading the description on the notecard-sized laminated sheet. Liking how it sounded, he stated, "Sounds good, I'd like to get one of those to go... but can I get the stuff on top of the brownie in a separate container? Might be a while before we get home; don't want the ice cream to make the brownie soggy."

"Of course, are you paying here or...?" the woman questioned, trailing off at the end.

Rurik gestured back toward his table, "Just add it to our bill, our table's over-"

He paused mid-sentence as he caught sight of some guy sitting in the booth next to a very disgruntled Lotus. The small skeleton was glaring daggers at the taller man, but the stranger wasn't taking the hint, effectively boxing them into the corner.

"... there. Just bring it over with the bill," Rurik finished flatly, not waiting for the reply as he made his way back through the crowd. He sped up as the guy leaned in, towering over his partner with a greedy smirk.

This was supposed to be their night, but this douchebag just had to start shit!

Murderous thoughts began to swirl in his mind, only quelled by the small voice in the back of his mind begging him to salvage the date. Right, they were still on their date; he had to keep his cool.

He couldn't blow up this time; he wouldn't blow up this time, for Lotus' sake.

As he took deep breaths, concocting the various ways he could punish the interloper without causing too much of a scene, the man suddenly stiffened in place. Lotus was saying something, his eye light practically boring a hole through the man, but the noise in the room prevented Rurik from making anything out.

The angry skeleton approached the table, settling for grabbing the guy's shirt and yanking him back into the aisle while growling, "Who the hell are you?"

Before the guy could even utter a sound, Lotus spat out, "He's no one; in fact, he was just leaving... weren't you?" It wasn't so much a question as a command, and Rurik was surprised when the guy quickly backed up and stumbled away from them. He watched the man trip over himself trying to get out of the restaurant, nearly setting himself on fire when he bumped into another table and knocked over their candle in his haste.

Rurik snorted at the pathetic display, turning back to the booth and sliding into his seat, "You okay? Did that jackass do anything?"

"I'm alright, more irritated than anything," Lotus huffed folding his arms across the table. The taller felt his emotions settle as they continued, "The sleaze came over asking if I got stood up; I told him you were here and he slid into the booth, spouting shit about you not being here now and showing me a better time." A smug grin grew on his face as he added, "though he stopped real quick when I shoved a sharpened bone in his crotch and threatened to neuter him if he didn't piss off."

Rurik barked out a laugh, "So that's why he was damn near shitting himself trying to get away; looks like you had everything handled."

"No, I'm glad you showed up when you did," Lotus countered his words with an uneasy grimace, "I had him nervous, but he wasn't moving yet and I think he was still weighing his options before you stepped in; debating whether he could overpower me. You being here made him balk."

"While I'm happy to help, I think you're discounting yourself," Rurik contradicted them, playing with the neck of his beer bottle as he crooned, "I have to say, it was kind of hot watching you put that scumbag in his place."

The hooded monster scoffed, "Keep it in your pants; you already got your Valentine's Day gift. The most you're getting out of me for the rest of the night is cuddles."

"Can't blame a guy for trying," Rurik shrugged, already having expected the response; all things considered, he was curious about the wood carving kit Lotus had gotten him since it would give him a more constructive use for his knife skills and the freedom to make whatever he wanted.

"You did tell me I need to stand up for myself more," Lotus smirked.

"That I did," he confirmed, spotting the waiter walking toward them with a check holder and a small to-go box.

As the man set the check in front of him and the box, Lotus asked, "What's that?"

"It's the reason I got up," Rurik clarified, pulling out a few bills from his wallet and slipping them into the pocket alongside the check, "turns out they have spicy desserts here too."

"Oh really?" Lotus inquired, glancing at the box in intrigue.

"Yup, a little something to take home with us," the taller chuckled as the waiter came back to take their payment. Leaving a few dollars on the table, tucked safely under one of the roses surrounding the candle so it wouldn't fall off the table, he slid out of his seat. Lotus picked up the box and followed, accepting the arm that was presented as they walked out of the restaurant together.

As the pair walked down the quiet sidewalk of the city, Rurik hazarded a question, "So... other than the asshole at the end, did you have a good time?"

"If you're asking whether or not I enjoyed our date, I did," the smaller stated nonchalantly, leaning their hooded skull against his arm, "the food was good and despite the interruption, it was fun."

Rurik's chest swelled with pride, pleased that he had succeeded this time. "Oh! Almost forgot," he exclaimed, digging into his pocket.

"Forgot what?" Lotus prodded, tilting their skull up.

"This," Rurik said, producing his phone with a sly grin, "Every successful date needs a picture to commemorate it."

The smaller skeleton chuckled, letting go of his arm, "Alright then, I can go along with that; though you'll have to crouch since I'm short."

"I prefer to think of it as fun-sized," Rurik quipped playfully, wrapping an arm around his companion and pulling them to his chest so they both fit in the frame.

Lotus snorted as he snapped a quick picture, earning him a playful jab to the ribs, "Rurik, you ass! I wasn't ready yet."

"But I got a nice candid camera photo," Rurik grinned as the smaller jabbed him again. Realigning the phone once more, he laughed, "Okay, okay; for real this time."

The two posed; once the flash went off and Rurik brought the phone closer to inspect the picture, Lotus hugged the arm wrapped around him close and murmured, "Thanks for taking me out; Happy Valentine's Day."

Rurik looked away from the screen, grinned down at his partner, "Happy Valentine's Day to you too."

[romancemeyamato]

24 Hours with Negan (part 1 of 5)

You had just turned 17 when the outbreak began. You can still see the faces of your family members when you close your eyes. The way your dad looked when he fought to protect you. He tried so hard to protect everyone, but in the end he just wasn't strong enough- between the dogs and your baby brother and your older sister and your step mother who was always afraid- there was just too much for him to look after.

Anyways, you're alone now. Well, you feel alone... You do have somewhat of a friend in Matthew. Matt's helped save you more than a few times on your travels, but lately he's been getting pretty pushy on what he wants from your relationship and it's starting to scare you.

"We're just friends," you remind him once again.

Matt sighs in frustration, "I know that (y/n), I'm just saying you should give me a chance. We're in the middle of a zombie apocalypse for Christ sake and you're being choosy on who you want for a boy friend!"

You kick a few large rocks as you walk. It's not like you haven't thought about having a boyfriend, or at least someone to date. But Matt has always just been a friend. You kick another stone. You and Matt have been following the railroad tracks for a few hours now, hoping to find some kind of shelter before nightfall. The last thing you want is to be sleeping up in a tree for another night!

"Have you ever considered that maybe I don't want a boy friend?"

"Seriously, you're 19 years old and you still want to be single?" He asks, stopping in the middle of the track to look at you. You look back at him.

He's not an ugly guy- about 24 years old, you think. He's got light skin that's slightly burnt by the Georgia sun, and dark brown hair that falls messily over his eyes. In fact, you think before the apocalypse you might've given a guy like him a chance. But now all you can think about is how his whiny and pushy behavior is a liability. You can practically hear your dad's voice calling him a 'little bitch'. You can't help but giggle at the voice in your head.

"So now you're laughing at me," he growls.

"No, I wasn't laughing at you," you try to tell him but Matt just shakes his head and starts walking away.

"C'mon, let's go before it gets too late," he says over his shoulder.

About twenty minutes later the two of you wind up at a railway station. Matt looks back at you and gives a hand signal- it means he sees walkers, two of them. You crouch down low, pulling your axe handle from the sling on your back. You feel a wave of adrenalin rush through your body, making your fingertips go cold. No matter how many times you face them, the dead always give you a little bit of fear. But if you can clear out the walkers then maybe you won't have to sleep outside tonight, and that's reason enough to run up to them and take a swing.

The first walker turns to you with a growl, it's jaw is hanging loose and you wonder how it can even see you with it's eyes shriveled in their sockets. It doesn't matter- you swing your axe handle as hard as you can and sigh in relief as it's skull caves in around the temple. You turn to Matt with a smile as you see him drop the second walker by stabbing it's forehead.

"Alright, good job-" you start to say, but suddenly cold dirty fingers are digging into your shoulder. You turn and a third walker is pushing you down, trying to bite your face. You feel it's overgrown fingernails cutting into your flesh and your heart starts pounding in panic. You try to push it away, but it's a freshly turned walker and so it's much stronger than the already rotting ones.

"Matt!" You yell, tripping over the first walker you killed and landing hard on your back. It feels like the air's been knocked out of you, and you struggle to take a breath. You look up, but Matt's just standing there, staring at you. The walker on top of you so close you can smell it's breath- like roadkill and the worst morning breath you've ever smelled. It nearly makes you gag, and tears sting the corner of your eyes from it.

"Matt, help," you ask again.

Finally Matt starts to move. "You know, (y/n)" he says, "if it weren't for me, you'd probably be dead by now. In fact, with all the times I've saved your ass, I know you'd be dead by now."

You try to push the walker back or roll over but your arms are shaking with the effort of just keeping it off of you. "Matt!" You yell in desperation. The walker is so close now you have to turn your face just to keep from being bit. "Please!" You beg.

"I'm just saying," he continues, walking over to you and kneeling so that he can talk to your face, "a little appreciation would be nice." In a swift movement he plunges his blade into the walkers head, causing it's blood to spill over your face and chest. It's thick and black like tar and smells ten times worse then the walker breath did.

"What the fuck, Matt!" You yell, rolling the dead body off of you. "Are you serious!? Why didn't you tell me there was a third walker?" You're yelling loudly and a part of you is worried there may be more undead lurking in the station, but you're just so frustrated. "I could've died!" Tears are starting to stream down your cheeks and you quickly rub your face to wipe them away.

"I'm sorry," Matt replies, "I swear I didn't see that one. I just feel like you don't appreciate me is all..."

You wipe the blood and tears from your face as Matt steps closer to you. He grabs your shoulders and looks you in the eyes. His sadness almost looks believable.

"I'm sorry," he says again, this time pulling you into a hug. He almost smells as bad as the walkers. "I wasn't gonna let it hurt you, I promise. I would never let anything hurt you. I care about you, (y/n), more than you know."

You really don't want to be hugging him, but the adrenalin and the fear from almost being bitten has you seeking comfort- and so you hug Matt back, holding on to him as you cry. It's so frustrating to feel this way but at least you're not completely alone in this fucked up world.

"See, baby, I'll take care of you." You feel a wave of nausea creep up as he says those words.

"Let's go," you say finally, shrugging him off of you. You grab your axe handle from the ground and hold it tightly in your grip, ready for whatever's in the station.

Unfortunately, the inside of the station is a complete bust. Luckily, there aren't any more walkers but the entire back wall is completely busted open which makes it less than ideal to spend the night. You sigh in frustration, glass crunching under your boots as you explore what little is left of the crumbling building. You discover a small pushed over concession stand. From the looks of what's left someone else had already took anything that was worth anything.

You sigh in frustration, "looks like someone's already been through here, took anything we might need." You turn to Matt, who's standing behind a counter.

"Not everything," he says, smiling wildly. He holds up small box, and it takes a moment for your brain to register that it's a box of condoms.

You feel your stomach drop like a ball of ice. "Seriously, those are probably expired," you tell him, trying to keep your cool.

"Hmm," he turns the box over and scans the expiration date. "They got a few more years before they expire, actually," he tells you. "(Y/n), when are you gonna stop playing hard to get?"

You feel another trickle of fear radiate through your body, and tighten your grip on your axe handle. "I'm not playing hard to get. Matt, I told you we're just friends."

"Well I don't want to be just friends. I saved your life!"

"It's your fault that thing even got to me!" You yell back.

"No! Not then," Matt yells, shaking his head, "I saved your life back when your father died!"

You feel a rush of anger, and your hand tightens on the handle once again.

"Can't you just be a little bit grateful to me? It's not like you've got tons of options out here. When your dad died, I was there to pick up the pieces, remember?"

"Shut up, Matt," you warn through clenched teeth.

"No," he says, stepping closer to you. "I won't shut up. I'm the shoulder you cried on when you had no one. I'm the one who took you in and kept you safe."

You feel hot tears start prick the corners of your eyes. "Shut up, Matt! I already said no!"

"I'm the one who kept you safe when your dad couldn't! And this is how you repay me? By being an unappreciative bitch?! I should've just left you to- "

You don't even remember swinging your axe handle. The only thing you feel is the satisfaction of shutting him up. He falls to the ground clenching him stomach where you hit him.

"Are you serious! You fucking bitch!" He clenches his fist and you instinctively step back, ready to defend yourself.

*CLANK* *CLANK* *CLANK*

You both turn towards the sound, your heart pounding fiercely as you see a figure step out from behind a crumbled piece of back wall. The first thought that crosses your mind is, "oh, shit." This guys tall, and muscular, and carrying a barbed wire covered bat. And if this guy's here to rob you or kill you, there's no way you'll defeat him without Matt's help. You grit your teeth at the idea of asking Matt for help. *'I'd rather take my chances,'* you think you yourself.

"Well, well, well... what do we have here?" The man asks, practically yelling. "Here I am, just passing through the area when I stumble upon a quaint little rail station. I think to myself this is as good a place as any to drop a load, but lo and behold, there's already a pile shit here! Ain't that right, Matt?"

You don't know what to think, and hold your breath as the man steps closer to you. He turns to face Matt, adjusting his grip on the bat.

"Matt? More like shat! Ain't that right doll face?"

You realize suddenly that this man is here to protect you and you feel your chest swell in relief.

"Yea, fuck you!" Matt shouts at the man, throwing the box of condoms at you in retaliation. You can't help but shake your head at his immaturity.

"See, now that wasn't very nice Shat. You really are a real piece of shit. And you know what I do to pieces of shit?" The man looks back at you for a moment, giving you a handsome smirk that makes your heart pound just a little bit faster. "Well, actually, I don't do anything to pieces of shit. But Lucille here, well-" he clangs his bat, Lucille, against the floor three more times- "she likes to take pieces of shit and bash 'em up until they become piles of shit."

Matt doesn't say anything, instead he looks back up at you, pulling the same sad face he tried earlier. "I'm sorry, (y/n). Listen man-" he looks back to the stranger, this time Lucille is inches from his face- "we don't want any trouble. You can stay here tonight and (y/n) and I will leave. We were just leaving anyways."

"I'm not going anywhere with you!" You practically growl the words to Matt.

"Looks like the little lady has spoken," he points Lucille at Matt again, this time making sure to press the barbs against Matt's face. "Seems like you'll be staying here, and (y/n) will be leaving with me."

You feel a wave of butterflies in your belly at the thought of leaving with this man. Even knowing him for less than a minute he feels like the better choice.

"What do you say, doll face?" He asks you.

You nod yes, making sure to stare Matt in the eyes. "I never owed you anything... goodbye Matt."

You grab the one bag you and Matt shared and pull it over your shoulder, turning to walk away. As you exit the rail station you hear the stranger laugh. "Oh, she's savage. You should never fuck over someone who's savage..." Anything else he says is lost as you step outside into the late afternoon sun.

A few moments later, the stranger joins you, stretching out his long limbs before starting his treck on the railway track. It's hard keeping up with his long stride, but even so, you find yourself starting at him from behind. His dark leather jacket is stained with dried blood, and after that little show in the train station you don't know if it's come from the living or the dead. Not that it really matters. He's resting Lucille on his shoulder, and his other shoulder carries a small brown rucksack. You're trying to figure out what kind of man he might've been before the outbreak- a soldier? No, soldiers don't wear black boots. A cop maybe? Or-

You crash abruptly against the strangers chest as he stops to face you. "Listen, doll face, you don't actually have to follow me. You don't owe me anything either."

You look up at him, suddenly aware of just how gross you must look and smell with walker blood on your shirt. But for some reason you don't step back, and neither does he. "I, um, I was going this way before the rail station," you say weakly.

"Is that so," he asks with a small smile. Good God, maybe it's because you've not seen another living human since Matt, but this stranger is devilishly good looking and your entire body heats up just from looking at him. He smiles down at you, and let's his gaze roam down your body. "Well, in that case, the name's Negan."

[builder051]

Fists in the sand

Post-Endgame, fairly canon

Warnings for disordered eating, which is separate from eating disorders.

_____

He’s looking too thin, Steve finally decides.  No two ways about it.  Bucky came back with a penchant for slim-cut jeans and tailored leather jackets, but that’s not all that’s sleek and angular about him.  His cheekbones stick out visibly, and the ridges of his hips poke neatly between Steve’s when they embrace.  

It takes Steve two weeks to ask him about it.  Fourteen days of triple espressos and nibbles of dry toast pass before Steve sees the pain in his eyes and makes up his mind to finally say something.  

“What’cha doing, Buck?”  It isn’t the most eloquent phrase, but appropriate.  What else does a person ask when walking in on their significant other dropping bits of discarded crust into the garbage disposal?

“Huh?”  Bucky nearly drops the bit of Russian rye, then glances from the bread to Steve’s worried face.  “Sorry.”

Steve can’t care less about the waste of food.  That part doesn’t even register.  It’s the fact that Bucky’s jumpy that worries him.  The fact that he’s visibly shaking.  

“Hey.”  Steve takes the bread out of his hand and nearly crushes it to a pulp as he drops it on the counter beside the sink.  “Talk to me.”  He reaches for Bucky’s chin, but the other man flinches away.

“It’s alright,” Steve reminds him.  He seems to say it twenty times a day now, and he’s still not sure Bucky believes him.

Bucky exhales, long and hard, as if blowing away nonexistent crumbs will make Steve back away, the whole situation forgotten.  “Nothing,” he finally says.  “It’s...it’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.”  Steve doesn’t say it loudly or angrily, but the curse still drops like a bomb between them.  He practically hears the hit the tile floor at the toes of his boots.  “Just… tell me what’s going on.”

“I…” Bucky stutters.  “I don’t know.”  He scrubs his hand up the side of his face, pushing through stubble, then crinkling up the corner of his eye before he drops his palm down on Steve’s knuckles, subtly pushing him away.  “It’s just...hard.”

“What is, Buck?”  Steve shakes his head, trying not to let the movement take over and give the moment a different meaning than the one he intends.  He’s not here to scare Bucky, not here to make him uncomfortable, though now he’s in danger of doing both.  “I’m… Well, I’m kind of worried about you.”

“Don’t be.”  The response is too quick to be genuine, too smooth and rehearsed.  It’s not one of the phrases Bucky picked up in therapy to convince Steve he was on the mend when he was really hanging by a thread, but the sentiment is the same.  Steve wonders how long Bucky’s been ruminating on this one.

“No.”  Steve shakes his head.  “You’re…”  He gestures to Bucky’s hollow chest, hoping for a last opportunity of mutual understanding.  But it doesn’t come.  “You’re wasting away, Buck.”  Steve gives an uncomfortable laugh.  “You’re gonna wind up smaller than I was before the war.”

Bucky lets out another long breath, as if he has to let all the air out of his lungs before the words can travel down from his brain to his mouth.  “No, I’m not.”

Steve twists on his lower lip as he does a quick mental calculation.  Bucky’s got a solid six inches on Steve’s previous and diminutive height.  The raw numbers don’t line up, but the BMIs might.  “Mmm, yeah, you kind of are.”

“Huh.”  Bucky looks down at himself, picking at the front of his t-shirt with his metal thumb and forefinger.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I, uh…”  Steve’s suddenly embarrassed.  He wonders for a moment if he’d be better to backtrack, say never mind and be on his way.  “I’m just...worried about you, I guess.  No big shakes, but, you know…”  He gives a vague jerk of the head, as if that means anything to Bucky.  It’s clear that it doesn’t, and they’re no farther along than when they started.

Bucky blinks at him, his glassy eyes slightly sunken in their sockets.

“Look,” Steve says.  His heart thrums as if he’s about to make a secret confession.  “You aren’t eating.  You…”  He gives Bucky another appraising look, trying not to linger on the belt pulled to the furthest hole or the prominent veins stretching up his arms.  “You aren’t well, are you?”

It’s not really a question, so Bucky doesn’t provide an answer.  He has to know Steve’s right.  Regular people don’t just shave off 20 pounds without trying, or at least noticing.

“Come on,” Steve says, a desperate whine finding its way into his voice.  “Tell me.  Help me…”  He digs for the words Bucky’s therapist taught him to use.  “Help me understand.”

Bucky sighs a third time.  Steve wonders if he’s getting irritated.  A regular person would, but he’s already established the fact that Bucky’s something else.  He’s more patient in some situations, more flighty in others.  

Steve waits for him to say something, but he doesn’t.  Bucky moves, fast as lightning, and grabs up the scrap of bread crust, smashing it further in his metal grip.  “It’s just hard,” he says, shaking his head.  “I’m sorry, Stevie.  I just don’t have a better explanation.”

The words are grating, but hearing Bucky use the nickname is reassuring.  Steve swallows the sharp edge of his frustration.  “And why’s that?” he presses.

“I…”  Bucky brings his flesh hand up to rub between his eyes.  “I don’t know.  I really don’t.”

“Buck--” Steve starts, but he’s opened the floodgates.  Bucky starts to speak, low and quiet and fast.

“It’s like, I don’t know.  It’s like being back from being on ice again.  Like here I am, the same person I used to be, but everybody else is changed.  Time passed, only it didn’t for me.  Nothing looks the same anymore, but if I say something, you’ll think I’m crazy.  You’ll tell me I’m the one something's gone wrong with.”

“No, Buck,” Steve says quickly, before he even thinks it through.  “That’s not true.  I won’t--”

Bucky throws the core of smashed bread into the sink again.  “Isn’t it, though?  You’re asking me what’s going on, like you’re going to fix it or something.  This isn’t like some sore throat, Steve.  It’s not a bloody nose.  You can’t send me down to the hospital and get it all fixed up.”

“I will, though,” Steve supplies quickly.  “If it would help, that’s exactly what I’d do.”

“I know.”  Bucky leers at him.  “But it won’t, ok?  Trust me on that one?”  He drops his chin and raises his eyebrows, practically up to his hairline.  

“I…”  Steve presses his lips together.  “I don’t know.  I really wish I could, but I just don’t know what I’m looking at here.”  He shakes his head a little, refusing to free Bucky from the constraints of his gaze.

“And I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell you.”  Bucky drops the bread again, using his metal hand to push it all the way down the drain.  Steve cringes when he hears the vibranium scrape against the disposal’s dull blades.

“Yeah.”  Steve pauses, trying desperately to think of what to say next.  Tell me you’re ok won’t work.  Neither will tell me you won’t hurt yourself.  “Tell me…”  He toys around with another phrase or two before settling.  “Tell me you love me, Buck.  Cause I love you.  You know how much I love you?”

It’s not really a question again, but this time Bucky works his way through to an answer.  “Yeah, Stevie.  Yeah.  I do.”

[crushedbyhyperbole]

Psycho Killer - Chapter Four

Have you read Chapter Three?

Chapter Four:  Urgent Urges.

Their journey down into the valley took longer than she hoped; four days, traversing the treacherous snow-covered slopes with hardly a word said between them.

They looted the frozen corpses of the crash victims, and the storage boxes that survived the ordeal.  None of the bodies were familiar, though there were one or two burned beyond recognition.  However they had managed to survive, if they had, she hoped to meet up with the vault hunters again and exact some painful revenge on Handsome fucking Jack.

$128 richer she packed all her loot into her backpack.  Even the junk that was crappier than the junk she used would be sold at a vendor for a couple of dollars.

She split everything with Krieg 50/50 but he was less interested in the loot and more interested in her.

He watched her intently, inhaling as if he wanted to speak, then huffing and shaking his head.

“What is it?”  She snapped, getting pissy.

“Blue lady cold like ice Queen.”

When he spoke at more of a normal volume she knew he was really making an effort.  His eye was clear and watchful.  If she didn’t know better she would swear that he could read her like a book.

“MEATSTICK..”

He smacked himself in the temple.

“ICE QUEEN MELT…”

Smack, smack, smack!

“CATCH A RIIIDEEEE…”

Krieg snarled, tearing at his scalp, leaving deep scratches.

“SHUT UUUUPPPP!”  He howled so loud that Maya felt it vibrate in her chest cavity.

“Shhhh!”  She went to him, laying her hands on his chest.  “You’re making my meat shake.”  She said with a dry smile.  It was easy to fall into his ways, using simpler speech helped her understand him better.

“GOOD SHAKE?”  He growled.

“Not this time.”  She hugged him, loosely.  “It’s ok though, I’m here.  I’m sorry for being, um, distant.”  She spoke into his chest.  “We almost lost one another back there.  It freaked me out some.”

“BEAUTIFUL VALKYRIE OF BLOOD NEVER DIE!”  He cackled. “PROMISE.”

He thinks I’m beautiful?  She blushed.

“I wish I could promise that.” She stepped away.

Krieg’s hands fell loosely at his sides.  “I PROMISE.” He nodded gruffly.

Liar’s berg was a small village with maybe 5 houses, some basic vendors, a gate down to the frozen bay where a raider camp had been built up around a wrecked ship, a gang of bandits and a whole bunch of bullymong burrows.

“Wh-Who’s out there?”  A posh sounding man spoke over the open ECHO channel.

“Vault hunters.”  Maya replied.  “We got your SOS.”

“Oh thank God!  I, Sir Hammerlock, will pay you handsomely if you could clear the town of bandits and bullymong.”

“Pay handsomely times two, some food and a place to crash.”

“You drive a hard bargain, vault hunter, but I agree.”

She turned to Krieg.  “Time to break some meat?”  She grinned.

“I WILL EAT THEIR SOULS FOR BREAKFAST!”

The bullymong were fairly docile at first.  They were usually fiercer at night, or whatever passed for night on Pandora.  Both suns were riding low in the sky this far up north, but it was still fully day.  As they killed the smaller monglets it attracted more larger and angrier bullymong.

“I say,” Hammerlock spoke over the ECHO again, eliciting a grumble from Krieg who needed less voices in his head, not more.  “Since you’re killing bullymong, how about you skin some for me and I’ll reward you with a top-quality hunting rifle?”

“Whatever you say.”  Maya scooped up some ammo that had been hidden in a frozen pile of bullymong shit.

Beggars can’t be choosers.

“Excellent!  When you’re done come to the big house by the gate.  I’ll be waiting for you.”

This could be lucrative for us.  Especially if this guy actually pays up.

“GHOST MAN LIKE LITTLE MAN.”  Krieg grumbled.  “NEVER SHUTS UP!”  He added angrily.

Without warning, a grenade crested the wall they were crouched near.  Krieg picked it up and threw it back, laughing wildly.

The second time it happened the grenade blew up in his hand, knocking Maya back and out into the open.  Bullets started flying and she was forced to back away behind a ‘poop hut’, as Krieg would call it.

She crouched there, looking for something to shoot at or phaselock but she was just at the wrong angle.

Across the way, Krieg was blabbering as he bled out, blood flowing from his severed arm and multiple open wounds in his chest.

“KRIEG!”  Maya cried, in horror.

She was going to lose him.  Did he even have the money for a reconstruct?  She’d never asked.

Maya ran for him only to be shot down at his side.  Her own pain and blood mixing with his as they both lay dying.  Frantically she searched for something to kill for a second wind.  Her vision blackening as she faded.

“RISE!  VALKYRIE OF BLOOD!”  Krieg Roared.

There!  It was a small bullymong, just close enough.  She unloaded her clip in its general direction, hoping beyond hope that it would be enough.

DING!  She was back on her feet as the last of Kreig’s life left him.

“NOOOO!”  She sobbed, trying to patch him up.

“Light… the…. FUUUSSSEEEEE!” He screamed with a final breath, madness making his eye swivel wildly in its socket.

Suddenly he was up, sticks of dynamite digistructing into his hands.  He threw them as he rampaged around the town, exploding everything in his path.

Finally he had the remaining bandits cornered in one yard.  He ran in, clutching all of his dynamite, sinister laugh ringing out.

“I’LL TAKE YOU ALL WITH ME!”  His roar echoed across the berg but strangely the explosion did not. 

The massive boom pitched ice, bricks and blood all across the left side of town.

Maya ran into the aftermath, breath ragged in her throat, tears welling up in her eyes.  There was no way he could have survived that.  Rounding the corner she saw the bloodbath.

“STRIP THE FLESH!”  Krieg buried his axe into the last of the bandits.  His chest heaving, glistening red from the mixture of blood and guts he was doused with.

Holy Hyperion shitballs!

She stopped just shy of swinging distance.  Would he even differentiate her from an enemy?  She’d never seen him rage like that, all kamikaze and shit.  Sure, he’d gone into a buzzaxe frenzy before but that was tame compared to this massacre.

“FIND PRETTY LADY!”  He reeled, staggering around.  His eye was rolling back into his head.

“I’m here.”  She reached out to him.

Krieg rushed her, picking her up as if she were made of air.   At first she screamed, fearing for her life.  He ran her backwards into a pile of clean snow, pinning her underneath him. His grip was too tight, hands too heavy and urgent.

It might just be the cold, or it might be the thrill of almost dying, but her nipples were hard and aching.

Just when she decided that she wanted him to take her, he stalled out, looking down at her, terrified.  He began to flee.

“Wait!”  She gasped, heat rising up her body to settle in her cheeks.  “Wait.”  She said more firmly.

He did.  He waited.  Looking back at her like he expected death.

What am I even doing?  He could kill me with a flick of his wrist.  But isn’t that half of the attraction?  The danger?

“I need this.”  She looked at him, not begging, not asking, just stating a fact.  The tension had been building in her since before she had even met him but be damned if having him around wasn’t a temptation.   She unzipped her pants.  “I need you.” 

“PRETTY LADY…”

Krieg smacked himself in the head.

“NO!  GORE MAIDEN WANTS!”  He grunted, more to himself than to her.

He steeled himself, breathing in shallow huffs.

“Martyr for my ice Queen.”  He went to her, pliant, demure even.

All the rage and all the pain she had bottled up, the worry for him, for herself, and for those lost souls on the train.  The frustration that had been building for all those months since arriving on Pandora.  All of it burned away by the heat of his body against hers.

It wasn’t passionate in a sense that they clung to each other out of love.  There was passion, but it was more feral, carnal, urgent.

There was some finesse to his technique, and the size of his fingers had her gasping.  He built her up and broke her with one hand, thumb circling her sensitive spot while the two inserted fingers worked her relentlessly.  The other cradled the back of her head, keeping her with him, eyes locked with his.

She tore at him, fingernails digging into the muscles of his shoulders as his fingers did the work for her, moans catching in her throat as she ground herself against his hand.

He wasn’t brutal but he was rough.  She would feel this for days after.  The thought had her grinning as she spasmed around his slicked fingers.

Two orgasms later she felt the coolness of his mask resting against the inside of her thigh, anchoring her back in the here and now.

She realised he was still wearing his pants. He strained against the crotch, a sizeable bulge that sent a tingle down between her legs.

Her backside was numb from being lay in the snow.

“Your turn?”  Maya stroked her hand down his mask.  It wasn’t physical contact but it was about as tender as things were going to get.

Krieg shook his head.  “Gift for pretty lady.”  Grunting, he looked her up and down, admiring his good work.

“I don’t get a ride on your meatstick?”  She chuckled, hopeful.

Krieg laughed.  Not the crazy cackle that was his usual laugh, or the booming sinister bloodbath laugh the accompanied his more vicious rage, but a deep rumbling chuckle that sounded rather… normal.

Slightly disappointed but nonetheless sated, Maya stood.  Shaking the snow from the ass of her pants, she zipped them up, cold against her wetness.  Her legs felt unsteady.

That’s how you know it was a good one.

“Attention, People of Pandora!”  A sickeningly familiar voice came over the open ECHO channel.  “Handsome Jack here, offering one million bucks to whomever brings me the heads of the vault hunters who just arrived in Liar’s Berg.”

That man made her feel angry all over again.

“Oh, and I’m still offering a reward for Roland, the mass-murdering leader of the Crimson Raiders.  Good hunting, bandits!”

“I WILL PUT MY PAIN IN HIS SOUL!”  Krieg punched the air.

“You said it!”  She smiled, warmly, for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

Despite the hatred she had for that asshole, Jack, she felt buoyant.

“Better come back quickly, you two.”  Hammerlock spoke urgently.  “Captain Flint is sending a raiding party to collect the reward on both of your heads.”

“Let’s go, muscles.”  She drew her SMG, swinging her hips with renewed swagger as she strutted her way to Hammerlock’s house.

Krieg followed as he had, so far.  She hoped she could rely on that in the future.

Looking over her shoulder she caught a glimpse of a mask partially raised.  His hand was underneath, fingers in his mouth, a small moan forming in his throat, totally unashamed of the obvious hardness in the front of his pants.

Well if that’s not the hottest thing I’ve seen in a long time.

“SWEET MEATS FOR THE TASTING!”  Krieg cackled, catching up to her with eager strides.

Smug, she grinned at him.  Things were looking up.

Fin.

[silver-wields-a-pen]

“Sugar Plum Dreams” A Guardians of Las short

The troll village in the Northern mountains was as basic as a place could get. The huts were mottle and daub and carried a faint, rank smell, even with a merry fire burning in the hearth. Tundra couldn't work out what the scent was, but he kept fighting to keep a straight face. He and Nyima were invited to dinner with the trolls that night, to give them a break while they were constructing their summer house. He'd argued they could stay in the Order's outpost, but Nyima replied they'd be put to work and would never get time to build it.

“Shame we can't just Elsa this shit and have it done in a day,” Tundra chuckled, as they sat with the rotund, bejewelled trolls that evening, eating fragrant bowls of stew.

“Who is Elsa?” Nyima replied, gaze focused on a parchment draped in her lap. It was the design for the house and she kept frowning at it.

“Never mind,” he said, seeing he didn't have her attention. “What's wrong?” He nudged her with his shoulder and she looked up at him.

“I'm thinking about how long it will take to build into the side of the mountain. It's not difficult climbing up, but the ice is very hard.” Her right hand moved to touch her thigh, where there was a long scar.

He was surprised she wanted to build a house there at all, considering what happened. Leigong showed up at the worst time to pull me back to Oto. I left Nyima to the birds of paradise. She was lucky to escape with a few scars and a damaged shoulder. The mental scars must be worse. He took her hand and squeezed it. “We don't have to stay here. We can pick a different mountain. As long as it's cold, right?”

She shook her head. “No. I want to get rid of the dangers around here.” She smiled at him and added, “I don't want to be tied down by bad things from the past.”

He raised her hand, turned it and kissed the inside of her wrist. “Whatever you want.” He held her gaze until she blushed. The sapphire shade washed over her light-blue cheeks and crept down her neck. His single, sky-blue eye followed its path and he leaned over to murmur a repeat of, “Whatever you want.”

“Jingyi,” she reprimanded in a soft voice, light-blue eyes darting to their hosts.

The trolls were watching them with amusement and interest. “Don't mind us,” the chief chuckled, spooning up some more stew. “It's an honour to host newly weds.” He leaned forward across the low table and said in a confiding tone, “It's good luck to get blessings from Hjalmar.”

A female troll sitting beside him, bedecked in thick layers of gold and jewels, rolled ochre-coloured eyes. “When you talk about yourself in the third person like that you sound like an idiot.”

Hjalmar sat back and laughed, his large stomach jiggling. “It didn't stop you from marrying me! See, I am blessed!”

Tundra tried not to smirk and failed. “I didn't realise she was his wife,” he said to Nyima, still close enough that he didn't have to raise his voice. Her hand was still held in his and he rubbed his thumb in circles over the back of it.

Her posture relaxed and she edged closer to him. “They are wearing matching jewels,” she replied, indicating the blue-green stones fixed over the couple's belly buttons. She had a mad moment when Vyxen's voice intruded in her train of thought asking, “Do they even have belly buttons under there? Find out for me! I need to know, for science!” Nyima stifled a laugh and shook her head.

“Guess matching is the thing for marriage,” Tundra commented in her ear. He ran a finger over the tattoo adorning her left arm, tracing the swirls and dots that were identical to the one he had.

“How long do you think construction will take for your home? Will you be living here all year round?” Hjalmar interrupted and Tundra couldn't help but scowl.

“The Order has cleared part of the area of boreal snakes and aviwoad,” Nyima replied, smiling with satisfaction. She'd been part of the team that took out the nests and didn't feel bad one bit about killing the demon birds or venomous snakes. “We are waiting on the dwarves and other earth fae to arrive and dig into the mountain for us.”

“That sounds like a big job. We could help with that,” Hjalmar's wife said, elbowing her husband.

“Ah, yes, we could do that,” he agreed, beaming at her and pinching her cheek. “It's an elaborate design you have, so is it to be your permanent home?”

Tundra realised they were fishing for info about who their local protectors would be. “Half the year, or so. During the summer it's too hot to stay in Las, so we'll be around then.”

“That's wonderful!” Hjalmar clapped. His wife sighed and rolled her eyes, then joined in, encouraging the other two trolls with them to do so, too.

“We can offer you a hut in the meantime while you're building,” she said, gesturing around them.

Tundra's face became impassive. The hut wasn't the worst place he'd stayed in, but the smell made him want to wash until his skin was raw. His heart sank when Nyima thanked them. His grip on her hand tightened, and he hoped that's as far as she'd take the offer.

“That's kind of you. We have one near to the mountain. Today was a visit. We will be neighbours, after all,” she said, wiggling her hand so Tundra relaxed his grip. She had no idea what he had a problem with, but she didn't like the idea of broken fingers. “Thank you for the meal,” she added, getting up.

“Yeah, we should head back before we can't see the path,” Tundra said, bolting the last of his stew. “I didn't realise how dark it got up here.”

“It's night. It would be dark everywhere,” Hjalmar's wife said, frowning. She clambered to her feet and showed them out. “Be careful. Even though the aviwoad nest is gone, there are still dangers.”

“We're cool,” Tundra replied, slinging a casual arm around Nyima, who shrugged it off. He cleared his throat. “We'll be fine.”

“Thank you for the supplies,” she said, taking Tundra's hand. They reached the border of the village, where they'd left Nyima's ursidae, Atah. She looked at him and said, “Why were you trying to break my hand?”

“I didn't want to stay in the village,” he said, looking embarrassed. “I think they used dung to build their huts.”

Nyima hummed. “They might have.” She closed the gap between them, then slapped him on the arm. “You're being rude.”

“I know,” he shot back, scowling. “I kept thinking about how I'd wake up smelling like that smell and it'd never come out.”

She laid both hands on his shoulders, chuckling. “If that happened I would throw you into that hot springs you love so much.”

His eyebrow rose at that. “Not a bad idea. How far away from it are we?”

Nyima rolled her eyes and turned to check Atah's saddle was secure. Once the bear started running they'd cover the distance between the village and mountain in a couple of hours.

Tundra slid his arms around her from behind and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You sure you're happy doing this?”

“I should ask you that,” she replied, leaning into him. “You prefer missions.”

“The outpost's close by, but maybe you should try and keep me entertained.” He nuzzled her neck and added, “It's your job, since you're my wife.”

“And have been for some time,” she replied, rolling her eyes. Hjalmar thought they were newlyweds, but they'd been married for three years already. Both senior Acolytes for the Order of Mana, they were sent out on field missions a lot. Nyima supposed if they condensed their time together it would read more like one year, instead of three. It reached a point where they both wanted to slow down and take some time off. With summer approaching, neither wanted to be in Las for the coming heatwave. Tundra suggested the Northern mountains, where they could stay in the outpost. Nyima made a better one of building a summer house they could retreat to whenever they needed a break. She was also quietly hoping that some day it would become a family home for them, but she'd not broached the topic with him yet.

~*~*~

Tundra yawned and stretched, using the action to yank his tunic off at the same time. The trip home was quiet and uneventful. Atah was settled in her own hut beside theirs and now they were readying for bed. There was a weird atmosphere between them. He wondered if it had something to do with the trolls, but she seemed fine, and he hadn't done anything between then and now to upset her. “Do we need to talk?”

“Hmm? Why?” Shaken from whatever deep thoughts she was having, Nyima turned to look at him. Her gaze sharpened as she did a slow sweep down and up.

“My eye is here,” he joked, pointing to the remaining one he had. The demon essence hibernating in his left eye socket didn't count. He kept his eye from wandering over her in return, since she'd been wearing the lace babydoll and panties as outerwear the whole evening.

Pale blue cheeks darkening, Nyima said, “Talk about what?”

Tundra shrugged, noting how she grew fixated on his muscular shoulders. “You tell me. Is something bothering you?”

She pleated the edge of the yellow babydoll, folding a corner of the fabric over on itself. “I – yes,” she said, looking up and nodding. “There is something I wanted to talk about.”

He shrugged again, smirking at how the action drew her gaze. “Shoot.”

“I don't think now is the right time,” she said, turning and climbing onto the bed. It was a block of ice covered in masses of furs and far more comfortable than people assumed.

Tundra was the one fixated this time. He didn't blink as he watched Nyima crawl up the bed. “You're sleeping in that?” he commented in a low voice. She usually slept naked, so clothes meant she was mad at him or she had her period.

“Hmm?” She looked down and tutted. “I forgot.” The babydoll and panties were off in a moment and dropped on top of a trunk on her side of the bed.

Tundra turned his back and sat down to take his boots and trousers off. It also gave him a minute to replay the rapid floor show she treated him to. Still, he almost jumped out of his skin when he felt her hand on his back. Even after three years of marriage she expected her ice cold touch to hurt, so held back from doing it. That made all the times she offered affection more memorable to him. The hand slid up along with the other as she hugged him from behind. He could feel her breasts pressing up against him and her rapid breaths in his ear. He slid a hand back and cupped her ass, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Is this what's bothering you?” he teased.

“I want a baby.”

His whole body felt like it froze solid. “Oh.”

Nyima sighed and withdrew. “I knew that's how you'd react. I shouldn't have said anything.” She lay down and pulled a bunch of furs up over her, even though she'd end up baking hot because of them.

A baby? She wants a baby? With me? Or does she expect me to go out and steal one? No, don't be stupid.

“Pretend I didn't say anything,” she said, voice muffled.

“Fuck that,” he shot back, interest spiking at the hint of a challenge. He climbed into bed and pulled the fur off her. “You can't just drop a bomb like that and expect no conversation.”

“It doesn't matter.” She sat up and brushed her dark-blue braids back. “You were afraid. You don't want any,” she said with sad resignation.

“Fuck that,” he repeated, looking her in the eye. “It's just I––” he looked away “––don't think you know what you're asking for.”

“I think I do,” she replied, putting her hand on his cheek. It was the left one, so he couldn't feel much, but he appreciated the gestured.

“I could wind up hurting it,” he said, making the strongest point first. His extensive training meant he reacted without thought a lot of the time.

“You won't,” he said, cheering up.

“I haven't said yes,” he pointed out.

“You're arguing with me to have one, so that's yes,” she said, starting to smile.

He chuckled. “How did that happen?”

She pulled him down to her and murmured, “Because you always give me whatever I want.”

[second-hand-heaven]

Do I Know You?

(superwonderbat h/c for the prompt ‘cuddling between strangers’)

Ao3

Summ:  A Bruce from an alternate reality swaps places with Clark and Diana’s Bruce.

“Hey B,” the man above him smiles. He’s dressed hideously in plaid and denim, but his features aren’t necessarily unattractive: a strong jaw, clean-shaven, with windswept hair across his forehead. His eyes are ridiculously blue, so surreal that they have to be contacts. “How are you feeling?” The hand wrapped around Bruce’s own gives a gentle squeeze.

Bruce rips his hand from the man’s grip. “Do I know you?” he snarls, teeth bared just like his mother taught him. The full, Martha Wayne effect requires blood red lipstick, but Bruce makes do, narrowing his eyes sharply.

“Bruce?” The man’s eyes are wide, hurt evident in his gaze. He takes a few steps away from the bed, like Bruce’s words had been a blow to his gut.

Maybe Bruce should try that tactic next. He tries to leave the bed, to get out of this place, but he gets tangled in an IV line. It looks like a hospital, but it can’t be. It’s not nice enough to be a private room at Gotham Private hospital, and he’s the only patient so it can’t be a more public ward. Alarm bells are ringing in Bruce’s aching head. “Who the fuck are you? Where am I? Answer me!”

“Bruce, hey, calm down,” the man says. His hands are held up in surrender and he tries to step closer. “There was an attack, but you’re safe now. We brought you back to the Watchtower to keep you under observation. Did you hit your head or-”

A woman barrels into the room, a mane of untamable black hair spilling out from beneath some kind of tiara and down to her waist. She’s gorgeous, almost as tall as the man above him, with legs that could snap his neck given half a chance. She frowns as she crosses the room to stop at the man’s side, a hand at his elbow. “Kal, what’s wrong?”

“Bruce,” the man says, like it’s the only thing he can say. “Something’s wrong with Bruce.”

The woman comes closer, and at the lack of any protest from Bruce, she sits down on the edge of the bed. “Bruce, my love, are you alright?”

Love? “Am I meant to know you? This lady here is certainly not someone I could forget.” He winks up at her, but the woman seems unfazed by his charm.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” she asks, brow furrowed.

Bruce thinks back. “A gala. My mother was throwing a ball for the 25th anniversary of her Arkham project.” And instead he’s here, of all places? His mother will be so disappointed not to see him in the crowd...

“You mother?” The surprise they both show seems to be sincere, but Bruce can’t pick why. If these people know him, or think they know him, they must surely know of his mother.

“Uhh, yeah. Martha Wayne, nee Kane, Gotham socialite, billionaire and raging philanthropist? She was on the cover of Time last month? Surely even a disaster like you,” he gestures to man, “saw that. It was everywhere.”

“He must be from an alternate timeline,” the man says lowly to his companion, a thoughtful expression stretched across his features. “Maybe in a reality where we never met. That electrical anomaly Ray reported might have switched this Bruce with ours.”

“Should I get the lasso? That way at least we can confirm his story, and figure out what exactly caused the supposed switch.”

Switched? Oh no. Are they serious? What kind of  crazy physics would be needed to create that kind of cross-time transferal? “Oh God,” Bruce mutters, “I’m in some crazy alternate dimension with some very attractive people people who are very into bondage.”

The woman turns sharply to look Bruce dead in the eye. Was that too far? Her gaze is piercing as she demands, “what is my name?”

Bruce wracks his brain but comes up empty. “Like I said before, if we’d met I certainly wouldn’t forget it. I always remember a pretty, well, a pretty everything.”

It’s a compliment, but the woman seems resigned at his words. Odd. She purses her lips for a moment before schooling her features. “My name is Diana, and this is Clark. In our world, you are... very important to us.”

Important. There’s so much he could read into that. The woman -Diana’s- vague words are hedging a deeper truth, and he doesn’t need to be a detective to figure that one out. “So this other me, was he your boyfriend or something?” he asks the woman. Both Clark and Diana nod. “Wait what?”

Diana smiles despite the sadness in her eyes. “There are some people that call us the trinity, and we are, in more ways than one.”

Again with the vague answers. His mother would say that these people are hiding something, or maybe that they’re so used to hiding this. His mother. Panic washes over him, ice cold. “Why were you surprised about my mother? Where is she? Did something happen to her?” The sheer thought of something bad happening to that women makes his eyes burn. Blunt nails dig into his palms to try and stave off the tears. He’s a grown man, for God’s sake, but damn it, where is his mother?

“Bruce,” Diana says, a hand running up and down Bruce’s spine, “we will get you home, and you will see her again. I promise you that.”

“Where. Is. My. Mother?” He grits his teeth, ready for a fight. If these people claim to know him, they know he won’t settle for anything less than the truth.

“She isn’t here, Bruce. There’s no Martha Wayne here anymore.” Clark puts a tentative hand on his shoulder. When the man moved closer, Bruce isn’t sure. “She, uhh, she died.”

Bruce feels the colour drain from his face. “What?”

Clark takes a heavy breath and continues, “She and your father were killed when you were twelve. Their deaths made you -our Bruce- the man he is today. His dedication to justice comes from what happened to them. That’s why we were surprised to hear about your mother.”

Dead. Both his parents, dead. He digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “No. No, no, no.” Bruce gasps, trying to get air into his uncooperative lungs. The rational part of him that always sounds like his father tells him that it’s not his parents, not his mother, but it does little to stop the onslaught of sobs that wrack his body.

Strong arms pull him close and into a tight embrace. From either side, Clark and Diana hug him, hold him as he cries. “I’m sorry, Bruce,” Diana whispers into his hair, “I’m so sorry.”

Bruce just nods and cries harder against Clark’s chest.

FIN

[purkinje-effect]

The Purkinje Effect, 21

Table of Contents

“Such extensive damage.”

Carrington muttered to himself indiscernibly as he looked Geek over with various ginger palpations and medical devices. As the doctor scrutinized him, Geek sat obediently on the edge of one of the stone coffins, which had been simply left rather than move it when the Railroad had relocated its base of operations to this crypt. The stethoscope was ice-cold when it went to his chest and back to listen, but Geek didn’t really mind. The doctor clicked his tongue several times in disdain for the costliness of the treatment Geek had accepted so readily from Tinker Tom. The sample of excretion the doctor took from Geek’s scarred skin singed the swab, and he murmured in displeasure before trying again carefully with the side of an aluminum-barrel fountain pen. Geek watched while he did something with it, but couldn’t make out what he was doing.

“I’m surprised you’re even standing. This looks superficially similar to ghoulification, but I can’t reasonably assess the condition of your internal organs to verify that. What I can safely say is that you have definitely mutated. That dark mess you made seems to be a metal excretion achieved through a thiolated salt solution. Simply put, the diluted sulfuric acid from Tom’s serum infused in your bloodstream and a chemical reaction took place which leached all kinds of metal from your body via your sweat glands. Lead, iron, aluminum, even traces of uranium. That sludge in the floor will become a rich metal slag once the sweat evaporates. Did you all mean it literally when you said you’d eaten a Synth? Absolute revulsion aside, if you meant a Gen I or Gen II, that didn’t even have living tissues in it. No part of the earlier models isn’t toxic to a human being.”

Geek had watched Carrington gesticulate in near-exasperation without comment, taking in all he had to say.

“Mutated huh? Mutated... further.” He let out a heavy sigh, and picked at his now vacant right eye socket. “You wanted the whole story? I haven’t pieced everything together yet, but I’ll tell you what I have of it. I’m from Vault 82. South-Central Mass. I haven’t figured out what exactly the experiment was, but I know we was guinea pigs, an’ I know it had to do with feedin’ us goo for every meal. I just can’t tell ya whether the food dispensers screwin’ up was all according t’plan. I’ve got real cynical about all this shit over the years... I know for a fact I’m not the only one of us that started supplementin’ his diet with whatever appealed to him. The doc in Worcester called it pica, eatin’ all the things I personally can rattle off’s been on the menu, past hundred years or so. The food paste stopped bein’ enough on its own, when it was supposed to be a master-food with all the vitamins and junk anybody needed. Maybe it wasn’t the machines. Maybe it spoiled. Who knows how long the experiment was supposed to go on.”

“Why do you say your nutritional dependency was a mutation?”

“I’ve eaten a thousand different things, ate ‘em solid. An’ they never came out... undigested. I’ve been digestin’ everything I’ve eaten. Makes sense how I sweated? ...the metal. But it makes me wonder if that’s what use my sweat will serve me now, or if I gotta keep gettin’ more a Tom’s shots to detox.” Geek looked up knowingly and pointed at Carrington to catch him before garnering commentary, recognizing a gap in his story. “But y’know what I ain’t been digestin’? Actual fuckin’ food.”

“You... might try some normal food now.” Deacon had come up to them after changing back into his casual white dress shirt and slacks. “Ease into it.”

“You’ve mentioned preservatives before bein’ a factor in all this,” Hancock started, having been sitting in the doctor’s chair with his arms crossed the whole time. “Mister Intel might have a point. Maybe prewar food ain’t totally off-limits to ya. Fancy Lads are about as much of a nonfood as it gets. An’ you were eating on that tub of shortening. Usually easing into eating food again after being critically ill means lots of soup, but for you it might mean just bridging back to what you’re supposed to be eating.”

“You’re not entirely wrong to speculate such,” Carrington nodded, brow wrinkled as he looked over to Hancock briefly. He’d forgotten he was there, he’d been so quiet. “People who are born into a settlement with higher caliber food sources, like Diamond City with its multiple quality restaurants, tend to do very poorly adapting to wasteland fare. But wastelanders who’ve been long accustomed to RadBug for protein, tato for their starch staple, and shelf-stable prewar food--they tend to be able to eat anything. I’ve read in medical journals, as well, that cultures with lean diets adjust abominably to high-fat cuisine, and vice versa. You might have been unable to stomach unpreserved foods because you were shocking your system. Which... brings me to the other half of my prognosis.”

“I... just might try it. There’s no tellin’ whether Tom’s shot might’ve complicated the range of what I can stomach.”

“And that’s exactly what I was getting at. I likely couldn’t pry the exact ingredients of the injection from Tom, but I know there’s bacteria cultures in it. Part of what makes the human digestive tract so successful is a symbiosis with key bacteria. Honestly, before you mentioned confidently that you were digesting the things you’ve swallowed, I thought perhaps the issue was that the toxins of what you were ingesting had killed yours off, but now I only feel more confident in theorizing that if you were mutated, so were the bacterial cultures that live in your stomach and intestines. You have adapted to eat the way you’ve been eating, that’s for certain. But whether the bacteria in Tom’s injection will end up competing with those inside you, only time and tests will tell. Antibiotics can be complicated to predict.”

“Does this mean bloodwork?” Geek flinched. He didn’t want to know whether his blood was still neon pink after all this.

“Yes, but to be perfectly fair with you, it’s going to be slow-going. I’ve only got the time at the moment to have this discussion because your dramatic arrival with my prototype has frozen progress in HQ.” Carrington tourniqueted Geek’s upper arm with a length of rubber, and easily found a vein. Steeled for the stick, the pink ghoul readily let the doctor draw four vials. As predicted, the blood nearly looked like hot pink milk. They both reacted poorly to the sight. “Once business resumes as normal, I will only have so much time to scrutinize your exact condition to give you a definitive diagnosis. I’m still not positive you’re not terminal, but this once-over gives me the reassurance to turn you loose to take stock for yourself of how your body reacts to its mutations.”

“...So you’re still tellin’ me I’m on forced leave.”

“You’re not even hired yet!” Carrington massaged his temples with one hand and grunted, then pulled composure into his shoulders, and snapped the rubber off Geek’s arm. The doctor then capped the blood samples to deposit them temporarily into a medical tray nearby. “But yes, I’m not even considering taking you on until you see whether you can function a week from now. I can tell your body’s still eliminating toxins. You’re going to continue sweating, and this sweat is caustic. There’s a good chance you’re going to accumulate further damage.”

“Can’t get much worse,” Geek rasped jokingly, messing with the hair he had left. “Sweat don’t really burn me much, but I seen what it did to that cotton ball. I’ll be careful.”

Carrington handed him his jumpsuit and armor, having gotten to the end of his patience with his impromptu patient. Exhaustion dripped from his dismissal.

“Have a care, will you?”

“Do my best.” Geek didn’t put his coveralls back on just yet, dumping them into Hancock’s objecting lap. He purposely kept hold of one of his shoulder pieces. “Before we leave, though, I gotta talk to Tom.”

Approaching the eccentric from across the room, Geek interrupted Tom scrutinizing something on the terminal on the desk at which he sat. The man mumbled to himself, eyes dull with information.

“Tinker Tom?” he started. Tom jerked up from his train of thought and came to.

“Hm? Oh, it’s you! You really mean it, that you feel better? That’s definitely the first time that’s ever happened with my serum.”

“Yeah,” Geek smiled. “I think so. Sorry to interrupt. I’m about to head out, but I had to do two things first. One, I had to thank you. Your treatment was unorthodox, but I think it was exactly what I needed. And two, Carrington mentioned you’re the quartermaster?”

“No need to thank me,” Tom beamed, slouching back in his desk chair. “And that’s correct. You hittin’ me up for goods? I don’t know what all I can rightly part with, since you’re not a bonafide agent yet, but I’m sure I have something juicy.”

“I ain’t lookin’ for handouts, especially not after how much y’helped me out with my health. I need somethin’ to keep myself occupied while I take this week to recoup. How much leather can y’spare? I’d like to upgrade my armor.”

“Man, me an’ my boys have got better than leather! You should come and see me when you pass the test. I will fix you up.” He sprung up and began digging through the metal shelving that lined the walls of his sprawling corner of the crypt. “What kinda customizing you thinking about in the mean time? Dense plate-layered? Deep-pocketed? Maybe somethin’ pneumatic? I got all kinds of toys. Great stuff to act as a stabilizer layer. A jar a wingnuts, makes great studded armor...”

“I already got all kinds a pockets.” He surreptitiously pulled out several hundred dollar bills where Tom could see the denominations himself, for emphasis. Tom blinked. “You gotta point, though. Mods seem more useful’n addin’ more layers. Got any mods that’d keep my arms an’ legs from... gettin’ broke so easy?”

“--I’ve got just the thing.” He produced a long wooden box after rooting around a bit, dropping it excitedly on the desk. “How does the guts from power armor legs sound? The components are compact enough to incorporate into greaves. This pair just hasn’t gotten used for it yet.”

“It sounds like you’re just about as crazy as I am.” Geek grinned stupidly, eyeing the box and tucking the bills in the bib pocket of Tom’s overalls. “Mmh. Can I part you with two or three tool aprons, too?”

“Oh man, that’s the kinda leather y’wanted? You really are a pocket fiend.”

The two went back and forth spitballing concepts for a while, but Hancock came up to interrupt, arms full of Geek’s things.

“How long am I supposed to sit over here with your purse while you chat up this mad scientist in your underwear?”

Geek took them from him apologetically.

“We can continue this in a week,” Tom insisted, understanding Hancock wanted to leave. He shooed off the two of them pleasantly. “I’ll be schemin’ up something special for ya. Have fun on vacay, my friend.”

“I like somebody that’d spoil you.” Hancock chuffed and patted Geek on the back as they let themselves out the back way. Down the stairs, and through the waterlogged, unpaved patch. “I gotta find a way to spoil ya worse, though.”

“And just what exactly do you call what you n’ me did at the quarry?”

Hancock barked and grinned at him.

“The beginnings of a fine friendship.”

[himbowelsh]

Could I.... request...,,,.. baberoe making out (or even MORE???) in your hs au maybe in the infirmery???? And/or the meet cute in the library that you wrote in your post pretty please?

AN: well, I was so in love with this request that I had to write both.

The bookshelf is steady.At least, that's the impression Babe has gotten. That's what he's observed all year; that's what he was told his first day on the job, when he raised an eyebrow at the rows of shelves lined with books and blurted out, "These look like they could fall over!"Not possible, was the reply he'd received. Hanks High School's library was proudly fatality-free.

Until today. Possibly. Whether Babe is dead or not has yet to be determined, but he's pretty sure he hasn't survived a hundred books raining onto his body, followed by a bookshelf more than twice his weight.

Alright, so the bookshelf didn't actually land on him. It's more like he's trapped under it, pinned by a mountain of books. Through the slats of the empty shelves Babe can see a blinding bright glow. It's either the fluorescent ceiling light or heaven."Jesus fuckin' Christ, what the hell did you do, you bastard?"Well, that mouth certainly wouldn't find its place in heaven.The realization that he's definitely alive only comes when the face of Bill Guarnere, head librarian and Babe's best friend since diapers, appears through the gap between the shelves. A flicker of relief crosses over his face when he spots Babe in one piece, but this is quickly replaced by annoyance."You're a walking hazard," he grumbles. Babe offers a pained grimace in return."Yeah, yeah, Bill. You wanna get this thing off me?"Bill huffs and scrambles away, calling for reinforcements over his shoulder. Babe stares at the empty space he was just occupying for a long moment, feeling less stunned and more irritated by the fact that there's a giant bookcase very close to crushing him.

'Practically anchored to the ground' my ass, he thinks, recalling Bill's words from his first day on the job. Bill's confidence in his library couldn't be rivaled, but for all his obsessive maintenance of the place he really should have seen something like this coming. Did these shelves really pass safety inspections?Babe wonders if he'll get a plaque dedicated to him in the library if he dies here. He's an alumni, after all, and (technically) a staff member. People have gotten monuments here for less. Hell, they put up a statue of Mr. Sobel in the courtyard, and he didn't even die, he just left. (Granted, Bill, Buck Compton, and Harry Welsh put up that statue, just for students and teachers to throw things at and desecrate. Babe still thinks it was a worth investment. Principal Winters hasn't made them take it down yet.)He's lost in the thought of his own tragic demise when he hears Bill reappear, the sound of another loud voice echoing behind him. Babe can't see who it is, but he does see shadows suddenly appear on both sides of the bookshelf, and hears Bill count down from three before announcing "Lift!"With one great heave, the bookshelf is off of him. Babe tries to scramble out from under it, but his ribs are on fire and his entire body twinges in pain with any movement. He decides the path of least agony is to just lie still, watching Bill and Malarkey, one of the kitchen men, set the bookshelf back on its feet."There you go," Bill mutters, tapping the bookshelf before crouching down at Babe's side. "Hey, kid, you alright?"Babe manages a groan. He's proud of himself."Yeah, okay," Malarkey says, as if Babe has just told them all he needs to hear. "Want me to go get Doc?""Wait," Bill says, and lays an exploratory hand on Babe's chest. Babe grunts out a curse. "Yeah, okay. Be damn quick about it."Malarkey rushes off, and Babe squeezes his eyes shut as he listens to Bill talk. He goes on and on, telling him to be still, soothing him to try and keep him from panicking. While not helping the pain at all, his voice does help to ground him; and the fact that he's digging Babe out from the pile of books doesn't hurt either.Babe doesn't realize there's another person in the room until someone else cuts through the pained gaze of his thoughts. "You shouldn't have moved the shelf," an unfamiliar voice, rich and accented in its cadence, says. “Not until you figured out where it hit him.”

“It was just kinda all over the place, Doc,” Bill says. He sounds sheepish; that, more than anything else, let's Babe know they've been joined by the mysterious Doc Roe.

Gene Roe is kind of a fable in the school, among students and teachers alike. He was just hired this year, but already he's proven himself to go above and beyond the duties of a school nurse. He doesn't just hand out ice packs and band-aids. According to the stories, Roe once administered CPR to a student for twenty minutes until an ambulance arrived. He set a boy’s shoulder when it popped out of its socket. When a girl cut her arm on her locker, he stitched it up himself.

Doc Roe may or may not have an actual medical degree, and might be doing things a school nurse really doesn't have the jurisdiction to be doing, but he's already a legend.

Babe’s never met the guy, however; so when he opens his eyes, he's not sure what to expect.

It's certainly not to be greeted by a pair of dark eyes set in a pale face, delicate features and the barest hint of a frown on pursed lips. Roe leans over him, brow furrowed in focus. When he sees Babe’s eyes are open, he offers what could almost pass for a smile.

“Hey there, Heffron. Can you tell me where it hurts?”

There’s a pulsing pain in his left wrist, and his ribs are aching. Babe manages to say as much. Roe nods, frowning, before gently lifting Babe’s wrist in his own.

He doesn't scream at the pain, but he makes an unattractive grunting noise. Sure, he's had worse -- he still remembers the broken arm that took him out of commission for months in sixth grade, and hurt like the devil set him on fire -- but that doesn't make the pulses of fire shooting through his arm any better. He exhales a strained huff of breath, and nods when Roe raises his eyebrows in question.

“Okay. It's either broken or sprained. Can you move your fingers for me?”

Babe tries, and manages it with no problem. Roe’s lips twitch into what really is a smile now, and Babe feels something in his lungs catch. He can feel other hands around him working to dig him out of the pile of books; the ache in his chest is still prominent; but he finds it difficult to focus on anything besides Roe. His hands caress Babe’s wrist with utmost care; his eyes rove over his limbs, picking out every detail.

Wow, Babe thinks, feeling a bit dazed. For the first time, he realizes why everyone says Doc Roe is so great.

“I think it's just sprained,” the nurse says. “That said, I want you to keep ice on it. Try not to use it too much, so for god’s sakes, take it easy. If it still hurts in a few days, go to the doctor for an x-ray.”

Babe nods. Roe switched his attention then, down to his chest, and he feels his lungs seize.

“Okay, it’d help if I could feel under your shirt. Do you mind?”

“Yeah, no problem, I mean, I - I could take it off, if you want,” Babe rushes out, almost choking on the words. Roe offers him an amused glance.

“Why don't you just lie still?” he offers. His hands are electric as they slide under Babe’s shirt, caressing his bare skin. Every place he touches burns, and it's not just the result of potentially broken ribs.

Babe feels lightheaded as Roe examines him, and he's not sure whether he's just hit his head in the fall, or he's actually crazy. From the way he's feeling, it could be either of the two. He's just met Roe, and already he can't help but think that he'd like to hear that smooth voice drip words across his bare skin like honey; he'd like to feel Roe’s hands on him all the time.

After a bit of poking and prodding, Roe determined that Babe has not broken his ribs. There's going to be some bruising, and he'll be sore for a few days, but those should be the worst battle scars he takes away from the experience.

By this time Babe can sit up, speak, and even walk on his own. Now that he's no longer convinced he's dying, there's not much reason for him to be on the floor, so he starts to push himself to his feet. A hand on the back of his neck freezes him in his tracks.

“Sorry,” Roe mutters. “Just wanna make sure you didn't hit your head. It could happen and you wouldn't even know.”

He's so close as he examines him that Babe can almost feel the heat of his breath. Roe’s long fingers explore the back of his scalp, and he feels delirious, giddy, exhilarated. “I'm okay, Doc,” he says. “I'm gonna be fine.”

“I know. Just making sure.” There's a hint of wry amusement in Roe’s tone. When he pulls back to face Babe again, a small smirk plays on his lips.

His hands are no longer touching him, and Babe feels as if something precious has been torn away from him. The gleam in Roe’s eyes, however, almost makes up for it.

“Be more careful next time, Heffron,” he says. Then, with a nod and a smile, he's gone.

Babe stares after his retreating back in shock for a long moment. He trails Roe until he's vanished out the library doors, leaving him feeling like he's been left alone. He must be crazy; that's the only way he could be feeling such an influx of emotions after knowing someone for all of five minutes.

He might not know Roe well, but god, he wants to find out everything about him.

He's jarred out of his awed thoughts by the sound of someone clearing their throat behind him. He turns to see Bill glowering down at the mess of books all over the floor.

“Who the hell is gonna clean this up?”

Babe catches his breath before bursting into a fit of helpless laughter.

Potentially fatal accidents aside, he thinks he's going to enjoy working here a lot more after today.

After a while, finding Babe in the infirmary becomes a foregone conclusion.

It's as obvious as locating Luz in the office, or Speirs lurking in the dark corners of his classroom. If Babe isn't in the library (where, according to his job description, he's supposed to be) he's in the infirmary helping out Doc Roe.

“Helping” involves a variety of tasks that Babe is more than happy to perform for the good doctor, from the menial -- sorting through bandages, putting together ice packs -- to the more... proactive.

They're not breaking any rules, he tells himself, because school has been out for an hour now. Anyone at the door now can go bleed out somewhere else. Doc is busy, and Babe is making sure he stays that way.

“Hmm… Babe…”

Gene sounds so gorgeous when he's getting overwhelmed. It doesn't happen often, but anytime he can make him moan like that Babe feels a flash of pride almost as euphoric as the feeling of Gene’s lips caressing the crest of his neck. He eases Gene back a little further, bracing his weight against the infirmary cot, and allows his tongue to explore the inside of Gene’s mouth.

There’s no chance for Gene to do any more moaning now, but that’s okay. For now, the only thing that exists is the warmth of Gene’s body pressed up against his, the rhythm of their erratic heartbeats pounding in sync, and Gene’s ragged breath. Fingers dig into the backs of Babe’s shoulders, urging him on, and knees grip his hips like he’s the only thing capable of anchoring Gene to earth.

Babe sucks on Gene’s lower lip, before pulling away to smirk at him. Gene looks utterly wrecked, face flushed and eyes cloudy with lust. It’s the most beautiful thing in the world, and Babe’s made him this way.

“I dunno, maybe we should take a break…” He drags every word out like taffy, allowing them to wind over Gene’s exposed neck. “I’ve got a lot of work to do, ya know…”

Babe’s teasing. Gene knows it. There's nothing in the world he'd rather be doing right now more than kissing the hell out of Gene in the middle of his own office.

Gene’s hand catches in the back of Babe’s hair and tightens, enough to make Babe’s breath catch in his throat. “Babe, come on,” he breathes out. “Please.”

Babe grins and leans back in.

He’s just got his mouth fitted back against Gene’s swollen lips when the door opens with a piercing clatter. There’s no chance to think, no chance to catch his breath. Babe springs up, taking Gene with him, and looks up at the door with eyes filled with horror. He has flashes of losing his job, losing his college credit, losing his paycheck --

Bill is standing in the doorway, looking torn between smugness and horror.

“Really, Heffron?” he demands. “You can’t figure out how a damn door lock works?”

“Bill,” Babe grunts, “get out!”

Bill holds up his hands, a grin splitting his face. Now that he’s realized they’re both still fully clothed, he really looks like the cat who caught the canary. Babe could have gone his entire life without experiencing this moment, and now that he’s had he’s not happy about it. He starts glancing around for throwable objects within arm’s reach.

“In school, Babe? Really? And you, Doc, I thought you had more shame than that.”

“School policy is that extracurricular activities are healthy,” Babe says, and flings a box of band-aids at Bill’s head. “Get the hell out!”

Babe has almost as much blackmail on Bill as he does on him. Bill either realizes this or has decided to be a kind person for once in his life, because he holds up his hands and starts backtracking out the door. He’s still grinning, however, and it kind of makes Babe wish he were close enough to hit him.

“Be safe!” chimes Bill. The tone of his voice lets Babe know that he won’t be living this down for a long time.

“I'm a health professional,” Gene calls over Babe’s shoulder. “I promise, we will be.”

The door slams shut. Gene pulls away from Babe just enough to grin at him.

A beat passes before Babe leans his head into Gene’s shoulder, trembling with breathless, silent laughter. Gene’s hands clutch his back, steadying him and keeping him propped upright. He’s laughing too, soft, almost shy things, and it just makes Babe want to hold him closer.

“That was exciting,” Babe manages after a few moments. Once he’s managed to sober, he finds Gene staring at him, an unmistakable hunger in his dark eyes. He feels his lips curl up. “Now, where were we?”