#so in the worst case scenario (knock on wood that this is indeed the worst case scenario) I will still get one show :'D

[mitamicah]

Guess who’s also going to the Stockholm date now🥹💚

Looking forward to see some of you wonderful kääryle either there or in Berlin🤘💚

[webslinger-holland]

The Royal Family | Chapter One

Summary: When two royal family’s decide to conjoin their countries, they arrange a marriage between their eldest children. Once the two royals meet, it takes a lot of convincing before they are ready to begin their reign together...

Warning: mentions of war and mentions of arranged marriage

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Type: The Royal Family Series

MASTERLIST

The palace was an old country mansion that had been extended over the centuries. It now had four sides around a central quadrangle and over five hundred rooms. It took a small army of servants to upkeep such a large abode and indeed most of the rooms were never really used. 

The early hours of the morning were spreading the colors of the sunrise against the skyline. The clouds were tinted with a light pinkish and orangish glow, painting the most magnificent sight known to man. The early risen choir of birds were singing to themselves in a little chipper manner. 

A young princess was currently sitting on the perch of her window. She was looking towards the gardens, spotting the small buds starting to sprout on some of the bushes. She liked to wake up early so she could watch the sunrise every morning. 

She was still dressed in her white nightgown. Her nightgown was the beautiful color of pristine white. The soft and silky fabric trailed down the short stretch of her body to gather near her ankles. The layers of lace were stitched around the edge. The silky sleeves of the nightgown were trailing down to the end of her wrist, bunching into these tight cuffs around her wrists. The lace collar was also stitched to the hemline of the white nightgown. And a single ribbon was hanging down from the center of her chest, which dropped down the length of the gown.

This morning should have been no different than any other morning. The princess had stood to her feet, heading towards the other side of her bedroom. She pulled a long line of fabric that trailed to the ceiling. It acted as a lever that would be pulled to call for service from downstairs. She called for her lady’s maid.

Within a few moments, Elsie (the lady’s maid) had come into the princess’s bedroom with a towel draped over her forearm. She closed the solid wood mahogany behind her, bowing in respect. 

“Good morning, Your Highness.” Elsie said with a soft smile. She was quick to move towards the princess’s white vanity, laying the neatly folded towel beside the porcelain basin of cold water. 

“Good morning, Elsie.” The princess did not hesitate to walk back towards the window. She lifted her hand to brush the silky white curtains away, smiling at the beautiful sight in front of her. Her lady’s maid usually found her in the same spot every morning. 

“It is a beautiful day outside, is it not?” Elsie wondered. She had gone to the mahogany wardrobe in the background, fetching the light blue dress that she would wear for the day. She opened the doors of the wardrobe, pulling out the new dress amongst the various other ones. 

“It is indeed,”the princess agreed. She could only imagine the feel of the wind kissing her skin. She loved to spend her time walking through the gardens, admiring the nature around her. It didn’t take much convincing for her. “I think I would like to walk the gardens later,” the princess claimed.

“Of course, Your Highness. I’ll see to it,” Elsie promised. She had gently urged the young princess away from the window, so that she might be able to dress her for the day. 

The young princess was able to slip out of her white nightgown, watching the soft material tumble to the ground. She was fitted into her corset, which only seemed to grow tighter every time she wore it. She threw the crinoline over her head, waiting for her lady’s maid to tie the ribbons around her waist. She was quick to glance towards the powder blue dress that was laying out for her. It was the final touch.

In the end, the princess looked at her own reflection in the shiny glass mirror. She gave a short twirl to admire her new dress. The powder blue dress sleeves were quite puffy. They only dropped down to her forearms, leaving her shoulders cold and bare. There were white and silver stitches of roses on the skirt of the dress. And a long blue ribbon was wrapped around her waist.

Now the princess had lowered herself into the chair by the white vanity. She didn’t mind her lady’s maid brushing the hard knots out of her hair. She was used to it by now. Instead, the princess was looking through her small boxes of jewelry to find the perfect necklace and earrings to complete her outfit for the day. She would settle on some priceless diamonds.

At the given moment, one of the hall boys had knocked on the princess’s bedroom door. The heavy door had opened at a very slow pace. The hall boy had poked his head into the room, drawing the attention of the princess. 

“Your Highness,” the hall boy said. He was quick to step into the grand bedroom, bowing to her in the utmost form of respect. He was here to deliver a message. “The king is requesting your presence in the throne room,” the hall boy explained.

“Well, I shouldn’t keep the king waiting. I will be there soon,” the princess dismissed him. The hall boy had scurried out of the room so that he could deliver his message to the king himself. He had almost forgotten to bow his head before leaving the princess’s presence.

She quickly stood to her feet. She draped her hands down the long length of her brand new dress, smoothing out the invisible wrinkles. She headed towards the large mahogany door in the background, leaving her bedroom that was secured by two palace guards. She barely even noticed them bowing their heads at her.

The Eastern Princess had known the whole layout of the palace like the back of her hand. She had started to maneuver her way through the various corridors in the palace. She would smile at each of the servants that she passed along the way, though not many of them would catch it because their heads were bowed. She quickly hurried down the long length of the corridor, heading straight towards the throne room. 

The heavy doors of the throne were opened to the princess by the two palace guards. The throne room was an impressive setting for the king to preside 'in majesty' over official ceremonies, to hold council, to grant audiences, to receive homage, to award high honors and offices, and to perform other official functions. It was probably one of the most popular room in the palace.

The long pillars that stretched to the ceiling were made out of pure gold. The ceiling was a dome, decorated with very precise golden details. The line of chandeliers were sparkling in the morning light coming through the bay windows. The white marble floors were practically glistening because they had been scrubbed to perfection the night before. The king’s throne sat at the very end of the room.

The current monarch was definitely living in his last days. He was the most kind and gentle king that the kingdom had grown to know over the years. He was able to be attended to by the various servants in the palace. He also had many health complications, but he refused to make that announcement public to the press in fear that the word might travel. He was very wise in that sense.

The king was perched on the grand golden throne at the end of the hallway. His crown was placed on his head, which he never really wore unless there was someone coming to the palace. He had long white hair and a long beard on his face. His light blue eyes were shining. He smiled down at his only daughter.

“You called for me?” Y/N claimed. She was quick to approach his throne, crouching down to reside by his feet. This was something that she had always done as a child. She looked up at him with warm and gentle eyes. 

“Yes. I wanted to talk to you about something,” the king admitted. He was already dreading having this talk with his daughter. He never talked to her about the things going on in the kingdom. He felt that it would only worry her more. He also did not like to talk business with her, because it was a burden that she didn’t need to bare. 

“Alright,” the princess urged him.

“Many months ago, the King of the North had contacted me with a business proposition that would benefit the both of us.” The king began.“He feared that (with his passing) the Western Kingdom would try to overthrow the Northern Kingdom. I will admit that I have also had these kinds of thoughts in regards to my own kingdom. It is the worst case in my scenario because (unlike him) I do not have an heir who can inherit the title of king,” he further explained.

“You only have me,” the princess said. Her choice of words had come out in a very sad way. She could feel a rough pinch at her heart, because she was constantly reminded of her low position in society. She was ‘just a woman’ whose only purpose in life was to be married to some prince and bare his children. She would never amount to anything in this day and age.

“The king proposes that we should conjoin our two kingdoms together with a special treaty. That way we might be able to stand a chance against the westerners,” the king concluded.

“How would you conjoin the kingdoms though?” The princess wondered. She had furrowed her eyebrows together in thought. She was leaning forward in her place, growing more eager to hear his business proposition. She could only imagine what kind of treaty he would come up with.

“Well, the king has a son.” The king spoke in such a suggestive tone of voice. He had tried to make it look like he didn’t have the whole thing planned out in his mind. Like the idea had just popped into his head at that specific moment.

“Oh father,” Princess Y/N sighed to herself. She rolled her eyes at him. She was quick to stand to her feet again. She had turned her back to him, climbing back down the short steps. She wasn’t very amused with his comment. “Please don’t try to marry me off to some snobbish schoolboy prince,” she pleaded.

“He is not a snobbish prince. He is a highly respectable and honorable young man,” the king scoffed. He was trying to reason with his stubborn daughter. He pulled out one of his other cards. “I have even met him before. I think that he would be good for you,” the king claimed.

“You have said that before,” the princess called. This was not the first time that the king had tried to marry her off to some prince. She had played the game ‘match-maker’ far too many times to count. She was honestly tired of it now. “And I have told you before that I want to marry for love,” the princess demanded.

“You could learn to love him,” the king proposed. He had almost winced at his own choice of words, fearing her reaction. He was still trying to reason with her, mentally hoping that she would just cave in at some point.

“I highly doubt that,” the princess laughed. She had turned her head to look over the small stretch of her shoulder, shaking her head in denial. She just couldn’t bare the thought of being married off to some random stranger. 

“Well, you will have plenty of time to think it over because I have invited them to stay at the palace for a couple weeks,” the king concluded. He had forced himself to stand to his feet, leaving his gold throne behind him. He looked down at his daughter with a triumphant smile on his face.

“What?!” Y/N exclaimed. She had whirled around to face him. She was looking up at him with the look of horror on her face. Her mouth had dropped open at his words. She couldn’t believe it.

“They will be coming later this afternoon,” the king remarked. He had started to walk down the short steps leading up to his throne, stopping to stand in front of his lovely daughter. He tapped her chin gentle. “Do try to be civil, my dear,” the king pleaded with her.

“Fine,” the princess sighed to herself. “I will try,” the princess promised.

Within a few hours, a beautiful golden carriage was being drawn by four white horses towards the frontside of the king’s palace. The large carriage had come to a full stop in front of the palace staircase leading to the front door. The carriage doors were opened by two palace guards on the sidelines.

The King of the North had climbed out of the golden carriage with ease. He turned his head to look over his shoulder, watching his two twin boys climbing out behind him. His eldest was the last one to clamber out of the carriage. He had shifted to stand beside his father, directing his line of focus towards the magnificent palace in front of them.

The four of them were being escorted through the various corridors of the palace. The king was leading the way. The princes were following behind him, but they were greatly intrigued by the intricate detail engraved into the gold pillars that stretched down the corridor. They knew that this kingdom was well known for their gold, but they did not realize how much of it was incorporated into very single aspect of the palace.

The two palace guards were quick to grab onto the door handles leading into the throne room, opening the two doors for them to enter. The four northerners had started walking towards the large throne at the end of the hallway, stopping to stand in front of the king. The four of them bowed in respect.

“Welcome to the Eastern Kingdom,” the King of the East said. He nodded to them in acknowledgment. He had raised his hands in greeting, gesturing to the great halls around him. He wore a grand smile on his face. 

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” The King of the North spoke. He was slow to lift his head up to look towards the other king in front of him. He hadn’t seen the other king in quite some time. His lips had grown into a friendly smile on his face. “It was very kind of you to invite me and my boys to stay here for a few weeks,” the North King said.

The two kings had started to engage in short conversation. The two younger princes were standing beside each other. They had turned their heads to look towards the young princess standing in their company. The older prince could feel a sharp nudge in his side coming from one of his brothers. He could see his brother gesturing towards someone standing in front of them. 

Slowly, Prince Thomas had turned his head to follow his brother’s line of sight. He found himself gazing at the young princess standing on the side of the throne, feeling his breath getting caught in his throat at the mere sight of her. He had never seen anyone more beautiful in his entire life. He felt that, if she smiled at him, he might just dissolve into dust right there. He wanted her to smile...at him.

On the sidelines, the princess had turned her head to look at the three princes standing beside their father. She had caught one of them looking directly at her. She had just briefly glanced at their matching navy blue and silver uniforms. She was also able to notice that the three princes were much younger than she would have thought for most of the princes that she had met before were much older than her. She would admit that she found them quite handsome.

“Are these your boys?” The King of the East wondered. He found himself looking towards the three princes standing in front of him, gesturing to them with his hand. He took a second to inspect each of them, but he was able to identify the one prince that he had met one other time.

“Yes, they are. These are my three eldest children. This is Sam and Harry,” the king said with a nod of the head. He was quick to turn towards his three boys, so that he could introduce them to the king. He motioned towards each of them with the slight move of the hand. “And this one is my eldest whom you have met—Thomas,” the king concluded.

“It is a pleasure to meet you again,” the Eastern King said. He could barely contain the smile from growing on his face. He knew that it had been a few years since he had seen the prince last. But he had seen him grow into a very handsome young man.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Prince Thomas complimented him. He had bowed his head down once again to show some more respect to the king. He looked up at the king with a timid look on his face, mentally hoping that he would gain his favor.

“May I present to you my only daughter?” The King of the East proposed in such a suggestive tone. He had glanced down at his daughter standing at the lower level of steps leading up to the throne. He waved his hand to gesture towards her. 

Of course, the King of the North and the King of the East had known in advance that the prince and princess were going to be the sole members of the treaty between their countries. The two kings had turned their heads to look at each other with slight amusement written on their faces. They smirked in an all-knowing manner.

Now the prince and princess had also been informed about this treaty between their countries. They had been told that they would be married to each other, so that their kingdoms might be able to stand a chance against their enemies. It was only natural for them to blush at the king’s suggestive comment.

Slowly, Prince Thomas had found himself walking towards the young princess standing in front of him. He could see that (with each step he took) he was able to admire some of the more delicate details of her face. He watched her raise her hand towards him. 

“Your Highness. It’s an honor to finally meet you,” Prince Thomas confessed. He was careful to bring her hand towards his face, pressing the most delicate kiss onto the back of her hand. He lifted his head to look up at her, feeling the smile growing on his face. “You truly are the most beautiful princess in the land,” Prince Thomas complimented.

The young princess had almost grown tense under his stare. Her breath had caught in the back of her throat, so she was unable to form any words. She felt this tingly sensation on the back of her hand where his lips had touched her soft skin. Her cheeks had started to grow pink and rosy at his words. 

“My dear,” the king of the east called to her. He had tried to pull her back to reality. He could already acknowledge that she was probably caught up in her own thoughts right then and there. “Why don't you show the young princes to their rooms? They can get some rest before dinner,” the king suggested. 

“Oh yes,” the princess said in a cheery tone of voice. She was hesitant to pull her hand out of the prince’s. She didn’t turn her head to even acknowledge the king’s command. She was too caught up in the prince’s strong stare. “I will take them there,” the princess concluded. 

The Northern Prince had never heard anything more beautiful than the words that came out of her mouth. He didn’t even notice that his hand was back at his side. He didn’t even want to draw his eyes away from her. His heart started to flutter wildly in his chest upon seeing the kindest and warmest gesture in the world. She had smiled at him.

[typinggently-archive]

6) an undead creature, a cold winter night, dirt I'd love to read some alfie/Tommy with this, if you don't mind? O/ I love very much your writing **

Thank you so much, Lovely! That’s so sweet of you to say <3 I’m so happy you’re enjoying them! I took the liberty of reading “dirt” as “sand” 🧡

 Obligatory “Vampire invites shivering stranger into their home” AU

Canon timeline, but can be read as a modern AU

 If you want something done right, do it yourself. Now that the Gin’s locked up tight, when his skull is vibrating with the reproachful voices (external or internal, or, in worst case scenarios, both), Tommy repeats that motto to himself ad absurdum.

That’s why he’s here now, at the shore, at 11:34. He has 26 minutes left to get to the rendezvous point and he’s down to his last three cigarettes. If you want something done right, do it yourself. The salty wind snuffs the flame of his lighter two times before he manages to light the cigarette between his teeth. The moonlight flickers on the cool silver, there’s a subtle tremor in his hand. It could be the cold, but it accompanies the headache nicely. Do it yourself. He has no idea where he is.

His feet slip on sand, Italian leather no match for British beaches, and he’s not wearing a scarf. Not that he’ll have to talk much, but he already knows his throat’ll be raw for the next few days. Do it yourself. The moonlight is just bright enough to make out the time on his watch, but the headache makes it harder to concentrate on what he’s looking at. 23 minutes left. In the dim light, he sees the vague outlines of a building.

Margate in itself wouldn’t be the first place he’d go for business. Not to mention the shore. But he’s not the one making the rules here, and he stops to feel his tie before quickening his steps. There was no way of driving through the sand, but it makes for a very exhausting walk, especially with the cold-harsh wind and the late hour. So to say that the sight of the tall-dark building, half-drowned in sand, is a relief would be an understatement.

When he climbs the few steps to the porch, sand scratches on wood. He was prepared for an old hotel, abandoned somewhere around the Fin de Siècle, but the silence after he knocks is briefly unsettling. For a moment, he feels thee open sea at his back, the cold slipping into his collar, the weight of his gun.

But then, the door opens and a petroleum lamp almost-illuminates a face. “Yeah?”

He steps in, sand under his boots. “Here I am.”

Eyes flicker in the dim light, a soft hum. “There you are indeed. Come in, will you?” A shadow stepping aside, inviting Tommy to pass the threshold into the darkness beyond.

Tommy hesitates. It’s absurd to even consider it – fin de siècle hotel, abandoned at the shore, midnight. It’s absurd, but he knows this isn’t the house. The hesitation in his face must be obvious, the tense line of his shoulders.

Still, he can’t see much of the shadow’s face, the silver-pale moonlight doesn’t pierce the darkness of the hallway. It only seems to catch in those eyes, bright in the shapeless silhouette. “Now, Love. Don’t be ridiculous, yeah? Don’t be fucking stupid. You look frozen.”

Before Tommy can react, there’s a flash of gold and a hand brushes his. Cool fingertips on his knuckles, raw from the cold. The shadow tuts gently, squeezes his hand. Despite the cool touch, a feverish heat rushes through Tommy, a faint shiver down his spine. His throat hurts.

“You want a good Rum, yeah? Man like you, you gotta have some fuckin’ good Rum. It’ll warm you right up. I was just about to have a drink myself, come on in.” With that, the shadow retreats, the petroleum lamp catching on corduroy, soft cotton. Faded ink and gold rings. “Come on.”

It’s not the right house. Tommy blinks, swallows. Behind him, the sea roars, the wind tears at his sand-stained coat. It’s past midnight, he knows without checking. The weight of his gun against his hip, he steps over the threshold.

The smell of warm petroleum with a hint of something cinnamon sweet-sharp underneath. Dim lights flickering over peeling wallpaper, the broad back of his host.

Tommy licks his lips, teeth catching on his bottom lip. There’s a faint burn on his chest. First, he thinks it’s a reminder of the shiver that went through him at the touch, but when he reaches for it instinctively, his fingertips find the outline of his cross through the layers of his suit. The door falls closed behind him.

 -

 I have to say I just…love Vampires so much. I know I had the vampire hunters drabble-au for them ages ago, but I think this has potential as well? The idea of Tommy in this exhausted state stumbling into the den of a Vampire is just…so appealing. What an unexpected treat for Alfie!

To not go overboard with the length, I didn’t develop the atmosphere too much, but I really think the dream-like feeling and the cold, the disoriented feeling and the exhaustion might all play together really nicely in this context. Thank you so much for your prompt, it was such fun to think about!! 🧡🧡

[wilhelmjfink]

Daryl Dixon Drabble #5 Pt 1

Buckle up, fuckers. You can thank @crossbowking for this one.

ETA: this has become a 2 parter b/c my app didn’t save the rest of it :,)))) igkms

—

Thank God Daryl taught you how to track. Thank fucking God. Because you never would have thought about paying any attention to the fucking direction the grass had been trampled on towards, or the fact that some trash cans had been knocked over very recently — the only tell being the way they lacked the layer of dust everything else around them held. It was the small things, the attention to detail; and you were in such a spiraling panic, you were honestly surprised you remembered anything he’d ever taught you at all.

Your boots splashed in a fresh puddle and instantly your eyes shot downward — another hidden clue you never would have considered before you met him, all those lifetimes ago. Just barely visible was a separate footprint from yours, two, actually, that painted the otherwise dry asphalt beneath you, fresh enough that your heart sped up at the discovery. They both led the same direction, the same time, the same sense of urgency and haste behind them it seemed, as they continued forward in an obvious stumbling-sprint until they faded away outside of an old derelict gas station. You spun on your heels and headed straight for the garage.

The first thing you noticed was that the heavy metal door was ajar, just over a foot off of the ground, fresh blood smeared across the concrete beneath the opening. Somebody or something was inside, but the barefooted, rotten and decaying bottom-half of a corpse that protruded from the opposite side had you halting in your tracks: was that the source of the blood? No — the body was obviously that of a walker, the pant legs tattered and torn and stained with blacks and browns and greens, the exposed skin of its feet a grotesque shade of grey, maggots and worms slithering around the heel, and you swallowed the bile that rose up in your throat. No way their blood was that fresh.

So you rounded the corner and peered quietly through the sagging chain link fence, barbed wire snagging the flyaway hairs not contained in your messy ponytail, and your heart dropped at the sight that greeted you.

Walkers, some alive, some dead, no less than a dozen of them. Some wandered in aimless circles around the old scrap yard, but most of them were pressed unceremoniously against the boarded up window, jaws snapping hungrily, impatiently, in such a way that proved your suspicions that somebody was definitely inside of that gas station.

And if Daryl’s lessons had done you any good at all, you were positive it was him that had led you there.

You didn’t think you’d stopped shaking since you left Hilltop hours ago. In fact, you knew for a fact that you hadn’t been coherent or in any state of mind when you ran through the gates, furious and terrified and nauseas along another whirlwind of emotions that you couldn’t pinpoint after being told that Daryl left by himself to track down Alpha and try to right all the latest wrongs that psychopath had rained down upon your friends and family. Someone had been yelling at you to stop, the same way you surely would’ve been yelling at Daryl had he not snuck out one night right underneath your fucking nose. Nobody followed you out, though. And you didn’t particularly care.

Sure, you were just as worried about Connie and Magna as everyone else. But you knew Daryl better than them — better than anybody did. And you knew the way his brain worked, how it always carried the weight of his loved ones problems, how he accepted the blame even when it had nothing to do with anything he did or could have done. He was so self-destructive, thought himself so unworthy if he couldn’t keep you or your family safe. He would, quite literally, go to the ends of the earth for those he cared about... whether or not it killed him. And if your crippling apprehension told you anything, it was that this particular instance would be no different, and considering the scene you’d just been walked into...

Clammy, trembling hands latched onto the rusty handle of the garage door before you thought better of trying to haul it open and instead laid down flat to army crawl beneath the gap, trying your best to ignore the pool of blood at your right and the corpse at your left. Everything seemed so loud, so hard to ignore, and you were so hyper aware of any and every detail that led you to believe that the worst-case-scenario was indeed the one you were about to be faced with.

It was dark inside the garage, the only light source being rays of dull, dreary outside-world that broke through the rotted wooden boards that would’ve sealed the place up tight four or five years ago. A blanket of dust should’ve covered the steel barstool that was toppled over in front of the man door, but it was much cleaner than anything else surrounding it, and droplets of blood painted a trail over top of it and into the store, beckoning for you to follow them.

You swallowed hard. We’re you even prepared to see what sights may present themselves on the other side of the gas station? The thought had you hesitating, had your breath hitching in your throat and your heart ceasing to beat entirely. But the fear that was threatening to suffocate you was the same impetus that had you raising your combat rifle to your shoulder, poised and ready to fire, as you crept slowly across the threshold with anxiety so deep and heavy in your bones that you weren’t positive you wouldn’t pass out before you found what you were looking for... whatever that was.

The store was a mess, clearly a recent endeavor, with expired foods and liquids covering the floor amongst shattered glass and splinters of wood and blood. So much fucking blood. Footprints that had stormed through it, handprints that slid down the wall, splattering the grimy lockers and old magazine clippings like some sort of abstract art exhibit compiled of your deepest fears. You were almost too scared to explore further — but the smallest sliver of hope that you’d learned to believe in had you pressing forward, Daryl’s reassuring voice in your ears among the obnoxious ringing that told you that, oh yeah, you might actually fucking pass out.

Thank fucking God Daryl had taught you how to track.

If you’d maybe stumbled upon a deer you’d been following, laying motionless against the display counter with a hunting knife lodged into the meat of its thigh, you might have been proud of yourself. You might have even turned to Daryl and smiled in spite of yourself, sticking your tongue out. ‘I told you I could do it,’ you’d tell him happily as you knelt down and began to skin and prepare it to come back home with you, and he would fight a proud smile of his own, rolling his eyes, ‘Yea, only ‘cause I taught ya how to.’

But any obscure, minuscule thought of potential pride and success was shattered and gone in milliseconds. Hell, it was hardly even a fleeting thought, and you actually found yourself momentarily disappointed in your actions as you let your rifle carelessly slip from your fingers and clash against the ground loudly. Instantly forgotten. In fact, the tip of your boot even kicked it aside for emphasis of your stupidity as you strode forward to the crumpled being laying still and silent against the disheveled wooden counter, head lulled to the side, bloody knife handle protruding from his leg.

His name stuck in your throat painfully as you collapsed to the ground by his side, hands hovering uselessly overtop of him with the desire to try and help but lacking any knowledge on how to do so. He was bloody, beaten, pale — so fucking pale, so still and please God please please please he was cold. Cold, but the shallow rise and fall of his chest seemed to breathe more life into you than it was him, literally and figuratively.

The tears that sprung to your eyes actually hurt, blurring your vision, which seemed to be the only working sense you had as everything else seemed to freeze inside you and around you, leaving you absolutely fucking useless.

You shook your head. “Daryl,” you gasped, the breath it took to say his name unintentionally allowing a sob to escape simultaneously. “Daryl?”

He didn’t stir. We’re you not loud enough? “Daryl!” Maybe he just couldn’t hear you. You reached out and gripped his shoulders, fingers intertwining into the fabric of his canvas vest, clutching like a lifeline that would cement your debilitating fears if you let go and let him fall away from you. “Daryl! Fuck — wake up!”

If you’d ever been a religious person, that moment would’ve been the exact time you dedicated your life and afterlife to whatever higher being you believed in when, holy shit, he let out a pathetic whimper that both broke your heart in two and kicked your adrenaline into overdrive but also allowed it all escape you in the form of your own racking sob.

“Oh, my God — fuck, fuck, fuck, Daryl, please — wh — what did you do?” You fought the urge to grip the handle of the knife that was stuck into his thigh and yank it out furiously. “What the fuck did you do?”

You at least had the sense to untie the bandana from around your neck, clumsily and hastily, and secure it tightly around his thigh above the wound, praying to anything that would listen that maybe it would help.

His head lulled softly toward you with another soft whine and fell limply, and you threw your hands to your own face and frantically brushed your hair from your face and wiped your eyes and scratched at your scalp, pulling your hair, and you were panicking, absolutely reeling, if Daryl was here he’d be lecturing you so bad, but he’s not here because he’s laying in front of you almost fucking dead, no he’s not dead, he’s breathing, barely, how do I fix him? How do I help? Do I take the knife out? No, no you can’t fucking do that, you dumbass, what if it hit an artery? He’ll bleed out before you can even... oh, God, his head’s bleeding, gotta stop the bleeding, gotta stop the bleeding...

What the fuck were you supposed to do? You had some bandages in your bag, some sutures and needles, some alcohol... you tore blindly through it, retrieving the liquid and wraps and dropping them stupidly on your lap like you’ve never had to clean and dress a wound before in your entire life.

Once again you had to furiously wipe the tears from your eyes as they skewed your vision, smearing fresh blood his fucking blood, it’s everywhere, please please please no no no across your cheeks and it burnt your skin, taunting you, ticking loudly like an alarm clock that was about to run out right before your eyes.

He’s gonna die. He’s gonna fucking die and you were too late.

—

Also hey this is loosely based off of last nights episode that I didn’t want bc I can’t emotionally handle watching Daryl get hurt bc I’m a mess so sorry if it made no sense or was wrong!! Xoxoxo

Stay tuned for part 2 that I have to rewrite...........

[pendesvoyage]

Paint with all the Colors

The coffee cup was white, that much he knew. His fingers were wrapped around it like it was a vaccine to this frigid, winter day. It didn’t do much to soothe his shaking hands or his curiosity. He’d seen the color of this cup almost every day, and he has decided that white wasn’t that stunning of a color. When he reached into his pocket for his wallet, the denim bled dark blue before he pulled out his money and it faded back to grey. The wallet was black now that he was holding it, but now he had to put down his coffee to slip a few bills from the folds, and it turned back to grey as well. The money was a faded green, the barista’s fingertips were mocha colored, and the receipt had red lettering scrawled across the top, but they all turned to grey as soon as he wasn’t touching them anymore.        He used to, when he was younger, go around trying to touch everything in sight. Now, though, he has realized it a bit of a fruitless task. Even if he could hold on to the color of the things he held forever, they wouldn’t be nearly as brilliant as they would be after he met his painter, so aptly named for the way they paint your life with color permanently. From what he’s heard- stories passed down from his parents and grandparents- your painter will crash into your life when you least expect it. One touch, and suddenly the world would be splashed with every shade you could imagine, a Picasso right before your eyes. Not that he’d ever gotten to touch a Picasso so he wouldn’t know.        Waiting was the hardest part. He swore that he’d find his painter in high school. That was when his mom met his dad, when their worlds bled into rainbow. Then, he swore he’d find them in college. Where else would he meet the person of his dreams, the one to spend the rest of his days seeing color with? Two degrees and a stressful job as a marketing analyst later, and he was no closer to knowing what color the sky actually was.        It wasn’t really fair. No one could touch the sky, not even pilots. How was he supposed to know what color it was? Blue, apparently, but what kind of blue? The blue of the swimming pool on Memorial Day. The blue of the Royals jersey his dad got for him when they went on that family trip to the stadium as a kid. The blue of his cousin’s hair when she'd turned seventeen. He felt like he’d never know.        Even the color of his own skin, hair, and eyes were a mystery to him. The universe was a jerk in that regard. You couldn’t know your own true colors until someone came along and painted the picture for you. A bit overly dependent for Garret’s taste, but he was willing to deal with it if he got to see what his mom meant by sort of a goldeny, cream color, baby. It’s very lovely. You don’t even need to worry about tanning.        “Sir?”        Garret’s head popped up from where he’d been staring at the few inches of bronze counter he could see next to his hand. “Sorry, what?”        “There’s a line,” the barista insisted cautiously. Garret looked behind himself to see that, indeed, there was a handful of people waiting for him to get himself together and move out of the way.        “Yeah, um, sorry,” he murmured and grabbed his coffee again. The white blip was the only color in his vision until the cracked wood brown of the door, and then his entire world was back to grey by the time he got to the office, coffee long trashed.        “Good morning, Mr. Plier. You’ve got a meeting with the team from TeachYoung in about fifteen minutes,” his assistant, Beverly, spouted before he could fully step out of the elevator. “Have you eaten breakfast? I left a blueberry muffin on your desk just in case. Here are the reports from the Frizzle study.” Garret was handed a decently sized manila folder that came alive with it’s weird banana pudding coloring.        “Thanks, Bev. No calls until after lunch, okay?”        “Yes, sir. Got it.” Garret gave her a thankful smile and pushed the slick, metal door to his office open and let it sink shut behind him. He shrugged off his light coat, the lapels fizzing green as he did, and went to the wall behind his desk. On it was mounted the only painting he’d ever owned in his life. Art wasn't cheap, actually it was one of the most expensive commodities in the world. They say artwork was a substitute for love to the lonely, that it was cherished cheat of what could be. Garret couldn’t find it in him to care, especially when he ran his fingers across the face of the framed panel and the trickle of colors followed him. The mountains were a faded purple, like the color of a little girl’s Easter dress. He thumbed over the winding river, the exact color of the spring back home that he and his sister used to drink from on hot summer days.        He let the art slip from under his fingers and slunk back to his desk, slumping into the large, stuffed chair. He swiveled around to face the sturdy wood surface, his hands suspended in the air. The choices were to either place them on the desk and see the same chocolate brown he saw every day, or place them on his lap and see his trouser for the dark charcoal grey they were already without touching them. None of it was satisfying. Garret always prided himself as an independent lad, but lately he’d become so desperate to know the whole world that he was tempted to go around touching everyone in the city, which, worst case scenario, would land him in a holding cell for a few hours.        A long time ago, they installed a set of rules on the proper etiquette of touching other people. Not laws exactly, but reason enough to put someone in a secluded room until they got their shit together if they went too far. Some were so desperate to see color that they would slide a hand inside other’s clothing to get that skin on skin contact that was necessary to gain the world unknown to them. Garret had never- but he was considering the insanity of it as of late. He could handle a rest in a jail cell if it meant he found his painter.        There was a knock on the door. “Come in.” After two years, his assistant still seemed skittish in his presence. He was pretty sure it had something to do with the crush she had on him. Unfortunately for her, they’ve touched many times before and…nothing.        “Your nine o’clock is waiting in the small conference room for you.”        “Thanks, Bev.” She nodded and swiftly left while he gathered his preparations from the mess atop his desk, knocking his breakfast muffin aside as he did. He almost slid his fingers along the wall like a child as he walked down the hall, just to see something other than the bland white of the papers in his hand, clipped together by a black piece of metal. He stamped that down and entered the meeting room, the grey scale of faces greeting him in various stages of excitement- that was, from nonplussed to tolerant. “Afremov, ladies and gentlemen," he greeted, "Let’s go ahead and get started.”        The meeting was tedious, to say the least. He’d over prepared and then had to catch everyone else in the room up on the plan. It was like when he tried to explain the rules of football to his sister when they were young. Turned out not to be worth the effort. They scrapped the plan at the end of the meeting, citing confusion, and wanted Garret to steer the research in another direction. Whatever, he was going out for lunch. Had to get out of that office, those same pea green walls that surrounded his daily life.       He brought the car door to life, followed by the seat belt, and then the steering wheel. The radio delivered some top 40’s pop song, and Garret couldn’t tell if it was being sung by a boy or a girl. He drove until the traffic of the city fell away and was replaced by a bland screen of tree after tree. The road turned from a four lane to a two, and he took a side road off to the right. He'd stumbled upon this place one night when he and some friends got high and heard about this really great café that was sure to cure the munchies. Now, he came here when he was antsy, jittery, and needed some place that held colors he wasn’t quite used to seeing every day. Parking just left of the door, he walked up to the diner with a content smile on his face.       “Garret!” The smile spread until he was sure the white of his teeth stood out against the grey of his face.       “Nancy,” he greeted fondly. “How are you?”        The well-rounded, middle-aged woman came around the bar to the hostess stand and took Garret’s hand. He looked down at see the milky white of her fingers wrapped around his. “Give it here,” she encouraged and brought his hand up to her face. The gesture was one of trust, not one extended often to someone you saw less than once a month, but he was glad for it. The rose of her cheeks contrasted with the pale, icy green of her eyes. He took it all in, trying to memorize every detail before she dropped his hand and asked, “Usual?”       Swallowing down the sharp loss at missing the color of her lips, he nodded. “A coffee as well. Lots of-”       “Creamer, I know, love. Take a seat, and I’ll have it right out.” Garret extended his gratitude and wandered over to his usual booth, sliding into the tacky red seat that swiped to life under his palm as he situated himself. He picked up the menu from the end of the table and let his eyes rake over it. One of his favorite things about this place was that the menu was ever-changing, which meant different pictures every time he came. Currently, they had a bright green slice of key lime on the back. He brushed his fingers over the lunch choices, a multi-layered pile of nachos pulsing with a myriad of colors under his fingertips.      “Alright, babe. The usual.” She set down a plate of chicken-fried steak with mash potatoes and corn on the cob. The coffee splashed over the edge of the mug, onto the saucer, and trickled a transparent mud over his fingers when he reached out to settle it. “Oops, sorry, love. Napkins for ya.” She reached in her apron and pulled out some extra ones, but Garret was slow to clean up the mess, loving the reprieve of color that would last as long as it stayed on his skin.       “No problem, Nancy. Thank you.” He went right in on his food, the fork and knife a shiny, scratched silver. He was a grown ass man, and he knew better than to play with his food, but if his fingers slipped lower on his silverware and swiped across the tops of his lunch, just for a glimpse, then so be it. The gravy was that brothy brown and the corn was grilled, black on the edge of some of the kernels. He licked the remnants off his finger, letting himself enjoy that one small act of indulgence.      “Nance!” The door to the small café opened with a bang, the windows rattling. Garret turned to see a thin man with dark grey hair (brunet, at least; black hair, maybe) dressed in clothing too heavy for this breezy, fall day: zipped up leather jacket, gloves, beanie. He was panting and looking around wildly for the said hostess. When she peaked around the corner of the kitchen, the man breathed out a sigh of relief and rushed to her. “Nance, help me. They’re coming.” Slightly sketchy. Garret wasn’t averse to a little adventure, but that did not sound like his type of fun.      “Honey, Marcus, slow down. What did you do?”       The man scoffed. “Why is it always me that-” He broke off when Nancy raised a knowing brow. “Right, well. I might have…stolen a little something from Mariposa’s warehouse. “Marcus!”      “A tiny something. I didn’t even think they’d notice.” Nancy slapped him across the chest and scolded, “You’ll get yourself killed one day, and for what? Huh, what was it?”       The new stranger shifted his eyes guilty around the room while he unzipped his jacket and pulled out a small framed artwork of some sort, Garret couldn’t really see from his seat. “It’s beautiful right? Tell me it’s beautiful, or I stole it for nothing.”       The older woman sighed and looked up from the art to the nervous man’s face. “It’s lovely, Marcus.” He breathed out in relief. “But,” she emphasized, “you stole it. And I’m not having stolen merch in my diner. You’ve got to go.” As she started pushing him towards the door, Marcus pleaded with her.       “No, please, Nancy. Just let me hide out here for a few hours. I just need to let them calm down a bit, so they’re not so let’s find him and skin him alive when I see them again.”       Nancy’s jaw was set, eyes stern. “No way. I’ve got a business to run, and you’re disrupting my customers.” Like he’d just been reminded of where he'd ran to for cover, he looked around the eatery and scanned over the half dozen patrons that were staring at him with everything from distaste to disbelief.        He nodded to a young lady with a high bun. “Hey, Stella.”        She rolled her eyes. “Get out, Marcus.”        The thief sighed like her greeting taxed him in some personal way. “Listen, Nance-” he tried, turning back to the woman, but she cut him off.        “I want you out in ten seconds or I call the cops.”        Garret nearly stood up at that. He felt the need to tug the man further from the door, push him under a table, and reason with Nancy to give him a chance. He was a thief, but he just wanted to hold a piece of beauty in his hands for a little bit. Garret could understand that. Just when he was about to protest Nancy’s decisive action, a company of rumbling trucks plowed through the parking lots and idled in front of the glass windows of the café.        “Oh, shit,” the thin man cursed and ducked behind the nearest booth. He tucked the painting back into his jacket, safely zipping it into place. “Pretend I’m not here,” he urged as he crept backwards, further into the diner.        “Marcus Leland, get your butt out here now,” Nancy ordered, but he shook his head frantically. He kept slowly moving backwards until his back hit an obstacle and he startled, hand flailing out to catch himself and instead caught someone else’s hand that kept him from landing on his butt. He looked up to see Garret’s worried face hovering over him.        “What’s up?” the criminal asked casually.        “Um, not your luck,” Garret answered without thinking, but the other man just laughed easily and nodded.        “Too true. Hey, uh,” he shimmied under the table and tipped his head out to talk, “would you mind not mentioning I’m under here?”        Garret’s eyebrows furrowed as he shrugged. “I guess, yeah.”        “Thanks, man. Really.” Marcus curled up into a ball and settled in, and Garret sat back up to look behind him to the door as a small gang of men in well-fitting suits entered the diner like they had something to prove. A point, most likely. They sauntered up to Nancy’s considerably smaller form and one leaned on the hostess stand.        “Hi there, Nancy. How are you?” She leveled them with a cold look. “You can just turn right back around and leave. I have no business with Mariposa.        The group exchanged glances before the supposed leader pushed off the podium and stepped up close to the middle-aged lady. “We know he’s here, Nancy. He ditched his car just a couple blocks away, and who could refuse your great cooking.”        Garret was gripping the top of his booth so hard the red seemed to burn a brighter candy apple. His eyes flicked back and forth between the large man and the small woman. Like he was some sort of beacon, the man’s eyes swept sideways to meet his, and Garret froze. “Got yourself a decent crowd for a Thursday. Enough people to make me nervous for what might happen.”        “Don’t you threaten me,” she snarled, making the man- thankfully- look back to her.        If Marcus’ opening statement a few minutes ago didn’t sound like fun, that sounded like a really bad time. Garret ducked under the booth and whispered urgently. “Do something. They’re going to hurt people unless you go out there.”        The wiry man shook his head with a disapproving tilt to his mouth. “They’d never. They talk all big and bad, but that’s all they are. Just talk,” he explained as he tugged off his beanie, the hint of dark bangs that Garret got before turning into a head full of thick, almost wild, hair, that the thief ran his hands through anxiously. “They’ll just grumble while Nancy refuses to back down, and then, leave and tear up my place as repayment.” He wiggled the gloves off and let them fall to the floor before unzipping his jacket and pulling the small frame from under it.        “Sounds like you’ve done this before.”        Marcus shrugged while his fingers grazed the art piece. “Those pricks don’t deserve to hold all of the beautiful things in the world.”        “You take what doesn’t belong to you, endanger innocent people, and get your home torn apart. For what?”        At that, Marcus turned the piece of art around so show it off to his current protector. “For this,” he reasoned. “It’s beautiful right?” Garret couldn’t see the colors of it without reaching out and brushing his fingers across it, and that didn’t seem appropriate just then. But the picture of it was really something. It was a scene of a gorgeous garden pixie wrapped up in the arms of a well-dressed man. She was laid out in his hold, head thrown back with a look of desperation etched across her face.        “It is.”       Marcus seemed relieved by Garret’s answer. “I just wish I could see all the colors at once you know. I was hoping that, if I got one small enough, I could light up the whole thing, but…” He cast his eyes down to the painting. “Still,” he nodded surely, “it’s really something.”       “Nancy, you’ve got one more chance to tell me where he’s at before we start tearing this place apart.”       Garret sat back up, turning to see that things hadn’t escalated so much as intensified. Bulky mob guy was encroaching on the lobby and Nancy had backed up a step or two towards the counter. He ducked back under the seat with a, “Do something.”      “Trust me,” Marcus urged. “Nothing is going to-” A gun shot went off and both men ducked for cover, Garret joining Marcus under the booth and curling up across from him on the floor. “Shit, no, shit. They never.”      “Marcus,” the boss man taunted. “Come out, come out. We’d hate to hurt your favorite little cook.”      “Dicks, the whole lot, I swear,” he cursed under his breath. “Now, I’ll have to…” He waved his hands around the small space and groaned quietly.      “Don’t touch me! Let me go!” Nancy’s voice rang out in the still café.     “Go find him,” the leader ordered. Marcus hung his head and sighed in resignation at the declaration. He gripped both hands around the painting in his lap, and looked up to Garret.      “Take care of it for me. Don’t let them have it,” he requested severely. The steps of the men were coming closer. Garret nodded frantically and held his hands out as Marcus regretfully passed the artwork to him. Their hands brushed and, in that moment, the waves of color actually hurt to take. It started at the connection of their hands, washing over the painting and making both men lose their breath. The technicolor spread outward from there, filling the booths and the underside of the table with realistic hue.     Marcus’ hair was black like Garret had thought, but not black like it was in grey scale. There were these highlights that reminded Garret of the way the night got lighter around the moon. And his eyes. They were like a mix of green and brown. He grit his teeth in frustration when he couldn’t remember that name of that color. He didn’t know anyone that he was close enough to to touch that had eyes that color. The thief, his painter, blinked slowly, shock obvious on his features.      “Do you?” he asked.      “Yeah,” Garret huffed out, lost for words. “Your eyes, they’re…”      “What?”      “I don’t know the word for-” He cut off when Marcus was yanked out from under the booth, the painting slipping from his fingers and into Garret’s lap.      “We found him, sir,” the man announced.      “Don’t get handsy, pal. I’m a taken man!” He sounded giddy with it, the news, and, when Garret set the painting down behind him and looked out from under the booth, Marcus was smiling down at him with sparkling white teeth and petal pink lips. His skin was tan, almost the color of the caramels Garret liked to pick up around Christmas time. He couldn’t even enjoy that he finally knew that Nancy’s hair was a dingy, dirty yellow or that the tile of the floor was dark blue speckled with random cream splatters. It all faded into the background of Marcus’ struggling.      Garret started to crawl out from underneath, had to help him, but Marcus blurted a scared No! and he froze. A sharp warning shake of his head and Garret was slinking back onto his hind legs and just watching as Marcus was dragged over to the front doors of the diner and presented to the boss. He could see the pink spread across Marcus’ cheeks feet away, from that moment of vulnerability, and it felt amazing. 

     Too bad that was overshadowed when Nancy was released and, instead, his painter was being held up by a tight hand around his throat, the pink flushing his cheeks turning into a bright red from lack of oxygen. Garret’s fingers pressed into the old tile, but he didn't even look down to see the color of his skin going pale around the tips. He was too afraid this would be the last time he’d see the one who had given him color.

     One of the sidekick’s hand padded over Marcus' body and grumbled he came up empty. “He doesn't have it, boss.”      Scary boss man tugged Marcus closer by his neck, making Marcus gasp and Garret lurch forward. That earned him another warning glare from the thief to stay right where he was. It took him a moment longer to obey, sitting back again.      “Where is it?” The brute demanded.      Marcus scoffed as best he could. “I'm not sure what you mean.”      “Don't play with me,” he warned. “I have orders to do what it takes to get that painting back.” The thief scratched at the fingers surely leaving bruises on his neck, asking for a reprieve. The grip loosened just enough for him to say,         “Why is it so important?”      Caveman mobster laughed haughtily. “You just happened to steal-”      “Allegedly stole,” Marcus interrupted, making Garret swallow his laugh, but his grin was enough to make the threatened man’s eyes light up, that mellow brown turning a bit greener.      “You stole,” scary guy insisted, “Mariposa’s two-year anniversary gift to his painter.”      “Two years?” Marcus crowed in disbelief. “If she’s dumb enough to stay with that nitwit for,” his eyes cheated to the ceiling, “730 days, she’s not going to enjoy some tiny painting that I apparently took.” The grip on his neck went tight again, and Marcus cut off with a gurgle.       “You should watch what you say, Marcy. I wasn’t told to leave you alive.”      “Excuse you?” Nancy piped up. “You’re not killing anyone in my diner.” Boss man pulled a gun from his waistband and pointed it at Nancy’s suddenly cautious face. The patrons let out collective murmurs of fear. “Sure about that?”       “Woah, now, okay,” Marcus choked out and the grip loosen the tiniest bit again. “No need to go shooting the only woman within a thirty-mile radius that knows how to make a proper pot pie. Keep the focus where it belongs, yeah?”      “Alright,” the leader agreed easily and pointed the gun at Marcus, the barrel a shining dark grey in Garret’s eyes.      If the analyst hadn’t memorized every inch of Marcus’ face, he probably would’ve missed the drain of color from his skin. As it was, Marcus’ now ghostly lips pressed firm, but Garret could see the trepidation in his eyes. Marcus had just realized he might not make it out of this alive. Garret reached for the painting sitting on the diner floor behind him, and brought it close, half-hidden under his leg, to run his fingers across the now smudged glass front. He didn’t need to touch to really see it anymore, but the connection made him feel as if he had more control over this situation than he actually did. In reality, he’d just met his painter, the one he was supposedly meant to spend the rest of his colorful life with, but today, he just might lose him.     “Why don’t you tell me where it’s at, and I won’t make a mess in your favorite lunch spot?”     Marcus looked caught, pulled between refusing to give in and sparing these people, Garret and Nancy, of what they might see. Finally, he nodded. “Yeah, alright.” Garret’s face must have been one of shock, because Marcus’ own face went soft. He held his new partner’s gaze, furiously trying to get the thief out of this while simultaneously memorizing every hitch and detail of his face just in case.      “They’re hazel, by the way,” Marcus spoke slowly, deliberately. The mob men looked confused, and so did Garret, until Marcus fluttered his lashes dramatically and Garret’s face broke into a barely contained grin. Hazel. His eyes were hazel. That was the name of that color. Hazel.      “Thank you for that piece of information, Marcus, but no one cares,” the big man with the big ego lamented.      Marcus scoffed. “Mind your business here, slick. I’m trying to be charming.” Garret was going to watch his painter die, but he couldn’t stop smiling.     “Why don’t you worry about charming me, instead?” The threat came with a shove of the gun into Marcus’ temple, reminding him of his current situation. “Right, yeah. Um, well if I stole it, I didn’t bring it in here,” he decided quickly. “If I stole it,” he repeated, “I probably put it in my car.” Garret was shaking his head. He didn’t want Marcus to leave, be taken away so he couldn’t see his midnight colored brows crinkle up in worry.      What if they didn’t bring him back? What if they never let him go? But Marcus was nodding back to him. “Yes, I think I put it way back there, in my car.”      “To your car, then,” the leader decided, and the entire cafe let out a breath of relief.      “No, no, wait,” Garret mumbled, not nearly loud enough to matter as the men started shoving Marcus towards the door. “No,” he said again, more firmly, as he stood up from under the booth. “Wait,” he finally called out, and everybody, including Marcus, froze and turned. With all eyes on him, he lost all his confidence and gripped the painting tightly in his hand.      “Don’t do-” Marcus started, voice shaky, but was cut off by the head mobster’s, “What have you got there, big man?”      “I have it,” Garret admitted, painting nearly trembling in his grip. “You can have it if you let him go.”      Marcus rolled his eyes, but then, his face melted as Garret set his jaw and rolled his shoulders back. Mob man was not nearly as impressed. “That’s not how it works, bud.” His barely-there blond lashes fell slowly into a blink, like he couldn’t be bothered to move too quickly. This was his last chance to save his new found partner.      “No, you listen to me, bud,” Garret quipped back. “Let. Him. Go, and I’ll give you the-” The gun shot off and before Garret could blink his entire world went grey again. The color didn’t drain, or melt away, just vanished. The walls were a medium grey again, the booths a deep grey. The lifeless body of his painter a bunch of different greys crumbled on the floor. The blood pooling under his head a dark, rich grey. He’d only seen the color of blood when he’d scraped a knee or cut his finger on a kitchen knife, but he knew exactly what the mass puddle of heavy liquid was. “No!” he shouted and sprinted forward, dropping the forgotten painting on the floor. He fell to his knees beside the man he’d only just met and placed careful hands on either side of his face.      Nothing. Not even the few inches around his finger were lighting up with the deep tan that Garret knew Marcus’ skin to be. He raked his hand through the thief’s hair, brushing it off his face, but the black didn’t swirl with highlights and lowlights. He couldn’t see the color he was touching anymore. He’d heard that you lost all ability for color after your painter died, but that was when you were seventy and in a nursing home and you’d had years to memorize all the colors of the world. Not now. Not just twenty minutes after gaining the privilege.      There were heavy footsteps around them, but Garret couldn’t bring himself to look away from the droop of Marcus’ mouth. Then, a low, hissing voice was right next to his ear. “Don’t feel bad, bud. I was going to off him either way. But thanks for the painting.” Then the gang of men exited out of the diner, the front door bell dinging on the way out, and Garret was left seeing the world through wet, grey eyes.

[goddamnchou]

the turtle

or, erwin has to go number 2 outside. this is for @erurisms because it’s her birthday and she’s the little sister i never had. happy birthday binch ily <3

Petra’s gear is missing a screw, and Levi is helping her fix it when he hears the call.

“Captain!” A young shoulder shouts, appearing frantic and huffing in front of him suddenly as if he’s just sprinted across the entire campsite. “Come quick! Commander Erwin says he needs to see you at once!”

Eyes widening, Levi tries to play it cool. He can’t be seen flipping out, but they’re outside the walls and getting ready to hunker down for the night, and he’s already operating on a hair fucking trigger anyway. The urgency in the messenger’s tone and the stressed look about him certainly don’t help, and he ends up sprinting towards Erwin’s tent before he knows it. What could have happened? Is he sick? Did he injure himself with his gear, somehow? A hundred different scenarios rush through Levi’s mind, each one of them worse than the one before, but no, despite his concern, it’s nothing like that. Instead, it’s stupid. It’s ridiculous. It’s—

“Levi, I have to go to the bathroom. Now.”

“What?” Levi asks, slightly incredulous after he’d nearly knocked over a water bucket busting into Erwin’s fucking tent.

“I have to...ah, I need to—

“Are you telling me you sent some poor fucking recruit to chase me down because you have to take a shit?”

“I...yes. Please, Levi.”

Levi sighs and shakes his head in disbelief, but he steps forward all the same. Although he hadn’t thought Erwin was lying or anything like that, when he gets closer he can definitely tell that...well, that he indeed has to take a shit. He looks strained, and he’s standing there stiffly while his eyes rove around like a wild animal. Clearly, he’s uncomfortable, and Levi knows the particular face he’s wearing well, as after all, Erwin and his fucking stubborn bowels have somehow become one of his worst enemies. He’s never regular, Levi thinks, and he doesn’t like it. It’s not good. It’s not healthy, but apparently, his colon has decided to change its M.O. that day, and he understands why Erwin has called for him: he needs help.

It seems silly, but it’s not. They’re outside the walls and there’s no latrines, and there’s certainly not an outhouse anywhere considering that they’re camping in a small patch of trees around a hidden hilltop. The only place to go out there, Levi knows, is behind a random tree at the edge of the camp, and who the fuck wants to do that alone when they’re in titan territory? No one who wants to live, that’s for sure, which means that Erwin needs someone to go out into the woods with him so that he won’t become food while taking a dump with his pants hanging off his ass.

How embarrassing, Levi thinks. What a shitty way that’d be to go. Smirking a little at his own joke, he earns a strange look from Erwin, who of course did not hear it because he hadn’t said it out loud. Even if he had, Levi suspects that he wouldn’t appreciate the pun — not right now. He doesn’t like this, Levi knows. He’s worried that someone who isn’t Levi will see him, and he’s never gone outside of the walls as long as he’s been around either, which...well, which probably says a lot about how urgent this situation actually is. Not wanting Erwin to soil himself, Levi clicks his tongue then at that thought, using his gear to draw blades in both hands with a flourish before he points one at the tent flap.

“Okay, let’s do this. You go ahead, and I’ll watch your back. Don’t go farther than you need to, got it? And I hope this isn’t gonna take all day like normal, because we have to make it quick or we’ll be in danger.” He says, while Erwin grabs his cloak and then heads outside.

“I think I know the protocol for taking a shit on expeditions, Levi.” He grumbles, walking so quickly around the tent that Levi has to jog to catch up.

Thankfully, he’s fast, and thankfully, he doesn’t take offense at Erwin’s obvious agitation. He knows he’ll feel better in a few minutes, but also, now that they’re moving, Levi can see that Erwin is trying to act natural but failing miserably. He’s walking funny because his ass is clenched tighter than the government’s purse strings, and although he’s supposed to be paying attention to their surroundings, he can’t help it: he laughs. It’s quiet and he covers his mouth quick, but Erwin hears him anyway and sighs so loudly that Levi’s surprised he doesn’t scare any birds out of the bushes.

“Sorry.” Levi mutters, ignoring the urge to ask Erwin if he’s turtling. “Go ahead and pick a tree; we’ve gone far enough. If I hear anyone coming from camp, I’ll scare them the fuck off, okay?”

“Are you sure you’re going to be able to keep watch, Levi, since you apparently find all of this so amusing?”

“Yeah. I got it. Just fucking go, Erwin.”

Erwin sighs again and approaches a large tree, and Levi turns around, walking a few yards away to give him some privacy. He looks around and listens for titans, but by doing so, he hears Erwin unbuckling his straps and belt, too, followed by the rustling sounds of him probably pulling his pants over his ass and then crouching down. After that, although Levi tries not to pay attention, it’s not pretty. Grimacing, he wonders what the fuck Erwin ate for breakfast that day. Does he have food poisoning? Levi hopes not, but clearly, whatever the case is, Erwin is not having a very good time behind him at all.

He grunts, Levi hears, and even lets out a small, pathetic groan that makes him frown, because, of course, he knows how miserable a bad dump can be. He feels empathetic for Erwin, but still, he ends up smiling a moment later when he seems to be done, partly because he can’t help but find this all absolutely hilarious, and...well, to think that Erwin trusts him with something like this. To think, too, that he’s comfortable enough with Levi to take a shit right behind him, and that he’s the one Erwin calls for when he’s at his most vulnerable and discomposed.

It’s stupid, but Levi likes it. It makes his heart flutter and his chest feel warm, and amazingly enough, somehow, Erwin seems to like it too, because once he wipes himself off with leaves and then scrubs his hands clean when they make it back to their camp, he pulls Levi close in his tent, chancing it to give him a quick kiss on the lips before his face finally lights up into a gorgeous smile.

“Thank you, Levi.” He says, chuckling a little because apparently, now that he’s found some relief and the situation isn’t so dire, he’s able to find some humor in it after all. “I appreciate it. I don’t know what I would do without you sometimes.”

“Shit yourself, probably.” Levi replies, biting his lip to keep from smiling at his own joke again.

“Yes, probably.”

“Or get eaten with your ass hanging out.”

“Really? Do you think that would actually happen?”

Yeah. And then where would we be? Stuck up shit creek without a commander. We’d really, really end up being in deep shit, Erwin.”

“Okay, Levi. Thank you.”

Although Erwin sounds unamused and has gone back to looking at his plans, Levi knows better. His sense of humor isn’t any fucking better than Levi’s is, and true enough, when he looks closely, he can see that Erwin still has a small smile on his face while his eyes sparkle with mirth. Because of that, Levi can’t resist giving him one last kiss on the cheek either before he turns around to leave, somehow managing to glimpse Erwin all but grinning and trying to stifle a chuckle as he disappears through the tent flap so he can...y’know, get back to work so that they won’t end up being eaten by titans when they’re not shitting behind trees, or whatever.

[braindamageforbeginners]

Day... Something

First off; this isn’t the final descent into Charlie Gordon territory; it’s just that my radiation treatments, chemotherapy, and experimental treatments have been desynchronized thanks to those slackasses in the radiation lab selfishly taking days off for Christmas and New Year’s (as I griped to the receptionist, “It’s just cancer, it can wait”). Although this is annoying, the current worst-case outcome of this situation is spending time arguing with pharmacies and insurance companies to coordinate things and get me more chemotherapy doses (or, as I call it nowadays, “Thursday”). I think it’s radiation day #13 (of 30) and chemo day #20 (of 42)(maybe; I might be looking at an extra week of chemo)(dreams do come true). But I’ll discuss that more later.

Big news; I think I have a solution - sort of - to the hair-loss problem. First of all, even though I always thought I wouldn’t be vain enough to be bothered by hair loss; but this one is definitely different - it’s not a sort-of natural bald look; it’s like a not-insignificant patch of scalp has been completely denuded by some deranged barber (which, come to think of it, isn’t totally inaccurate). And only on the right side of my head. In other words, if you saw me, you would undoubtedly know that there was something seriously wrong with me. I like to at least have a conversation with people before alerting them to that fact, so, like everything else, I figured it out. I took a multi-hat approach, which I’d recommend everyone else take. First off; you’re going to want a general-use, emergency-back-up hat that you can do most major activities in, because there’s a chance that becomes one of your primary hats (as, indeed, happened with me). You want a hat for the gym/errands/informal day-wear; in my case, this is the emergency back-up hat, because no one warned me the exact date when my hair would start falling out, and that was what I had. Fortunately, the emergency cap had the qualities I would recommend for the informal hat; it’s a baseball cap, so I don’t have a big brim that can snag when I’m doing shoulder presses; it’s leather and cloth, so I can sweat in it without fear; and if I completely destroy it, I’ll be out $10. And, even though it’s nothing I’d wear to a formal event, I don’t look too bad in it. However, for more formal activities (and “formal” here means “anything more important than going to the gym or corner store”), you’ll probably want something else. Feel free to do whatever you want; maybe your durable, sweaty cap will do double-duty for you (and, if so, kudos to you); I consulted with those sacred texts that always give me strength during the darkest hours - Wodehouse’s “Jeeves” stories, of course; and Wodehouse delivered the goods: ‘If I might suggest, sir – it is, of course, merely a palliative – but it has often been found in times of despondency that the assumption of formal evening dress has a stimulating effect on the morale.’ ‘You think I ought to put on a white tie? Spode told me black.’‘ “I consider that the emergency justifies the departure, sir.’” So, something with a little more pizzazz than the average cap. Not one of those awful trilbies every moron wears with their crocs - which, as an intriguing side-note, led me to a delightful primer on hat choices for the well-dressed gentleman (https://goodmenproject.com/featured-content/brand-thats-not-a-fedora-and-stop-wearing-it/). Something with enough brim to protect me from the ravages of the sun. You can probably see where I’m going with this; by the time I walked into Ye Olde Hattery, I had a pretty good idea what I wanted. As far as I can tell, the only downside to Stetson ownership is that you have to fight the urge to kill Gene Hackman with a Peacemaker. And it goes really well with long-sleeve button-up shirts, which I’m wearing more of, these days, thanks to those kidney-destroying antibiotics that make me sunshine-averse.

Good news, the radiation folks think my hair will grow back (which may or may not mean anything, since they also thought my hair loss would be minimal). They also reassured me that my weird, lop-sided look was somewhat trendy. The exact phrasing was, “You’re probably not into the tattoo or body-modification scene, but a lot of our patients in those circles have hair like that.” I think I get a gold star for not freaking out about how old that implication seems (not to mention I’ve had my skull pierced many times, and had to rebuild my neural pathways, which seems like a pretty dramatic modification). She (the radiation tech) wasn’t too happy when I pointed out that people who voluntarily choose to get haircuts like mine tend to terrorize college towns whilst besmirching the reputation of tiki torches.

I’m feeling probably worse than I ever have in my life. The good thing is, whenever I wake up, I know that’s probably about as horrible as I’ll feel all day, so at least that’s out of the way. The bad news is that the hangovers might kill me well before the cancer can. We’ve all had days where we woke up and quickly realized that was a mistake (waking up, I mean); we rarely get to wake up and felt - in every cell of our being - that it was a mistake. Thankfully, for those moments, there’s zofran, which gets my vote for greatest discovery of the 20th century. And not only does it take care of the nastiest chemo/radiation side effects, it so effectively destroys any tummy trouble that I can drink lots of coffee in a relatively short time - which is what it takes to get me moving, since, even with zofran and Tylenol, everything hurts, and I feel like I need a nap.

Good news; this week will mark the end of week 3, by the radiation calendar, and that’s when the worstest side effects are supposed to develop. Which doesn’t mean new symptoms or side effects can’t develop, or that current side effects can’t get worse (OH GOD, THE HAIR LOSS)(ALSO, OH GOD, THE SKULL-SPLITTING SUTURE-ACHES!); but, hopefully, if I can avoid the lethal tumor/inflammation headaches, seizures, and nausea this week, it’ll mean it’s less-likely to show up again in the coming year. I also used the word “hopefully,” which is usually an indication I’ve said something completely moronic and God is preparing to send an asteroid down on me. I might already have gotten a preview of that with the radiation calendar vs the chemo calendar discrepancy. For those of you at home; standard of care for GBM patients is thirty days of radiation treatment, spread over six weeks, and at-home chemo drugs every night for all six weeks. Followed by a rotation of 3-4 weeks without any treatment, and a week of chemo. Because I’m signed up for a miracle cure, my physicians want me in pretty much every single week for the next year for an infusion, or a blood sample, or a check-in, or more chemo, or maybe just to poke at me with a cattle prod (of course; that’s a best-case scenario; if everything goes horribly awry, they cut me loose after six weeks because the treatment’s not working). Unfortunately, because the radiation techs took off about a week for the holidays, I’ll burn through my temodar a week before my last radiation appointment. Right now, one of the nurses (and/or Research Coordinator) is working to reconcile these things. So, I can look forward to bureaucratic snags in the near future.

Anyway... WEIGHT: 217 lb. CONCENTRATION: Bad, but when you’re only getting a few hours of sleep a night and relying on assorted chemicals to prop you up. At this point, I’m really impressed by those people who can maintain a serious cocaine/heroin/alcohol addictions for years, because I’m completely burnt out after three weeks. Except for the zofran; I’m going to be completely reliant on that for years (that’s a somewhat tasteless joke, but I honestly have no idea how long all of this on-again, off-again treatment could go). MEMORY: Good. I think. I’m not sure; I haven’t really had a day requiring much recall. APPETITE: Good. ACTIVITY LEVEL: Excellent, considering that I start each day praying for death. I went to the gym today for several hours.  SLEEP QUALITY: What sleep? COORDINATION/DEXTERITY: Pretty good. I haven’t had any accidents or major missteps in the last few days, which is excellent, for me.  PHYSICAL: I am slowly becoming Bilious, the oh God of Hangovers (look it up). BUT, I haven’t puked (knock on wood), I haven’t missed any treatments. And I’m still going to the gym, so, ironically, from the neck down, I look better than I did ten years ago. SIDE EFFECTS: Far too many to count, but I’m still here and sort-of functioning. So, uh, hooray for that.

[trifoliate-undergrowth]

Crisco 129: Dystopian Sansby Dream AU-pt 4

Someone expressed surprise that this was not ‘done’. Done?? I have barely SCRATCHED the potential angst in this AU!  It’s about half-done ish.  Also the opening is not what it looks like. (Sorry?)

Sans was aware in his sleep that he was pleasantly warm. He woke suddenly when the warmth stretched, nestled closer to him and mumbled something about potato skins.

He was in his bed, still in his shirt, and Grillbz was curled around him, breathing softly. Slowly, trying not to wake him, Sans rolled over to look at him. He was fast asleep, eyelids flickering as he dreamed, flames dull and lazy, rolling close to his body. His clothes were badly rumpled from his heat.

He looked strangely different with his face mashed into the pillow—peaceful and unguarded.

…Why couldn’t Sans remember what he was doing there?

Because he’d gone the fuck to sleep.

Sans gave a quiet groan of disgust, and would have smacked himself if he weren’t afraid the sudden movement would wake up his bed partner.

He’d been having a moment with Grillbz and then he’d just. Gone to sleep.

Granted, he’d had an exhausting day and it had been late, but still. How had it happened? He tried to remember. His memories just faded out, then—he was almost sure—he’d woken up as Grillbz was tucking him into bed and had latched onto his sleeve and refused to let go, although too sleepy to talk. Then the memories faded out again.

He couldn’t believe himself. But it had worked out alright, he supposed, looking again at Grillbz.

Elementals were creatures of awesome power. Some classified them as monsters, some thought they were a third species of their own. Whatever the case, Sans was sharing a blanket with a living legend. He nestled closer. The legend was soft and warm and solid, and smelled like sunlight on bricks.

He wondered again why he’d never seen Grillbz use magic. It was technically illegal, but still—he never had, even in private. Of course, Sans hadn’t let Grillbz see him using magic, but he didn’t think Grillbz had a reason for hiding, as Sans did. But maybe he did. How well did he really know him? And there was that abrupt stop he’d made when he started to talk about it. Maybe he couldn’t. It was rumored that the Intelligence Technicians could sever a monster from their magic. Sans had always half-believed, half-hoped that it was false, but he also doubted that the Confederation would have let an elemental go free if he were in perfect health; it was too much of a risk.

If that were the case, no wonder he didn’t want to talk about it. Sans decided not to ask.

And there was something else bothering him, now that the strange blend of angst over his ruining a good moment by falling asleep and joy that Grillbz had stayed, and reciprocated his feelings, and everything was going to be good now—(Sans reached across to the night table and knocked on wood)—was fading. He needed to do something— The broadcast. What time was it? Suddenly he wasn’t sure. Had he slept later than usual? There was no clock up here. He needed to get down there, now. …he lay without moving for a few seconds longer, breathing in Grillbz’ smell and plotting his escape. One heavy arm was thrown across his body. Carefully he wriggled out from under it, then slid down onto the floor, hardly breathing. Grillbz didn’t move. Good. He quickly snatched up a clean set of clothes and started for the door, but stopped dead when he heard a sound. It was a low, continuous rumbling sound that seemed familiar, yet he couldn’t place it. He looked towards the bed. Grillbz had rolled into the spot vacated by Sans and had the covers bunched in his arms and his face pressed into them, purring. Purring. Like an enormous fire cat. Sans was aware that Grillbz could purr. He’d done it sometimes while falling asleep, back when they had all shared one room, and once or twice when he was very calm and contented, but he usually stopped abruptly and looked uncomfortable if they stared at him. Sans hadn’t heard him do it in a while. He stared, fascinated, for several moments, then shook himself, left quickly and teleported from the hallway, still holding his clothes in a flustered ball of confusion.

>knock, knock.

He waited, soul thumping a little faster than usual, for the old lady to respond. Was he late?

>Who’s there?

>amy.

>Amy who?

>am I on time?

>A few minutes early, as a matter of fact. Get your sleeping patterns disrupted?

>ah good. yes a bit, I went out late last night and had trouble getting back.

>Well, I’m glad you’re here safe.

>same. how are you?

>Oh, boring as always. I’ve been trying to think up new jokes, but I won’t waste them on you now. I’m saving them! ;) Oh, and I scraped together a few things and made a pie. It was quite decent, though I could make much better before the fall.

>mmmm. pie.

That was a non-answer, but he couldn’t think of anything interesting to say, except that pie was indeed good, which was more or less rephrasing what he’d just said. He sat back and fidgeted with his sleeves, then leaned forwards and typed a new message, hitting send before he could question his decision.

>I think I’m in love.

Oh fuck. Well that was awkward. But he wouldn’t mind hearing her advice, now that he’d already put it out there. If she felt like giving advice. He didn’t know what advice he wanted, even. Maybe just someone trustworthy to talk to.

>With pie? I am as well.

>no with the guy I live with.

>Oh no.

>oh no?

>Is he trustworthy?

>I don’t know. I trust him the most of anyone besides you  but he doesn’t know about this.

>Of course not. Have you seen him with his shirt off?

>t h a t    i s   a   v e r y    i n v a s i v e   q u e s t i o n   (yes it was nice)

>I’m sure. Did he have a tattoo?

>yes.

>Well?

>it’s a low number. he was one of the first to be arrested. I think they saw him as a threat and wanted to make sure they were on the same page. I don’t think he’s really fond of the Confederation, but that’s not something we talk about.

>Does he have a star or a slash? You’re stalling.

>I couldn’t see. maybe neither?

>How long have you known him?

>a bit more than four years. since my dad died. dad trusted him, anyway, and he was an enemy of the confedertdsadfsion. but when I get down to it he’s pretty quiet and I don’t know much about him.

>Please be careful my child.

>yeah come on, what kind of stupid do you expect me to do? he’s not gonna find this place.

He couldn’t let him, Sans reminded himself. That meant no more sharing a bed. He had to be able to get out unseen in the mornings. A part of him wished he’d stayed with Grillbz and just forgotten about the broadcast. Surely he wasn’t accomplishing anything by being down here anyway. Would Grillbz be waking up now? Would he still be purring? That was a lie, Toriel had told him how many tuned in to hear the broadcast. It was a sign of defiance and therefore, hope. It was a source of encouragement. And there were the coded words he passed through sometimes when there was no better way to relay information. He couldn’t quit.

>Not if you don’t show him. At least, I hope. You’ve told me your room is well hidden.

>yeah, it is.

>So you don’t trust him?

>I mean I do, as much as anyone else I know, but nobody can know about this. right? it’s safer. I don’t really know him.

>I’m sending your song now, go ahead and get ready. And I wouldn’t definitively say nobody can know ever. It might be good to have a backup, if you’re certain they’re trustworthy.

>I know.

They’d discussed this. Sans had no ideas. He didn’t want to involve Papyrus—and that may never be an option again now. As it stood now, if Sans were prevented from doing the broadcast, there was no one to fill in for him.

>So you’re not going to tell him.

>no.

>I think that’s a wise choice, especially if you don’t know his feelings on the Confederation. He sounds unlikely to be a spy, but anyone can be an informer if they’ve been scared badly enough.

>I know. that’s what I’ve been thinking about. I don’t know what they did to him but I doubt that they just got bored of holding him and let him go free.

>I trust your judgement. You’ll find something to do. Now, what brought this subject up? Have you fallen unexpectedly into love?

>no. this has.. been a thing for a while now I guess. seriously for a few months, but I’ve kinda had a crush on him for years. but I just kinda figured it wouldn’t work and I was just you know, not gonna talk about it I guess and. I dunno, nevermind.

>And?

>what? nothing.

>Child, if you do not finish that ‘and’ I will have a heart attack, turn into a ghost, and come through your monitor to scream ‘WHAT IS IT’ at you.

>geez ma’am calm down it’s not a big deal

>’It’ being?

>ah ok fine. you’re too sharp for me. yeah. something did happen to bring this up. he kissed me. so it made me think he might feel the same way.

>Well that much seems obvious, yes.

…It was pretty obvious now that he’d heard someone else say it. He’d still been half in disbelief at the whole thing. It seemed too good to be true. Although, from a certain perspective, it was the worst possible scenario.

>…yeah probably.

>Certainly. Well, this brings us to a new level. What are you going to do?

>make sure I’m never around him early in the morning so I can get down here on time without looking suspicious.

>Well that is both incredibly detailed and incredibly vague. How are you going to do that?

>I have no idea. any kind of serious relationship sounds like a bad idea at this point.

And he’s currently sleeping in my bed and I don’t want to tell him to move. Sans decided not to bring that up. Heart attacks were bad. He’d figure some way to get through the day and talk to her again when he had decided something for sure.

>I agree. Play your song now. We have about three minutes. Be careful.

>got it, playing now. I will. don’t worry about me.

Sans slipped on his headset.

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun And I say it's all right

>Any news on your brother?

>no. not really. someone thinks they might have seen him maybe, you know how that is.  

>Well, he could still be out there.

>I’ll keep hoping.

>Have I ever told you about my husband?

>no. you’re married?

>In a manner of speaking. We haven’t formally separated.

>oh, that doesn’t sound nice.

>He betrayed me, and countless others who were depending on us, because he wasn’t strong enough to stand against the Confederation. They took our children and threatened to kill them if he didn’t comply with our demands, and to give them back safe if he did. He did. Not at all surprisingly, the children have never been seen again. I’m almost sure they are dead. I rather hope they are. Yet he remains a tool in their hands, meekly doing whatever is asked of him in the hope that someday they will be returned to him. Many people depended on him, who would not have been arrested if he’d refused to comply.

>I’m so sorry.

>Love is dangerous. And yet it defines us. You have to be strong to live here. >Sometimes I wonder if I would have been any better than him under the same pressure. I fled as soon as I heard the children had been taken and was lucky enough to get outside the border safely. Sometimes I imagine that they are alive, and that they will appear here someday. It’s a lie. >…That’s not very uplifting. You have a bit less than a minute. Quick, what does a tangerine call its significant other?

>his main ‘squeeze’ ?

>Haha, very good. You’re live in twenty, and I hope I haven’t ruined your mood with all this.

>not at all.

>Live in ten.

Sans adjusted his headset and suddenly panicked. He had no idea what to say. His mind was a blank. This almost never happened to him, he was good at making things up on the fly. It had been about five seconds. Help. OK fuck he was going to talk about his personal life on the air because he didn’t have any other ideas fuck fuck fuck

>You’re on.

NNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

“Heya it’s the legendary fartmaster back for another perfect day of love and sparkles and torture in the Confederacy of Dunces. Eh? Don’t know how any of you out there are doing, but I hope it’s well. I’m doing OK in a manner of speaking. Just dealing with other people can be hard if you’re not sure who to trust. It seems like we’d all be on the same side, yet it’s hard to know for sure these days, and taking a leap of faith is likely to get you killed by gravity and sharp rocks nine times out of ten. Sorry for the depressing statistics but it’s true and I need to remind myself as well. On a lighter note, did you ever hear the one about the Peacekeeping Captain who didn’t know how to tie his shoes?”

And with that he was back on solid ground. The rest of the broadcast passed normally, except that Sans felt more than usually drained when it was over.

He shut the computer down, dressed in the slightly rumpled clothes he’d brought with him, and attempted to brush off the cobwebs they’d accumulated. This was why he usually dressed in his room.

He teleported into the hallway and froze. He was alone? He was alone. He stared at the door to his room. He needed to lie. He’d… left to change his clothes. Sudden attack of shyness. Yeah, sure.

He crushed the shirt he’d slept in under one arm and swung the door open.

The room was empty, and suddenly he remembered that he hadn’t shut the door behind him when he left.

His mind reeled. He’d miscalculated something. A faint sound that he only now realized he’d been hearing since he appeared in the hallway registered: the sound of static.  He turned.

Grillbz was sitting in his own room with the door open, one hand resting on an ancient radio, staring at Sans with a look that showed he was perfectly aware of the fact that Sans had appeared impossibly from a dead-end hallway.

Grillbz owned an illegal radio.

“Oh hey,” said Sans.

“So it is you?” said Grillbz quietly, switching the radio off.

“Uuhhh?”

“I thought I recognized the accent. You used to do it for Papyrus, to make him laugh. You stopped when he hit the awkward age and didn’t like it anymore.”

“What… accent… heheh….” Sans was trying to decide whether to keep bluffing or just roll with it, which is what he wanted to do, very badly, but what if it were a terrible idea

“Sans,” said Grillbz gravely, standing and walking towards him. He lifted Sans’ hands and pressed them in his own. “You can trust me. I promise.”

Fuck I’m dead.

“I had wondered if it was you,” said Grillbz, running his thumb over Sans’ finger bones. “But I didn’t understand how you could get out of the house—or, do you? Where did you come from just now?”

Snap decisions, Sans decided, will be the death or salvation of both of us.

“Lemme show you.”

He teleported, bringing Grillbz with him.

Part 1

Part 5