#this one came out really cutesy and I ain’t even mad about it it was really fun

[ichayalovesyou]

Oooo ask for Pike, how about pike and a non human (preferable gn or male please :) ) reader and how they would try and communicate if the universal translators go down whilst stuck in a turbo lift together? :D

Oooh what a FUN concept! 🤩 I’ll do my best! I got really creative when I heard the word “alien” I hope you like it!

Color Coded (Platonic Pike x Reader)

Rating: E for Everyone!

Word Count: 1.1k

Content: SFW, Ops!Reader, Alien!Reader, Cadet!Reader, GN!Reader, budding friendship, author OG alien race, minor concussion, reader saves the day!, shenanigans, general cuteness (with stakes!)

Teaser: The language of your people is unique, even amongst Federation worlds. So much so that you need to have your own personal translator on hand. Sure would be a shame if a freak turbolift accident broke it or something!

It had been a long day of recalibrations and catching up on redundancy checks, but the Enterprise was back in peak condition. At least now you could finally go relax in your tank.

The turbolift doors whisked open hardly two floors after you’d started.

“Bridge.”

You straightened as much as your petite cephalopodic frame could manage, it was the Captain! A human you had only seen but had yet to meet!

“Oh! Hello Cadet! I’m Captain Christopher Pike. I apologize that I wasn’t able to meet you in person when you came aboard. I had some unexpected diplomatic duties on Starbase One.”

“No worries sir! I know you’re very busy!” You scented into your personal translator, turning dark blue then pink with humility and a little intimidation.

“Still, I try to make sure I get to meet everyone who comes aboard, especially someone as historic as you. You’re Starfleet’s first Prismatican correct? Your people communicate through color and olfactory sequences, unique even by Federation standards. How’s that personal translator working for you?”

“Quite well sir! Cadet Uhura and I have begun programming a software workaround that will hopefully allow me to patch into the universal translat-“

VOOM!

The turbolift froze in its tracks with a violent force that knocked the power out, and both of you off balance! You went flying and instinctively clung to the wall. The captain wasn’t so lucky, you heard him slam against the side of the lift with a grunt, and the sound of delicate metal crunching.

“Oh no.”

Unless the Captain was hiding a delicate piece of scientific equipment in his pocket, you could only guess what his unexpected dive had broken.

This was going to be a problem.

“Unh, are you alright Cadet?”

In the darkness you had no idea what he just said, you couldn't see him. You only felt movement, and with your scent resynthesizer crushed, you’d have to rely on lip reading. Thank goodness you took Federation Standard at the academy! But there was just one issue, it was pitch dark in here!

You skittered toward the where you knew the emergency switch was but the power came back on right as you reached for it, or where you had thought it was, turns out you were on the ceiling!

It seemed the Captain was surprised to find you there, he winced at the light. You tried to make yourself useful and open the ceiling hatch, but it was dented shut. You looked down and noticed something even more worrying, Captain Pike was bleeding!

You let go and landed right in front of him, turning red and trying to say ‘blood’ or at least scent it, not that you knew what human blood smelled like until just now.

“Ok, why… why do you smell like copper? What are you trying to, oh.”

Pike grazed his temple and noticed the red streak across his fingertips.

“Whelp, that explains why I was having such a hard time getting up. Is the turbolift actually tilted or… or is that just me?”

You tilted yourself to indicate that the turbolift was in fact almost sideways. The Captain nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose before reorienting himself towards the communications panel with a little help from you.

“We gotta talk to engineering, they’ll be able to get us out of here in no time.”

You sensed he was trying to be reassuring but you barely caught what he said, he wasn’t exactly looking at you. How were you going to tell him you could read lips? Would he even remember? He didn’t seem to be feeling too well.

“Engineering this is Captain Pike, status report?”

No response.

“Engineering, status report, what the hell happened out there?”

Still nothing.

“Captain to Bridge, Number One is everything alright?”

Captain Pike swallowed hard, Humans may not change color (much) when they were upset, but there were other ways to tell.

Hoping nothing bad had happened, you realized there was another possibility. You removed the cover panel of the communications hub. Ah! Just as you thought! The impact the turbolift took jostled some of the relay chips free.

It’d be an easy fix, if you had humanoid digits like the rest of the crew. Lesson learned, never leave your accommodations in Engineering!

You were going to have to show the Captain how to do it for you. You tapped the Captain on his shoulder, gesticulating to the chips.

“Ok, got it, how do we fix this?”

You turned orange then yellow, orange chip, yellow wire. Easy right?

“I don’t, I don’t follow.”

Apparently not.

You reminded yourself to be patient, he was your superior officer, and also, he hit his head pretty bad. Which couldn’t be good for somebody whose bones were on the inside. Human biology was so strange.

You pointed to the loose chip, and then to the wire, turning orange, then yellow again.

“Oh! Sorry, uh, I think, I miiiight have a concussion. Don’t worry though, I’ll be fine.” He grinned half-heartedly as he followed your directions.

You didn’t really believe him. But at least you knew what the thing that was wrong with him was called now! Maybe you should’ve taken a first aid course, fixing humanoids couldn’t be that different to fixing machines, right?

This process went on for a few minutes, there were a couple moments where he scared you a little by taking a while to respond or having to lean on the wall for a minute, but it got done. Wanting to be as much help as possible you pressed the comms button for him.

“Una…”

“Captain! Oh my god we’ve been looking all over for you, are you alright?!”

“I’m fine I- ugh, smells like battery acid, what’s wrong? Are you angry with me?”

“I’m sorry what was that Captain?”

“Okay, okay, okay I’m sorry. I might have a mild concussion, our new Cadet and I are trapped in a turbolift, hatch is damaged shut, not sure where we are…”

Oh no he'd zoned out again! You tapped the Captain on his leg, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Captain? Chris?”

“What?”

“Don’t worry Chris, we’ll send someone to get you. I’ll fill you in on what happened AFTER you go to sickbay alright?”

“…Alright”

You turned off the comms, ushering the Captain to sit down, he did so heavily.

“Guess it’s time to sit tight, you did, ow, you did good Cadet. Especially given the circumstances, sorry about that by the way, I’ll… somebody'll fix it. Hope I can return the favor.”

You turned bright yellow, it sure felt nice to be appreciated!

“Oh, okay, that’s minty, I’m guessing that means thank you?”

You know what? Close enough!

[apparentlynotreallyfinnish]

So I’ve sent this as a prompt to someone before, but I’d like your take on it! The boys meeting on tindr 😏

I already told this to Lora but I have to share with the rest of the class, too. I talked about this exact thing with Mick like a day or two ago. So apparently, Lora and me share a brainwave. :D I ain’t mad. I hope you don’t mind that I changed it a bit. It’s not Tindr. That wouldn’t have been as fun as this. 

—

Link’s phone lit up on his nightstand and cast a bluish glow on the ceiling of his bedroom. He’d just turned the lights off and tucked in but he couldn’t resist checking the notification.

You have (1) new match(es)

Link perked up. He’d downloaded the new dating app Incognito earlier that evening. He hadn’t tried dating through an app before. Not something you wanted to do when you worked in a semi-public profession as an internetainer.

But he’d heard some of the crew talking about Incognito and gotten intrigued. There were no pictures, no real names unless you decided to share them with someone you’d matched with. This was his first match. He’d been picky and he knew it. Everyone’s answers to their bio questions had just felt either boring or felt like they were trying too hard. Link had chosen to like only three men’s profiles and, apparently, one of them had liked him back.

Link wasn’t exactly looking for a relationship in this thing, so he wouldn’t have needed to be so picky. He didn’t have time for one. Right now, work took too much of his time and his brain power. There was also the fact that he wasn’t exactly out of the proverbial closet yet. He’d only recently come to terms with it himself. Bisexual. That was what he was going with right now. He knew the label didn’t mean that much. It might still change but even getting to accept that had been a struggle.

Not even Rhett knew yet. Link wanted to tell him, of course he did, but something was stopping him. That was probably the biggest reason he wasn’t ready for a relationship with a guy. Keeping something like that from Rhett just sounded both exhausting and too wrong.

But he did want to dabble a bit. He’d never been with a guy, so even texting – let alone sexting – with one seemed kind of thrilling. So, he’d chosen the “looking for a hook-up” option when he made his profile.

A message bubble popped on his screen.

PaddleBoardMe: Hey! You still up?

Link’s stomach did a little somersault. This was the profile he had desperately wanted to like him back. Everything this guy had said had either moved Link or made him laugh out loud. Also, his screen name was hilarious. Link wished he’d gone more cutesy and sexy with his own.

BlueEyes78: Hi! Yeah, was just about to go to sleep.

PaddleBoardMe: Oh! So, you’re in bed then. Sounds good. ;)

Link couldn’t help but blush. It was stupid but, suddenly, he felt like a teenager again. How the heck did one flirt with a guy? Link knew the answer was just like you did with a woman but he still felt unsure.

BlueEyes78: Yep, it’s pretty lonely here.

Link sent the message and immediately felt stupid. That was such an obvious answer. He was a writer, goddamn it. He could do better, right?

PaddleBoardMe: Want me to keep you company? 

BlueEyes78: That sounds nice. What do you want to talk about?

Link sighed. That wasn’t any better. Maybe he needed to just forget about this whole thing.

PaddleBoardMe: Early morning tomorrow. Been a real stressful week.

Link eyed the message for a while. Was he trying to talk about it or was this a hint? Link gnawed on his lip and made a decision. Mr. PaddleBoard had chosen the hook-up option as well so Link hoped he wasn’t too far off with his reply.

BlueEyes78: Wanna let out some steam?

PaddleBoardMe: Yes, please. ;) Wanna tell me what you’re wearing?

Link sighed with relief. He wasn’t even sure why he was so worried about upsetting this guy. He didn’t even know him yet. But his profile had really caught Link’s eye and maybe even a tiny bit of his heart. Not that he would confess that to anyone, let alone himself.

BlueEyes78: Just some black boxer briefs. In bed, remember?

PaddleBoardMe: Mmh, sounds perfect. Wanna get hard in them for me?

Link swallowed and shifted on the bed. His boxers were filling up surprisingly quickly. He let his palm rest on his semi and squeezed lightly. His eyes drifted closed for a moment and he hummed from the pleasure.

BlueEyes78: Kinda already am.

PaddleBoardMe: Oh, you’re a needy little thing. Or maybe not that little?

BlueEyes78: I’ve been called big. I wouldn’t really know.

Link froze. Why the hell did he send that? It took a while for Mr. PaddleBoard to answer.

PaddleBoardMe: What do you mean?

BlueEyes78: Nothing. Just forget about it.  

PaddleBoardMe: Kinda sounds like you might be inexperienced.

Link sighed and cursed. He felt like an idiot. He stared at the screen for a bit and then a little smirk crept on his face. Maybe this could still be salvaged.

BlueEyes78: Would that turn you on?

PaddleBoardMe: Hell yeah, baby.

Link cheered silently. He could work with this. It was the truth anyway.

BlueEyes78: I’ve never done this before. Not online, not in real life.

PaddleBoardMe: A virgin! Lovely. I’d be honored to pop your online cherry.

BlueEyes78: You sure? I don’t really know what I’m doing…

PaddleBoardMe: That’s actually kinda hot. Like I’ll be the first guy to ever get you off. Thinking about that is making me all kinds of hard.

Link drew a deep breath. He was really gonna do this. And the guy seemed actually pretty sweet. He wiggled on the bed, leaning against the pillows to better position himself. His left hand drifted back on his cock.

BlueEyes78: You gonna touch yourself and think of me?

PaddleBoardMe: I definitely am. Tell me a bit about yourself, just so I can get a better visual. Are your eyes really blue?

BlueEyes78: Yep. Bright blue. I’m tall, fit enough (for my age lol), dark brown hair with some gray in it but I promise it’s very sexy.

PaddleBoardMe: Oh, fuck me, that’s exactly my type.

BlueEyes78: Yeah? Would you like that then? Me fucking you?

PaddleBoardMe: I’d love that. Thinking about that right now. I’m on all fours and you’re behind me. I can feel your cock press against my hole. Fuck, you’re so big. Not sure I can take it. But I really want to be good for you. Since it’s your first time.

Link read the message twice and, all of a sudden, he was breathing heavy and he was painfully hard. How did this guy do it? How did he, with just a few words, make Link feel like he was actually there? Link slipped his fingers under his waistband and tugged it down enough to release his cock. His hand immediately wrapped around it and started slowly stroking. He moaned out loud.  

BlueEyes78: That sounds amazing. I’m so hard right now. I wanna be inside of you.

PaddleBoardMe: I’m begging you to do it. I want you so bad my thighs are trembling. I’m arching my back, backing up against you. Please. Fuck me.

Link’s hand was a blur on his cock. He wanted so badly to be with this man; he didn’t care what he looked like. He was swept away by his words.

BlueEyes78: Okay, yeah, I’m inching in you now. Fuck, you’re so tight.

PaddleBoardMe: Oh, yeah. You feel so good, filling me up like that. Baby, fuck me hard. Make me feel that big cock. Make me yours.

BlueEyes78: You have no idea how hot this is for me. I’m so close already.

PaddleBoardMe: You’re so sexy. I want you to cum for me. Think about rawing into me while you do it. I’d let you do that. Just take me bareback. Wanna feel all of you.

BlueEyes78: Holy fuck. I want that. Wanna press my fingers into your hips when I pound into you. Wanna make you whimper with my cock. Want to make you plead for more.

PaddleBoardMe: You can leave bruises. I don’t care. Just need you fucking me into a wreck. I’m pleading. Cum into me. Fill me up.

Link groaned and changed his hand position. His head fell back thumping on the headboard and his wrist went on overdrive as he chased his orgasm with low whines and whimpers. His thigh muscles spasmed before his cock did. He came hard, an impressive amount of cum painting his torso all the way to his chest.

BlueEyes78: Fuck.

PaddleBoardMe: Did you u cum for me, baby?

BlueEyes78: Yeah. I don’t think I’ve ever cum this hard in my entire life.

Link was still slowly pumping his cock, enjoying the last shivers of pleasure. He felt exhausted.

PaddleBoardMe: I’m so happy to hear that.

BlueEyes78: Did you get there?

PaddleBoardMe: Oh, yeah. You took me so good. I came all over myself. Wanna see?

BlueEyes78: Okay.

Link’s stomach clenched deliciously. He hadn’t thought he was gonna get a picture tonight. It took a moment for it to load. When it did, Link devoured it hungrily with his eyes. It was of a man’s stomach and crotch. He was still holding onto his dick. He was still strikingly hard; the picture had to be taken right after he’d reached his orgasm. His stomach had an impressive spattering of cum on it. But that was not what made Link’s heart miss a beat. What got to him was the fact that he recognized that stomach. He’d seen it many times before. Time stopped.

PaddleBoardMe: Hey, where’d you go?

Link was staring at the photo, jaw hanging slack, hand still wrapped around his cock.

PaddleBoardMe: Everything okay?

It was Rhett’s stomach.

[gwisingegooli]

yikes lol... i can’t believe that just happened...

i accidentally let it slip i was going on a tinder date to brian and he got belligerently drunk... when he ain’t sober he cray.... he told me to take all my shit and leave and he doesnt want to see me anymore and to just leave

he’s fucking yelling, stomping the ground and hitting his chest and shit and yelling

i’m just tryna dip but he keeps saying like NO all your shit

and it’s just like... thats hella unreasonable but i can’t really reason w this guy... i’m not worked up at all, just realizing theres no way i’m gonna get through to this guy

eventually the cops knocks on the door, and they question us separately... the cop questioning me checked if i was ever physically assualted but it wasn’t like that... the cops inside eventually talked brian down to letting me have one day to move all my shit...

one cop came out and was serious as fuck telling me that i had to move out. i was like oof, okay. i get you.

i just felt fucking bad, i knew he was yelling and shit but i didn’t know how to get the fuck outta there

the cops gave me a ride to amy’s place and i’m gonna crash here for the night. i have some stupid required club shit i need to do from 8:45 but afterwards i’m gonna go to the women’s center and they’re gonna help me find a place to stay...

sigh...

first of all i’m mad chillin, dont worry bout me, i be outta this mess. shouldn’t have played w fire. needed to realize i was playing fucking carelessly with some crazy fucking fire... i thought we knew what was going on but i was definitely being naive and irresponsible, cause id be really friendly and cutesy w him, which i obviously shouldn’t have been doing. even if i was being clear about him never having a chance. when he fucked up he gets so emo and enraged about this unresolvable shit but it’s just breaking his fucking heart.

i definitely brought this upon myself by not thinking and even trying to be in each other’s lives lol and me being me and him being him

just nope

anyways i’ll be safe and take care, i know yall worried about me, but dont worry too much cause i’m actually chillin

the cop questioning me recommended therapy and then was like its for students and i was like lol yah u right also i’m paying for it anyways

sigh....

the cops were so nice and handled everything really well, though. they made me feel comfortable, and i even managed to perk up a few times cause they were so nice and funny

i just can’t believe this happened, i’m in this situation. i know now i just needa fucking close this gd chapter... and honestly now brians outta my fucking life even though he’ll probably want me back later

things are totally cut clean. i don’t even care about him anymore cause we toxic to each other, jeez. fuck him, me first, i dont need to care about him. and i’m glad i gave him a reason to kick me out of his life, right? haha yikes

i’m in a good place in life and with who i am rn. this shit isnt phasing me. its just like smh i can’t believe this shit HAPPENED to me lol. like i’m homeless bc my ex flipped his shit on me and the cops had to come....... jeeeeeeez.......

yeah i know pretty smh but its all good i livin life and ownin shit and havin fun still

also my tinder date went fuckin awesommeee and i really met and connected w someone today so it was lit.

its just a wild end to a day that was p fucking great LMAO

pls leave ur thoughts and concerns below. always tryna be honest w yall, yall are truly a support system even if sometimes its like i know i know LOL i love all of yall and i always feel the love and i’m thankful for it. we a family.

thanks for followin my adventures and carin about me. i’m always just tryna do my best but still gettin into shenanigans and makin mistakes. ill just always grow and think about what i’d do better next time, and do it. peace. ✌🏻

[dreadhaus-literature]

{January Collection} #15

Your City’s Oldest Cemetery

Theme: Tender Tuesday

Something wicked this way comes...

“Have I told you lately that I love you?”

Monica resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but she was helpless against the smile that blossomed on her lips. “That’s a song, Dot, not some cutesy line you can use to win me over.”

“The fact that it’s a song doesn’t make it any less meaningful, love, especially if I call every radio station in Gotham and dedicate said song to you.”

“Please don’t do that. I promise I’m not upset at you.”

Monica glanced up at the cemetery’s iron wrought gates as they swung open, heralding her arrival to no one, as waking the dead was only a game children and teens played on Halloween. Considering it was January in Gotham City, the snow made the graveyard even colder than it stood to be on a good day, and made Monica rethink her previous statement.

Of course, she wasn’t actually mad at her girlfriend. This is what you do when you love someone, you do favors for them when they ask--or in Dot’s case, beg, because her girlfriend’s mortuary was teeming with bodies and the Mortician was swamped. Gotham was the seedier sister city of the shining Metropolis and it showed, even if one only took Dot’s Mortuary’s booming business as an indication. “It’s a morbid thing, to brag about our successful business in death,” Dot had once joked at a benefit gala the two had attended. “But hey, if the casket fits.” The casket was fitting a lot of hosts lately, all shapes and sizes, but thankfully Monica wasn’t transporting any bodies, today. Dot usually kept her away from that side of the business--not because Monica couldn’t handle it, but because Dot was overprotective. Even today, the haul was more of the same, and Dot was insistent that would never change.

“You’re Broadway’s biggest star, how could I possibly have you carting bodies around? Your fans would have me killed, and then you’d be transporting my body. No, this is just a simple headstone drop-off and flower deposit. I just need you to supervise the assistants while they do it.”

Monica shifted the phone, glancing around the SUV at the assistants that were currently with her while Dot half-sang the song dedication in her ear. The one across the backseat from her smiled politely at her. They all seemed so business-as-usual but Monica could appreciate that--she also appreciated they all treated her with reverence and respect, and not just because she was the Boss’s Girlfriend, but because she’d more than earned her own merit. Dot hadn’t been exaggerating, even if Monica was too polite to lead with the truth. She was the biggest star on Gotham’s Broadway; her name had been lighting up the street for months now, headlining Royal Truths: Betrayal, which was actually the second installment of the Royal Truths series. Monica had been a breakout star in the original Royal Truths and a natural headliner when the second act was ready to debut. Heralded as Gotham’s “Golden Voiced Siren,” Monica was beloved for her haunting voice and her classic beauty, and her off-stage pin-up look was sweeping Gotham so that fashion magazines were calling her manager all hours of the day trying to get the scoop on what her next new trend would be. It might seem a little beneath her to be managing Mortuary business, but Monica didn’t mind doing favors for her girlfriend, and Dot was always incredibly grateful for the help.

The sun was dipping beneath the horizon but Winter was solely to blame for that, the hour wasn’t late at all. Monica didn’t mind, however; she didn’t have rehearsal tonight and Dot had promised a nice, home-cooked meal in exchange for this little favor. The two rarely were able to eat at home, what with a Mortuary to run and Monica lighting up the night with her 5-star performances, so it was something both women were looking forward to. Really all that stood between Monica and their high-rise penthouse was this final task and it made her that much more eager to get it done and over with. She answered Dot a little absently as the SUV took a slow turn and then coasted to a stop, the driver shifting to park and the assistants immediately began to exit the vehicle.

“Oh, I think we’re here, baby, so I’m going to go, so I can get this done and then meet you at home.”

“Okay! Be safe, please, and text me when you’re on your way. I’ll see you at home.”

Monica smiled as she nodded. “Be safe getting home.”

“Always.”

Monica’s manicured nail tapped to end the call and as she was lowering her phone, she met one of the assistant’s gazes as he opened the back hatch of the SUV.

“We shouldn’t take too long, ma’am. You don’t need to get out of the truck unless you’d like to.”

“Thank you, Orlando,” Monica shifted, but another assistant was already there, opening the door for her. The second SUV in the convoy had arrived and the assistants were already exiting it, beginning their tasks--just as eager to get home as Monica was. “And thank you, Ian,” Monica added with a smile as she stepped from the SUV. Ian pushed the door closed with a smile and a nod, before moving to help Orlando get the floral arrangements out of the truck. “Do you have a lot to do?” Monica came around the side of the truck, watching the two men heft a large floral wreath from the trunk.

“No,” Ian shook his blond head. “Just a few set-ups, it shouldn’t take us more than fifteen minutes?”

“Eh, let’s make it a half hour,” Orlando corrected. “If we rush, Ms. Dreadful will make us come back. And if Ms. Dreadful makes us come back--”

“Ain’t nobody gonna be happy.”

Monica couldn’t help but laugh as every single assistant answered all at the same time, their joint reply all aimed at Orlando. Monica knew him to be one of the senior assistants who had been with the Mortuary for a long time, so he had seniority and rank, but he wasn’t over-bearing about it. He couldn’t even help the good-natured laugh at his own expense.

“Yeah, yeah, so move your asses but do it right, please.”

Monica’s sole role was simply being present to make any managerial decisions in Dot’s place should anything last minute arise, but normally those sorts of emergencies were few and far between, and it didn’t take more than a few minutes of supervising for Monica to tell this was going to be another routine evening. The assistants knew what to do, they were paid well enough to do it right, and Monica went from scrolling through her phone, sitting on the truck’s open back hatch, to glancing around Grimwood Cemetery. Unlike Gotham Cemetery, which was across the city, Grimwood became the resting place for the majority of the population. It was a little classist, sure, but there was an unspoken yet routinely followed rule that anyone of note was buried in Gotham Cemetery--the Wayne family, for example--whereas every day, normal people found themselves in Grimwood. Monica didn’t bat an eye at the difference between the two cemeteries, mostly because she knew she’d cemented herself so firmly in Gotham’s history that she could pick out a plot in Gotham Cemetery now and no one would bat an eye at it.

It was a common misconception that Gotham Cemetery was older than Grimwood, but in reality, bodies had just been relocated out of Grimwood to what is the new Gotham Cemetery. It’s a pretty well-kept secret, that Grimwood was once Gotham Cemetery, but was rebranded a half-century previous, the important bodies all moved, and people began speaking of “Gotham” as Grimwood.

“Gotham Cemetery? Oh, you mean Grimwood. Gotham’s on the other side.”

No, you had it right the first time, but that’s the thing about lies and secrets--you tell them enough, you’ll believe anything. Monica only knew because Dot was “in-the-know”, and Monica had to admit she got a good laugh anytime any of the “new money” of Gotham tried to put on airs about plots in Gotham Cemetery without knowing the truth behind the lie. Yes, Gotham Cemetery is important, now, but the fact of the matter is--

There’s still important, old parts of Grimwood that Monica would argue are worth far more than any plot in Gotham Cemetery. It’s where she found herself out of boredom, designer boots crunching through snow as she wound her way down the path between mausoleums and tombstones, idly wondering at the names etched into marble and stone. The further she went, the more distant the working assistants became, but she didn’t worry too awful much about them. She wasn’t here to baby-sit, after all, and she had her phone if they needed to call her for an emergency. It also spoke for itself that the further she went, the more timeworn and difficult to read the headstones became. The path took a steep curve down and she passed through a fence with no gate, simply an archway, but the grave markers beyond this point seemed kissed by Father Time himself.

This was Old Grimwood, graves from centuries ago, and despite the serenity of the snow, the silence was deafening and the air seemed just a little more crisp, here. Monica was overly aware of the crunch of her boots as she took in the scenery, from the barren, twisted trees curving and winding over her head, to the shadows from the path lights that danced through the twinkling snow banks. Some of the tombstones here were so old they were destroyed, collapsed onto their grave like the dust in the coffins beneath the earth. Graveyards are not known for the living, but Monica truly felt the dead space, here. It was...oddly comforting, the stark silence, the barren banks of snow and dead flora, even the bite of wind. It may seem, to some, a strange place to find inspiration, but Monica was tempted to sing, to harmonize using the quiet air as her orchestra. She quelled the urge, but couldn’t stop herself from humming all the same, reaching out to touch a frozen mausoleum door as she went. Her voice carried on the frozen wind, the dulcet tone a caress that some won’t have felt for centuries.

Not everything is dead in Old Grimwood. Some things just need a reason to rise.

The sound initially sounded, to Monica, like ice cracking. She stopped dead in her tracks, wondering at the echoing sound. It reverberated off the surrounding mausoleums and the solid tree trunks, the wind howling it’s displeasure at the macabre turn of events in a place where everything should be quiet, still, dead. The twilight sky darkened, and for one terrible moment Monica felt a shiver of fear from some unknown source, her instincts sounding warning bells that something was wrong. She held her breath as she glanced to her left and then her right, but there was nothing--the echoing was throwing her, warping her sense of direction and she realized too late the sound was coming from behind her. From the direction she’d come and as she slowly turned to look over her shoulder, she felt the air slam out of her lungs as the earth heaved and rolled a few feet behind her. What was happening?! For the first time in her life, Monica understood why some horror movie heroines stand, frozen in terror, uncertain what to do when faced with something otherwordly for the first time. The earth buckled, then seemed to cave into itself, bowing the headstone that rested at the top of the marked grave.

Cyrus Gold 18??-1895 Born on a Monday.

Monica could barely make out what it said, the stone looked so worn and old, and her terrified gaze was soon ripped from the stone entirely as electricity seemed to skitter across the frozen earth and snow--before a plume of dirt shot skyward. In the quiet of the graveyard it seemed deafening, but the silence that followed was even louder. Monica was rooted to the spot, uncertain what to do in a situation such as this. To get back to where she’d come, to the safety of the assistants and the sanity of normality, she’d have to run past an open grave...that had opened itself.

“What the hell even is Gotham City,” Monica muttered to herself as she folded her arms over her chest “It’s not wonder even my grandfather keeps asking me to move.”

She’d thought talking to herself would break the awful silence and she’d feel comfortable enough to move, but it seemed her voice did something else--it spurred someone else to move, and a guttural groan echoed out of the freshly opened grave. The sound was deep and low, rumbling up Monica’s boots as she took a frightened step back.

Oh...no, there’s absolutely no way in hell...Zombies aren’t real, right? Sure, Monica loved the zombies from horror movies and video games, and she could tout the title Queen of the Zombies like nobody’s business. Her Zombie Pin-Up from last Halloween’s Gala had been the top hash-tag in Gotham City for two weeks. But this? This was real life, this was happening, and she didn’t know how to feel about it.

A hand larger than she’d ever seen shot out of the open grave and slammed down on the frozen snow with such force Monica nearly fell over. She could only watch with wide, terrified eyes as a hulking behemoth of a man dragged himself from the split in the earth. The creature’s suit was in tatters, the white button-up missing entirely, likely rotted away, and revealing a physique and height any normal man would be wise to envy. He didn’t look rotted, but his skin had a disturbing pallor to it all the same. As he struggled to gain control of his motor skills, Monica watched silently as his bones creaked and cracked into place, putting him at over seven feet tall. He was flesh and blood, with the veins and muscle mass to prove it. As he straightened up, his eyes opened and she was greeted with milky white, but for some reason she just knew he could see her. She felt nailed to the ground, rooted to the spot as he sized her up, his silver-white hair neglected and hanging in uneven strands below his prominent brow bone. This...creature’s bone structure was something to envy, all square-cut and masculine, and Monica felt her heart drop into the center of her stomach as he took a single step toward her.

“Speak.”

Monica flinched as if he’d yelled at her, but he hadn’t. She wasn’t prepared for that voice. It was deep and commanding, as if time-tested and unafraid of even death. The creature followed his first step with a second as he waited for her to do what he said. When she didn’t, he raised his voice and tried again.

“Speak!”

“W-What?! What the h-hell are you asking me?” Monica cried, clutching the neck of her jacket defensively, but she’d done what he wanted and his entire body seemed to shudder as her voice washed over him. He actually staggered, but kept upright, and took another step toward her. Monica took one back. “W-What...What a-are you?”

“Solomon Grundy.”

Monica didn’t know if he was actually answering her or if that was just...him talking. Was she actually conversing with...with a real life zombie?

Unbeknownst to her, Monica’s inner turmoil, confusion, and fear was providing exactly what Solomon needed as he willed his new body to move faster, to close the distance between them quickly. He hadn’t been expecting this but when one’s experienced death, one learns to adapt quickly. He’d been sleeping so peacefully, soaking up the nutrients the earth had to offer so that he might one day rise again, but in a single instant the chord from her voice had rejuvenated him in his entirety. Solomon was whole--he didn’t need weeks, months, years in stasis. This woman had done it in an instant. Solomon didn’t understand how or why but he didn’t need to. He was a man of simple things, now, and what he understood, simply, was that she had done it. Had she done it on purpose? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. She’d done it, and that meant something. What did it mean? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter because a zombie only cares about one thing--

It’s baser instincts and needs.

What he needed was right in front of him. He staggered, lurched toward her like a man grasping at the edges of his grave but Solomon has been there, done that, and it didn’t matter where this beautiful woman went, he was a zombie. Zombies are relentless. He would find her, track her down, and break her for daring to run from him--but she wasn’t running. No, she was staying, standing, staring up at him with fear in her eyes but all Solomon could see was beauty. It was akin to Hades falling for Persephone, the beautiful flower growing in Death’s palm, and he was all too aware of how breakable, how fragile, how small she was. A tiny miracle, a winter rose blooming between the ice cracks. Solomon was a simple man, these days. Zombies only want what they need and Solomon knew in an instant what he needed. A normal man night brood, or question what he was feeling, but Solomon didn’t need to. And he didn’t much care if Monica would need time to come to terms with what he already needed.

Her.

“P-Please, d-don’t,” Monica stammered as the creature drew up before her, realizing far too late she should have run but honestly, would her legs have carried her? She didn’t know; they felt like buckling, now.

Solomon didn’t speak, not at first. He lifted one hand, his palm alone larger than Monica’s face. His muscles seemed to strain with the need to be gentle, but Monica was all too aware of the crushing power behind that giant hand. She flinched as he touched her, made a noise that he felt straight to his curiously beating heart. He was cupping her cheek, his skin like frozen stone against hers.

“Your name.”

Monica swallowed thickly, but couldn’t get past the lump in her throat. She tried to shy away from his hand, but Solomon’s rumbling growl stopped her from moving any further way from him, and he repeated his demand, sharp and heavy like a timeworn stone.

“M-Monica.”

“Monica.”

Solomon tested the name with his tongue and found it sweet; it lingered like wine and reminded him of the warmth of sun upon his dead skin. His eyes actually closed and there was that curious shudder in his hulking frame, as if he couldn’t handle anything to do with her. With Monica.

“Solomon Grundy.” Solomon patted his chest with his other hand, and Monica couldn’t believe she was...having a conversation with a zombie in Gotham’s oldest cemetery.

“N-Nice...to meet you, Solomon.” She didn’t know what else to say, but could tell immediately that disrespecting Solomon wouldn’t be wise. His body posture seemed to both relax and yet tense at her words, as if he loved what she said but couldn’t take how sweet her voice was.

“Again.”

“W-What?”

“Say name again!”

Monica repeated his name, and Solomon’s brutish fingers tightened, crushing the silk of her hair between his dead digits. He hadn’t meant to startle her by raising his voice but he’d grown desperate in that instant, to cling to the feeling of her saying his name. She had such a sweet voice, he could hardly take it, much like an addict craves just one more potent hit. She’d somehow completed him, made him whole, and her voice was the key to his heart, her touch would be what sustained him, her body would be what gave him life. Solomon’s impossibly broad shoulders hunched and blocked out the icy wind as he curved protectively, possessively around his new woman.

“Mine.”

Monica instinctively began to shake her head.

“Monica mine.”

Solomon ground out his demand so close to Monica’s cheek she flinched and tried to shrink away from him but there was nowhere to go. She could only tremble helplessly as Solomon’s arms closed around her, his bone-crushing fingers shaking as he tried to be gentle but she knew, she just knew if she pushed he wouldn’t be.

When Monica fell still in his embrace, Solomon smiled. It was more a baring of teeth, but the Zombie had time to learn how to smile like a man, again. He had a reason, like the sailors of long-lost seas who chased sirens in the dark. Solomon may be a simple man but he’s a man who knows what he wants. What he needs.

Monica.

And she’ll need him back, in time. The Beauty always needs her Beast.

[harmonic-psyche]

The Finalysis: @askgoopi and @askthewaywardaliens

Hey, I am back with more characters for The Finalysis™! Below, I analyze the characters from @ecstaticshli​‘s EarthUnBound continuity on @askgoopi​ and CogDis sister blog on @askthewaywardaliens​. Both blogs are still continuing their stories. While technically only @askgoopi​ is set in the alternate timeline called “EarthUnBound,” I am using that title for both blogs here because of their shared author/artist and characters and because is sounds Really Friggin Cool.

I am still experimenting with the visuals for these Finalysis posts, and I wanted to try something a bit less bare than in my Finalysis post for @askgiegueandcrew​. Hopefully the image is not too crowded. Also, I swear that the “Goopi vs. J” fight in the middle of the picture was unintentional at first — but then I realized that it reflects how they would probably react upon meeting. oh geez, now i want to see them meet and see how many milliseconds it takes for them to start fighting

With that said, on to the character analyses!

Blue Starman ("Stupid," or "Blu"): Seems like an ISFJ.

This nervous-looking "[s]cared nerd Starman" is much more easily frightened than his fellow Starmen, which suggests inferior Ne — especially considering that he regrets being a coward, his "personality" is "Chicken," and he has a bad habit of second-guessing himself. Even in his military decisions, he shows caution. As a "pushover," Blu lacks the toughness of auxiliary Te, implying Fe instead. Also, seeing Giegue happy would make Blu happiest, showing Fe's desire to make others happy. While these facts suggest ISFJ, I have not seen enough of him to feel confident about my typing.

Giegue ("Goopi"): Probably ESTP, maybe ESTJ.

Canon Giegue is ISTJ, but "Goopi" here appears much more impulsive and aggressive. For example, his "bad habits" include "attacking others for seemingly no reason." While canon Giegue is not friendly, before the madness set in he tended to stay calm unless provoked or carrying out a cruel plan. In contrast, Goopi takes a sadistic pleasure in attacking others just for the sake of killing them. He once broke a promise with Static simply because he wanted to kill her after torturing her. Canon Giegue also uses a much more detached and clinical tone than Goopi, who loves using crude, petty insults so much that he literally named all of his Starmen after them. That degrading, crude humor is most common among ESTP types, and notably lacking from Giegue in canon or on @askgiegueandcrew​. In canon, Giegue only acts to follow his plan(s) or when he loses control of himself. On the other hand, Goopi often acts merely for pleasure without a plan or a reason: "I don't need much of a reason," "I did what I did because I wanted to." These show far more impulsive and hedonistic behavior, implying Se rather than Si.

At first, I was unsure if I could justifiably type Goopi differently from canon Giegue. Since they are from different universes, though, they are different characters: Goopi is "a completely different Giegue" (PMs with @ecstaticshli​ 2018-06-22).

J the Shadow: Definitely ISTJ.

Cautious, tough, and stoic to the core, J is an archetypal ISTJ. As an introvert who is still working on acting social, he prefers to avoid the spotlight. Si-dominance is evident in his (over?)protective unwavering loyalty to Vivi, since he considers himself her personal "bodyguard" (a.k.a. "guard dog" — compare the running joke about Si-dominant Pia the loyal dog). J does not hesitate to intimidate, threaten, or attack others to prove it when he thinks that they threaten Vivi. He shows no F-type squeamishness. While he "[t]ends to not be very friendly to others ... if he trusts someone he will be loyal and do his best to protect them," showing Si loyalty without Fe friendliness.

Te over Fi appears in his tough attitude, blunt tone, resent for receiving others' pity, "aggressive demeanor," and tendency to be embarrassed by emotional and cutesy situations — which, naturally, happen all the time around Vivi. When feeling insecure, he responds with aggression. As he has shown repeatedly, he hates being called adorable despite the obvious fact that he totally is adorable. In his own words, "It ain’t exactly easy for me to, uh, open up to others." Auxiliary Te's coldness and inferior Ne's paranoia make him distrust others by default ("We don’t know these people! I can’t trust them!"). While this can cause tension when he first meets other characters, it does help him protect those he cares about, especially Vivi. He also shows inferior Ne when he is totally thrown off by strange new perspectives, like whether he qualifies as an "insectoid."

Note also that, since "J is based on a later version of Giegue from EarthUnbound," it makes sense that J and Giegue would have identical personality types. Again, typing by analogy is unreliable, but in this case it sits on a huge pile of more-than-sufficient other evidence.

Nebula: Seems like an ISFJ.

This "[c]autious noodle" is "[c]alm, for the most part," but "[t]ends to panic when things go horribly wrong," making "other people assume ... [that s]he's a worrywart." Those show inferior Ne, and a lack of Te's decisiveness. Even though Nebula made Static act serious (a minor miracle) when Goopi attacked, came up with a plan, and pointed out that other mooks needed help escaping, she froze up and did not volunteer to help them when Static asked. These show her calm, serious planning skills (Si) and desire to help others (Fe) without any impulsivity (Ne). Nebula corrects others about scientific details even in crisis situations, showing that she is a stickler for detail (Si). Also, she probably would not dare kill anyone, showing what I call "F-type squeamishness." I do not have all that much confidence in typing Nebula, though. I have only seen her in a crisis situation, in which characters often act unusually compared to their normal personality. 

Rac: Seems like an IN__.

Nebula's boyfriend is a "really smart," "nerdy noodle" who "[t]ends to be skittish and awkward at times." Being skittish and awkward suggests introversion. While there is only a weak correlation between intelligence and MBTI (specifically, iNtuition), there is a strong correlation between nerdiness and being an IN__ type.[citation not needed] Rac’s "fears" include "[s]paghettification" and "black holes in general," which are an unusually abstract subject to fear, suggesting N. His "bad habits" include "[s]econd guessing himself," showing a lack of confidence. As a research supervisor, though, he possesses a strong scientific curiosity and enough leadership skills to run his lab. Having never seen Rac's behavior, I cannot type him precisely. Any of the IN__ types could fit this description.

Starman Jr. ("Ugly," or "Ly"): Definitely ESFP.

Ly's "[s]assy and snarky" attitude, chill demeanor, and casual slang-based speaking style point to Se-dominance . So too does her low patience and risk-taking behavior, like when she threw a secret party which accidentally got Static captured. Still, she had good intentions: "I just wanted to do something nice for my friend." Still, Ly's impulsivity and good intentions do not always end poorly. In fact, they may be the only reason that Vivi is still alive.

When Ly found Vivi on a deserted planet, Ly insisted on taking Vivi aboard to heal her. Another Starman asked how they would handle Giegue's reaction, and Ly replied that "I'll figure that out when we get to that point." In other words, she had no plan (low Ni and Te), acting only on impulse (high Se and Fi). When Javik Goopi tried to throw Vivi out the airlock, Ly saved her life by standing up to Goopi, literally annoying him into stopping. It takes nearly-reckless courage to stand up to someone so powerful and unstable. Beyond that, the intentional use of annoyance for persuasion shows Fi's determination and willingness to embarrass everyone involved (compare Vivek the ENFP), whereas Fe-users would likely melt from the secondhand cringe.

Like Static's, Ly's individualist passion (auxiliary Fi) is accomplished through a facade of toughness (tertiary Te). After all, she is "practically the only one who can pretty much talk trash to Goopi’s face and not be killed for it." Her high Fi often causes righteous indignation. Combined with her tough demeanor, this makes her take no BS from anons ("Screw you! Nobody asked for your two cents, bub") who try to help Goopi or from inexplicably hostile mooks. Those show no Fe politeness, even though Fi makes Ly "willing to sacrifice [her] safety" for her friends' at the drop of a hat because of how much she cares about them.

Unlike Static, Ly lacks the eccentric cleverness of Ne — but she makes up for it with Se's down-to-earth decisiveness. Also, contrast their speaking styles: Ly's tends to have more "shortcuts," like dropping letters from the front ("worried 'bout," "lost track of 'em,") or end of words ("somethin' to," "damper on everythin'," "comin' up"). Dropping the -g from the end of words shows informality. Also, a lot of Ly's slang comes from slurred speech ("wanna," "gotta," "gonna," "outta") — and "ain't." Those all shorten words to make them more convenient, but also sound "unrefined," for lack of a better less pretentious word. At least among CogDis OCs, that style is a dead giveaway for Se-dominance (compare Boson, Juice, Rigby, and Szortski). Sensors are more likely to view language only as a tool, making them more straightforward. In contrast, iNtuitors also like to play with it, which is why — unlike Ly — Static really, really loves puns. 

Static: Definitely ENFP.

See full analysis for details. also i totally would've called that this "noodle" is a hugger. wait now i want to hug her :S

Vivineeh ("Vivi"): Probably ISFJ, maybe INFP.

I have tried to figure out which of those two types this "adorable" and "precious" (seriously, she is absurdly cute) noodle is for sooo long! Either typing could explain that she is "timid," "[w]ill cry at just about anything," and "super sensitive," since those come generally from I_F_. Likewise, either typing could explain that she "likes [b]eing kind, ... being around children, ... hugs, soft and/or fluffy things, [and] anything she finds cute." Sentimentality, enjoyment of receiving affection, and compassion can suggest high Fi or high Fe.

The evidence that I have seen barely tips the scales towards ISFJ. Vivi "always tries to be super nice and polite," because "she dislikes making others feel bad," and she loves making friends. Wanting everyone to be happy is generally a trait of high Fe-users, as is indiscriminate positivity — especially politeness, which shows an intuitive submission to social norms. Fi is typically less prone to share its feelings, more selective about them, and defiant of social norms like politeness. Finally, the "fearful" Vivi frequently worries and is easily scared/offended by dark humor, suggesting low Ne. I have already mentioned why inferior Ne causes worrying, and dark humor is appreciated by high Ne-users (compare Ano and Static) but offends Si's often-purist sensibilities. Finally, unlike other CogDis-related IN_Ps, Vivi does not show absentminded or eccentric behavior (contrast Keter, Loris, Niiue, and Origen).

Now consider the evidence for INFP. One might think that Vivi's social awkwardness suggests dominant Fi, because Fe is more socially adept. Yet ISFJs can often be socially awkward too, especially when caused by inferior Ne caution (compare Yi the ISFJ "just being awkward"). The contrast between Vivi's personality and J's also makes her seem like an INFP, because it seems unlikely that they share the same dominant function. Typing by analogy is weak evidence, though, and different extraverted-judging functions (Te vs. Fe) can cause a huge difference in demeanor. At first I though Vivi did not show Si-dominance because I had not seen her show its common (and admittedly stereotypical) traits like obedience to authority or effective detailed memory, but she shows both (PMs with @ecstaticshli​ 2018-06-22). While many parts of her culture "sicken and unnerve" her, as one would expect more from a Fi- or Ni-dominant repulsed at their society, she inherited most of her beliefs from her caretaker Marair. Like most ISFJs, most of her values are inherited from her family.

I am not entirely confident in an ISFJ typing, though. Vivi "likes ... trying new things, learning, [and] visiting new planets," which suggests high Ne. While Si-dominants can love learning, especially if it involves fact-collecting (compare Ore), they generally do not like trying new things. I cannot explain why Vivi likes trying new things, such as visiting new planets, using an ISFJ typing. In fact, she can be downright "adventurous" if she does not feel threatened (PMs 06-22). Similarly, Vivi's "hopeless romantic" idealism is more common among daydreaming INFPs than concrete ISFJs. As a Geik, Vivi seems more like an ISFJ, but as a Gieeg, she seems more like an INFP — but since they are the same character (PMs 06-22), I cannot type them differently.

Alright, that concludes my analysis of @askgoopi​ and @askthewaywardaliens​! Unless I forgot any characters. I considered including some of the other Starmen who serve under Goopi, and probably ought to add the Last Starman featured in recent posts —  especially since he may have a type very rare to CogDis (canon and fan-) characters. But since most of them appear almost exclusively in the background, have minimal dialogue, and lack Charahub entries, I realized that I would not have enough material to make a guess at their personality types.

I am unsure whose characters I will analyze next. Hopefully it will take less time to post the next part of Finalysis. Until then, goodnight!

[eclissy]

Buried Under the Aching Tree 1/2

Back when I was a baby and still writing a lot of DF stuff and my Hero OC stand in, I had a whole side story just about Ty’s sword, it’s name, what the details on it meant and so forth. But then I got tired, busy, and the whole thing felt over the top but, it’s October now. I redid it to de-stress a bit (and fill in the rest of the plot outline since I didn’t finish it seven years ago either. God of course it took me seven years to almost finish something).

Tbh, I reworked it so much that it’s more about Ash and Artix now.

Summary: Ash learns about his friend’’s sword, a relic passed through a million hands but never through a family. That and what it’s like to be possessed by a single feeling.

Accustomed to the Hero’s little giveaways, Ash grabbed the hilt of Ty’s sword before she could plunge it into the farmer’s chest.

“He’s not a thief anymore!” Ash yelled, having to dig his heels into the ground to keep Ty’s sword from getting stuck between the farmer’s ribs. Ty let go to make sure Ash wouldn’t hurt himself and the boy stumbled back, sword in hand. ��

The farmer in question was shivering so hard, his skin was likely to peel itself off and all Ty was doing was smiling. No smile lines around her eyes; just this mechanical lifting of the corner of her mouth.

Turning to Ash, that grin shrank into a sheepish bit lip and raised shoulders.

“Did it look like I was going to hurt him?” Ty asked, an eye half closed in a wince as though Ash’s yelp had physically hit her. “Oopsie, I was only trying to scare him. I promise!”

Typically, if you were intending on hurting someone, scaring them came with the package.

“Ty…” Ash stood back, fixing a scolding glare he didn’t really know how to make. He tried to think about his mom giving him a hard telling to when he drank milk straight out of the bucket.

Shrugging and turning her hands over, Ty’s expression loosened into a scowl and her eyes rolled, coming to rest on the farmer.

“Don’t you remember this jackhole?” Ty kept the language clean for Ash. “He broke into your camp, took your gold, and your clothes so you couldn’t leave your tent for days!”

“I mean yeah, you didn’t need to remind me but yeah…” Ash muttered, scratching the back of his head.

Nervously, the farmer stepped towards the young man. He was half hiding behind his pitchfork which made his heavily scarred brutish face much less menacing than the first time he had met Ash.

“Funds are low this season so I’m awful sorry, I can’t give the gold back to you right now. But, you know where the farm is. After Spring comes back round, I’ll return what I stole,” He removed his hat. “Again, I’m awful sorry I did that to you and I really am trying to turn over a new leaf.”

“Honestly, I’m not angry at all. I’m glad things went right for you.” Ash said, genuinely thrilled that the thief had changed for the better. “Don’t worry about the gold.”

“Ash! Don’t let this guy off free!” Ty protested, more convinced that Warlic could drink a vat of melted wax and live than the farmer being completely reformed. “What he did was terrible! He needs to pay! When I found you, the crows were circling and it smelled like pee.“

“I know, I know!” Ash quickly cut her off. “But everything’s ok now. Look at that smile.”

The farmer smiled with all twelve of his green teeth.

“That’s a good guy!” It was okay, Ash hated going to the dentist too.

Brow creasing deeply, mirroring her scrunched grimace, Ty struggled to not break her arms crossing them so hard.

“If you say so.” Ty finally conceded, tilting her head to dodge the arrow shot at her.

For a stunned moment of silence, Ash gaped at Ty and the arrow stuck in the ground. He barely noticed the group of bandits doing the same thing.

Then, Ty began tapping her chin, examining the scruffy bandits that were slowly working their bravery back up. Brandishing some very pretty and very stolen axes and swords, the bandits were coming Ash and Ty’s way.

“Are these guys part of your old posse? Did they maybe come out here to rough you up for leaving?” Ty didn’t look at the man and see him nod. “Oh my god, you guys couldn’t have come at a better time,” She laughed, beginning to walk towards them unarmed. “When I’m done ripping your intestines out of your assholes and tying them together, they’re going straight into your mouths!”

Those bandits were shouting, half in a rage and half in true horror.

Ash didn’t approve of that wording but he was going to try helping first. Gripping Ty’s sword, Ash ran after the bandit that chickened out and was trying to get away.

“Stop!” Ash yelled, catching up to the fleeing bandit. He swung Ty’s sword and rolled on to the ground when it stayed stuck by his side. The blade had suddenly gotten incredibly heavy, squeezing Ash’s fingers white against the dirt. “Ow!”

Hearing Ash fumble, the bandit had returned, tapping his dagger on his palm.

“Huh,” He glanced towards where Ty was rearranging his fellow bandits’ faces some distance away between the trees. “We made it all the way into the woods. You think she can hear you scream over here?”

The point of the dagger flew towards Ash’s eye and gasping, Ash jumped up, lifting the sword with all of his might. It went over his head and he almost tumbled backwards from its weight but managed to keep his footing. The bandit didn’t hesitate making another stab at Ash’s belly.

Panicking, Ash blindly swung Ty’s sword and it smashed into the bandit’s rusty dagger, shattering into pieces.

“You little – AHG!” The bandit screamed, keeling over clutching his bleeding shin. Behind him, the farmer kept his pitch fork pointed at his once fellow thief.

Ash was busy staring at what was left of Ty’s beautiful sword scattered across the patchy ground to thank the farmer. He wanted to swallow the lump in his throat but it was too dry and any tiny movement made his stinging eyes hurt.

“Aw,” The bandit looked at him sympathetically. “It ain’t your fault.” Ash couldn’t hear him over the sound of footsteps coming up beside him.

“Huh,” Ty cast a wary gaze to the farmer though much softer than before. “I’m sad they passed out so quick. You doing okay here?”

“T-Ty…” His grip on the sword’s hilt shaking, Ash lifted his head to look at Ty who had noticed the shiny broken pieces of the sword her father had made for her. Her jaw hung open, hands held up in front of her chest. “I’m so--! I’m so so--!”

“Woah, Ash!” Ty clasped Ash’s shoulders, eyes all starry. “Did you break my sword? That’s so cool!”

The tears began to flow and Ty opened her mouth, shocked.

“Oh, no no no! You’re really cute when you cry!” Ty exclaimed, giving him a big hug. Ash’s tears were shooting out like bullets and Ty continued to pat his back. “Hey, you’re cuter when you’re happy so don’t worry! I’m not mad at all and this totally isn’t your fault.”

“I’ll bay de blacksmit.” Ash blubbered over Ty’s comforting, hugging her back.

“There’s already an appointment set up, I’ll just give Konnan a larger tip.”

Awkwardly, the farmer also began to pat Ash’s back. It earned him a thousand yard stare from Ty.

“Haha...I’ll go back to growing carrots.”

“Carrots? Ew,” Ty bit her tongue to keep herself from sticking it out. “No wonder you don’t have any gold.”

“Ty!” Ash exclaimed, starting to become and laugh a little at the situation.

Under Konnan’s hammer, the metal seemed to move on its own. The intricate embellishments of ivy and holly leaves that had been broken were weaving back together on the broad side of the blade. Ash stared in wonder, attributing it to magic.

Before Ash knew it, the sword was as good as new on the Smithy’s front counter.

“Don’t worry about the extra big tip. I don’t know, buy me some of Serenity’s scones tomorrow,” Konnan took off his gloves and attempted to wipe the soot off of his cheek, leaving a big streak. “I like working on your sword anyways. It makes me feel like I’m actually a master blacksmith.”

“You’re getting there fast,” Ty assured him, waiting for Ash to take his time looking at her sword before she sheathed it. “See Ash? Didn’t take any time at all.”

“That’s all thanks to the magic,” Konnan confirmed Ash’s theory. “I’m no mage but no sword can get fixed that fast. You need to tell me and Yulgar how this sword was forged. If all swords were like it…no wait, that’d put us out of a job.”

“Haha, I couldn’t let out the secret even if I tried. It’s an old antique my dad had remade,” Ty let her hand rest on the sword’s hilt. “We know a few of the stories it’s got under its belt but where it came from and who made it? Not sure and also not sure if that’s why it’s got the magic.”

“Oh well. I still would have liked to know. I’ve never seen this style of sword before,” Konnan rubbed his chin, smearing it with soot too. “And for such a well-made weapon, it has such a cutesy name. Fuukoo… Fuukoo shoes, or something,” He tapped the counter didn’t bring up the correct name. “I’ve got some other work to do so when that’s over, tell me a few of the stories.”

“Me too!” Ash jumped in, eager to hear what kind of heroic deeds pervious heroes had achieved with the enchanted sword. The young hero had only read about great swords with long histories in books. When he did see them, it was from afar with him jumping up and down in the hopes of catching a glimpse of it and its honored master pass through his village.

“No.” Ty said, flat out.

Konnan and Ash froze, though Konnan got back to moving a lot faster, evacuating the scene to busy himself by the tools in the back.

“Nah, that was a gut reaction,” Ty snaked her arm around Ash’s shoulder and lead him out of the shop. “I’ll tell you one while we walk back to my place.”

And she didn’t talk at all while they were in Falconreach. Ash tried to stammer a few things, a little flustered being hugged by the hero like that. Not to mention he had a kind of dumb grin; one that he couldn’t help make even when a few passerby definitely noticed the big ol tomato Ty was escorting out of time.

When they were on the well trekked path to the crossroads, Ty began to tell a tale.

“Long long ago, this sword fell into the hands of fledgling adventurer, who went from swinging sticks with his sister to leading a revolution in an empire wracked with civil war.” Ty started the story in a faux old lady voice to Ash’s amusement.

“The Emperor had already quashed the Empress and the Crown Prince’s rebellion. He had seemingly forgiven his wife and son for all transgressions but then, the Crown Prince died of illness. The Empress passed away of the same. Though he was grieving, the youngest son went to war before he began to suspect that his father had the Prince’s beloved brother and mother poisoned. He was, however, no war hero.”

“That adventurer was!” Ash cut in.

“And that adventurer started off strong, leading a small force of village folk against the Emperor’s men when they came to forcefully recruit them. His many string of victories brought him the Prince’s notice and he was honored with a sword from the royal treasury, a prize from a previous victory long passed. The Prince had stolen and put the weapon in better suited hands.”

Ash could picture it, the young man putting on armor that was shinier than any kind of gold or silver. He was kneeling in front of the crowned Prince on a wide grassy battlefield, knighted by the sword he would receive.

“On horseback, he drew his sword and pointed it at the sky as he charges into his first battle. An arrow strikes his horse’s leg and he skids over the dirt hard.”

The dream shattered and Ash was back on the path with Ty. She noticed his sinking glee but kept the same easy tone as she continued, holding her hands behind her back.

“That fall knocked the adventurer out and he was asleep as waves of his comrades died without his leadership. When he woke up in a panic, immediately rallying the army together, they kept dying because of his mistakes. As it seemed, the appointed champion knew his home woods best. These kinds of battles weren’t anything he’d ever prepared for before.”

Ash could picture that too. He thought of the same panic he had when Falconreach was on fire and his shouts were drowned out by the violence. Only, that hero must have had that fear magnified to a degree Ash couldn’t imagine anyone being able to think in.

“Luckily, the champion’s sister had come despite him asking her to stay behind where it was safe. She had fought beside him when the fight was on their turf and had snuck into the war camp to join him. Taking up a spear, she tied a banner to it and let the colours fly as she fought, grabbing her comrades’ attention and leading the battle to victory.”

Heart swelling, Ash was tossed back from the edge of a tragic end to the triumphant turn in the story.

“Saving the army and her brother was a story that gave the Crown Prince’s side morale. It swung the undecided to his side and the Prince decreed the two of them to be his champions. Together, they lead the armies until the army could only be led by one. That adventurer had no talent leading an army and one day, he disappeared.”

“What? Did he go back home?”

“In a sense, he did. All of a sudden, the Prince’s army was suffering losses and they had to retreat to the remaining champion’s home. They met her brother there in the flames he started. Jealous of his sister, the former champion had gone to the Emperor with all the information he needed to destroy the rebellion. He said as much when they reunited, having already killed his own parents to hurt his sister.”

As vivid as the bright sun that shone over Ash right now, the image in his head of the carnage was alight with fire.

The once bright and hopeful young boy was standing over his coughing sister. The heads of their friends and family were propped on stakes all around the village as it was demolished by fire and battle. In his gauntlets was the sword, more red than silver under the full moon.

‘You stole everything from me! I was the hero and you took it all away!’ Ash heard the boy’s voice when Ty quoted him.

“That was when his sword became heavy. Its weight pulled him down and it disappeared from under him, coming back when his sister plunged it into the back of his neck.”

She could have incapacitated him when the sword decided that she would be its new master. She could have taken him to face justice. In fact, she could have killed him so no one else would have been hurt.

Instead, she murdered him in cold blood, hooking the point under his skin, scraping it into his skull just for the sake of making him suffer. The sound of her brother’s messy death blocked out the chaos, veiling her in the only kind of joy she would ever feel again.

“After that, the rest of the battles were nothing special. What was special was how the remaining champion kept the head of her brother chained to her belt. With the sword, she mowed the Emperor’s army down with the vindictive forces who had too been enraged by the destruction of their previous lives. They were only the Crown Prince’s army in name. Once they made it to the Capital—“

The champion, alone with the Crown Prince, stormed the room where the man who ruined her life sat atop a great throne. To her horror, the Emperor stood with her sword held at his side. She found that her hands were empty and the Emperor spoke to her.

‘Do you know my story? The story of a boy with not a drop of blue blood? I stowed away on the pirate ship that destroyed the small fishing village where my family lived. Under the bloodied gold and silver was the sword I used to avenge my family. It slew hundreds of pirates, thousands of the worthless soldiers, and all of the idle nobles until the remaining bowed to me. But I wasn’t done. This sword stayed in my hands until all I knew was war. Country after country fell for no reason other than for the phantom slight I imagined they had committed against me. Even when I found a new family, they came to hate me and were taken by an enemy I couldn’t kill.”

The remaining Emperor’s Son had found out long before that his father had nothing to do with his mother and brother’s deaths. His war had been waged not for revenge but to save a country from a war mongering tyrant he loved dearly.

‘I could not raise my sword against my wife and son. I only waged war so a truly evil Emperor would not threaten the next Emperor’s reign with their shared blood. This sword could no longer be mine.’

The cursed sword reappeared in the champion’s grip, refusing to leave her hands when she tried to drop the horrid thing.

‘Promise me that when I die, you will do all that is within your power to sink the sword into the sea.’

Ash’s intense daydream ended as the silver blade rushed towards the Emperor and disappeared into his throat.

Blinded by the daylight, Ash shielded his eyes, distraught by how he had been absorbed into Ty’s story. The young hero, reminded of her presence and of their walk, staggered away from her and her cottage. In the midst of the daydream, he hadn’t noticed that they had already arrived.

“They couldn’t pry the sword out of the champion’s hands and she didn’t hesitate chopping them off. The new Emperor had it sunk in a sea that was so far away, it didn’t have a name yet,” Ty was finishing the story. “Probably would done it, promise or not. He was an honest and nice person. I’d say he would have thrown the sword away out of guilt.”

“He should have broken it!” Ash said, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead. How had he literally seen the scene in his head?

“Magic, remember? One of the reasons why the first champion started to get really good at fighting after he deserted was because of the sword,” Ty was treating the matter so nonchalantly that it was making Ash angry. “I brought it to the Smithy to fix it faster but if I had left it alone, the sword would have pieced itself back together on its own.”

And come back to Ty on its own.

“I could tell you some more stories,” Ty unsheathed the blade, holding it level. “There’s a bunch I know from before it met the first Champion and after it crawled out of the sea. This one was just one of my favorites.”

Ash shook his head, keeping his distance.

“Why would you have it? Why won’t you throw it away? That sword makes you obsessed with revenge!”

The moment that Ty took to think about her answer that was scarily short.

“I like it.” She put it simply.

Despite her behavior before; every single fight that Ash remembered how Ty had taken too far, he still couldn’t believe his ears.

“What?”

“What if after each war we have in Falconreach, Amityvale, the Sandsea, anywhere people we care about get hurt, the event ended and I was too tired to stand?” Ty asked. “What if the villains get away with it and hurt more of the people we care about? What if I let everyone in Falconreach stay hurt? What if I can’t bring them the justice they deserve? What if, what if, what if, right?” Ty tilted the blade and Ash could have sworn, the ivy and holly leaf markings swayed.

“This sword doesn’t make you obsessed with revenge. The people it chooses are already in love with revenge and it won’t let them forget it,” Ty gazed at the sword, as if at peace thanks to the idea it kept locked in her mind. “I have to make them pay.”

“That’s it,” Ash said, disgust clearing dripping from his voice. “Does saving people matter at that point? You’re in love with revenge because you want to make people suffer. Whether they did something bad or not doesn’t matter. You fight to protect the weak, to be a hero. Not to hurt people. You didn’t have to make people suffer! You do it because you like it.”

Ty lowered the sword, thinking of dropping it. Only thinking.

“You’re right, Ash. And I’m sorry,” Ty turned to him, a little less color in her cheeks. She smiled despite that. “I was just glad you can’t use the sword. And you deserve to know the reason why,” She turned to face her friend. “You’re a real hero, Ash.”

A beat passed, one where he tried to stop being mad. It was just that he was so disappointed and the heavy, foul mood grew over him like mold.

“I…Ty, I need to go.” He didn’t intend to say goodbye.

“I know.” Ty nodded, watching him walk back towards Falconreach.

Taking a detour was seriously unsafe when the sun was setting so low but Ash needed it. He didn’t think any monster would approach, hearing how heavy his stomping was.

In all honesty, he had no idea how to deal with being this kind of angry.

Ash tried comparing it with some other mishaps in the past, like when he dropped his sword on a noble’s foot and it cut the poor man. That was Ash’s own fault and he was angry at himself though.      

Perhaps it was an over exaggeration but he tried likening this to the anger that came from Falconreach being attacked yet again. Destroyed yet again. But, they were all villains. Not any of his friends.

None of Ash’s friends would make him feel this way.

“Argh,” Ash tugged at his hair, not noticing how the orange sky had gone pitch black. Only a sliver of the moon was out now. He kept walking, going nowhere near Falconreach and into parts of Surewood he didn’t recognize.

In fact, all these trees had no leaves. Kind of like in Doomwood actually.

“Since when did the grass get gray?” Ash did a bit of a hop, startled at the mist beginning to form over the forest floor as well. “I didn’t walk that far, did I?” The panic started up and Ash frantically scanned his surroundings for anything familiar or for anything out to attack him.

If this was Doomwood and not some random patch of Surewood that caught the flu, Ash figured he could take down half a zombie if he tried very hard.

In the corner of his eye, a familiar glint caught his attention and his stomach plummeted.

Blade stuck into the ground, covered in a bed of foliage was the silver sword.

Ash rushed to it, terrified at how it was out in the open. Anyone could get their hands on it and do their worst. Anyone was likely to be a necromancer, a vampire, oh gods was Drakath out here?

What about Ty?

“I can throw it away.” Ash thought out loud. An ocean couldn’t keep it trapped but it had to have taken time to escape. Ash could toss the thing into a bottomless pit, a gully, or feed it to something nasty. Then, he could go to Warlic or Artix and find a way to actually destroy the cursed sword.  

Shoulders squared in resolution, Ash trudged through the leaves. He went right up to the sword, took its gold hilt into his hand, and wrenched it from its resting place.

Blood gushed from the leaves, pulled up by the sword and splattered his shins.

Ash’s heart came to a hard stop before pounding against his ribs in sheer terror. Confused and horrified, Ash tore away at the ivy leaves, searching for anyone that could be hurt under there.

The bed was endless and the more he yanked away, the deeper it got and thorns began biting into his skin. Before he knew it, Ash had sunk into this pit, his head disappearing under the leaves.

On instinct, Ash slashed the sword through the greenery and it was as light as air. Blood pooled at his feet, draining from the vines he slashed, making the thorns glisten.

“My children were flayed,” An ivy vine wrapped around his ankle. “Who would avenge them if not I?”

“My brother accused my wife of witchcraft. She burned as I was hung,” Another voice invaded as Ash tried to cut the bindings only for his other foot to get swallowed into the gore, ankle deep. “Why was it that I had to crawl from my grave to right the wrong? Who would have avenged us otherwise?”

This was a dream. A very bad nightmare Ash was convinced he was having. He didn’t remember falling asleep but he must have and the story of that magic sword scared him so much that the thorns tearing through his armor felt real.

“A wretched King conquered my home when we showed kindness. All of my friends and family, their bones piled like trophies in the royal coffers,” A pair of hands accompanied this whisper, grabbing Ash’s hands as he attempted to remove his boot and escape. “They all had to die. All of his people. That was the only right way.”

“No!” Ash’s voice was shrill. “Let me go!” He couldn’t hear himself anymore. The couple of voices had grown to tens, to hundreds, to thousands of laughing mouths and reaching hands. The fingers that wrapped around his neck were made of steel; prosthetic limbs made for a veteran.

“Didn’t you think I had to? I had to! We have to!”

That voice was the same as the one he had imagined when Ty was telling him the story. Except, it wasn’t his imagination. The sword had long felt his mounting disappointment, and caught him in its will long before.

“Avenge their deaths.”

“For hurting me.”

“Humiliated me.”

“My future destroyed.”

Each reason was increasingly becoming frivolous; things that Ash couldn’t understand people taking lives over.

“I was the hero.” Another joined the cacophony and Ash could not escape its echo. “I wanted to be the hero. I worked so hard to be a hero. I’ve been dreaming of being a hero, a real knight for as long as I lived. She stole it from me.”

That sword fit in Ash’s hands all of a sudden. He held the sword as though it was the only thing keeping him alive. The nails digging into his lungs screamed for him to act and Ash jabbed the sword towards the source of that despicable laughter, imagining silver slicing through a neck.

“My Hero let me down.” Ash heard and it came from somewhere that was so close, it could have been inside him.

The sky was orange again, tinged with the sunset. Surewood was as green as ever and the only rotting deathly smell was stuck in the back of Ash’s nose.

Resting across his outstretched hands was his silver sword. What was left of all of the ghostly shouts was a single, wind-chime like query.

“Prithee, great champion, may I ask of you—” Ash closed his eyes and the whisper sank into his heart.

“Is revenge a science? Or is it an art?”

[perhapshomo]

we need a smadsby oneshot

Sans has two hands

wordcount: 4853ship: smadsby (grillby/sans/mad ghost)ao3 link: [x]

He thought the topic was over after Sans discussed the matter with Grillby. He thought it wouldn’t come up anymore. Not even only because, well, it wasn’t important anymore, but especially because that topic was still pretty awkward to address.

But now they were drunk at Mads place, because Sans could barely stand going to bars anymore and took any chance to get drunk somewhere else that he could, and they were lying on the ghost’s dirty couch. It looked like Mad found it at the junk yard one day, thought, ‘Hey, this one ain’t that bad of a shape yet,’ and just brought it home with him. Then again so did almost anything in their house that wasn’t Quickstab’s and Napstablook’s room.

But what did the couch matter when they were drunk and drinking and laughing at nothing, at the white noise the TV offered and they were just having a good time. They were, was the cue though, because then Mad decided to say,

“hey, shrimp?” His voice sombered up a bit. Sans roused a bit surprised.

“yea?”“Remember that time we, er… we kissed?”And, well, yes. He did. And it sent a cold shiver down Sans spine, because he almost wished he didn’t. He hadn’t been in a good place that day, and things had just been awful all over. He wasn’t in a good place now, but he wasn’t holed up in his room anymore, so really he couldn’t complain.

“wha’ ‘bout it?” Sans asked cautiously. He wished he hadn’t.“Wha’ if… What if it had meant something?” The ghost asked and it was a hypothetical question, yes, but you didn’t just ask those kind of questions out of nowhere. You just didn’t.“mads,” Sans replied, and he put everything he had in him together to try and not slur those words. “i have a boyfriend.”

“Right,” the ghost replied. He wasn’t frowning, he didn’t look surprised or sad in particular. “Was just kidding anyways.” But disappointment was practically dripping off his voice.

Sans was lying on top of a broken car at the junk yard when he brought their conversation up. They didn’t spend as much time on the junk yard as they used to. Grillby knew Sans couldn’t stand it and when they did go there, it was usually either because of Mad Ghost or because Sans insisted he was fine.

Which he couldn’t really say he was. Not when the stench in his nose reminded him so much of when it happened, of the time he was pushed into a bag of trash, was forced to swallow it, because what option did he have?

But he couldn’t keep letting people know when he was freaking out, he couldn’t keep making people worry, so he bit his tongue and powered through it. Although he didn’t really, didn’t he. Grillby seemed to be still just as aware of whenever Sans’ mind spiraled anywhere he didn’t want it to, because the small grounding touches, the gentle words bringing him back whenever he needed them to, they couldn’t be coincidental.

Mad Ghost had already left surprisingly early, although it had been like that for the past few weeks. And Sans was picking up on it and Grillby was picking up on it.

“What’s… up with him lately?” Grillby asked, mostly curious. The question dragged Sans out of a panic induced trip of dissociating, so while it was an uncomfortable topic, he was actually glad for the change.

“to be honest,” Sans began a bit awkwardly. “i think he, uh… i think he… actually had a thing for me?”He described what happened the other day, and back then, when they were lying on the couch fucked up and drunk, it had seemed weird, but… Now that he thought of it, thought of it sober and after telling his boyfriend, it was more than weird. He didn’t understand.

Mad Ghost wasn’t the type to settle for anyone, why would he even hint on anything like that towards someone like Sans? And why did it make Sans feel warm and fuzzy inside?“actually, i’m probably misreadin’ it,” Sans finished with a shrug, but he could already see Grillby shaking his head.

“I don’t think so.”

Sans sat up, surprised.

“You like him, don’t you?”Sans flushed.

“grillby,” he laughed. “i have you. i love you.” He did. He really did. He knew he did, but then why was there this hot, coiling feeling in his stomach that told him that Grillby was not wrong.“I know you do, babe,” the elemental replied with a soft smile. “I love you, too. And I trust you. And I wouldn’t mind a polyamorous relationship.”“a… what?”Grillby’s smile seemed to grow a bit at the question, as if he’d been expecting it.

“I wouldn’t mind sharing you. As long as I know who else you’re with and as long as I know you’re safe… I wouldn’t want to make you have to choose.”“i did choose, though!” Sans argued, not even sure why he felt the need to argue. “i chose you, grillby.”“You did, but when you did, Mad Ghost hadn’t been an option yet,” the flame countered. “Not the way he might be now. Not the way I had been. I want you to be happy, Sans.”

Sans flushed even more, scooting closer to his boyfriend.

“you really would be ok, if… if me ‘n mads were a thing…?” He asked cautiously. It sounded surreal. It sounded exiting.

“If that’s what you want.”“what do you want?” Sans pressed. He didn’t want Grillby to get himself into anything he wasn’t comfortable with for Sans’ sake.

“For you to be happy,” Grillby said, but Sans fixed him with a small glare, saying that that wasn’t what he wanted to hear right now. “…A minimum wage raise?”

The idea of asking Mad Ghost to join them in their relationship sounded better in his head than it did when they were all at the skate park discussing important things like why would that kid try skateboarding if they couldn’t even walk without falling on their face constantly.

Sans was sitting on top of the shorted ramp there was, Grillby on the floor in front of him, back leaning against the ramp, and Mad was lying on bottom part of it. They had met with Toriel’s gang there, which was awkward enough considering both Muffet and Asgore were there. But things between Muffet and Grillby had actually been okay, and Undyne was cool company and Toriel was nice too, so the only issue was Asgore, really.

But it had been nice none-the-less. The four had left earlier than Grillby’s gang did, leaving the three alone to make fun of children. And that had been nice too, until a certain fucking fire elemental had to nudge Sans’ leg slightly with his elbow.

He knew immediately what he was trying to tell him, but that didn’t make it any easier.

He coughed into his fist awkwardly.

“so, uh. mads?” He began, hands fidgeting in the insides of his pockets. The ghost made a small confirming noise. “do you, like. uh. uhm…” He coughed again, and Mad finally seemed to catch up on that whatever Sans tried to tell him was incredibly awkward and he was looking up now to see Sans flushing like a beacon.

“What is going on?”“He’s asking you out,” Grillby supplied, only to get immediately kicked in the arm by Sans. He only laughed, though, rubbing the sore part as he did.

“i’m not-! like-! not on a date.” He scoffed, like that’d be a ridiculous idea. “i just, well. you- you’re cool. and you said the kiss thing might’ve… y’know. meant something.”He wasn’t sure if ghosts couldn’t blush of if Mad Ghost just didn’t, but the way he stared at him, eyes wide and both shocked and flustered, Sans had the feeling anyone else would be in his place. It made Sans feel hot under the collar.

“Dude. No. What!?” He spluttered out, unable to form a whole sentence. “I didn’t mean- I just- I-” And the he lowered his voice, hissing tense and nervous, “Grillby is right there.”“it’s. uh. it’s cool,” Sans uttered out equally nervous. “we’ve talked about this and, like. uh.”“I don’t mind,” the flame interrupted gently, turning more towards the two of them. “If you’re interested, that is. Sans doesn’t belong to me and if he wants to pursue another relationship, I’m more than open to share.”Shocked Mad looked from Sans to Grillby and back to Sans. He opened his mouth in an attempt to speak, then closed it again.

“i mean. you don’t gotta,” Sans finally said with a shrug, turning away, because wow. What had he been thinking? This was a stupid idea. Of course Mad wouldn’t be interested. They had been fucking drunk when they kissed! It didn’t mean anything! He probably wasn’t even into dudes. Christ.

“God, shrimp, it’s not- Not like that,” the ghost argued, but what was it like then? “I just don’t understand where this is suddenly coming from. I’m not the relationship kinda guy? What the hell?”“neither was i,” Sans admitted with a shrug. “until i found grillby, i guess.”

“Yea, but-”“You don’t have to go full cutesy, Mad Ghost,” Grillby interrupted him. “This is not really my place to intervene, but… Just because me and Sans act certain ways doesn’t mean the two of you would have to.”“oh god, no.” Sans made a twisted noise between a grunt of laughter and disgust. “i didn’t even think of that. i just thought like. i don’t know.” Sans got quieter when he continued, trailing off a little. “grabbing a beer at two in the morning, watching shitty shows and not having to feel awkward if it ends in, i don’t know, a make-out session.”“So,” Mad Ghost said, sounding like he was swallowing hard, “friends with benefits?”“sort of,” Sans admitted. “but i like you. and like, uh. what’s the issue with boyfriends with benefits?”“Commitments,” the ghost replied immediately, surprising Sans a good bit.

It was Sans’ turn to swallow hard. He’s never actually considered that. When he got together with Grillby he was too busy worrying that Grillby didn’t even like him that way than to think about commitments. Plus it’s not like he ever really cared about anyone else that way.

He, well, sure. He liked Mad Ghost. He was curious about pursuing something with him. But the ghost still wasn’t Grillby and there was simply no way denying that if it came to a point where Sans would have to choose one of the two romantically or around that, he’d choose Grillby without a second thought.

But Mad Ghost wasn’t like him. Mad Ghost got around. Mad Ghost had, he had sex with people. Probably. And being in a relationship, well.

Well?

Well.

Sans wasn’t sure how to continue that string of thought. So he didn’t.

“you don’t have to decide now,” he said instead.

The thing was, when Mad Ghost had decided, had agreed to at least try it, the two of them got drunk pretty quickly afterwards, excitement and nervousness coursing through both of them. And once they got drunk, they had the great idea to tell Grillby of the news, Sans ‘porting both of them to Grillby’s apartment, the two of them waiting for the flame to come home.

And well. Being drunk on a bed with their new boyfriend with benefits did quite a number on both of their patience. Which meant that they had no patience. At all. And they were practically all over each other five minutes into “waiting.”But god, Grillby was going to see them like that, Mad’s mouth on his’ as they both fought for dominance, and it excited Sans.

Sans rolled over until he was on top of Mad, tongue still not deciding whether it was fighting with the ghost’s or just exploring. It was hard with barely any solidness underneath you. With nothing to grind on, no neck to nip at. But he was definitely very drunk and very horny and he could make do and-

“Oh crap.” Grillby sounded more surprised than anything else, really. Sans broke off the kiss, eyes lidded and hazy, and rolled off the ghost to lie on his back and face Grillby. His grin was dopey as he giggled slowly.

“’eyyy babe,” he slurred excitedly. “sooo guess wha’s ‘e good news.”“You’re drunk on my bed making out with Mad Ghost who’s also drunk.”“Hey, I ain’t drunk,” the ghost scoffed, obviously lying.

“You’re-” Grillby paused. Took a deep breath. Knelt on the bed. “You can’t make important decisions while shitfaced,” he said to both of them.

“’e didn’.”“Yea I didn’,” Mad agreed and Sans couldn’t quite tell if he was copying his slur or just also slurring himself. “I did the deci-decisi- …delish- thingand then got drunk.”

Grillby’s brow was furrowed skeptically and Sans groaned.“c’moooonn. the more the merr’er. don’t be a party poopy.” He rolled to his side to get back to kissing the ghost, but couldn’t quite reach his mouth from this position so he just licked a long, wet stripe up his side, because that was erotic somehow maybe.

He felt Grillby take him by his shoulders, pulling him up and close to him and leaving the ghost to lie on the bed a bit confused. The flame sighed, but his hold was gentle, a thumb rubbing over Sans’ shoulder blade and the skeleton hummed.“Are you fine with this?” Grillby asked the ghost, pointing at all three of them. “Of this being a… threeway thing. I don’t mind leaving you and Sans to it if that’s what you want.”“nooooooo,” Sans whined, squirming a little. “i wan’ you bothhhh.”“You’ll still have both of us, Sans, just not at the same time sexually. Let Mads decide this.”Sans huffed and pouted, but kept quiet. He leered at the ghost, just as Grillby did, probably making him feel kind of uncomfortable.

“Yeah! Sure, hell yea!” Or maybe not.

The flame made an unconvinced noise and frowned. “Are you sure? You’re very drunk.”“’S he always like that?”“mhmm,” Sans hummed nodding, with a small amused smile. “’s sweet, though. ‘e just cares a lot.”“I’m right here.” Grillby interrupted them, not actually sounding angry, though. “And I’m not a rapist. Are you really fucking sure, Mads?”Mad Ghost took a breath, closing his eyes as he was psyching himself up.“Yes,” he said, probably a lot firmer and with a lot more finality than intended, but hey, it sounded more serious and sober than his previous slurring.

For a second Sans thought the flame still wouldn’t be convinced.

But then he grinned satisfied, a hand slipping underneath Sans’ shirt and stroking over the spine. Sans reacted immediately, arching his back as he let out a surprised moan. Mad was staring at him wide eyed, suddenly sitting up a bit.

“Oh shit,” he breathed out. “How’d you do that?”

“I know his spots,” Grillby hummed playfully, his fingers tracing over the inside of Sans ribs and his mouth ghosting over the nape of Sans neck. The skeleton was squirming already, drunk, hard, horny and sensitive, and the extra pair of eyes on him sure didn’t help him feel less exposed.

“nhh no – hah – no fair,” Sans complained whining. Grillby was taking of Sans’ shirt now, though not wasting a moment to get back to fondling him and holding him close. “i wanna – hah – w-wannah do s’m’thin’ too.”

Grillby chuckled, letting go of Sans’, though. Satisfied Sans climbed on Grillby’s lap, an arm around his neck to pull him into a sloppy, short kiss. He turned to the ghost.

“c’mon ‘ere,” he slurred, beckoning Mads to come closer. He did and immediately Sans’ put his free arm around him, pulling him into an equally sloppy kiss.

“so,” he breathed once he pulled off the kiss. “where’s your dick?”

There was this brief moment where Mad Ghost just stared at him, eyes lidded and dazed from the kiss, before the words clicked. He barked out a loud laugh.

“Where’s yours?” He challenged with a shit eating grin that Sans gladly returned.

But Grillby was faster than he was, saying, “in his pants, actually,” before palming the bulge through Sans’ shorts and causing the small skeleton to gasp surprised, having almost forgotten the third party here.

He let himself drop back onto the mattress, grinding into the hand between his legs and moaning wantonly.

“Damn,” Mad Ghost huffed, a brief laugh in his voice. “Y’ve really got ‘im tied around your finger, don’t’cha?”“Right now,” Grillby admitted. “He’s a piece of work sober, though.”Sans stuck his tongue out at them grinning. He really was.

“So?” The flame asked, eyeing Mad Ghost a little. “Don’t be shy. You’re part of this.”“…Right,” Mad muttered, sounding a little aloof. “So I jus’… guess i’ll just summon my junk?”Grillby gave him a nod, Sans returned it more enthusiastically.

So.

Skeleton dicks were weird, right? They sprouted somewhere on solid bone, on his pelvis, semi-transparent and glowing in a cyan hue. He’s never doubted they were sort of weird, compared to more physical monsters and creatures.

But ghost dicks? Like, actual ghost dicks, not Sans’ dick which he would call a ghost dick sometimes. An actual dick from a ghost, those were. Wow. Those were weird.

It wasn’t even attached to Mad Ghost, was just floating slightly in front of him, roughly about where he started fading out at the bottom.

But the worst was probably that it, even though the ghost was comparably shorter in body-size to Sans, his dick was still fucking bigger than his.

Yea! Well! Who needs big dicks? He was just fine with his own only slightly below average sized dick. Like, hell? He didn’t just manage to get one boyfriend, but two, so nobody can tell him size fucking matters.

Fuck that.

Fuck them.

“mhh, fuck me,” Sans groaned, grinding a bit more into Grillby’s palm and the elemental laughed.

Mads seemed, by now, a little bit more on the edge. “So – er… do I just… D’you wanna – uhm. Y’wanna suck me off? How do we- how do we do this?”

He’s been doing good.

He’d been doing so good lately, he thought.

But now he was seeing flashes of their faces, was feeling dicks in his mouth, his eye sockets, and his mind just blanket as he started hyperventilating. Everything was buzz, he was suffocating and he felt like everyone was too close suddenly. Like he was too exposed.

“Oh shit-”He teleported away before Grillby could even reach for him, landing at the other side of the room and sinking to the ground. Sans’ lungs hurt as he tried to will himself to stop hyperventilating, stop panicking, but it didn’t work. It didn’t help.

He didn’t even hear the way Mad Ghost panicked guiltily, the way Grillby got off his bed, almost running up to Sans.He did feel the hand on his shoulder, jerking away from it.

“Relax,” the elemental told him quietly. “You’re fine. You’re safe.”He was, Sans tried to remind himself. The rapists were gone, he was safe. He was with two of the people he trusted most. He was safe.

“i- i’m sorry,” he croaked out. “’m sorry. ‘m sorry.”“It’s okay, Sans,” Grillby said. “Relax.”“’m not ready,” he admitted. He was shaking.

“Do you want to stop?”Sans glanced towards Mad Ghost, feeling guilty.

“No. Sans. Listen.” He did, turning his head back to Grillby. “Do you want to stop.”Did he, though? He’d been so excited about this. He still was. He just. Just. The thought about sucking Mad Ghost off, about sucking anyone off, it terrified him.

Sans told him. Exactly that.

Grillby sighed. “That’s fine,” he said, a hand gently rubbing Sans’ shoulder. He wasn’t shaking anymore, Sans noted. “Are you fine, baby?”“i think so…”Grillby picked him up gently, carrying him back to the bed where the ghost’d been waiting anxiously.“I’m sorry, sprout-”“nah, ‘s cool,” Sans interrupted him. “really. just… ugh. ‘m just… i can’t do the… the suck-thing.”Mad let the words run over him, eyes wide in guilty panick, before he nodded. “Okay,” he breathed out. “Okay. I won’t bring that up anymore. Fuck.”“Can we choose a safe-word?” Grillby asked both of them, gently placing Sans down the bed again.

“What?” The ghost asked surprised. “Aren’t they for BDSM shit?”“Not necessarily,” the flame explained. “I really just want one so if either of us feels overwhelmed, he can say it and we’ll stop. No questions asked. No hesitating. We’ll just stop.”“yea, i’m… in for that.”“Alright,” Mad finally agreed, a slight relieved chuckle in his voice. “A’right. How ‘bout ‘boats’?”

“works for me,” Sans agreed, and Grillby nodded too.

So, like, he wanted to get past the panic attack awkwardness, right? So I guess he pulled off his pants. Because he was also still hard and that’s how things just go I suppose. You get the idea. Pants off. Dick out. I am being forcibly removed as the writer.

“Damn,” Mad Ghost said, surprise breathy in his voice. “It’s blue.”

“da-be-dee – da-be-die,” he started singing without missing a beat.

Grillby rolled his eyes, but looked obviously relieved by Sans acting normal again. “Hey, Mads?”“Myea?” The ghost replied half-interested, his eyes focused on Sans, making him feel even more exposed.

Grillby chuckled, not missing the way Sans began squirming slightly, and let a hand stroke over his leg as he slipped off the bed.“Why don’t you take care of him while I get us something?”

“Yea, can do that.”“’ey!” Sans tried to argue as Grillby was already leaving the room. “i don’t need t’ be ‘taken care’ o- ohhh – oh fuuuuck.” Sans spine arched as he felt what might’ve as well been raw magic coalescence in his vertebrae close to his tailbone. He moaned, unable to form words right now, and barely opened one of his closed eye sockets to peek at whatever Mad Ghost was doing.

It looked like he was just… touching Sans’ spine. Except his arm just started to fade out into nothingness the closer it got to Sans, and instead the three vertebrae closest to it seemed to glow in a faint orange color.

The glow seemed to light up stronger for a second, before Sans let out another loud, surprised moan as more magic seemed to ripple through his bones.

“ohhh fuck, tha’s good,” he groaned out, fingers clenching around the comforter he was lying on.

He barely could hear the chuckle through his own from pleasure fogged up mind as well as his panting, but he did.

“That trick always gets ‘em around,” the ghost laughed as he moved his magic a tad downwards until reaching Sans cock.

Which was.

Well.

It was raw magic haunting raw magic, not to mention on one of the most sensitive parts Sans had on his body. And as Mad Ghost finally sent his wave of magic through him, through his dick, and everything just seemed to go black as Sans came. He didn’t scream per-say, but he did moan loudly, saliva escaping from the corner of his mouth as he lied there panting, slowly coming down from his high.Mad Ghost was just laughing now. Genuinely laughing. But not the degrading kind of laughing, just the genuine fun kind of laughing, and then Sans was laughing too.

“Oh wow, you sure did take care of him, huh?” Grillby asked, not just a little surprised as he came into the room seeing Mad Ghost laughing and Sans panting, soiled in his own cum.

“Ain’t my fault you took so long,” the ghost retorted.

“heh, ‘s cool,” Sans breathed out. “i could go fo’ seconds.”Grillby seemed to have expected that, but he was smiling anyways.“Yea?” He asked. “That’s good, ‘cause I’ve got us a little something.” He shimmied out of his own pants, Sans feeling himself slowly getting hard again only by seeing the tent in his boyfriends underpants, before those were discarded, too.

“what’cha got for us?” The skeleton slurred well excitedly. He didn’t have to wait for an answer, as Grillby already brought up what ever he had planned for them.

And, wow, whatever Sans had expected was not a Tenga Egg in his lovers hand.

“ooohh fuck,” Sans breathed out. He could see the flame smirking, before moving the already lubricated toy down onto Sans’ semi-hard cock. The skeleton gasped, grasped at the bedding.

“aaahnn, pleasee,” he whined pretty much instinctively, not expecting the almost predatory growl that drew out of Mad Ghost. Sans shivered at the sound.

“What do you want?” Mads asked, his voice a tad deeper than before. Even Grillby seemed surprised, but he caught himself quickly.

“I think I’ve got an idea on what that might be,” the flame purred, before giving his own cock a few pumps and then pushing it inside the toy alongside Sans’ cock.

Sans gasped at the added friction. Shit, shit, shit. Grillby’s cock was so hot compared to the cool walls of the toy that Grillby slowly began twisting around both of them.

Mad Ghost watched the entire display, groaning deeply. “Y’think there’s room for one more?” He asked, already inching closer.

“Mmh, let’s find out,” Grillby hummed.

Sans watched attentively as a third cock squeezed itself into the toy, the egg feeling by now almost too tight around them. He groaned loudly, trying to lift his hips to get some friction.

“move?” He asked desperately, after Grillby and Mads both spent a few seconds just adjusting and panting.

Finally Grillby began moving the toy. All three of them groaned simultaneously as he started pumping and twisting the textured wall around them. Christ, it was so tight, and the Mad Ghost began moving too, thrusting ever so slightly into the toy, rubbing against both Sans and Grillby all the while.

It was too much for Sans to process, the textured walls of the eggs moving around one side of his cock, the rough pumping of Mad’s ghosty dick, the presence of Grillby’s hot one. Sans threw his arm over his face and whined into it as he came again, his juice juicing up their juice box.

They still didn’t stop moving, though. Grillby slowed a little, checking if Sans was doing alright, but continued moving the egg as soon as he didn’t note any distress in the skeleton. His cum was lubing them up even more, making the movements slick and smooth and so intense on Sans’ oversensitive cock.

“Fuuuuck,” Mad Ghost groaned and Sans barely noticed the way his movements started to get shakier. “Y’ sure – ah – know your shit, Grillbz.”The flame laughed a little, but he too sounded a bit shaken up. “I just got us the toy.”“noooooo,” Sans interrupted him, startling Grillby a little. Sans voice was drawled and slurred and he was on a plane somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness and it was called pure bliss.

“y’re twist’n’ it sooo good.” Somewhere in his drunken and of pleasure hazy mind Sans thought, oh, he probably had a lot of experience with those kinda toys, which was a great thing to tease him with. But he couldn’t possibly do so right now, barely able to form words, let alone form complex, half-formed thoughts into words. It would probably end in nonsense. Would he even be able to speak English? He might just accidentally slip to Wingdings mid-sentence. That thought seemed hilarious for a moment, and Sans started laughing, chuckling out of nowhere.

Grillby was laughing too. “You okay there, babe?” He asked, but Sans couldn’t even answer through his laughter, causing Mad Ghost to chuckle a bit.

“He’s too f-fffar gone, ‘eh?” He asked, before bending over with a loud groan. He finally came, too, his jizz feeling more like fog than a liquid.

“Mhhh fuck,” Grillby groaned. He tightened his hand a little, squeezing the egg around their cocks even more, before he finally came, too.

The addition of the hot, almost searing, cum finally choked out the laughter in Sans’ throat and he, too, came. For the third time, groaning loudly.

He was already on his way to passing out when Grillby removed the toy and put it away and Mad Ghost half-heartedly cleaned up what was to clean up. He wasn’t sure who tucked him into bed, but when he sleepily asked the two monsters next to him, Mad Ghost said he had done that himself. Oh. He couldn’t even remember.

“I guess that’s one way to start a relationship, hm?” Grillby hummed quietly as Sans was falling asleep. The ghost didn’t answer for a moment, and Grillby almost thought he was already sleeping too, before he heard a quiet voice.

“…Yea,” Mads muttered, sounding thoughtful. “A relationship…”

[gudlyf]

The Saddle [Short Story]

(Edited photo by Josh Puetz)

Why do I continue to abuse myself so?

I’m back at the NYC Midnight Short Story competition again. You know the drill: genre, location, object, 2500 words, 1 week. That’s the first round, at least. This time I’ve got: Crime Caper / A reunion / A police officer. At first glance, a bit too simple. Everyone’s gonna do the class reunion gone bad, or a family reunion with someone out to steal Grammy’s jewels. Trust me: you need to steer far, FAR away from such tropes. The judges will get sick of them, and yours won’t stand out, never mind a chance in hell.

The good news about having “crime caper” as a “genre” is that it’s not so cut and dry as “drama” or “comedy” – you can pretty much do whatever the hell you want, so long as you’ve got a planned crime involved. Comedy, drama, horror – it all works!

I had a few ideas in mind, but they were a bit too … cutesy? In the end, I decided I’d make the best of the levity and make the story work out for me, even if it doesn’t cart me forward in the contest: throw in some horror, of course. Later, without the 2500-word restriction, I can tighten and lengthen it, then slip it into my planned anthology perfectly. Works for me!

Something I want to note about my writing, that I’m pretty clear on: I tend to get wordy and deter from “the point” quite a bit. Ramble, maybe? I’m not sure yet if that’s a fault of mine or just an acquired reading style. Stephen King: he rambles. At least I think he does. He’s successful. Is it because he’s earned the right to ramble and so gets a pass? I know I’m no Stephen King but … OK I’m rambling. On to the story.

—

Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway.

It was something Shawn used to say to Ruth when she was too scared or shy to do something she wanted – rather, needed to do. She’s pretty sure he got the saying from someone famous, but the man loved horses, so she thought it a fitting phrase for him to latch onto. And she still thinks of it when she’s too chicken shit to do what she wants to do; what she needs to do.

Sometimes courage has nothing to do with it at all. Sometimes it’s flat-out self-preservation; common sense. And when those situations face you square on, you may as well take that cowboy saying and toss it right in the toilet, because no manner of courage makes up for being stupid.

Ruth had barely a recollection of how she got there, squatting below the beam of Rack’s flashlight, picking at a mausoleum keyhole, thinking of Shawn. She hated Rack for bringing her there, but he was at least good at finding jobs worth paying a damn in that godforsaken armpit of the world. Worth paying for Shawn’s medical bills that a cop’s salary couldn’t touch. She’d have seen to Rack sporting orange duds at Hillsborough County, or among the many laying prone just inside, if he wasn’t at least good for that.

She winced as something flared within her brain, then stood, smacking her head on Rack’s flashlight.

“Shit! Why’d you pick this place?” she asked, rubbing her head. “This place.”

Rack threw his hands up. “You picked it, remember? Said ‘something-something Ambrose’ … A big score. Biggest yet. Wouldn’t say nothing else. Maybe you could, y'know, clue me in yourself?”

She shook her head. “No. No, I … How can I not remember that?”

“You better remember. We need this one. Damn place gives me the creeps. How much longer?”

“I dunno. Few more minutes. Now shut up.”

The lock was popped five minutes ago, but Rack didn’t know that. Ruth knelt once again and resumed picking at a keyhole that had already relented, like one would a toothpick digging at a stubborn gobbet. She wasn’t ready to go in.

Saddle-on up, Ruthie.

“Right. Saddle-up,” she whispered.

She supposed having courage had about as much to do with it as stupidity after all. The fact that she still wore her uniform on jobs like these pointed her actions firmly toward the latter camp, but it helped serve as a cover story more than once.

The iron door opened without a sound into the darkness, into the cold, into only where death lay.

“Yesss. Alright, ladies first.”

“No. Go ahead.”

Rack shrugged, lifted the toolbox, and shone his flashlight into the gloom.

“Whatever you say. Officer.”

She hated that Rack felt the need to say that. She could sense his wise-ass smirk as he stepped through the open doorway, as though what lay beyond was nothing at all. It was so easy for him to treat it as just another job, when the clothes he was wearing didn’t serve as a contradiction to the task at-hand. Her uniform was all part of the plan: she knew that. Always had been. It didn’t make it feel any less violating.

“Good to be working with you again, Cassidy,” Rack said. “Remember our last job? Shit, must’ve been a year now since-”

Since the last time I was here, she thought. Saying goodbye.

“Yeah, something like that.”

Rack shrugged off the interruption and continued into the cold air of the mausoleum. Ruth followed close behind, her own flashlight lit. The scent of flowers for the dead stung her senses and rattled her already pounding head as she shut the door, echoing off the marble floor and placarded tombs. There was a feeling of finality, of no turning back. If only the proverbial horse she’d saddled onto would carry her forward.

“Jesus this place is big,” Rack said, spinning around. “Must be a thousand of 'em.”

“Twelve-hundred,” she said.

“Really? Damn.” He shone his flashlight along the marble vaults, its beam catching nameplates as it went. “Alright, so … where is he?”

“Section 8C, row 28. Second from the bottom.” It came to her unhindered, automatic.

She’d last been there so long ago, yet recalled Shawn’s resting place like one would a friend’s phone number. Or a husband’s. She tried to shake the thought away.

Rack flinched, fazed. “You remember it just like that?”

Her head continued to shake. “No. Forget it. Someone else.”

Ruth turned her eyes to her left, toward Section 8C, where along row 28 and two doors up from the floor was a name plate she was sure she’d never cast eyes upon again. Yet there she was, mere footsteps away. And for what? Still, she wasn’t sure, and Rack’s patience with her would no doubt grow thin at the prospect of her not knowing.

“So. Lead the way,” said Rack, with a flourish of his hand.

She scanned the names outside the tombs around her, stacked four high, floor-to-ceiling. Some were clearly older than others: their name plates more tarnished; vases empty of flowers, or containing skeletal, leafless stems. Those more recent had flowers in varying states of decay, or with trinkets and mementos placed at the foot of their stack: notes, toys, more flowers.

Shawn had a plastic Appaloosa under his, she recalled. She had left it, then, before walking away for what should have been forever.

“Hey Cassidy,” Rack said.

The pain in Ruth’s skull surged as she snapped out of her thought.

“What do you call these things we’re looking at, on the graves? The things the names are on. Doors?”

“They’re tombs. Graves are outside, in the ground.”

“I think they’re, like, seals or something. Can’t call 'em doors, right? Ain’t like anyone’s opening them all the time, y'know? 'Cept us I guess.”

“Yeah. Well. Some doors are meant to stay shut.”

“Not tonight they ain’t. Not all of 'em.”

What kind of job was it, really? Parting the overly wealthy, the exceedingly fortunate of their over-abundances seemed an entirely different sort of job than relieving the dead of precious items left to rot alongside them. But was it so different? Were they not merely indulgences left to waste? Perhaps a more honorable thing was to see them do some good in the world than have them forever sealed away? Perhaps, she thought, that was reasoning enough to get her to find this “job,” as loose as that term was for it. It still didn’t put a veil over what kind of place it was, nor who took residence there.

If not Shawn, who was she looking for? She may have had a hand in putting some of the bodies there over the years, but names tended to wither away like the petals littering the floor. She chose to keep those names locked away in the mausoleum of her mind, with doors that are forever closed. Closed, perhaps, but apparently not sealed, with an occasional issuance that served to drive her mad.

“C'mon, Cassidy, which one?” Rack’s tone bordered on annoyed. “Just blurt it out. Come on. First name that pops in your head. Tick-tock, tick-tock! Go!”

Shawn. No!

“The blacksmith’s son,” she said, though not knowing why. “The blacksmith’s son. That’s all I got.”

“What? Blacksmith’s son? That’s not a name. That ain’t gonna be on the front of any of these doors.”

Ruth stepped forward, reading nameplates as she went.

“Maybe you’re wrong,” she said. “There’s more than just names and dates on these.”

“Yeah, alright. But 'blacksmith’s son’? I dunno. Don’t you have a name? Just need a name. C'mon, think. That’s what you cops do.”

What did he think she’d been doing the moment they’d arrived? And before that? And what did come before? She presumed a car ride, a phone call. All of that lost now, and none of it made sense.

“How did I tell you about this job?” she asked.

“What do you mean 'how?’ You called me, remember?”

“No. What did I say? I didn’t tell you a name or anything then?”

“Naw, you just said it was in Saint Ambrose’s and it was enough of a score we’d be set for life.”

Rack averted Ruth’s gaze. He suddenly didn’t look so good. Her cop’s intuition fired.

What are you not telling me? she wanted to say, but was stopped short as Rack’s flashlight flickered out.

Ruth turned her own light toward Rack, but he had disappeared as fast as his light had gone dark.

“Rack?”

Her flashlight sputtered out.

THUD! THUD! THUD!

The hairs on her neck and back sprung lives of their own, standing at shaky attention beneath her uniform. The pulse within her brain beat in rhythm to the reverberating sounds around her. She fought the urge to double-over in pain as her hand flew to her sidearm.

“Rack?!”

THUD! THUD!

The sound of a match being struck, then a soft glow from her left.

“Hey,” a male voice said.

She threw the latch off her weapon and drew it, wheeling about. It was not Rack.

The man stood twenty feet from Ruth at the center of the hallway. Along with the cigarette that hung sideways from his lips, the stained-glass-colored moonlight barely illuminated the contours of his pale face in the dark. He was young, well-dressed and, despite his submission with one hand raised, unafraid.

“I’m a cop,” she said. “Who the hell are you? What are you doing in here? Put your other hand up!”

Slowly, he complied.

“I know who you are, Officer Cassidy. Thought you’d be happy to see me.”

Her pistol remained drawn and ready, safety released. There was nothing good about someone lurking in the dark of a place like that, no matter their business or intentions. She resisted the urge to call out to Rack again. She could explain a uniformed cop’s presence just about anywhere, but not with her slime-ball partner-in-crime in tow.

“How the hell should I know who you are?” she asked. “I can barely see you.”

He remained still, with only the movement of slender tendrils of smoke rising from his silhouette. An occasional auburn glow from a cigarette inhale gave hint to the bemused smile that held it. Something about it became at once somewhat familiar to Ruth, but only just.

“You work here?” she asked.

A drawn-out exhale. “Something like that, Ruthie.”

A realization struck her, and she did all she could to stifle a cry.

“Sh-Shawn?” Ruth whispered.

At that, the man began lowering his hands.

“Keep your hands up!” Ruth yelled. “Wh-What the hell is going on? Who the fuck are you?”

“Ruthie,” the voice said with calm reassurance. “Ruthie, it’s me.”

Ruth released the dead flashlight, letting it clatter to the floor, as she drew the now freed-up hand to steady the first. Her finger teased the safety on her pistol as she fought back tears.

“Shut up! My husband is dead! Shawn is dead! What kind of sick fuck are you, calling yourself Shawn, huh? Who are you?!”

The man dropped the cigarette, then took a careful step forward, into a shaft of moonlight that illuminated his face in full. Ruth’s tears released.

“Hey honey. Good to see you again.”

Through a watery veil Ruth saw that before her was indeed Shawn, just as she’d last seen him. It did nothing to make her lower her weapon; as much as such a vision brought her joy, innate intuition kept her in check.

“No,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “No no no.”

Shawn sighed. “I know. Sorry to drop in on you this way.”

THUD!

Again, to Ruth’s right. Again, her head. She snapped-to and spun around, her gun now pointed in the direction of the sound.

“Rack?!” she called out.

“Rack’s gone, Ruthie,” said Shawn. “It’s just you and me right now. He’s not coming back.”

“What do you mean 'right now?’ Who else is coming? My dad?!”

Shawn chuckled nervously. “No, not your dad.”

THUD!

“What the fuck is that?” she said. “What’s going on?”

Shawn stepped closer. Ruth kept her gun pointed down the dark hallway, where what sounded like imminent threats lay. The man before her – the person who had to be Shawn, but couldn’t be – was no threat in that place. As her tears continued their descent, Shawn gently placed his hands on her shoulders.

“Ruthie. You have to remember now.”

THUD!

Ruth jumped, her nerves shot. The sound was louder now, closer, more threatening.

“This is crazy. I must be going crazy. I-I-I don’t know what you mean. Remember what?”

“Shhh. You’re not crazy. The name, Ruthie. The one you came for. It’s important.”

THUD! THUD!

Shawn turned Ruth to face him and put his hand on her wrist. She complied as he slowly helped her lower her gun.

“It’s time to saddle-up, Ruthie. You said a blacksmith’s son. Do you mean 'son of’ a blacksmith? An Irish name, maybe? Like 'Mc’-something? You can do this.”

Her eyes widened and the flow of tears ceased, while a calmness began to wash over her. She realized then what she’d missed most about not having Shawn in her life: his reassurance that she could do no wrong, even when that was all she felt she ever did.

He also had a way of giving her a nudge when she needed it most.

“MacGowan.”

Ruth’s world slowed as she dropped her gun and let herself fall into her husband’s arms. He held her there, saying nothing.

She still had no idea why she was there, how Shawn was there, or why such a name was so important and so difficult to muster. All she cared for then was the unlikely reunion. To feel for once safe, and with a mind finally at peace.

Retired Officer Ruth Cassidy remained sedated and restrained in the dirty laboratory bed, an array of sensors covering her wounded head. Doctor Roland hobbled over with his cane once again to the set of monitors, still displaying the computer-generated interior of the Saint Ambrose mausoleum.

THUMP! THUMP!

He cast a glance over at the woman in bed, with puddles of sweat and tears soaking the sheets by her face.

He turned the monitors off, retrieved a phone from beside them, and typed out a call.

“It’s Roland. I finally got that name for you. 'MacGowan.’ Yes, right. Yes, glad we didn’t have to resort to, well, more dangerous means. She’s lucky. A woman in her mental state, the brain damage … she might not have survived the next phase.

"Strange thing: it worked even when your avatar malfunctioned and blipped out of the simulation. The names in there didn’t seem to matter. She just sort-of told the name to … well, nobody. Just out of the blue.

"Anyway, payment’s due tomorrow. Hope you find what you’re looking for, Mr. Racksmith.”

[theeurekaproject]

Sub Noctem

Lyra woke up to laser lights.

She rubbed her head and looked at the blood trickling down onto her hands. She didn't entirely remember how she'd gotten here or what happened to her, but she didn't really need to. She didn't exactly have a home to go back to, anyway.

She stood up and reached in her pocket for a mirror. Her wallet was missing, not that there was anything in it to begin with. Small as they were, she knew better than to leave her night's earnings anywhere as obvious as a wallet.

The mirror on her compact had long since broken, but she couldn't afford a new one. It was the first thing she'd ever bought with her own money, a whopping five credits and fifty three cents earned over the course of four days of double shifts. In hindsight, spending that much money on something as stupid as a compact seemed thoughtless, but she'd been young then. It was probably about a decade ago, so Lyra was five, maybe six?

Through the cracks in the mirror, she could see that her bright pink, bubblegum-colored hair was somehow even messier than it usually was, and one side of her face was covered in deep violet bruises she didn't remember getting. Somebody probably beat her up and took her wallet, she reasoned. Part of her wondered why they didn't just kill her if they were going to mug her and dump her in an alley, but maybe the robber didn't want to get their hands dirty unnecessarily. Besides, they probably knew they'd never get prosecuted. Even if Lyra somehow worked up the courage to waltz into a police station, they'd never believe a Cantator, anyway.

She tried in vain to smooth the tangles on her head. The blood from the laceration she'd somehow sustained had dried in her hair, making it even worse. She remembered buying a comb at some point, but some other girl had immediately stolen it, and she never bothered trying to recover it. It was best not to pick a fight if one could help it down here.

Abandoning the hope of making herself look decent, she tucked the compact mirror back into her purse. Pretty girls got the best tips, but with the bruises and the cuts and the acne she already had, fixing her hair probably wouldn't help much anyway. If she had makeup, she might have been able to make herself look better, but she couldn't afford that, either.

She set off to work, not entirely knowing what time it was. Judging by the amount of teenage girls on street corners, it was probably late at night. Keeping track of time was difficult when the sunlight couldn't shine through the buildings to reach here, and she had no idea how long she'd slept for.

She entered through the back door of the building, not wanting to deal with the crowd outside. "You're late," one of the dancers snarled, leaning against the wall by the door.

"You think I don't know that?" Lyra asked.

"Well, if you knew that, why didn't you get here faster? It's been like an hour since you were supposed to be here. Viola's going to be pissed."

"Viola's probably too drunk to notice."

The dancer sighed. "I'd like to argue with you, but you're probably right. At least, I hope you are, for your sake."

Lyra rolled her eyes. "I'll be fine."

It was true that Viola could be nasty when she wanted to be. Still, Lyra had dealt with far worse before—Viola wasn't anywhere near as formidable as a threat as she thought she was. She was one of those people who went mad with power when given the slightest hint of authority, and who exercised her drug-fueled stim rage on her underlings just for the hell of it. But when it came down to it, Viola was nothing more than a 30-year-old woman who looked and acted like a 60-year-old because of her history of violence and substance abuse, and there was nothing she could really do but yell at Lyra and steal her tips, which happened on a daily basis anyway.

Lyra washed her hands quickly—not like it would help; it was filthy everywhere, and she was sure the water had just as many germs as the surroundings—and put on an apron. It was probably supposed to look sexier than it did, but because Lyra was so short, it hung around her knees instead of high up on her thighs. Then she put on the rest of the overly cutesy, cheaply made, poorly designed ensemble—uncomfortable heels with no arch support, a choker with the same lacy details as the apron, thin satiny gloves that wouldn't protect against anything, and bows for her scraggly hair. Because even the cleaning staff had to be eye candy.

"You look ridiculous," said Alicaria. Alicaria wasn't the name on her birth certificate—like many others here, she probably didn't even have a birth certificate—but she was an alicaria, so that's what they called her. It worked well that way; Sufflava for the girl with platinum blonde hair, Saltatrix for the prima ballerina, Sambuca for the harp player. Lyra had gotten her name from when Cithara was ill for two months and she'd made extra tips by playing the abandoned lyre. Cantatores didn't get names. They were defined by their caste and their job, because that's the only thing they were good for, and Lyra was no exception.

"I look better than you," she retorted. Alicaria was dressed in a ridiculous ensemble designed to show off her curves, but she didn't really have anything to show other than protruding ribs and a hunger-swollen stomach.

"Give it two more years and you'll be in my position," Alicaria said. "Hell, maybe even less than that. Just wait until Aria kicks the bucket."

"What happened to Aria?" Lyra asked.

"Pregnant. The last kid nearly killed her—she woulda died if it weren't for that charity doctor woman who cut open her organs to get the baby out. And God knows we aren't going to get charity doctors down here anymore, not since Alestra passed all those regulations on which castes can go where."

Lyra laughed. "Let's hope Acidalia's better." "Acidalia? Please," Alicaria scoffed. "I doubt she'll make it a month before she's dead."

Lyra knitted her eyebrows. "What makes you say that?"

"Did you hear the news? Last night, some aristocrat got fed up and tried to kill her in the middle of some party. Cassiopeia was her name, I think? The girl from the Generalis family. It was a whole big thing."

"An assassination attempt?" Lyra's eyes widened. "Wow. I would not want to be in that Generalis girl's position right now."

"More like you don't want to be in Acidalia's position. Half the court wants her dead, apparently."

"Why?" Lyra asked. She was well aware that any sort of criticism of the Imperial family was liable to lead to death for treason. Even though the laws were always different for the upper class, she felt like trying to murder the Imperatrix Ceasarina was one of those things that was always frowned upon, regardless of social status.

"Beats the hell out of me. Apparently she's a Martian bastard child, but that's just a rumor. And you know, she supposedly has a rocky relationship with Alestra. Anyway," Alicaria said, "I'm just a Cantator. What do I know?"

"More than me," Lyra replied. "I don't even watch the news. They never play it in here."

"Yeah, guys like to watch sports mostly." Alicaria rolled her eyes. "Drives me mad. I'll be sitting there flirting with some guy and all he cares about is which idiot, doped-up transhuminist cyborg beats the other idiot, doped-up transhumanist cyborg… oh, shit."

"What? Oh, Viola." Lyra sighed. "I should go."

"No, not Viola. Look." Alicaria pointed at a pair of young men who had mistakenly waltzed right into the back entrance. "Who the hell are they?" "I don't know, some soldiers on shore leave?" Alicaria shook her head. "Nah, they're immunes. Look at them. They ain't the type of draft dodgers who show up in here on the regular. They've got money."

"What's an immune?" Lyra asked, but Aricaria was already hanging off one of the soldier's arms, looking at him like a predator eyeing its prey.

"So," she asked, her voice a husky vibrato, "come here often?" The soldier boy laughed and puffed out his chest to show his shiny pins and badges. Lyra had no idea what they were for, but they sure looked important.

"Not really," he said. "What's a pretty girl like you doing down here?"

"Mmmm, wouldn't you like to know." She twirled a piece of bleach-blonde hair around her finger and giggled as if she'd just heard the funniest thing in the world. "What's your name, handsome?" "Well, officially AX-C240, but my friends call me Ace," he said cockily.

AX unit? Lyra thought. They were specialists, the type of people who got invited to classy parties and hung out with aristocrats—the sons of the rich and famous. Alicaria was right—these people had money, and they looked like the exact type of dumb upper-crusts who paid more than was necessary because they didn't know what was the normal rate. And there were two of them. She'd never so much as touched a boy before, but she desperately needed cash, and—

"Stop it, Ace," the other boy said, interrupting Lyra's train of thought. For some strange reason, she felt almost relieved. "She's a meretrix, she's just trying to get your money."

Alicaria pouted. "Well, you don't have to say it like that."

"Well, I'm right, aren't I?" the boy asked. "Neither of us have credits to spare right now, anyway."

"Like hell you don't," Alicaria snapped. "You're part of one of the highest ranked sectors in the entire army and you're wearing ceremonial gear to boot. You look like the goddam Imperatrix herself."

Suddenly the boy's face went white. "What? Who told you that?"

"Jeez, nobody. Relax," Alicaria said huffily. "You people are always so paranoid. Either spend some money or get out."

The boy breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, okay. We won't be using your services, you can leave now."

"Whatever." Alicaria stomped away, her mismatched stilettos clacking against the grimy hardwood floor.

Lyra turned back to the two men. "Who are you looking for?" "Are you trying to sell us something?" Ace asked suspiciously.

"No, I'm the maid slash underage eye candy for creepy dudes." Lyra gestured to her apron. "Just trying to be helpful."

"Well, you don't look very much like 'eye candy,' no offense," he said. "Did you know your nose has been bleeding for this entire conversation?"

Lyra lifted a hand to her nose. It was bloody. "Huh."

"What happened to you?" the other soldier asked. "You look like you got jumped."

Lyra shrugged. "I probably did get jumped." The soldiers looked at each other, surprised. They definitely seemed like the type of exploitable young idiots who didn't know how things worked down here—anyone who came to the Undergound without knowing the incredibly high crime rate was setting themselves up for failure.

"You look awful," the soldier said. "Do you want a bandage or something? The name's T, by the way." "Lyra," Lyra said, "but that's not my real name. I don't really have one." T shrugged. "Neither do I." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny medkit, which expanded open into a full kit like a pop-up book when he touched the red cross on the front.

"Latex or non-latex?"

"Don't care," Lyra replied indifferently, but inside she was pleasantly surprised. She'd never had somebody pause to help her before, let alone ask her preferred type of bandage. T handed her a pink one in the same color as her hair, which she plastered on her bleeding cheek.

"Thanks," she said, smiling at him—a genuine smile, not a please-give-me-your-money smile. "Who are you looking for anyway?"

"Her name's Cassandra," Ace said. A lightbulb went off in Lyra's head.

"What's her caste?"

Ace paused momentarily, racking his brain for something. "A Scientia, I think? Her daughter used to be an astrophysicist student, I know that much. But then Cass got caught committing some type of crime and they went on the run, and now they're down here someplace."

"I think I know her!" Lyra exclaimed.

T snorted. "Trust me, you'd know if you knew Cassandra." "I think I do. She's kind of popular around these parts," Lyra explained. "I've never met her personally, but I know a little about her. She's supposedly nicer than most lenae and has a terrifying cat."

"A well known lena cat lady," T chuckled. "She was always bad at keeping a low profile, wasn't she?"

Ace nodded. "She's so attention-seeking. Do you know where she is?"

Lyra thought for a moment. "I think she might live near the lustris across the street? I always assumed she was the procuress, but apparently that's not true." "Nah," Ace said. "She just likes to make up stories. You want to come with us?" T sighed. "Ace, we can't just—"

"She's bleeding, T," Ace argued, his voice sounding more whiny than Lyra expected from such a pompous-looking soldier.

T frowned. "Fine. But only because you're hurt and Cass has a bigger medkit than I do. And we're in such deep shit that I doubt Cassandra would object to us bringing along a random praeministra."

Lyra sighed. "I mean, I do have work. But I'm also late, and the more I can avoid Viola—my supervisor—the better." "Who's Viola?" Ace asked.

"She works for my Magister," Lyra said. "She's not dangerous or anything, but she's kind of a jerk."

"And who's your Magister?" "The guy who owns me," Lyra said.

The soldiers looked at each other, alarmed.

"Not owns me like a slave," she added quickly. "I mean, he didn't buy me—well I guess he did, kinda. I'm just in a lot of debt to him—well, actually, my mother is in a lot of debt to him, but she's probably either dead or worse, so it's my problem now."

"That doesn't seem fair," Ace said.

Lyra smiled sadly. "Life isn't fair. You just have to make do with the cards you're dealt."

"Maybe we can deal you another, better card," Ace offered, holding out a hand. "Actually, that's probably a bad analogy. I don't know how card games work."

"It works well enough for me," Lyra laughed, taking his hand. "You know, I want to go with you, but I don't think I can. I have a job… and as shitty as it is, it's a job. Those are hard to come by, especially for Cantatores. And I need money, badly. I can't just walk away from this to follow two guys I just met." T and Ace looked at each other. They shared a moment of understanding that Lyra was not privy to, then turned to face her again.

"I can offer you a lot more money than you're making now," T said, his voice quieter. "And a comfortable place to sleep, and three hot meals a day."

Lyra suddenly had a realization. "You're trying to rope me into some human trafficking ring, or a cult, or an organ harvesting operation, aren't you? Because that's exactly what this sounds like."

T rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Yeah, I guess it kind of looks like that. It's not, though."

"And I should believe you why?" Lyra asked, crossing her arms.

"I mean, there really isn't a reason. You don't have to come with us," Ace said. "I just… feel bad. No offense, but you look like garbage."

Lyra didn't think she looked that bad, all things considered… but then again, these two were clearly wealthy—not even middle-class, could-afford-their-own-apartment wealthy, but really wealthy—and they probably had different standards for how people were supposed to look. And they were being nice to her. That was new.

"Your nose is still bleeding," T added, offering her thick bundle of gauze.

Lyra looked at him, then looked at the doorway to the inside of the bar. Truthfully, she wanted to take this chance, but there was just such a high risk of it being something deadly. If she followed these soldiers, as nice as they were, there was a high chance she'd never return.

But what did she have to come back to, anyway?

She had no future down here. In all honesty, she would never work off that debt—she'd be in her sixties before it was gone, and that's assuming she made it past twenty, which most girls didn't. Aria probably wouldn't make it past 18 if Alicaria was right, and she usually was. And what would Lyra do then? She wouldn't be indebted, but she'd still have no money to speak of and no job lined up, so she'd just keep working here… and nothing would change, debt or no debt. She'd be broke forever, reliant on people born into money to give her scraps of charity off their great table. This might be the one opportunity she had to break that cycle.

"Okay," she decided. "Let's go, but quickly."

"You sure changed your tune," T said, surprised.

"Ever come to the realization that the whole system is a kind of screwed up cycle and you're stuck in it?" Lyra asked.

"Funnily enough," he said, "I have."

Lyra assumed he was talking about the military complex—she didn't entirely know what that was, but it seemed like a newsworthy buzzword that soldiers would talk about—but there was something in his tone that suggested otherwise. She looked more closely at him, trying to understand what he meant. Then she noticed that his almost-orange skin and brown, Martian eyes were incredibly familiar. He reminded her of somebody she'd seen before.

There were plenty of half-Martians in the army, and most Eleutherian soldiers were supposed to look alike. She was probably just thinking of some other man. Still, for some reason the resemblance was almost reassuring.

Lyra took the apron off and hung it back up on the nail that served as a hook. She wanted to say something cool about leaving the system or breaking out of their programming, then she realized that it would make her sound like a protagonist from a crappy cyberpunk movie, and she probably wasn't cool enough to pull it off.

Instead, she held the gauze tighter to her nose and left the bloodstains sitting there on the floor, reveling in the fact that for once she didn't have to clean it up. Maybe she was going straight into an organ harvesting ring or a murderous cult, but maybe this small victory, this ability to just walk away from this place, was worth it.

[imagine-some-fluffy-asks]

Hey could I please get a match up for Free and All Out. I am blonde, 159cm, curvy and muscular build. I am INTJ, nerdy, confident, feisty, affection, awkward and arrogant. I love water polo, gym, reading, cats and music. I'm more awake at night. I'm addicted to coffee. I hate loud high pitched noises, bright lights and ignorance. I'm as blind as a bat without glasses and am strong despite my height. I'm smart and clumsy. I like travelling, the arts and luxury. I'm high achieving and competitive.

Hello~ And yes you may, hope you enjoy the matches!

Your matches are… Rin Matsuoka and Ebumi Masaru!

Authors notes: 🏊 = Rin, 🏉 = Ebumi

🏉In love with your appearance. Not only are you short (so he can totally create cutesy nicknames for you based off from your height) but you have that nice balance of gorgeous curve and a tough muscular build. Like, to him, that is the perfect combination. He is so proud that he goes around to everyone and claims that your body came down from the heavens and is a blessing. Oh! And be aware, because of your curves, he will have a very hard time taking his hands off of you~ Even if you two are standing in the train, he will put his hands on your hips to keep you close to him. He will literally compliment you everyday and how beautiful you are, whether through face-to-face or texting, he just wants you to know you look fabulous!

🏊He thinks your nerdy side is really cute. Like, when you talk passionately about something you really love, he just can’t help but blush, cause he is the exact same way when he talks about swimming. He also loves your confidence. Like, whenever he sees you stand up for yourself and take action with a confident smile on your face, he can’t help but feel confident too. Your confidence just radiates a surge of confidence and determination in him to do better in everyday activities, like homework and swimming. And that feisty part of you, man, he thinks its mad cute. You being feisty makes you look more… how to say it, super hot? When you become feisty with him he can’t help but smirk and hold onto you.

🏉This boy needs a ton of affection. His home situation made him loose a lot of self-confidence and such. But with your affection, you will be able to bring him back up to his feet and help him love himself. Plus he will ask you for kisses and such cause he can not get enough of you lovey nature. And do not worry about being awkward, cause this fiery bean is also awkward himself. Like, once you start to get to know him,  he is a very strange boy. Like, you will start to notice that, he ain’t all that confident that he presents himself, and you will also start to learn that he is very shy himself when it comes to relationships. He is very arrogant too, he believes that he is the best winger on the team and no one can match up to his level, a very proud one indeed.

🏊Water polo eh? He knows what it is, but has never really seen a match of it in real life. One day, you decided to bring him to one of your games to show him what it is like. And lets just say that he was totally blown away. He never knew another water sport would be so cool!! Now he cant stop watching matches from online and sometimes sneaks into the pool room of the local gym to watch you practice. He ain’t much of a reader (pretty much only reads manga and thats it) but if you are reading like a classic novel, he would put his chin on your shoulder and read along silently. If you are going too fast he would whisper in your ear to turn back a page so he can finish the sentence he was reading.

🏉He doesn’t really like going to the gym, he mostly likes running outside and doing stretches outdoors or in his own home. But if you are going to the gym, and if he feels rather lonely that day, he will tag along with you. But mostly stay out of your way to not interrupt your daily routine. But, after a long workout at the gym, he just wants to lie down and relax. And listening to music with you is his favorite thing in the whole world. Just listening to playlists you two had created together, lying in bed, either holding hands or you being the big spoon (cause lets face it, he low-key loves being the small spoon), just lying together in silence he truly enjoys the most.

🏊After a long day of practice, he is pretty much out like a light when the night comes. He feels so exhausted that he needs his sleep. But since you like staying up late, he will try to stay up late for you, but after like, 1 am, he is out. But that is ok, cause you get to observe his sleeping face, and it is honestly the cutest thing you ever set your eyes on. He drools when he sleeps, so you can see a river of drool coming out from his mouth and making a stain on the pillow. When he is dreaming, you can see his nose scrunch up and his eyebrows furrow down. You can’t help but take a quick pic of it. He scolds you next morning to delete it. But do you ever delete it? Hehe, nope~

🏉He actually despises loud noises and bright lights. He absolutely can’t stand them! Being in the house situation he is in, he is so used to low dim lights or complete darkness, so bright lights literally give him a huge headache. As for loud noises, if like music is being played too loud, he will turn down the volume to a softer level, cause too loud of volume will also give him a major headache.

🏊Have no fear, cause if you forget your glasses, he will be your personal guide if you forget your glasses! He will link an arm around yours and guide you everywhere. If it looks like you are about to trip, he will immediately pull you into a tight hug before you fall.

🏉He likes how you are smart! So that means you can help him with his homework and help him study for upcoming tests. Lots of study dates!!

🏊He also loves traveling, I mean, he went to Australia for a good portion of his childhood for swimming. So one day, he would love to take you to Australia to show you around, like the couple that took care of him when he lived there, and the beaches he used to hang out at all the time (which make great for beach dates).

🏉He very competitive when it comes to rugby. Like, when you watch him play, you can tell he tries his hardest. But sometimes, you get a bit worried, especially how he acts towards the opposing team. If it is too much, you tell him not to act so rough with the other team. But he always tells you that he gets extra competitive especially when you are around so he can impress you! You tell him that his safety is much more important than being impressed (cue an blush boy).  

🏊He ain’t as competitive as he was in the past, but he still has his moments where if he is feeling, lets say angry for whatever reason, then he gets competitive, even outside the pool. Like if you two are playing video games, he will push you to the side or tickle your side to win. Or if it looks like you are eating faster than he is, then he will scarf his food down. You confront him about this, and all he says that he just feel the need to do so. You shake your head, and tell him that you will work with him to stop this habit of his.

[saiyanshewolf]

#18 cuddling prompt for Meihem?

#18 - Cuddling while someone’s crying.

Holy shit, this fast of a turnaround is like, unheard of for me. I’m almost worried about it, like I hope this is still good?? Um, if you’re so inclined you can read this as taking place in the month-long gap between Chapter 4 and Chapter 5 of We Don’t Need Another Hero, but it stands on its own just fine.

General warning for Jamie’s mental health, which should honestly just come standard on any fic I write about him ever.

Mei sighs, leaning in the doorway of Jamie’s bunker. A hint of a smile plays upon her lips despite her exasperation.

It is past two AM but the overhead lights are bright. The ventilation fans are roaring so the usual acrid smell of smoke and soldered metal is faint.

Jamie sits in front of his biggest work table, presiding over a vast array of parts and tools and tightly sealed packages of some new explosive material…but he is slumped forward with his head pillowed on his arms.

Mei can’t stop her smile from spreading. He hadn’t even made it to the couch tonight; usually when she pokes her head in at this hour he is either wide awake and working or sprawled over the leather couch against the wall by the door, peg leg touching the floor, metal arm dangling, the living one thrown over his eyes as if he hadn’t so much fallen asleep as swooned.

A throw blanket is draped over the back of the couch, but he never touches it except on the rare occasions he has enough presence of mind to use it as a pillow before he falls unconscious.

That is one of the main things that she nags him about: his sleep schedule is virtually nonexistent. She had started checking in on him at this hour on the pretense of complaining about how much noise he was making; most of the time he would apologize, and Mei would point him to the couch.

“The only time I can get any sleep is when you’re asleep,” she had said the first time around.

Which was true, though she had come to realize that truth actually had very little to do with Jamie’s noisy explosions and experiments.

It has become routine for her to check in on him, usually around two or three in the morning when her nightmares force her awake.

Most nights it is no more than Jamie, go to bed, and his answering sigh of All right, Miss Mei; other nights she has to yell at him over the racket of whatever power tool he is using, and then argue with him until she has him convinced that his project isn’t going to disappear while he sleeps.

Some nights she finds him injured, burned or bleeding badly enough to need actual first aid as opposed some mystery grease or a hastily tied scrap of shop rag.

Once she had found him alone in the dark, watching something burn, the firelight casting strange and shifting shadows across his sharp features and turning his warm amber eyes into the mad, molten gaze of a demon.

She had found him like that and told him to go to bed and he had laughed - a malicious, maniacal cackle that made him seem even more like a demon.

As disturbed as she had been, she had simply shut the door behind herself and left, praying that he didn’t set himself on fire.

Mei shakes her head, trying to clear that image of Jamie from her mind. That was awhile ago. To her relief she catches him already asleep more and more often lately.

She watches him for a moment, studying his bare back. She calls herself checking for burns, but since most of Jamie’s injuries end up on his arm or his torso the excuse is rather thin. Still, she pretends to believe it, letting her gaze rove from the breadth of his freckled shoulders to the Venus dimples that disappear into the waistband of his ragged shorts.

She has always known that Jamie was more or less covered in scars, but she has never taken the time to really look at any of them; he does not take well to scrutiny in the first place, but the rudeness of staring at him in such a way is unthinkable.

Well. If he were awake, it would be unthinkable.

Mei slips further into the bunker. There is an odd little thrill in her chest, as if she is breaking some rule and could be caught at any moment.

Nonsense.

She peers down at his shoulders. There is a thick scar like a starburst near his right shoulder blade; Mei recalls a smaller, matching one on the front, and in her head she hears him saying Ain’t never liked bein’ shot.

She shudders. The one scar of his that she knows well is from a bullet wound; it had left a twisted knot of tissue almost dead center in the forehead of his flaming skull tattoo.

That particular bullet had been meant for her, for her forehead, her skull, and Jamie had taken it without so much as flinching.

As she looks more closely at his back, she can sort of understand.

Beneath the soot and the freckles and the tan lines, Mei can see more and more scars, most of them closer to his sides and shoulders. Some are burns; the skin is tight, raised and ropy, spidering out like veins. Others are less obvious, less severe; scattered marks that vary from a a few shades lighter to a few shades darker than his usual skin tone. There is a long slash of thick, raised skin that extends from his side to his ribs, just beneath his left arm.

She had expected as much - Jamie had more or less lived in a lawless war zone for his entire life - but then she catches sight of another set of scars, faint with age as if these were marks he had grown up with. They resemble faded bolts of lightning, printed across the expanse of his back like whiplashes.

Jamie shivers in his sleep. His skin breaks out into gooseflesh and he mumbles under his breath, burying his face deeper into the crook of his left arm.

Mei freezes. Too close. I’ve been nosy long enough.

She backs away, but she cannot bring herself to leave him as he is, shivering on the cold metal of his work table.

She picks up the fleece throw blanket, shaking it out quietly, her lips quirking slightly as she notes the pattern: cutesy cartoon bombs making silly faces. Almost definitely a gift from Hana.

Mei drapes the blanket around Jamie’s trembling shoulders; he must be very cold. She frowns, then decides to risk waking him as she tucks the blanket in around his neck and arms.

He seems to settle down. Mei turns away, moving quietly toward the door…

…and then she hears Jamie inhale so sharply that the breath sticks in his throat.

She whirls around, expecting to see him on his feet, but he has not moved; if not for his sudden ragged breathing Mei would not know that he was awake at all.

“Jamie?” she says, hurrying back to his side. “Jamie, what’s the matter?!”

He does not seem to hear her. His eyes are wide and his body is so tense that the tips of his metal fingers disappear into the lean muscle of his living arm.

Warning bells begin to chime in the back of Mei’s mind as she tries to decide what she should do. She has never seen him like this before, frozen in terror like a prey animal hoping to avoid the predator, but she does not let herself trust his panicked eyes and panting breath; Jamie is still Jamie, and if he is as out of his head as he seems he may be far more dangerous than he appears.

“Jamie,” she says, a little more firmly. “Jamie, can you hear me?”

He bites his lip and silently shifts his arms until they cover his head, pressing his forehead against the metal work table. His shoulders quake beneath the blanket.

Mei does not like that she can’t see his face. Tentatively, she reaches out to him.

“Jamie, it’s okay,” she says softly, yet as soon as her fingers brush the blanket over his shoulders Jamie flinches away from her with an awful, terrified whimper that goes straight to Mei’s heart.

She does not want to frighten him again by touching him and he will not respond to his name, but she cannot just leave him like this, shivering in fear of something only he seems to understand.

“Okay,” she says softly. “Okay, Jamie.”

She pushes some of his tools away from the edge of the work table and hops up, perching there beside him. Her thigh is less than an inch away from his left arm but she does not touch him.

“I’m right here, Jamie,” she says, keeping her words as gentle as possible. “I’m right here.”

He does not move or speak or even acknowledge her, and Mei, at a loss for what else to do, begins to sing.

She wonders for a moment if singing in Chinese might be a bad idea; Jamie does not know a word of it. Then again, he doesn’t appear to know his own name at the moment.

She keeps singing. Her voice is fair enough for the lullaby, the one that she most remembers hearing as a child and the first song that came to her mind in her desperation to soothe Jamie’s terror.

He begins to relax by degrees. He stops trembling first; it takes him a little longer to loosen his fingers from his hair, and when Mei finishes what she knows she starts over again, patiently repeating the lines that had calmed the worst nightmares of her childhood in hopes that they might ease whatever horrors plague his adulthood.

He begins to breathe more evenly. He lifts his head a little, then actually sits up, dragging his living hand over his hair to cradle his forehead.

Though Jamie’s eyes are shadowed beneath his hand, Mei decides to try again. She reaches out to touch his shoulder, still singing, and this time Jamie only grows tense for the briefest of moments before relaxing into the touch. Though he trembles again he makes no move away from her, and so Mei reaches out with her other hand, intending to smooth his unruly hair as she moves into the last stanza.

A drop of water falls from the shadow over his eyes; it splashes to the surface of his work table, joining others like it scattered across the metal, and Mei stutters over the lyrics as her hands move to cup his face, tilting it up toward her own until she sees it clearly.

His tears are silent, spilling from stricken gold eyes and leaving clean streaks in the soot smudged over his cheeks. He seems only a little more aware than before, gazing up at in her in something like fear and wonder both.

Mei cannot take the fear. She pulls him close, beginning the lullaby over again in a voice that is barely above a whisper, and after a beat or two Jamie seems to break. He wraps his arms around her waist and clutches the back of her shirt in his fists, shaking, hiding his face against her chest without a trace of lechery; a single sob escapes his throat and then he is silent again, clinging to her as if she is the only solid thing in the universe.

Mei rests her chin atop his head and sings, the fingertips of one hand rubbing little circles between his shoulder blades as she threads the others through the hair at the nape of his neck.

She continues her song in that same near-whisper, as if it is a secret that she has decided to share with him and no one else; by the time she finishes the last note, she realizes that Jamie is no longer shaking.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “You’re okay, Jamie.”

He nods, then pulls his head back, letting his arms slide away from her and down to his lap. He stares at his hands without really seeing them.

He may be calm, but he’s still a thousand miles away.

She slides off the work table and takes his hands; when she tugs on them he rises obediently, letting her lead him over to the couch.

The movement seems to bring him back a little. He sinks down heavily into the soft leather, tilting his head back and covering his face with his hands.

Mei waits. She has no idea what Jamie will do if he remembers this when he is coherent again - he had not even wanted her to see him struggle with his malfunctioning prosthetic, so there is no telling the extent of his embarrassment if he realizes…

“Oi, whatcha starin’ at, Miss Mei?” he asks suddenly, his voice thick and drowsy. “Thought I put out the fire in me hair ‘fore I fell asleep.”

He is peering up at her from beneath his left arm, looking for all the world as if he has truly just woken up.

“You were dreaming, Jamie,” she says softly. “Go on back to sleep.”

“Blimey, what kinda dream was I havin’?” he asks, sliding down onto his back. “If ya heard me all the way on your side a’the floor?”

For a moment Mei’s voice sticks in her throat - the idea that he could have spells like this with no one around is too awful for words.

She swallows hard and finally manages to speak.

“A bad one, I guess.” She steps toward the door, then pauses, struggling with what she wants to say but knows she shouldn’t, because she does not need to open a bigger door for him than she already has…

“If it gets bad, Jamie, you come wake me up,” she says quickly, without turning to look at him. “I don’t want you to be alone if it’s bad.”

…but she opens it anyway, and leaves it open.

Jamie shifts his arm away from his eyes, looking at her curiously.

“I know I ain’t what ya call sane, Miss Mei, but I ain’t blown us up yet,” he answers, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“I mean it,” Mei replies, and though her voice is soft it is also brooks no argument. “I’m not worried about you blowing us up. I’m worried about you.”

There, she thinks, I can’t take that back.

She expects him to tease her again, to make another sarcastic comment, but Jamie does neither.

“All right, Miss Mei,” he says quietly. “I’ll come get ya if it’s bad.”

Mei’s heart is doing something strange and fluttery in her chest.

“Good,” she says, “Good night, Jamie.”

She walks out the door before he can respond.

Jamie closes his eyes, convinced that he will never get back to sleep - the suddenness of Mei’s request has his mind caught in a whirlwind of confusion and hope, and once his mind gets started it is difficult to shut it up again.

But tonight is easier. There is a tune stuck in his head - he can’t put a name to it, can’t even really put words to it, but it seems to be playing on a loop beneath his thoughts; if he concentrates, it drowns out everything else.

Jamie falls asleep humming to himself, wondering where he could have heard such a beautiful tune.