#I actually did try meticulous counting and weighing for the last two weeks

[lucysweatslove]

You would think as a person who recovered from an ED I would learn NOT to weigh myself, like, ever, but of course I keep doing it because curiosity and it only causes distress.

[mamamittens]

From Scratch (+18)

Day 6 of Spooktober!

Fandom: One Piece (Frankenstein AU)

Ship: VictorFrankenstein!LawXFrankenstein’sMonsterOC(Kirin)

Warnings: implied grave robbing, Law is an actual doctor unlike Victor Frankenstein, orgasm delay, pussy-grinding, wet dreams, hand jobs, choking, dirty talk, praise kink, hand kink, anal sex, teasing, and a very sudden inclusion of a dick where there wasn’t before (on OC, Law doesn’t suddenly gain two—sorry for the disappointment if I got your hopes up for a moment there). An aphrodisiac is implied but it's really just Law being horny for his assistant.

OC is transmasc and for unexplained reasons can suddenly grow a dick, just as a heads up if you would prefer not to read gay/trans/anal sex. I don’t want to hear any complaints on the matter either.

Word Count: 5,256

@cebwrites

Law has been described as many things in his fairly short life. A genius doctor, medical savant, temperamental bastard, sadistic asshole, and mad scientist to name a few. He was hardly shy about it. In fact, he was quite proud of the wariness his name was regarded with in many circles. It kept him isolated, sure, but he hardly saw that as a negative… well, usually he didn’t. Fact of the matter is, having an extra set of hands would actually be quite helpful sometimes.

He wasn’t egotistical enough to assume he could find just anyone off the street and they’d excel as an assistant. He wasn’t even expecting someone as intelligent as himself, either. No, such a person would already be known to him by now and would likely have their own research to conduct. The lack of help around his laboratory did start to weigh on him as time went on. At first it was just having a fit of frustration upon realizing that his shelves had become grossly unorganized. And then he realized how filthy the floor was and spent several hours mopping up dubious stains that he swears still mar the tile floor to this day.

It took roughly three weeks with twelve hours of sleep among them, twelve leftover pizzas, eighteen coffee cans, three mysteriously broken coffee makers, and at least half of that time a complete blackout for Law to find a solution.

Well…

He made a solution. Because he’s a genius. And geniuses are famous for solving their own problems, he was certain of it.

Was it unorthodox? Yes. Was it incredibly illegal? Also yes. Was it also an incredibly reckless breach of ethics and the laws of nature? Absolutely.

But! He made his own assistant! That’s right, he made one! None of that ‘hiring’ nonsense where he had to vet any possible applicants and spend his precious time side eyeing a stranger running around his labs—no! He could trust that his homemade assistant was perfectly capable of at least helping around the lab if not keeping up with Law’s own intellect… Probably.

Thing is, he’s not actually sure the damn thing even works. Hell, he doesn’t even remember building the six-foot seven monstrosity! There was definitely some form of grave robbing—he certainly didn’t grow the parts needed to make his new assistant. A patchwork of tan skin with snow white hair, Law’s new assistant was an impressive art piece at the moment. No sign of life—Law really hoped creating new life was the end goal and he didn’t go on a morbid build-a-bitch spree. Now that would be hard to explain to the authorities if it ever got out.

Chief of police didn’t seem very happy with Law’s mad scientist ways the last time he had to give the laboratory a visit.

The body hadn’t moved since Law abruptly woke up from his peaceful slumber with keyboard indents on his face deep enough to type his password with. And Law was starting to think it wouldn’t move at all from the sterile slab it had meticulously been put together on. What a waste of time! Honestly, Law thought better of his manically sleep deprived self—he really did. Sighing with the burden of unfathomable genius, even to himself, Law paced while deciding if it was worth trying to salvage the body parts for something else. What, he wasn’t sure, but the venture couldn’t be a complete bust! He wouldn’t let it.

“Excuse me, Doctor?”

Law didn’t scream. He didn’t yell, yelp, holler, or even squeak.

Not that anyone could prove it, anyway.

Law’s head whipped to the side, the face several shades whiter than before. The body—Law’s new assistant—was awake. Blinking slowly and rubbing their golden eyes with their hands as they awkwardly sat up with a yawn.

“…Yes?” They looked at Law directly with a somewhat awkward and twitchy smile. Right. Newly not-dead. Some of those muscles probably need a bit longer to function properly.

“It’s kind of cold in here… Do you have anything I could wear?” They asked awkwardly, “You said I was supposed to assist you but I’m still having trouble sitting up. It might be because of the cold?” It was a fair assessment. One Law wouldn’t have expected a corpse to make, even if the more likely answer was dead tissue suddenly reviving as the heart literally poured life into them.

No, that wasn’t right. This wasn’t a corpse. Not anymore at least. They were alive and breathing now. A thinking, feeling person now. And very cold because Genius Doctor Law forgot to give the poor bastard clothes. And probably a name.

“Right. Hold on a moment… Kirin, I’ll grab something for you to wear.” Law declared, as though he wasn’t losing his shit that he successfully created new life. From old, dead parts, sure, but still life!

Finding clothes to fit his newest creation was a bit of a hassle since they had several inches on him—which was the strangest choice Law made in retrospect—but eventually he found a sweater and a pair of pants that would work.

“Thanks, Doctor.” Kirin responded, not arguing with the name at all.

“So… how sentient are you?” Law asked awkwardly. Kirin gave a strange, twitchy smile as they finally stood up.

“Ah… did you already forget, Doctor?” Law huffed. He’d forgotten the implication he held a full conversation with Kirin before passing out. This… was going to take some getting used to.

Thankfully, it wasn’t as hard to get used to Kirin’s presence as he thought it would be. There were several surprises—like realizing that he probably robbed the graves of several people with different gender identities to end up with Kirin appearing to be mostly biologically female but strictly identifying as a man. Who’s head he took that contributed to the somewhat lackadaisical attitude with a shrewd sense for measuring up his needs at any given moment was also a mystery to Law. At the end of it all, he was just grateful he didn’t accidentally give his new assistant some greatly inconvenient biological quirk like severe autoimmune disorders or scoliosis. That would have been embarrassing considering he was able to, quite literally, pick and choose to his liking… whatever the hell that was at the time.

He still didn’t know what the hell he’d been thinking at the time making Kirin taller than he was… did he think he’d need more muscle to contribute to lab work? Law didn’t usually work with heavy objects… Well, unless he managed to find some sort of notebook on his necromancy work, the answers would continue to elude him, he supposed. Still, it was helpful having another pair of hands in the lab to help with menial tasks or whenever Law was elbow deep in an experiment and couldn’t afford to remove his hands for a different scalpel.

What luck that Kirin had a strong stomach as well…

“Doctor, it’s time to eat.” Kirin murmured just behind Law as he was writing down his observation notes. Law jolted in surprise, snapping his head to the side to find Kirin standing behind him. A glance showed that it was, in fact, time for lunch. Law doesn’t recall asking Kirin to bully him into eating but he was hard pressed to complain. His experiments certainly seemed to be going better now that he wasn’t on the edge of passing out every other day.

“Right. Thanks, Kirin. Let me finish this last notation and I’ll join you.” Law turned back around and picked up where he left off before he completely lost track of his thoughts. Looking at Kirin tended to do that to him… it was the eyes, he suspected. Just a little too bright and uncannily like gold for comfort. But instead of being unnerved, Law found himself a bit entranced. Like he needed to bring Kirin’s face close to his own just to see how the light and pupil movement made the vibrant color shift in rich hues. If there was even a flake of green or brown to be found there to explain the depths of his eyes—

Wait. No. He needed to focus damnit. That was the point of writing notes! Not losing himself in his assistant’s eyes like a love-sick child! He was better than that! What a ridiculous seduction technique it would be if he did that… why was he thinking about seduction right now when he should be pontificating about why his petri dish of mold is iridescent instead of pitch black?

Maybe there are downsides to getting an assistant after all. Or at least having Kirin be his assistant. Law had spent time around other people before after all, and he never wanted to gaze into their eyes or find out if their lips were as soft as he thought they’d be. If perhaps they’d groan if Law nipped the pulse point on their throat—

Abruptly, Law made a note to investigate any aphrodisiac qualities in the mold sample. This was definitely not normal behavior for himself. Frustrated, Law closed his notebook and cleaned up thoroughly before joining Kirin. If there was something in the mold, he didn’t want to ingest it any further than he already had.

Ducking into the kitchen, now spore free, Law noted that Kirin had ordered Chinese for them both. A nice change of pace from the slew of Mexican food they’d shared the past few days. Law poured himself some coffee and took a seat across from Kirin, grabbing his quant little take out box and digging in. The noodles were hot and just a little spicy, bits of vegetables and pork peppering the mix as Law maneuvered his chopsticks. Out of the corner of his eye, Law noted that Kirin had gotten better at fine motor controls.

At first, handling thin objects was a trial for Kirin. Unused to the delicate motions required, he usually broke the chopsticks and had to get a fork. Law smiled slightly upon remembering the triumphant look Kirin gave Law upon successfully writing his own name. Legibly too. Now he looked like he could audition for a commercial with how expertly he handled the utensils. Long fingers gripping the cheap wood perfectly without losing a single strand of noodle or bit of what looked like egg. Kirin’s hands looked strong and poised with purpose.

Like they’d feel dizzyingly wonderful on his neck—a tangle of noodles caught at the back of his throat, forcing Law to put his food down as he choked. And not in a sexy way either. Harsh coughs as Law pounded a fist to his chest, red coloring his face in mortification. Law could see Kirin’s concerned stare as broth went up his nose and his eyes watered.

“Fuck! Damnit—I’m f-fine! I’m fine!” Law coughed, scooting his chair back to splash water on his face when the fit stopped.

“Are you sure, Doctor? Was it too spicy?” Kirin asked, but thankfully remained sitting.

“Y-Yeah, just went down wrong. I-I’m fine, Kirin.” Law reassured him as air finally started coming in unimpeded by his stupidity. Cold water washed over his face, removing any leftover evidence of his shame… well, not all of it. Law cursed himself for the heat in his pants. Erection aching after the imagined actions of his assistant. Clearly, he wasn’t going to get any work done like this. “I think I’m through today. Feel free to do as you wish for the rest of the afternoon, Kirin.” Law grumbled into a dishtowel as he dried his face, still pink with embarrassment.

“…Alright, suit yourself, Doctor.” Kirin dismissed, going back to his own noodles. “I’ll let you know when dinner is ready. I was thinking about cooking up some pork chops instead of ordering out. Found some on the freezer the other day…” Kirin mused. Law sucked in a deep, thankful breath.

“Sounds good. I’ll be in my room. I think a nap is in order.” Law shuffled off, not willing to risk further embarrassment if he tried to finish his noodles only for the same thing to happen again.

With a bit of washing up, Law settled down for that promised nap. Cock still aching for relief but he stubbornly refused to give in. It was ridiculous. He was not going to jerk off to the thought of his assistant. He didn’t make them for fucking damnit! He wasn’t even sure if they were interested in such things at all to be perfectly honest. Huffing, Law buried his face into his pillow and closed his eyes. Sleep didn’t come easily, his erection burning against his thigh, but eventually…

Law was bent over a microscope, narrating his thoughts to Kirin as his assistant dutifully wrote everything down. Blindly reaching over for the next slide, Law was surprised when gentle hands grasped his wrist and pressed a slip of glass between his fingers. Pulling back, Law watched Kirin slowly remove his hands and pick up the notebook again. The warmth from his touch lingering on Law’s skin.

Law remembered this. One of his experiments from a few months ago… right. He was dreaming.

Kirin’s lips moved but his voice wavered like it was traveling through water.

“You’re going to ruin your back if you keep hunching over like that, Doctor.” Kirin said. Law felt his torso jerk in a scoff as lucidity poured into his mind. Separating him from his body. Gold flashed from behind fluffy white bangs as Kirin smirked. “I can think of better reasons to bend over a table than mold spores.”

Wait… Kirin didn’t say that.

Warm hands brushed over his back, the world melting as his equipment disappeared from the table. Law felt his body being pressed into the surface of his table by another firm chest, hands brushing down his waist and over the skin of his hips. Dipping down under his pants to his thighs as hot breath washed over his nape.

“This would make a nice experiment, wouldn’t it? How long can Doctor Law keep from cumming under his assistant?” fingertips brushed over his cock, twisting around the thick base and tugging sharply.

Law moaned, feeling precum leak from urethra. He shook, breath shuddering with every teasing stroke. This didn’t happen. Law knew this didn’t happen.

But fuck he wanted it to happen.

Law clutched at the surface of the table, white tile giving way to dark sheets beneath his grasp. Sweat dripping down his spine as he struggled to hold back his whimpering groans.

“Doctor.”

Something pressed over the head of his cock, smearing precum over it in slow strokes. Teasingly allowing Law’s thrusting hips to set the rhythm of his own torment.

“Almost there, Doctor.” There was a harsh squeeze as something fell. Knocking twice on the floor.

“Oh, you need something else though, don’t you Doctor?” hot skin brushed over his clavicle. A hand wrapping around his throat as a harsh whine slipped through, vibrating against the gentle obstruction.

“Doctor?”

Law jerked, back snapping straight as he panted, half curled into his pillow. Dizzy and still achingly turned on, Law looked behind him.

Kirin was peaking in through the doorway with a concerned expression.

“Yes? Hng—I mean, yes, Kirin?” Law growled before correcting himself. It was hardly his assistant’s fault Law had a wet dream about being choked.

“Uhm… dinner’s ready? Are you okay?” dealing with Kirin’s concern would be easier of hearing him speak didn’t make Law’s cock throb.

“Yes. I’m fine, Kirin. I-I’ll be out in a bit.” Kirin frowned, entering Laws room and pressing a hand over his forehead.

“You look like you have a fe—?!” Kirin started before Law moaned. Actually moaned at the contact.

“I’m fine! Get out!” Law snarled, face burning almost as much as his cock.

“But you’re sick, Doctor! No wonder you cancelled the rest of your experiment—you’re such a workaholic, I should have known something was wrong.” Kirin grumbled, cradling Law’s face in his hands. Law’s train of thought was broken by the soft, concerned look in Kirin’s eyes. “Was there something in the mold, Doctor? Are you having an allergic reaction? No, wait, you’re getting more flushed—”

“Do I have to repeat myself?! Get! Out!” Law blustered, not that it affected Kirin in the least.

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong! I’m supposed to help you, Doctor!” Kirin declared with a huff, scowling at Law’s petulant frown.

Law snarled, finally snapping from the combined pressure of his erection, the dream, and Kirin’s very real presence over him. Law reached out and pulled Kirin under him. Pressing his hips against the man’s thigh with a groan that momentarily derailed his frustration. Even through a thin blanket and sleep pants, the warmth of Kirin’s thigh felt good.

“I’m. Not. Sick.” Law managed to bite out. Kirin blinked, wide eyed for several moments before smiling devilishly. Law knows Kirin felt how hard his cock throbbed as that grin deepened.

“I guess cold medicine won’t help with that… but I could.” Kirin purred teasingly, Law freezing at the unusually smooth lilt in Kirin’s soft voice.

“What?” Kirin huffed, bucking his hips under Law’s weight, drawing out a low hiss from Law at the friction.

“You’re smart enough to know what I just said, Doctor.” Kirin teased him, “But I can demonstrate if you need me to.” Law grit his teeth against the hot wave of arousal that flooded him at the suggestion.

“You want to have sex?” Law asked. Kirin shrugged.

“I’m fascinated by your body, Doctor. I want to touch you everywhere you’ll allow me to.” Kirin explained. “You were making wonderful sounds just now… can I make you do those again?” Kirin placed his hands on Law’s sides gently. Testing the waters as he fondled Law’s ribs from beneath his shirt.

“Are you… sure? It’s a little obvious that I’m interested too, but I am a grown man, you know.” Law grumbled, breath hitching as Kirin skimmed over his nipples.

“Oh, I noticed that.” Kirin promised, hands dipping under Law’s shirt to fondle his chest intimately. Law shuddered as Kirin’s fingers found his nipples and tugged.

“I meant that I can take care of my own needs.” Kirin smirked at Law.

“And I know I could do better… with a bit of practice… for science?” Kirin joked, Law letting out a startled laugh.

“Usually, you have to record your progress for it to be science.” Law informed him. Kirin laughed this time, low in his chest with mirth.

“Kinky.” Kirin chuckled, roughly pinching Law’s nipples. Law, deciding to hell with it all, leaned down and pressed his lips against Kirin’s own. Out of practice and desperate, the slide of soft lips against Law’s turned into harsh groans as Law lapped at the taste of spice on Kirin’s tongue. Likely from tasting the food he made, Law still couldn’t help himself as he deepened the kiss, relishing the vibration of his partner’s pleasure.

Suspicious of Kirin’s own focus still on Law’s nipples, Law sat up a bit and ran his hands under Kirin’s shirt. Grasping the soft swell and sweeping his thumbs over Kirin’s nipples in turn. The shocked moan and arching spine beneath Law was thrilling. He smirked and pulled away from the kiss, toying harshly with Kirin’s chest as he squirmed. Law’s own erection taking a back seat to the lewd expression on his partner’s face.

“Oh? Well, would you look at that. So forward and eager to touch me—but you moan like a whore when I do this.” Law teased darkly. “So much for making me react… can you cum like this?” Law mused, pushing his leg up to press against Kirin’s sex. Hot and already wet beneath his thigh, Law ground against it until he parted the folds and ran up against Kirin’s clit. Kirin panted for air, hands tangling in white locks as he clearly raced to the edge.

Law abruptly removed his body from Kirin, shoving his own clothes off as Kirin glared at him before doing the same. Kirin’s expression was frustrated and dark as he licked his lips.

Now exposed, Kirin parted his thighs beckoningly. Law eagerly let his cock rest over Kirin’s pussy, forcing the man’s thighs back together as he rocked against his clit. Law’s cock quickly getting covered in slick from Kirin’s arousal, making his thrusts smooth.

“D-Doctor!” Kirin sighed, reaching up to fondle his own nipples. Law smirked, slapping his hands.

“No touching, Kirin. You wanted to help me get off—all I need is your pussy and thighs just like this… yeah, so wet for me. This turns you on, doesn’t it? Wish I would play with your pretty nipples since you’re not allowed, huh?” Law huffed, cock throbbing against the hot, wet press against Kirin’s pussy. “C-Call me Law. Call me Law and maybe I’ll let you cum too.” Law groaned, pressing harder into Kirin’s thighs.

“L-Law! Oh, shit you’re so fucking pretty. I can feel your cock—the face you’re making is so hot, you like this don’t you? Using my body so selfishly—fuck I like it too~!” Kirin panted, gripping the pillow under his head desperately, “I like you’re hands too—they feel so good on my chest, please L-La—ah!—Yes! L-Like that—oh~!” Kirin moaned loudly when Law finally gave in and tweaked a nipple.

Law didn’t expect Kirin to be this noisy, but fuck if it didn’t go straight to his cock. Electric pleasure pulsed down his spine and balls. Law was so close and it almost sounded like Kirin was too. Law had learned a lot about Kirin over the past few minutes. Chief among them?

Kirin’s expression when he was denied pleasure was hot.

Like Kirin’s thighs burned him, Law dropped his arm and propped himself above Kirin. Free hand grasping his cock and squeezing with hard jerks. Kirin scowled, pretty eyes desperate as he moaned loudly, body relaxing as he fell back away from the edge. The slick still coating Law’s dick a wonderful aid as he came, shooting out harsh spurts over Kirin’s stomach with a grin. Laughing a little, Law leaned down and kissed Kirin in mock-apology.

“You make the prettiest faces.” Law praised Kirin, “But I didn’t say you could cum yet.” Kirin tried to complain but it was drowned out by the sharp moan as Law flicked his nipples. Kirin stared up at Law with naked desire and huffed.

“T-Th-ah-t’s not very nice, Law. Better be careful or I might tease you right back.” Kirin informed him. Law laughed, kissing Kirin’s lips.

“Maybe I want to hear you beg first?” Law asked, Kirin scoffing a bit.

“Maybe I want to see the faces you make when I fuck you hard for teasing me?” Kirin shot back, thrusting his hips against Law’s thigh. Something hard and firm pressed against him and Law startled.

Sitting back, Law could only stare in shock. Before, and Law knows for a fact it wasn’t like that before, there was a cute pussy. Wet and begging for his cock… and now there was a dick there instead. Law didn’t know when or understand how but… Kirin had his own cock now.

“…Who’s fucking grave did I rob for that to happen?!” Law muttered, wide-eyed as he took in the long cock. Head a burning red that faded down the length seamlessly. Kirin laughed, reaching down to hold his cock up. It seemed weighty in his hand as he rubbed Law’s cum over the shaft.

“Are you going to ask questions neither of us can answer or would you rather see how fast I can drive those thought out of your pretty head?” Kirin smirked, allowing his cock to press against Law’s thigh as a challenge. “Or maybe you can tell me what you were dreaming about and we can make it reality?”

Law’s cock throbbed hard at the reminder.

The promise of being bent over and choked quickly returning like back to his cock. Kirin’s pleased and intrigued hum doing little to restrain Law’s daydream. Huffing, Law tried to regain control of the situation.

“What a dirty little slut you are, hiding this from me and still expecting to get to fuck me. Did you do your own little experiments to find this pretty cock, darling?” Law leaned down and kissed Kirin’s neck, nipping as he moaned loudly at the soft contact, “Did you make a fucking mess imagining it was my hands squeezing your cock? Or did you prefer to play with your wet pussy while pretending it was me? How long have you wanted to fuck me, baby?” Law whispered against Kirin’s jaw, relishing in the pants and moans that slipped out freely as Law grasped Kirin’s cock.

It was as hot in his palm as he thought it would be. Pulsing in his hand as he gave slow, languid pumps, allowing the soft skin to catch and pull under his somewhat damp grip. Law could feel the rapid pulse under Kirin’s jawbone, the thrum quickening under his tongue as he laughed. Law felt Kirin’s hands move to pull at his hair as he tipped his head back for Law. It wasn’t any sort of language that spilled from Kirin, rather lewd sounds that Law relished in as they grew in number and sound.

And as they grew in pitch, Law allowed it. Sweeping his thumb over the head of Kirin’s weeping cock, smearing the liquid down the shaft to ease each stroke. And when Kirin arching his back, Law struck. Squeezing harshly at the base as Kirin cried out in denial, aching cock not allowed to do more than pulse harshly without cumming. Law bit down on Kirin’s neck and sucked to bruise the skin with a bold grin.

Kirin pulled hard on Law’s hair, forcing Law away from Kirin’s vulnerable neck. He looked pissed, but his eyes and smirk promised retribution. Law… looked forward to seeing what his partner would do next.

“That’s enough of that, Law.” Kirin man-handled Law onto his back, reaching for the bedside table and rummaging in the drawer. “You’ve had your fun… now it’s time for mine.” Kirin pulled out a bottle of lube that Law kept there. It wasn’t that Law was embarrassed to have it—it was a little late to be embarrassed about his erection—more that Law was surprised that Kirin knew it would be there.

“Oh, are you going to fuck me now, Kirin? Did I finally push you too far? You going to make me pay with your co—ngh!” Law chocked as Kirin pressed a slick finger over his asshole, forcing Law’s body to accept the intrusion with slow thrusts. Apparently, Kirin had enough of Law’s shit.

Law gasped as another finger slipped in.

“I am, actually. What a clever man you are, Law. Only two fingers in and you’re already falling apart. And you make such pretty sounds too when you’re not running your mouth.” Kirin mused, slipping another finger in as Law moaned at the slight burn, “I bet you already know what comes next, huh? Your cute ass looks so good, I can’t believe I get to see this. And you’re so tight too, you need to relax babe. I can’t fuck you until you do.” Law let the tension bleed from his spine as he sucked in a harsh breath, sweat beading over his brow.

He really wanted this. He wanted to feel Kirin’s cock so bad. If he wasn’t dizzy with pleasure already, he would have tried to force Kirin to lay back and ride his cock already. But the promise of being given it anyway kept Law down, his own cock aching again, harder than even the dream had managed.

“K-Kirin!” Law gasped, hips jerking as Kirin’s fingers pressed into his prostate. Kirin let a pleased moan slip out.

“Oh, I think that’s the prettiest my name has ever sounded, Law. Deep breaths. I want to hear you scream it next.” Kirin pulled his fingers out, a whine slipping from Law until he felt Kirin press his cock against it. Coated in lube, it slipped in slowly despite the tight squeeze as Law tensed. Thicker than his fingers, Law panted as his ass was penetrated. The stretch burned slightly, but Law took every inch until Kirin’s hips settled against Law’s thighs snugly. “That’s right Law, keep breathing. You’re doing beautifully… so tight around my cock. Are you ready for more?” Kirin asked, gently running his thumb up Law’s dick.

“Yesss~!” Law hissed, heels scrambling for purchase as he tried to make Kiring fuck him already. But Kirin just laughed, pulling out of Law slowly before pressing back in. The burn went away with every lazy thrust and pass of his prostate. Small noises slipping through Law’s throat with increasing volume as Kirin openly groaned, eyes never leaving Law’s. Law shuddered and swallowed hard. “H-Harder, Kiri—fuck me harder!” Law panted.

Kirin paused, the head of his cock still caught in Law’s twitching body. He snapped his hips hard, shoving his dick in to the base as Law gave a startled moan.

“S-So pretty for me, Law. Keep making that face and I’ll gladly fuck you harder with my cock. Are you close, Law?” Kirin leaned in close, letting his lips slide against Law’s with every hard slap against his thighs. Law groaned and nodded, cock pulsing and smearing precum on his stomach with every fucking thrust. “Tell me what you need, pretty. I want to feel you cum before I do, even after you kept teasing me.” Kirin whispered into Law’s panting lips.

Law’s cock wept at the sudden reminder of his dream.

“C-Choke me. P-Please put your hand on my throat—I need it! I dreamed of you choking me har—gnh!” Law’s voice was cut off by a firm squeeze around his throat. Kirin’s hand a little too gentle and wary for Law’s raging hard-on but the pressure nearly sent him over the edge anyway. “H-Har-der~! Ahnnn—‘rder!” Law choked out, so close as his vision grew hazy.

Kirin squeezed a little harder and the pressure broke, Law’s cock spilling out between them as he throttled Kirin’s cock still thrusting into his ass. Air spilled into his lungs as Kirin moaned loud, filling Law’s body with soft grinds. Law could only blink as he came down from his high, keening a bit when Kirin pulled out, leaving behind cum and a feeling of emptiness. Body aching as he relaxed into the mattress.

“Hah—hng—Y-You alright, Law? I wasn’t too hard on you, was I?” Law swallowed hard and smiled, glancing up at Kirin with a dizzy smile.

“Next time, go harder.” Law smirked. Kirin huffed but smiled back, laying down next to Law as their bodies cooled from the sweat and sex still heavy in the air.

“…Dinner’s probably cold.” Kirin mused. A glance over revealing that his cock was gone again. Law should probably look into that… for pleasure and science, of course.

“Probably.” Law agreed, still regaining his breath with a lewd grin. “…At this point, it wouldn’t hurt if we… tried again?” Law asked, sucking in a harsh breath as he felt the cum on his ass start to cool.

“For science?” Kirin grinned at Law, laughing softly.

“For science.” Law agreed, laughing despite the protest in his lungs and throat.

[katnissmellarkkk]

how about Katniss’s birthday before the Quell — do we hear much about that? if anything? if not, what about Peeta taking a timeout from his trainer persona to bring her something like a cake? 🥺

I’m always a little insecure when I do post prompts because I don’t know if it’s exactly like the prompt but I actually think it’s like 99 percent close? Which is like, amazing for me because I always twist prompts a little 🤏🏻 and I don’t think I did here! Anyways! I finally wrote this soooo. Well actually I wrote most of it a while back but I finished it and cleaned it up. But anyways, yay! I hope you and everyone else who blesses me by reading enjoy this! It’s short — at least for me. I don’t know the exact word count but … probably too long for a drabble but a short oneshot. Okay anyways, if I keep talking the AN’s going to be longer than the oneshot.

Since the morning after the Quell was announced, I’ve done my best to not cry again about my given fate. Going back into the arena a second time—this time with all experienced killers, who have been friends for decades, no less—was daunting, but one morning of weeping is about all I could afford.

Not that I truly had time to wallow in my own misery. Peeta had me and Haymitch on a tight regimen. Every day he pushes us further, every day he orders us to cut the breaks between circuits shorter, to keep on running, to not lose our momentum, to hit the target again and again and again. And again.

It’s even gotten to the point, as of late, that Peeta’s mother, the witch herself, has forbidden our usage of her precious flour sacks as weights, claiming she still needs the ingredients to keep the bakery running and we’ve already wasted enough.

Her son is rather put out with her — to put it lightly — but for perhaps the first time ever, I’m grateful to the sour woman. Last year, when I cited Peeta’s ability to toss a sack of flour over his shoulder, I didn’t recognize what a true feat it really was. Even after two weeks of attempting to lift the stupid, heavy objects, it still took all of my strength to even get the stupid things off the ground.

Haymitch and me so much as shared a conspicuous smirk when told we no longer have to endure that particular activity.

Of course, Peeta still insists on heavy lifting to gain muscle, trying to find a substitute for the flour sacks in way of buckets filled with gigantic rocks and overfilled water jugs. This doesn’t seem to be of much strain to him or Haymitch — and therefore, not of much help to their training — but I can visibly see the difference in my arms day to day. Having never done much lifting in the past, since it’s hardly necessary for hunting or trapping, it’s particularly fascinating to me, watching my biceps grow larger as Peeta’s insistent training plan marches on.

But Peeta still feels the need to push himself further. Perhaps even more so than me — or our now very sober mentor — he feels the urge to always put additional strain on himself, more and more with every day that passes on by.

And as of today, his dissatisfaction with the lack of heavy weights available for his training finally reached a head when he casually pitched the idea of using me as a weight.

At first, I thought he was kidding. For a solid minute, I just stared at him, waiting for the punchline.

It was only after I glanced at Haymitch’s uncharacteristically earnest face that I realized there was no joke in the matter. I debated refusing for a moment before I sighed, resigning myself to becoming a human leverage.

It took over an hour of Peeta lifting me over his head, of being swung up in his arms, being whirled over his shoulder or seesawed up and down, for me to realize this was actually a nice break for me from the rigorous training. By the day’s end, I’m perfectly content to let my fake fiancé bench press me, throw me up like the sack of flour he covets so badly and whatever else he deems necessary.

It was only later on the walk home, right after Peeta said he needed to stop by the bakery to see his father, that Haymitch predicted the true reason for my day of leisure.

“I suppose that was the boy’s birthday present to you.”

My head whips upwards towards him, shocked. No one has mentioned the date at all as of late. The acknowledgement of the sparse time left until the games is weighing heavy on us all. “How do you know it’s my birthday?”

Haymitch raises an eyebrow. “Because I do,” is all he says finally, as he turns in the direction of his own house now. Just as he reaches his door though, he murmurs, “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” before heading inside.

Ever since the announcement that I’m doomed to be reaped again, my mother and Prim have done just about everything to make things seem okay around the house. Beyond that even. They’ve dedicated themselves to always appearing cheerful, to always having dinner ready for me, to always having a remedy for healing my achy muscles or advice for putting on more weight.

But if they’re usually chipper, tonight they’re downright ecstatic when I cross the threshold. And the reason is all too obvious.

This is likely going to be the last birthday we spend together. And not just of mine, but any of ours.

It strikes me unexpectedly that I’ll never see my own sister grow up, I’ll never see her into adulthood, I’ll never be able to watch her become the talented healer, the wise beyond her years young woman, the nurturing mother she’s doubtlessly destined to be.

And I almost get choked up at the thought. My resolve to not break down into tears like the morning after the president’s announcement nearly crumbles. But I hold it together somehow. By some inexplicable strength deep inside, I hold myself together.

My mother did her best to recreate the lamb stew dish from the Capitol I loved the best and I practically lick my plate. Not just to make her feel good but because all this training has exponentially increased my appetite.

Prim tells me all about school and Lady and a funny man she healed this afternoon, who had a proclivity for telling jokes while she stitched his bleeding arm.

She’s just getting into a pretty fabric she saw in town today when a loud knock interrupts us. My mother glances at me meaningfully, as if urging me to go get the door.

I shoot her a puzzled look, as I’m the least personable member of this family and surely, no one is here to visit me.

“Go on,” she says though, nodding towards the entryway. “Go see who’s there.”

I stand from the table and hesitantly humor her, unsure the entire walk there what could be awaiting me on the other side.

The answer dawns on me as the most obvious thing in the world, as soon as I turn the knob.

And see Peeta standing on my porch. He’s still in the same white shirt he wore earlier, still damp with sweat from the heat outside and the added exertion of lifting my body weight countless times.

But that’s not all I notice. Right off the bat I see that he’s holding something delicate in his hands. I blink once before recognizing what it is.

A birthday cake.

A birthday cake that has been meticulously frosted into a deep pine green. My favorite color, as he knows.

I realize after a moment that my name is cursively splayed across the top in white icing.

“Peeta,” I open my mouth to say something, to say just about anything, but much to my dismay, nothing comes out and I’m stuck fumbling like an idiot in the doorway.

He gives me a tight smile though and it’s the first smile he’s really showed me in weeks, and as he gently pushes the cake into my hands, it strikes me just how much I’ve missed the sight. “Happy birthday, Katniss,” he whispers, his baby blues lingering on my face only for one beat before he quickly turns to make an escape.

Before I can think it through, I’m calling after him. “Peeta, wait!”

Very slowly, he swivels around to face me. “Yeah?”

I freeze, dumbfounded. I don’t actually know what I wish to say now that I have his attention. That I miss him even though I don’t know how I really feel for him? That I plan to trade my life for his in only a few weeks time and all his work and effort to prepare me for the games is useless because it’s him I intend to come back home? That I hate his trainer persona so much and I wish he’d go back to just being my friend again?

That I really miss it when he acted like friend?

Instead all that comes out is a choked invite. “Come in,” I urge, and the plea in my tone is palpable. “Please come in and share this with us.”

He thinks about the proposition for a long moment, leaving me still standing there like an idiot, holding a cake too big to fit in my hands. Finally though, he graciously relents to my request. “Okay,” he murmurs and I swear I see something akin to excitement in his eyes.

And I wonder in the back of my mind how many nights Peeta spends alone, eating these delicious desserts by himself in his too grand dining room.? I wonder if, deep down, he secretly wanted to join me and my family for cake? If he misses our attempt at friendship too?

He generously takes the cake back into his hold, having the advantage of strength over me. Lifting bread-trays and flour sacks all his life made him reasonably strong before our first games. The current training regimen him and I — and Haymitch too — are currently doing has made him remarkably strong.

“Thank you,” I whisper again as he brushes past me in the doorway, as he enters my home and heads in direction of the dining room where Prim will doubtlessly be overjoyed at the sight of the sweet treat.

“You’re welcome, Katniss,” he says again, and flashes me one more smile. This time it’s less shy and with teeth. “Happy birthday.”

Yes, I think to myself as I shut the door behind us. Happy seventeenth birthday to me.

[aliceslantern]

Beyond this Existence, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 5

Summary:  After Xehanort's death, Demyx finds himself unexpectedly human in Radiant Garden. With nothing but fragments of his past and a cryptic statement from Xemnas, he's left to figure out who he is. When Ienzo asks for his help with a project, the two find common ground, but the trauma and secrets in both of their pasts could tear it apart. Zemyx (Demyx/Ienzo), post-KH3 canon compliant

Read it on FF.net/ on AO3

A few days passed. The illumina plant, away from the sun and in the darkness at night, shed its browning petals and new buds replaced them. Demyx checked it meticulously, made sure it was received neither too much water or too little. He even looked it up in the library, and found that fish worked as a good fertilizer. The next time they had some for dinner, he snuck a few bites into his napkin and buried them deep into the dark soil.

The pain and stiffness in his hand lessened day by day until finally it was almost back to normal. Ienzo was preoccupied with Ansem, so Even offered to remove the stitches. Thankfully, the removal wasn’t nearly as painful.

“The body’s ability to heal is remarkable, but tedious,” Even remarked. “Try not to get into any more accidents.”

The scar left behind was thin but still an angry red, and the skin was weirdly sensitive from being under a bandage for so long. Demyx noticed that Even’s touch was rougher than Ienzo’s, his treatments less gentle. And for whatever reason, the contact left no impression on him at all. He wasn’t sure what this meant, or if he really wanted to know.

“I’ve come to no conclusions with your samples,” Even said. “So far… everything seems utterly ordinary. Disappointing. I’m running a few tests which will take longer. I’m not sure these memories of yours are as displaced as you think.”

A thin finger of relief brushed down his spine. “That makes more sense,” he said slowly.

“I’m sure with time your memory will return. It just takes some patience. I know that’s not your strong suit.”

Demyx shook his head. “You’d be surprised,” he said. “See you at dinner.”

He headed back downstairs, towards town. He was hoping that the instrument seller was at the marketplace this week. He still had little money, but maybe they could work out some sort of deal. Demyx would gladly do almost anything for a sitar; he could watch the booth, or do odd jobs, or really almost anything. It would be worth it to shake this emptiness he was feeling.

He passed the study room on his way down, and to his surprise, he heard the piano. The notes were weak, and hesitant, and slow; exactly what a new player would sound like if they were out of their depth. He opened the door. “You going ahead without me?” he asked.

Ienzo looked up, startled. There were deep, bruiselike bags under his eyes. “Oh, Demyx,” he said. “No. Not quite. I just… I was trying to figure out the rhythm of a phrase. It changes the meaning of the characters in my translation, which changes the meaning of… just about everything.” He set his head in his palms. “I’d basically have to start over.”

“How long have you been at this?” Demyx asked. “It… seems like you’re pretty tired.”

Ienzo blinked, then looked out the window. “...Quite some time,” he admitted. “I… tend to lose track.”

Demyx sat next to him on the bench. “Which section do you mean?”

“This little bit here. See?” He touched the measure in question. Ienzo played the phrase, bungling the triplet. “I can’t for the life of me count it out correctly. I… should have waited for you.”

“Well, you’re in luck.” He held out his left hand. “I’m all healed up. Even took out the stitches. Let me see. Oh, right. I remember this.” He wrinkled his nose. “It’s the meter. 29/16ths.”

“Beg pardon?” Ienzo raised an eyebrow.

“I know, right? God, at least make it an even number. 30/16ths would be so much easier to count. And they’re short measures, too, that all bleed into each other. It’s so…”

“Chaotic,” they said at the same time. Demyx felt the blood rush to his face.

“Well, it sounds… kind of more like this.” He played through the bridge again. “I’m sure on the actual sectioned instrument it would be completely different. And that would be…” He thumbed through the pages, seeking the same phrase. “...This one. And it’s got a treble clef, which means your options are really, really open. ...What’s this?” Next to the clef was a small character.

“They’re letters. Let me see.” He stood and hefted a large runic dictionary into his arms. He flicked through the pages. “My guess would be either an F or an S. Runes are, for whatever reason, pretty phonetically similar to our language now. If I had to start my studies all over again I think I would focus on linguistics. It’s just so delightfully complicated, and it really reveals a lot about human psychology how words and roots form--” He was speaking quickly now, a glint in his teal eyes.

“...An F?” Demyx mumbled. “But it could mean flute, but that would mean it transposes higher, and that… feels off.” He played the notes in octave. “But if it’s an S… what could it be?”

Ienzo went back to another heavy book of rooms. He snapped his fingers. “Dawn. That’s the character. So, if I’m correct at all, the first phrase is “Dawn town.” Maybe it's more like “Dawn, Town,” with a comma. Maybe it’s more of an action line. But that’s not the correct participle.”

“Daybreak Town.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Not dawn. Daybreak. The rhythm wouldn’t fit.” He played it again. “It fits with “Daybreak”.”

Ienzo’s eyes were wide. “You’re right. That’s so apt. Daybreak Town. I wonder what that is. Is it poetic license? A place? I’ve no clue.” He stood up and started poring through his books. “Perhaps there’s a reference to it in some sort of history…”

He felt weak, as though someone were jangling his brainstem. Instead of thinking about it, he watched Ienzo as he shifted from book to book, mumbling to himself. His silver hair nearly seemed to glow in the rosy fall light, and there was that unfamiliar feeling, the whisper of it, as though Demyx were being touched. His skin was just a little too warm.

“...You’ve an odd expression on your face,” Ienzo said, startling him. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, uh, fine.” He cleared his throat. “You seem pretty passionate about this kind of stuff.”

“...Passionate?” This seemed to catch him off guard. Then he nodded. “Yes. I suppose. I’ve never defined it at such, but I… I always feel most myself when I’m in my research. Making connections.”

“I know what you mean. That’s how I feel when I make my music. Like… I’m part of something worth something. Like I have…”

“Purpose,” Ienzo finished slowly. “I refuse to believe things are meaningless.”

“I find you easier to talk to than Zexion,” Demyx said. “Why is that?”

Ienzo sat down as though his body suddenly weighed twice as much. “He and I are… not the same,” he said. “Every day I’m working harder to be a better person, to make up for all of the terrible choices I’ve made. It is… exhausting.” He seemed to stare past Demyx for a moment before he seemed to come to attention. “You are different as well. I know it’s still hard to realize this.”

“The others don’t either,” he said with a shake of his head. “I just wonder how much of our Nobody selves were made of bad memories. I mean… I was a complete asshole. The way I treated Roxas--”

“It’s unfortunate there’s no way to quantify what you mean,” Ienzo said. “There must be purchase in it. If you’ve no conscience, no empathy, it’s easy to make bad decisions. Because none of it matters. I don’t want to live like that any more. Now that I’ve a choice.”

“Me either,” Demyx said lamely.

“Hopefully this research will shed some light on the past,” Ienzo said. “Shall we get back  to work?”

Demyx kept dreaming.

The colors and shapes were sharpening in his mind, and they were becoming more memorable.The dreams shifted from the bright, soft, welcoming colors to orange and red dust, to monsters and swarms of Keyblades and bodies in armor, so many bodies, dead and bloodied and fading, some destroyed to the point of barely being human.

He woke up gasping, sweaty, and running for the bathroom. He barely made it to the toilet before he was sick. Weird chills made him tremble all over, and he sat for a long time rocking back and forth.

“It was just a dream,” he kept whispering. It had all felt too vivid, too detailed, to be a dream. Even if it were, what did it say about his mental state that this is what he dreamt?

Demyx found it hard to focus the rest of his day. He felt tense, unsettled; he wasn't able to eat. He kept seeing the bodies. His piano playing was listless, incorrect. He could barely see the notes. He watched Ienzo at the small work desk, his face so close to the dictionary that his hair was caught in the pages.

“...Do you ever have nightmares?” Demyx asked slowly.

Ienzo jumped. “Well… I suppose to a degree. Everyone does at some point or another. Why is it you ask?”

“I had a really bad one last night and I can’t get it out of my mind. It just… it felt so real,” he said.

Ienzo turned away from the book and leaned on one elbow. “What was it about?”

“I was in the Keyblade Graveyard.” As he said it, he realized it was true. “There were… so many bodies in armor… cut up… bleeding… completely dismembered… The Keyblades were everywhere. There was so much blood in the dirt that it was muddy, and red.” He shuddered.

Ienzo thought a long moment. “Perhaps this is a manifestation of survivor’s guilt, because you weren’t one of the true vessels, and thus, didn’t perish in battle. It’s a natural psychological response,” Ienzo said. “We internalize trauma differently as humans.”

“Trauma?” He hugged himself. “Do you think I’m traumatized?” He was probably right, but still the nightmare nagged.

Ienzo clucked his tongue. “In all likelihood, yes. I’m not qualified by any means to make that diagnosis, but considering what you’ve been through--and by extension, the rest of us--some sort of post-traumatic stress is not uncalled for.”

“I just want it to not bother me.” He felt cold and a little dizzy.

“I’m sure. If there was something I could do to help you, I would. Unfortunately, there’s no easy cure. You just must remind yourself that the pain you feel is illogical, and it will pass. The best key to these things is usually reason.”

“Always one of my strong suits,” he muttered. He looked down at the piano keys. Despite how hard he’d tried to clean it, some of the keys were still stained a pale pink with his blood.

“You just need something to center yourself,” Ienzo said. “Something you can hang onto when these moments come.”

“Do you experience the same thing?”

He smiled sadly. “For many years. Even before the Organization.”

“What happened to you?”

The conversation seemed to stop in its tracks. Ienzo tensed. He took a deep breath, and then exhaled. “You know I was very young when Ansem the Wise took me in.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Do you know why that is?”

“I just figured you were that smart.”

“You flatter me.” He knotted his hands. “...My parents passed away when I was a child. It was… not natural.”

Demyx turned towards him. Ienzo’s desk was about an arm’s length away from the piano, which felt simultaneously too close and too far away. “Heartless?” he asked.

“No. Heartless were not as common then. There was another type of monster, one created from negative emotions. We know now that they come from Ventus’s counterpart, Vanitas. But then… they were everywhere. I was actually coming from here… this very castle… with both of my parents. It was open to the public then. And… well. There was a swarm.”

Demyx exhaled; he’d been holding his breath.

“Both of my parents passed. I only survived because Aeleus was on duty and stepped in. I’ve still got the scars.” He loosened the cravat and pulled aside his shirt. At the top of his shoulder were three slash marks the pale white color of old scars.

Without thinking, Demyx brushed his fingers across them. The scars stretched up under the nape of his neck before disappearing beneath his clothing. Ienzo flinched. “I’m sorry,” Demyx said. “I wasn’t thinking. And, um. I’m sorry about your parents, too.”

Ienzo covered up the old scars. “I don’t remember much of them, even now. But you see. When you insist I cannot understand… I understand better than you know.”

“Yes,” he said. They held eye contact for a moment too long. Demyx knotted his hands, feeling the imprint of the scars still. He felt lousy for even having thought than Ienzo wouldn’t get it. They both had experience with the darkness and everything that came with it--it was the only thing they had in common. Demyx’s face flushed. He looked away from his own hands, trying to bury the weird feeling beneath layers of score.

Ienzo glanced over at the small alarm clock. “It’s about time for me to start making dinner. You’ll join us, right?”

“Right,” he said shakily. For a long while after Ienzo left, he didn’t move.

He dreamt again that night, this time less dramatically, and more opaquely. He dreamt about hands and scars and vague feelings of longing, and kissing a nameless, faceless stranger. Somewhere between sleep and consciousness, the stranger gained a face.

Ienzo.

[poketin]

“Are you drunk?” with that sweet Hana and Ian friendship :3c

Ian’s favorite ideas were good ideas. 

Well-planned, meticulous thought behind them, promise of adventure but with plenty of band-aids and snacks…just in case. Even spontaneous adventures that pulled him along, griping and groaning and dragging his heels with a smile hidden inside his pockets, right next to his hands shoved deep within, could be very good if followed through with some care.

But this.

This had been a bad idea. 

And not just a bad idea, but The Bad Idea.

Break had just started, the cherry blossoms bursting out of their buds, daffodils, magnolias, and snowdrops popping up on the hills, spreading across the fields, as the smell of fresh-cut grass and warm, spicy witch hazel drifted in through every window thrown upon to enjoy the warm sun and the last chills of winter’s breeze. Spring was blooming, the coming week promising rest and relaxation.

8 sweaty almost-no-longer-teenagers were crammed into a single dorm room, black and yellow jackets with matching blocky patches were thrown onto a haphazard pile on the middle of the floor, covering a few stray socks and half-eaten candy bars. Buttons were mashed, accusations and curses were tossed back and forth, controllers nearly thrown several times into the teeny television blasting battle music, a cacophonous noise washing over Ian as he continued to scroll on his phone. The sun was beginning to slip under the horizon, the glare of sherbet sunset reflecting a death ray of horror into Ian’s eyes off his phone screen, to which he hissed and forced himself to stumble up off the pillow he was sitting on and swipe them closed. There had been a rabbit nibbling steadily on the grass a bit further out from the dorms but it had stamped and bolted as soon as Ian turned his glare in its direction. He sat back down with a huff, hunched over, and snarkily commenting on how many lives each player had expended.

The day had progressed, passing in an angry cloud of “Your character’s OP!” and “At least you’re not as spammy as Jimmy,” and drunken singing (turned into drunken-whisper-singing at Ian’s exasperated request) that can only be produced when watered-down beer is supplied to bored students stuck at school for a week (”We stay together, and party together!” Mai, Luke, and Jeff had declared it so, but after a day and a half of failed ventures and an abundance of pancake batter stuck to the ceiling, they’d slyly procured some trashy alcohol and had thrown themselves into merriment and mayhem, with there being an incredibly lax, and incredibly nap-prone staff left to watch over the school and any students remaining for the week).

At first, half the Hidden Block club had been sensible about it. Hana flitting her eyes nervously over the contraband and abstaining from any part of it, choosing to play Animal Intersection with Ian and Jimmy (”The Sober Squad!” Jimmy had triumphantly declared, sticking his tongue out at the rest of the delinquents. Wallid hit him in the face with a pillow). 

Jimmy had been the first to fall for the charm of Drunky Kart after falling into one pitfall too many that Ian had constructed around his neighbor’s houses should Jimmy hope to steal any away, and was soon shrieking in delight with all the rest minus two, sipping a spiked passion fruit ice tea and curling up under a quilt half-stuck under Jeff’s bed. He giggled sleepily as he drove his character over the finish line, Wallid seething next to him as the screen declared him 5th place yet again with Jimmy in 3rd. 

Ian and Hana had changed to various mobile games they were constantly competing at with each other, Ian with 5 points in the lead with Hana at a respectable 3 points, before the startup of new music had Hana glancing at the shining, newest Stomping Sisters game. Her eyes had gleamed, a certain tournament of old, full of loss and hatred, sprouted out of her memory and she grabbed a controller, turned with a manic grin to Ian, who had politely but smilingly abstained with a wave of his hand, before turning back to the screen, grabbing a cup of “special fruit” punch (“For luck,” she had said, coughing at the taste), and entering a battle for which only wits and so-called “cheap” characters got one to taste the sweet gold of victory.

It had progressed as well as expected, and now with the windows shut, the main lights off, and the fairy lights strewn about gleaming with an air of cozy brilliance, Ian could focus a bit beyond a pair of snoring idiots, beyond Mai and Wallid debating magical girl series, beyond Caddy trying to stack all the hats in the room on Luke’s head while Luke tried not to laugh and throw them all off balance, and spied ruffled pink hair and a bouncy, red bow giggling to herself in the corner. He shuffled his way over to her, using his knees, trying to look at what she was laughing at.

She held the lavender 4DS they had gifted her on her tear-and-cake filled birthday and was tapping at the bottom screen continuously. Rhythm Paradise music grew louder as he shuffled closer and he could see her failing somewhat miserably to stay on beat and cackling to herself in the corner of the room.

“Are you drunk?”

She turned to look at him, continuing to tap blindly away at the screen (she seemed to be doing better than when she was actually looking at the game) and smiled.

“I’m not that…” She looked around with an air of conspiracy before leaning closer “…drunk.” She grinned and shoved the 4DS into his nose, her score tallying up to well-below the passing score. He looked back up to see her straightening her back proudly as the jingle of failure crept into their ears. He stared as she took the 4DS back.

“Nice one…though I know you’re a lightweight.”

Hana was already busy selecting the next song, leaning over the device and obscuring the screen with her hair. He reached a hand out and delicately pulled the 4DS back a bit from where it had been plastered against her face. Her gaze ignored him still.

“Pshh, you don’t weigh that much either, Stretch. Anyway,” she said with great importance. “The little face that shows up when you tap is adorable.”

Huh?

“It is.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and pretended to decide between mobile games, hoping the low brightness didn’t illuminate the smile he was trying to fight down. He perked up as Hana emitted what could only be described as a chirp of delight and found himself face-to-face with her glowing screen, the harsh brightness of her final score slowly coming into focus.

No. Way.

He looked back up as she preened, staring as his mouth formed into a grin without his permission.

“How the hell did you get a perfect score?”

She threw back her head with a laugh (Ian quickly grabbing her shoulder as she threatened to tip over backwards). 

“I’ll be nice and say best two out of three for this game.”

A pause.

“But you lost the first one.”

“You congratulated me, so it counts as a win.”

…

“Call me Winner McWinFace.”

“No.”

“It’s my birthright, only natural given my skillllllll.” She licked at her lips and pulled the ribbon out of her hair. She gathered it all in her hands and wound it in a short ponytail.

Ah. So she was committing. 

“Only…” He hummed. Smug, and opened his own dark purple 4DS. “Only if you win the next three rounds.”

“Oh don’t worry.” Her eyes flashed. She set up a few of the most difficult stages. “It’s already written in destiny.”

He giggled as she twirled her stylus and dropped it, pulling out his own and changing his settings to match hers.

“We will see about that.”

[uglymanchronicles]

Ugly Man Chronicles: Reignition Book 1 Chapter 4: The Little Things

In which Evan learns a little more about magic and channels his inner Batman.

Evan idly spun a small tumbler of dark brown liquid in his palm as he stood shirtless in front of the mirror.  As the ice clinked against the glass, he ran the fingers of his empty hand across his new scar.  It was surprisingly round, slightly to the right of center and two inches above his navel. The edges were very slightly raised, which felt weird, but at least it hadn’t torn out his belly-button piercing.  He wasn’t sure of the logistics of getting that re-pierced with super-fast healing. He turned his back to the mirror and peered over his shoulder.

“How the hell is the exit wound triangular when the entry wound is round?” he muttered to himself, taking a drink as he left the bathroom.  He climbed up into his bed-loft and stretched out on the mattress, staring at the ceiling without really looking at it.

Do I want to know? Should I know? If I try to figure this out, do I run the risk of learning whatever it was I went to such lengths to forget?

He tipped back the rest of the bourbon and set the glass down on the nightstand.  He reached into the drawer and pulled out a handful of small cell phones, shuffling through them like a man might sift through takeout menus.  Eventually he settled on one and entered a number by muscle memory trained over more than two decades.

“Hi, Mom.  It’s me.  No, everything’s fine.  It’s okay, all my calls are being bounced from a proxy sat–it’s fine.  I’m in the southwest.  Yeah, it’s dry here.  It’s been pretty quiet.  I’ve been working out a lot—you probably wouldn’t recognize me!”

Evan winced at the unintended implications of that statement.  He was suddenly very aware of his own face and the question of how he was going to explain it to his family.  He felt his jaw clench.

“What? Sorry, zoned out there a second.  Oh yeah, I called because I had a question: what was the name of that family whose ranch we visited when I was nine? Yeah, the one where—yeah.  No, it doesn’t hurt any more.  Brighton?  And what was the name of the boy who… Clifford?  Cliff.  They still send us Christmas cards? Really? Hey, could you email me one of those? It’s weird, but I swear I saw Cliff somewhere a few weeks ago and I just figured out where I knew him from. Yeah, small world!”

A few moments of small talk followed.  “Okay, Mom, I’ll try to call more often.  I know. Send me that picture, would you? Love you too.  Say hi to Dad for me.  Bye!”

The email arrived half an hour later.  Evan pulled it up on his ‘real’ phone and smiled.  It was a very charming picture.  At its center was a huge mustachioed man, seated in an equally huge leather armchair in front of a cheery stone fireplace hung with numerous stockings. He was surrounded by family: a short, rosy-cheeked wife and several children of varying sizes.  Standing just behind him, with his proudly-puffed-out chest straining his green and red sweater and his hair tamed with what must have been at least three handfuls of mousse, stood the man from Evan’s vision. There was no doubt in his mind.

Aw, hell, Evan thought, feeling his cheeks burn, he sure grew up cute.

 ————–

The next day didn’t prove as fruitful as the conversation with his mother had.  Following the advice of the nice young… orc (it still felt strange to even think that) at the gas station, he’d travelled to Albuquerque in search of a pawn shop that might have some legitimate magical objects, or at least some leads on them.  Unfortunately, he didn’t have many details to go on, and was forced to go from shop to shop.   He found the stucco city and the sweeping desert charming, but a full day of digging through somebody’s dead aunt’s silver and other bric-a-brac while trying to drop inquires that didn’t make him sound like a lunatic, Evan was ready to give up.  But one last shop remained on his circuit of stops for the day, so he found himself meekly entering Delman’s Jewelry & Pawn half an hour before their posted closing time.  A perpetually-sunburned looking man in his early seventies—Mr. Delman, Evan presumed–watched him with a mixture of suspicion and annoyance as he walked towards the counter.

“Hey, uh, sorry to come in so close to closing time,” Evan said sheepishly, hoping that his makeup was still covering most of his questionably-survivable scars.  The old man gave him a tired glare from behind quarter-inch-thick glasses.  “I won’t be long,” Evan continued, feeling himself sweating even more than he had in the desert heat.  “Do you have an, uh, antiques section?”

The old man cocked a fuzzy gray eyebrow and jerkily gestured further into the store.  “Towards the back.  Anything that ain’t junk is in the main cases, though.”

“Thanks, I’ll have a quick look and be out of your hair in… no time,” Evan said, wincing when he realized the man was almost completely bald.  A nicotine-stained scowl told him that he had damn well better make it quick.

Evan fished in his pockets for his notes as he walked down the aisles of the shop.  Past him had been meticulous in his chronicling his knowledge of the supernatural, but whether or not he’d been right was of significant concern to his current self.  Plus, there must have been some context missing—some mental highway that he hadn’t counted on getting demolished.  

Look for very old ornate silver with more circular writing… modern work tends to be more jagged and on incomplete/scrap pieces of metal or ceramics… if it looks like any language you recognize it’s probably fake…don’t be fooled by Nordic runes, that’s just writing…

There!

Something caught his eye. A strange, looping symbol, barely visible on dull silver peeking out from between pewter and brass.  Him even seeing it was sheer luck, let alone recognizing it for what it was.  He gently pushed the intervening candlesticks and cutlery aside and picked the thing up.

It was an old-fashioned oil lamp, its glass missing and its wick lost to either time or use.  It barely filled the palm of his hand and couldn’t have weighed more than a pound.  Evan raised it to his eyes, then consulted the bundle of notes in his hand. Placing the lamp back the shelf, he began flipping through pages of hand-drawn symbols until familiarity sparked.

It was a spiraled, curling thing, almost imperceptibly crossed with short lines.  Underneath it, he’d written: to seek, to look, to find, to discover?

He looked back at the lamp. He was almost certain that was one of the symbols etched onto its dull surface.  He could barely make the others out, and so took the lamp into his hand again. He fished in his pocket for his handkerchief and raised it to the silver.  

Then he froze.

Very slowly and deliberately, he placed the lamp back on the shelf, pulled out a notebook, and wrote Are genies real?, underlining it several times.

Movement caught the corner of his eye.  Someone small had darted past the end of the aisle and was scurrying towards the back of the store.  He could hear their shoes scuffling rapidly, and he could almost picture the person furtively looking around.   The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

The footsteps started in his direction again.  Evan quickly ducked behind the end of the shelf, hoping it would obscure his newfound bulk.  The small figure went by again in a blur of black and… pink?  He heard them slide to a stop, and there was a hurried whispered exchange of breathless voices.  Then a very distinct metallic click.  Evan felt his stomach drop.

Now there was a muffled commotion coming from the front of the store.  He could hear Mr. Delman’s voice—he couldn’t make out the words yet, but the pawnbroker sounded tense.  Evan crouched down and moved as quickly as he could towards the front of the store.

He stopped behind a rack of faded camouflage coveralls and peered towards the counter.  Delman was standing with his hands raised to shoulder height almost lazily, his expression partly worried but mostly  annoyed.  Across the counter from him was the figure he’d seen earlier, a small person in a huge winter coat and a pink ski mask, standing next to a similar figure in a black ski mask.  Black mask was holding a small pistol tightly in both hands at absolute arms’ length, the weapon shaking as they made stammered, hushed demands of an increasingly unimpressed Delman.

Shit.

I should do something. Is it really my business?  It’s not going be all immortal assassins and pain monsters.  It’s the things that impact lives that make a hero.  The little things.

Alright.  Get their attention, but don’t startle them.

Evan straightened up and stepped around the clothes rack, letting his hip bump against it as he did so. It rocked slightly, then tipped back in the other direction, making a quiet clatter as the hangers slid into each other and the feet touched down.

Delman was growling something at the black-hooded gunman and neither of them seemed to notice, but the pink-hatted robber jerked their head towards him and looked him right in the eye. Their eyes widened and Evan felt his lips curl into a snarl.  Pink hat frantically slapped at black hat’s shoulder, seemingly struck dumb by Evan’s appearance.

“What?  What?!”

Pink shrieked wordlessly and pointed in Evan’s direction.  Black’s eyes widened under his mask and he began to turn towards Evan, swinging the gun around.  Delman took the opportunity to drop behind the counter.

Perfect!

Evan summoned up his deepest, most menacing voice.

“What the HELL do you think you’re–“

Crack!

The gunshot was puny by gunshot standards, but it still echoed around the shop and rattled the dusty glass and china.  Evan heard the bullet whiz over his head and lodge itself in the wall behind him.  His body seized up for a second.

Oh holy fuck he’s shooting at me!  He’s actually shooting—

KEEP MOVING.

Evan surged forward, as close to a run as a menacing stomp could be.  Black’s hands were shaking so violently now that the next bullet punched into the floor near his own feet.  Pink screamed again, ducking behind Black.  

“DROP THE DAMN GUN!” Evan roared.  He was less than three yards from the pair now.

Crackcrackcrack!

Three hammer-blows struck Evan in the gut.  He doubled over, gasping… except he didn’t.  The pain was there, but the reflexes that normally accompanied an injury—those instincts to grab for the wound, to run from the source of the pain—were completely absent.  His body knew it had been attacked, but it somehow didn’t interpret it as anything to get too worked up about.  In fact, he could already feel the bullets being pushed out of his belly by his rapid healing.  He stopped for a moment, looking on as the three flattened stubs of lead clattered to the floor, then looked up with his face twisted into a snarl of fury.

He could actually hear Black wet himself.  

Evan rushed forward, swinging his arm in a huge arc.  His initial intent had been to knock the gun away, but the swing caught Black hard in the chest, lifting him off his feet and throwing him back into Pink.  Both would-be robbers hit the wall and fell in a scrambling, blubbering heap.

Evan turned to the sound of a shotgun cocking.  “Thanks for the assist, kid,” Delman said, a mean twinkle in his eye. “I’ll take it from here.”

 ———

Evan flipped the “OPEN” sign to “CLOSED" and switched off the lights as Mr. Delman had instructed.  His shoulders sagged and he sighed heavily.  Even through the closed office door, he could hear Delman’s outraged voice. When they had forced the foiled robbers into the office and pulled off the masks, they had been met with a boy and a girl whose combined ages wouldn’t have added up to Evan’s.  Delman’s face had gone strangely blank, and he’d asked Evan if he could close up the storefront for him.  As soon as the door closed behind him, the yelling had started. Now he stood a couple feet away from the door, awkwardly shifting his weight as he wondered if he should go back in.

Perhaps to delay that decision for a few moments, Evan picked up the boy’s revolver from where he’d placed it after Delman had herded the kids out of the room.  It was a cheap, flimsy-feeling thing, a typical .22 caliber Saturday Night Special.  Evan swung the chamber open and dumped the casings and unspent cartridge into his palm. Not exactly powerful bullets, but…

He reached under his shirt and felt his stomach.  There were no scars, no bruises.  Hell, he wasn’t even sore.  But the holes in his shirt were proof enough that he’d taken three bullets at point-blank range and hadn’t even had the wind knocked out of him.  It wasn’t that he hadn’t felt them hit him—it had hurt, but… it just didn’t matter.  It was like his body instinctively knew that, given his freakish healing capabilities, the shots didn’t actually pose a threat to him.  He looked down at the tattoo on his left arm, absently clenching and un-clenching his fist.

I pulled something out of that pain monster, he thought.  I took something from it.  Can I take powers from other things?  Is that what the ritual did?

His train of thought was broken by more yelling, but it wasn’t Delman this time.  It was the kid with the black hat.  “What the hell was we supposed to do?!” It sounded like he was crying.  

Evan turned the knob and cracked the door open.  “Store’s, uh, closed up, sir,” he said, poking his head into the office. “Doesn’t look like anyone heard the shots.  Or, at least, nobody called the cops.”

“Thanks, kid,” Delman said, sounding more tired and sad than angry or anxious.  “Look, maybe come back tomorrow and see if you can find what you were looking for, I–“

“You know them,” Evan said. It wasn’t a question, because he didn’t need to ask.  The shotgun was nowhere to be seen and the kids were sitting on folding chairs, unrestrained.  The boy staring at his lap, his face quivering as he fought back tears.  The girl—his sister, Evan assumed from the resemblance—was fixing him with a look of angry defiance that only a pre-teen could muster.

Delman sighed and threw up his hands.  “I sponsor their friggin’ little league teams!  Of course I know ‘em,” he muttered.  “Samson and Raquel Nelson.  Their momma died late last year.  Pancreatic cancer.  They got an older brother who’s been lookin’ after ‘em, but he’s fallen in with a bad crowd lately–”

“Ain’t like he had a choice!” Samson spluttered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Landlord’s been jackin’ up rent every month and charging us for every bullshit–“

“Samson Quincy Nelson, if I hear you use that kinda language again I will show you the back of my hand so hard you’ll see it when you close your eyes, do you understand me?”

Samson burst into tears. Delman went red in the face and ran his hand across his scalp, mumbling to himself.  Evan held his arm out between them, looking Delman in the eye with a resolute expression on his face.  Delman seemed to understand his intention and, after a sigh and shrug, he made a “be my guest” gesture towards the kids.

Evan stepped forward and crouched down putting him at roughly eye level with the adolescents. “Hey, guys, it sounds like…”

Ptu.

Evan had to hand it to the girl; she could spit with surprising accuracy.  The sudden shock of a ball of saliva and phlegm in his eye made Evan overbalance and topple gracelessly back onto his ass.  Delman erupted again as Evan wiped his eye.  Raquel screamed back, and the room filled with the cacophonous voices of a crotchety old man and a preteen girl with nothing to lose.  Once his eye was clear, Evan looked back up and saw Samson staring at him.  He met the boy’s eyes which were brimming with tears, but also seemed to have the light of realization dawning in them.

“How come you ain’t dead?” he asked quietly.  Delman and Raquel both stopped mid-scream, looked at the boy, then looked at Evan. “I know I shot you.  I shot you ‘least three times.”

Evan pushed himself up again, getting back to his feet.  His fingers absently toyed with the holes in his shirt.  “Well,” he said after a moment, “the reason I’m not dead is…”

He faltered.  He didn’t really know himself.  He knew he healed fast but he didn’t know why. Should he explain that?  

No.  The three faces watching him, wrought with worry, pain, and fear, told him the answer.  He straightened up and put his hands on his hips, tilting his chin up and smiling what he hoped was an inspiring smile.

“The reason I’m not dead is because I’m a superhero.”

"That’s bullshit,” Raquel muttered.  "Ain’t no such thing as superheroes.“

Evan held up a hand to cut off Delman’s incoming tirade about profanity.  "Then why am I not dead?”

“I don’t know, you must be wearing armor or–”

Evan lifted up his shirt slightly, patting his bare stomach.  "All beef.  Try again.“

"You flexed really hard right when they hit, then.”

Evan laughed. “Even if that were right–and possible–how could I get the timing right?”

Raquel looked away, jaw clenched in defeat.  "…if you were a superhero.“

Evan beamed. "Exactly!  And what do superheroes do?”

“…fight bad guys? Save people?”

“Right!  And it sounds like you guys need help.  So tell me how I can help you.”

So they told him, with Delman filling in some of the blanks.  About how their older brother, Jamal, had dropped out of college to take care of his younger siblings after their mother had gotten sick.  About how he’d been working a factory job to provide for them.  About how the bills for their mother’s medical and funerary expenses had been too much.  About how he’d started selling meth for a gang called the Five-Tens to make ends meet. About how he’d had to dump ten grand worth of product to avoid getting caught by the cops.  About how the gang had broken both his pinky fingers–the titular five and ten from their name–to teach him a lesson.  About how they told him if he didn’t pay for the missing product in two weeks, they’d do worse.  About how that was twelve days ago.  About how they knew that Mr.Delman had a lot of cash on hand.  About where Jamal kept his gun.

About how the gang hid out in an incomplete housing development in a sparsely-populated suburb.

By the time the story was done, Evan had made his decision.  "Mr. Delman, how much cash do you have in the shop?“

"Why the hell are you asking that?”

Evan reached into his jacket and Delman looked like he was about to go for the shotgun again before Evan pulled his wallet from an inner pocket.  "Because I’m going to need to make a purchase with a lot of cash back,“ he said, handing Delman a solid black card.  He turned to the kids.  "Go home.  Get your brother and pack up everything you’ll need for a couple weeks.  I’ll be sending some people along to get you somewhere safe for a while.”

A few minutes later, the would-be robbers had left, still somewhat bewildered.  Delman was packing stacks of bills into an attache case while Evan made a few phone calls.  After they were both done, Delman handed the case to Evan.  "What the hell are you going to do, exactly?“

"What a superhero does.”

——-

It was nearly midnight, and a heavyset man was making his way up the street through a small village’s worth of incomplete houses.  His panting, stumbling gait was bringing him towards a house that was still half-covered by tarps and scaffolding, like most of its neighbors.  This particular house was unique in the pitch-dark development, however, due to the light leaking from the cracks and creases in its incomplete walls.  The man stopped at the end of its driveway and stood bent double for nearly two minutes; after catching at least some of his breath, he made his way up the driveway, muttering and panting and wiping his forehead.  When he reached the front door, he stopped for breath again, then straightened up and ran a hand through the sparse strands of hair left on his head. Then he knocked.

He could hear surprised and irritated voices behind the door for a few moments.  He leaned forward and examined himself in the reflexion in the door’s peephole.  Sunburned, pockmarked complexion; wide, bulbous nose; jowly jawline seamlessly flowing into a flabby neck.  He grinned, his surprisingly perfect teeth the only mismatch in his otherwise sloppy appearance.  

The light in the peephole vanished.  "The fuck’re you?“

The man held up the silver case handcuffed to his wrist.  "Lorenzo the Bagman.  I gots a delivery for who'ver’s in charge here.”  

“Open the case,” the voice behind the door responded after a moment.

Lorenzo fiddled with the case’s lock for a moment, then cracked it open an inch and held it up. Green bills shone in the faint light. “Good enough?”

Another moment of silence. The door opened a crack and the barrel of a gun peeked out.  "Slowly. Hands where we can see ‘em.“

Lorenzo squeezed his considerable bulk through the door, feeling the barrel of the shoddy SMG poking into his back.  The voice that had been giving him instructions seemed to belong to the kid behind him–probably barely out of high school (if that), but hard-edged and mean-looking.  "Frisk 'im,” he said to his companion, an equally sketchy-looking young man armed with an equally crappy-looking gun.  

“Why do I gotta frisk his fat ass?”

“'cuz I’m the one keepin’ the gun on him, ain’t I?”

“Christ, what is this, amateur hour?” Lorenzo interjected, sneering, “if I was here to wreck the place, you think I’d be stupid enough to do with a buncha money cuffed to me? Fuck’s sake,” he spat, and grinned inwardly as the two punks looked away in embarrassment.  “Just take me to yer leader so I can get outta this dump. Jesus Mary n’ Joseph, back in my day, a hideout meant something.”

The two young men met each other’s gaze as Lorenzo continued to mutter about declining standards in organized crime.  The one behind Lorenzo spoke first.  

“Let’s take him to VizzyJ.”

“The hell kinda name is 'VizzyJ’?” Lorenzo asked incredulously as he was prodded forward.

“Stands for 'Visceral Jay’.”

“Okay, not bad, but what’s the J stand for?”

“I just told you–'Jay’.”

“Yeah, but what’s it stand for?”

“Christ, don’ you ever shut up, old man?”

They continued to bicker as Lorenzo was lead through the half-finished house and up the stairs. They passed rooms outfitted with mishmashes of furniture, equipped for various criminal enterprises or simply squatter-grade habitation.  Lorenzo spotted mattresses, worn armchairs, a jury-rigged marijuana grow room, piles of miscellaneous loot, and, inexplicably, a large cage holding what appeared at a glance to be a sizable feral hog.  As they passed, other occupants of the building called out and a few even fell in behind the three; by the time they had reached the the third floor, with Lorenzo panting and muttering all the way, they had acquired a procession of half a dozen curious gangsters.

One of the original escorts rapped on a door–one of the few doorways in the house that had an actual door in it–and slipped through a few moments later.  Lorenzo could overhear him talking to someone whose voice was so deep it was only audible as a deep rumble through the door.  The goon stuck his head back through the door.

“Bring 'im in.”

Lorenzo was pushed through the door into an actual finished room–probably originally intended to be the master bedroom of the house.  The floor under his feet was plushly carpeted, moonlight shone through a skylight in the sloped ceiling, tasteful paintings of exotic landscapes and foliage adorned the walls, and an ornamental fountain in the shape of a koi bubbled tranquilly away in the corner.  The centerpiece of the room was a large mahogany desk holding a huge leather-bound ledger in which a man of equally prodigous size was writing with a gold-filagreed pen.  Lorenzo gave a low whistle.

“Now, see?  This is what I’m talking about!” he said emphatically, pointing at the men he’d been chastising earlier, “this is how it’s done!  Tasteful, but modern.  This guy knows how it’s done.”

The man behind the desk chuckled, not looking up from the ledger.  "I’m glad you approve.  Too many people these days don’t appreciate subtlety,“ he said, finishing a line and very deliberately putting the cap back on the pen.  He stood up, brushing the creases out of his black-and-red pinstripe jacket.  He finally looked Lorenzo in the eye, and the bagman could see in his sharp, dark eyes the gleam of barely-restrained hunger.  A look of pure ambition.  

”'Lorenzo the Bagman’, huh,“ Visceral Jay said, stepping out from behind the desk. "I like that.  You don’t hear that word very often any more.  It’s old school,” he said, looking Lorenzo up and down.  

Lorenzo did the same. Visceral Jay was a huge man, at least six-foot-four, with close-cropped hair and a matching beard, creating the illusion of his entire head being permanently wreathed in shadows.  His suit was clearly tailored to his considerable size, which Lorenzo could tell was not just for show–his fingers were partially obscured by several sizable rings, but a clear smattering of pale scar tissue stood out on his knuckles against his dark skin.  He carried himself with an air of quiet menace, like a man who knows he has nothing to prove because he knows his own strength.

“My boys tell me you’ve got something for me, Mr. Lorenzo,” Jay said after a moment.  

“Right,” Lorenzo said, holding up the case.  He glanced towards the desk.  "You mind?“

"Be my guest.”

Lorenzo set the case down and opened it.  "This is to settle, uh…“ he looked down at something written on the back of his hand.  "Jamal Nelson’s account.  Ten grand for lost merchandise, plus two grand for your trouble.”

Jay picked up a bundle of bills and thumbed through it.  "Very good.  Where’d the money come from?“

"Not my job to ask. I just deliver.  You know how it is.”

Jay chuckled again, setting the bills back down.  "Didn’t have the spine to show up on his own, huh?“

"Sounds like you kinda put the fear of God in him.  'sall the same to me.  If everyone had balls I wouldn’t have a job.  Either way, you get your money.  Can I tell 'im you’re square?”

Jay walked back around his desk and sat down, staring into space over steepled fingers for a long moment.

“…no.”

Lorenzo stiffened. “Come again?”

“Mr. Nelson still owes me for the opportunities I afforded him.  And I cannot abide his use of a washed-up proxy to avoid looking me in the eye.  Respect is everything in this world.  I’m sure a man of your obvious tenure can appreciate that.”

Lorenzo narrowed his beady eyes.  "You don’t want to do this,“ he said, softly.  

"You’re right, I don’t,” Jay agreed, nodding with pursed lips.  "Vikkers, Gerome–take Mr. Lorenzo downstairs and dispose of him.“

Lorenzo snapped the case closed as his original hosts grabbed his arms.  "You kill me, you don’t get the combination to the lock.”

“Oh, we’ll have plenty of time to work that out once we’ve sawn your wrist off,” Jay said, with a hint of a smirk.

“You fuck with it and the dye packs go off!”

“Again, we can afford to be careful.  This concludes our business, bagman.  Get it done,” Jay said to his men.

“Yo J, can we use the Executive?” one of Lorenzo’s captors asked, his voice brimming with almost childlike excitement.

Jay rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he sighed, reaching into his desk drawer.  He laid a huge handgun on the desk.  Its barrel was engraved with subtle vine-like etching and its grip was set with pearl plates. Despite himself, Lorenzo whistled.

“Now that’s classy.  None of that gold-plated shit.  Real businesslike.”

“I appreciate your evaluation of my taste, Mr. Lorenzo,” Jay said, irritation beginning to creep into his voice.  "Get rid of this jackass!“

——–

"Oh my fucking God, again?”

A man in a clearly secondhand hazmat suit groaned as Lorenzo was forced down the stairs into the house’s basement.  

“Nobody asked you, geek,” one of the gangsters sneered.

“Well, maybe they fucking should have!  The last time you guys killed someone down here, the bullet went through him and broke half my glass!  You’re lucky you didn’t burn the damn house down!”

Lorenzo crinkled his nose against the chemical reek.  The basement was full of tables covered in complicated arrays of beakers, flasks, and tubes.  Numerous buckets with very important-looking warning labels were stacked along the walls. A handful of other people in similar garb to the complaining man were bustling about, measuring, pouring, mixing, bagging.  

Lorenzo sneered. “You cook in your damn hideout? Are you all fucking stupid?  Like I said–fuckin’ amatuer hour.”

The chemist threw up his hands.  "Don’t look at me, pal.  We’re all basically independent contractors down here.“

"Also: shut up.” The 'Executive’ cracked off the back of Lorenzo’s head, making him stumble forward.  

“Dumbass, don’t hit him with that!  You fuck it up and J’ll feed it to you!”

“God, what’re you, my mother?  You’re just jealous.”

“Oh yeah, that’s it.  And–”

“Will you just fucking shoot me already?”  Lorenzo interrupted.  "This is frickin’ torture.“

”Fine.“

The two stooges shoved Lorenzo through the maze of tables to an alcove in far corner of the basement. It looked to be an unfinished shower–that was about the only explanation for the drain in the floor. The explanation for the reddish-brown stains around it was much more obvious, given the circumstances.

One of the thugs kicked Lorenzo in the back of the leg, causing him to drop to his knees.  He then cocked back the hammer of The Executive and pressed the barrel to the back of Lorenzo’s head, about an inch to the right of his left ear.  

"You don’t want to do this,” Lorenzo repeated, his voice strangely calm.

“I’m pretty su–” BLAM.

Lorenzo toppled forward onto the concrete, his body spasming slightly.  

“Hah, you got too exicted and shot off early!  Lemme guess, that’s never happened to you before?”

“Man, shut the fuck up and get the hacksaw.  Let’s get that case offa him.”

“Fuck you, you do it. You got to do the fun part so you gotta do the work.”

“Fuck you!  That was still–what the hell?”

The gangsters looked back at Lorenzo’s body.  The wound where the bullet entered seemed to have peeled back the skin of his balding head, and several strands of long brown hair had popped out of the hole.  

“What the…”

Lorenzo’s arms tucked under him and he pushed himself back to his knees.  The gunman and his accomplice screamed as the Bagman got to his feet.  Lorenzo slowly turned to face them, the exit wound in his face already closing up and being replaced with brown-red skin as his pale, flabby flesh seemed to slough off his head.

“No way, man, no fuckin’ way!”

“What is this?”

“This,” Evan growled, glaring at the two through his regrowing eye as he pulled latex away from his face, “is why you didn’t want to do that.”

 ———–

 Mr. Delman looked up as a bell signaled the entrance of a customer.

“Well hey, if it isn’t Mr. Superhero!  Sounds like you had a busy night!”

Evan covered his mouth as he yawned.  "Yeah. Didn’t really get a chance to sleep.“

"So the Nelsons called me and said they were on their way out of town.  That your doing?”

“Yeah.  Hired some movers and security to get them up to Colorado.  Slipped them enough cash for a couple months while Jamal’s fingers heal.  Figured that should keep them off the Five-Tens’ radar for a while.”

“Something tells me they ain’t gonna be an issue for a while,” Delman said, turning the computer monitor on the counter to face Evan.  It displayed a headline: FIRE IN HOUSING DEVELOPMENT REVEALS GANG HIDEOUT; POLICE MAKE MULTIPLE ARRESTS.

“I didn’t mean to burn it down,” Evan said, awkwardly scratching the back of his head. “That’s what happens when you run a crappy meth lab out of your basement.”

Delman raised an eyebrow at him.

“…and someone gets thrown into it,” Evan finished sheepishly.  

“It ain’t in the papers, but I heard that despite all them punks gettin’ out alive, each and every one of them had their fingers or wrists broken,” Delman said, conversationally.  "Wonder why.“

”'cuz it’s hard to fire a gun when you can’t even wipe your own ass,“ Evan said, bluntly. "Otherwise they might try to hunt down the Nelsons.”

Delman slapped his palms on the counter, his face reddening.  "How the hell did you manage that, kid?  The cops grabbed over twenty of those shits.  How’d you get out alive?“

"I didn’t exactly come out unscathed,” Evan said, pulling off his sunglasses.  His left eye was surrounded in a many-pointed star of scar tissue.  His eyebrow had been finished off by the exit wound.  "This one’s going to be hard to hide.“

"Shit,” Delman hissed through his teeth.  "Still, if that’s the worst you got…“

"It’s the only one that stuck, thankfully.  Visceral Jay lived up to his name, though.  He damn near gutted me before his knife got stuck in my arm.”  

“I heard he fell out of the third-story window.”

“Now that’s simply not true,” Evan said, “I knocked him against the wall and kicked him until he went through it.”

Delman snorted. “Well… I can’t say I endorse it, but… couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.  So what brought you back here?”

“Oh yeah, be right back.” Evan strode towards the back of the shop, returning with the silver lamp.  “Can you tell me anything about this?”

“I don’t keep tra–“ Delman cut himself off.  A very deliberate silence fell over the shop as he stared down at the lamp with a look of intense concentration.

“Do you know anything about it?” Evan asked quietly.

Delman slowly looked up at Evan, though he seemed to be looking at his scars more than his face as a whole.  Then he locked eyes with Evan and fixed him with a steely, unblinking gaze for an uncomfortable length of time.  After Evan felt his cheeks start to burn and his eyes begin to water, Delman held up a finger and slowly walked into his office.

After a few long moments of the faint sound of metal drawers squeaking and paper rustling, Delman returned. He was holding what seemed to be a homemade book of some sort, mismatched pages held together between two cardboard covers.  He carried it gingerly, as if it were something unsavory, like roadkill.  It fell from fingertips with a flat whap onto the counter.

“One of my part-timers was working the register.  I had a dentist appointment that day,” Delman said, pursing his lips and staring pointedly at the book, “and apparently some man with one eye came in with that thing,” he pointed to the lamp, “and wanted to sell it.  Said he didn’t need it any more.  My clerk tells him he’ll need to get it appraised and everything, but the man says he’ll take whatever he thinks it’s worth.  Apparently the one-eyed guy thought ten bucks was enough, and he left this… book, saying it ‘went with it’, took then ten and left. My clerk just threw the book in my office for me to look at later.  And I did.”

Here Delman paused, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he felt a headache coming on.

“Most of it I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.  Most of it’s written in languages I’ve never seen.  But there’s this picture of the lamp and I recognized the text with it.  It was written in Hebrew, and y'know, I know people in the community and so I took it down to the temple one day to see if anyone can translate it.  Rabbi says he’ll see if he can find time and I leave it at that.  A couple weeks later he shows up here and practically throws the damn thing at me. Looks like all the blood just drained out of him.  Says it’s obscene, unholy.  Unthinkable shit.  It took some doing, but I managed to get him to explain.  

“Apparently, a direct translation of the thing was just gibberish.  Just random sounds, no real words. But when you read it out loud, it phonetically sounds like Spanish.  So he got a friend of his to help him translate that, and…”

Delman paused again. Evan was gripping the countertop so hard that he felt it creak under his fingers.

“It was instructions for working the lamp, but… you don’t want it, kid.  It’s sick.”

“Please, Mr. Delman. You’ve seen what I’m capable of. I’m at the very start of something big. I just need some kind of direction, some kind of hint.  I need to learn more about this whole new world I’ve stumbled in to.  If this will help me, I’ll pay whatever you ask.”

“It ain’t me you gotta worry about payin’, kid!” Delman snapped.  “That thing… you gotta bleed for it.  Literally.”

Evan actually chuckled with relief.  “That’s all? I’ve got blood to spare!”

“Yeah, well, be that as it may, that ain’t all it takes.  I’m sure you noticed it ain’t got a wick.  You gotta make your own.”  Delman pressed his knuckles into the countertop, and leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Outta your own skin.”

“How does it burn, then? Do you have to dry it out or something?”

“The hell is wrong with you? That’s what you’re focusing on here?”

“I had a .45 caliber bullet blow my eye out from the inside five hours ago and I can see out of it just fine,” Evan said, looking down at his arms and turning them over as though appraising them.   “My flesh seems to be something of a renewable resource.”  

“I ain’t even gonna ask about that, not worth knowin’,” Delman said, half-heartedly throwing up his hands.  “Fine. You want it, it’s yours.”

“What does it do?”

Delman puffed out his cheeks and slowly exhaled the air, running his hand along his scalp. "It’s called the Guiding Light. If you write down something you’re looking for–in more of your own blood–on the wick–again, out of your own skin, can’t stress that enough–and light it, the flame’ll point you in its direction of its best interpretation of what you wrote.  But this magic shit has a mind of its own, so God knows what that’ll be, plus you gotta write the what it down in these symbols,” he added, slapping the book with the back of his hand, “so accuracy might be something of an issue.”

Evan inhaled deeply and grinned.  "It’s perfect.“

Delman groaned, but began to wrap up the lamp in packing paper regardless.  Once he handed the items to Evan in a bag, he spoke again. "I gotta ask, kid–who are you?”

Evan thought back to the night before, when a beaten and bloody Visceral Jay had asked the same question, his panicked face lit by the flames that were rapidly engulfing the building.

“I’m the necessary evil.”

Punch.

“I’m what’s coming to you.”

Kick.

“I’m the bad thing that happens to bad people!”

Smash.

“I’M…”

Evan grinned at Mr. Delman, his eyes sparkling with manic energy.  "I’m the Ugly Man.“

[goldenscript]

1v1

lim changkyun | 1,752 words | college au / fluff ↳ for once, changkyun doesn’t mind taking a break from his project, especially if it means hanging out with the cute RA, you.

“Jooheon, for fuck’s sake-” Changkyun groans, glaring down the tan wood with hopes that the stress is enough to trigger so genetic mutation in his body. Maybe he’d finally get those superpowers he’s been dreaming of since he was twelve. But unfortunately, like the reality of discovering that the X-Men were not real and neither was the Justice League, he is left thoroughly disappointed and caught outside his own dorm room.

It’s one of the very few times he’s had to go through this though the previous times were done on accident, he calls complete subterfuge at his sudden inability to access his shared room with his dimpled roommate. He should’ve known when Jooheon suddenly sent him out to grab snacks and other sustenance without grabbing his key card, but he was so preoccupied with getting the very task at hand to notice anything aside from the feeling of hands between his shoulder blades shoving him out of the room.

The sound of the lock clicking did not seem anything above normal considering he was already set on his task, but looking back on it now only elicits his own groan of frustration and self-loathing. How could he possibly be that stupid?

Before his roommate so rudely locked him out, Changkyun was set to work on his the final codes for his up and coming application. His professor was so sure that he would finish by next month, but being himself, he reassured the grey-haired man that he would have it completed by next week, on the dot. More on the matter of pride, but this was a serious matter to the Computer Science major. He’s been working on this very application, one that he outlined out of personal experience, as an intensive tool for school - with a mere shot of one’s timetable, everything could be stored into one calendar. It was an interactive school planner without the meticulous notion of writing everything out in a paper planner that would get forgotten a few weeks into the new quarter. And he was nearly done, a mere quarter away from calling it completely finished, but nope.

Here, he is. Out in the hallway, pounding on the wooden door with no choice but to shout at the man behind his predicament to let him inside so he can finally finish. If he could, he would’ve gone to the Student Center where they could make a copy of said key and allow him to enter, but whoever else was in on the running gag of halting him knew that he was on his last strike before they’d charge him twenty-five dollars for a new copy. Twenty-five dollars he didn’t have, and ones he refused to spend his money on. Jooheon spotted him the twenty for snack anyway.

Kihyun has to be behind this, He thinks to himself with certainty, shutting his eyes as his whole body seems to slink to the floor.

He doesn’t even bother knocking anymore. He just sits there. Desolation racking his body as he tries to weigh out any more of his options. Not that he’s certain there are any other things he can do at the moment.

As he continues to wait there, uncertain of what else he can do to pass the time now that he’s actually out of the damn room, he fails to notice a figure strolling through the hall toward him.

The hall itself is usually empty on weekends. Its inhabitants off to their respective homes, parties, and other outings. No one’s out stranded, only usually struck with a purpose when exiting their dorms.

However, only a few of the Resident Advisors are left behind, away from the rest of the body count. The responsible ones tend to stick around to make their occasional rounds around the room, finding interest in their rooms and checking on the rest of the students. It’s a mind-numbing task but free housing is always the biggest gratitude for any student, so there aren’t many complaints on their parts.

On this particular night, you’re doing rounds instead of forcing your partner-in-crime, Hyungwon to do it as he was out cold already, sleeping off his dose of midterms and other horrors entwined with higher education. And on this particular night, Changkyun jumps nearly ten feet into the air when you say, “Excuse me, are you alright?”

He swallows down the habitual curse, staring up at you with wide eyes.

“Uh, um…” He says, finding interest in the spot beside you.

Instead of remaining standing, you take a seat in front of him. You run a hand through your dark locks, “Changkyun right?”

He blinks, “You know my name?”

It’s blunt and to the point, eliciting reddened cheeks on his part at the sight of the sudden surprise crossing your features.

“Of course! You’re friends with Hyungwon and Kihyun, and as I recall we had calculus together too.” You giggle, trying to meet his eyes, but he’s still trying to hide the embarrassment burning across his visage.

He stumbles on an apology but you cut him off, “It’s fine, I’m kidding. I’m not hurt that you probably don’t remember my name.”

Brows stitch together, eyes wide, and lips parted ever-so-slightly before he utters, “No. I remember you, Y/N. I’m surprised you remembered me.”  

You give him an incredulous look, brows raised before you move your body beside him just to give him a proper jab with your elbow.

A complaint falls past his lips at the sensation, but he can’t seem to think when you’re so close to him. Your scent falls around him, infiltrating his senses and locking down deeply into his memory. He can’t complain at the close proximity, craning his head toward you with curiosity washing over his features.

“What was that for?”

You roll your eyes, a small smile curving on your lips, “How could I not remember you? It’s hard to forget a cute face like yours.”

He nearly chokes, eyes staring at the ground now. He really doesn’t want to put his visage on display anymore. This doesn’t feel real in the slightest, but he kind of hopes it is.

“What?”

“You’re cute.” You answer with a wider smile, a faint flush dusting your features, looking back at the door and turning at him. “Did Jooheon lock you out?”

He nods, “So I’m left here until he opens up or whatever.”

“Nowhere else to go?”

“No phone, no card, no money. Nothin’.” He sighs, leaning his head against the door. His straw-colored hair sticks to his forehead, falling into his eyes. The same feeling of disappointment washing over him when he sees you rising.

“C’mon then,” You say, holding your hand out to him.

“What?”

“You can hang out with me at my dorm if you want. It’s better than sitting out here, and I know the lounge definitely doesn’t have Super Smash Bros downloaded onto their laptop.” You cup your mouth with a free hand, “Or Mortal Kombat.”

A grin begins to curve on Changkyun’s lips, a shrug on his shoulders as his body rises with part of your assistance as you lead the way toward your dorm and a promise for entertainment on this unexpected Saturday night. It comes as a surprise to him with things working out so well, his fingertips growing accustomed to the keypad with the two of you adorning each of the respective sides.

You’re both going through the processions of the game, shrieks of laughter exiting your lips, and on a particular turn where you’ve finally overlapped him, he can’t help but look over at the elation crossing over your figures that seems to twist his heart and an odd sensation permeates his stomach. He’s felt nothing like this. Not to mention the first loss on this third round.

You glance at him, ready to gloat when you seem to catch the stare he was aiming at you.

“What? Something on my face?”

“Huh?” He blinks, shaking his head. “Uh, no. This was -um- fun, s’all.”

It becomes apparent how easily his mind has shifted from the thought of his application to the thought of the fun he just spent with you, and although he finds it hard to believe that Kihyun could’ve possibly known this would happen he actually becomes a little convinced that maybe that pink-haired devil probably did know. Either way, he can’t help but allow a smile to spread across his lips.

“Thanks,” He says to you.

You wink, “It was my pleasure, really. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”

“If Kihyun really planned this, then I guess I’ll have to thank him.” He sighs, turning back to the keypad for a round of Mortal Kombat.

From the corner of his eye, he sees you bite at your bottom lip, cheekbones rising from a curving smile. Even if when it reminds him of something pretty like a sunset on one of the many nature hikes he gets dragged on by Wonho, he can’t seem to stop himself from craning his head toward you completely and asking, “He did, didn’t he?”

You nod, releasing your lip to speak, “Him and Jooheon just said they’d lock you out for the night, so you can take a break.”   

He sighs, a small grin curving to himself with an idea in mind for that pink-haired hamster boy. “Of course. I was almost done with this app I’ve been working on! If they had just waited until maybe tomorrow night, I would’ve taken a break.”

You raise a brow at him, “App?”

He nods, “Ultimate Student Planner. It’s supposed to log all your syllabi due dates and log it into one calendar.”

“And how long have you been working on it? Nonstop?”

“Well,” He releases a sigh, “By working consistently, it optimizes the quality and…. Stuff.”

You giggle, a pretty sound to him, “Well, I hope this time with me wasn’t too horrible for you.”

He shakes his head incessantly, “No! I really enjoyed this time with you. Definitely a surprising outcome in my opinion.” He leans closer toward your visage, cupping the side of his mouth like you had earlier. “...But the best one.”

You actually look back at him in surprise, but it elicits a swell in his chest at your next response: “I hope it won’t be the last then. I like hanging out with you.”

He smiles ever-so-slightly, nodding. “Me too.”

“Now get ready to have your ass handed to you. Mortal Kombat is my shit.”

“Oh, you’re on!”