#Thank you for writing a great fanfic

[inbuel]

doodle (I loved the fanfic I read yesterday🥺)

[baronessblixen]

Fictober Day 26: Let's Give Them Something To Talk About

Prompt: "You were the first"

@living-in-unreality sent in this ask: Mulder or Scully overhears office gossip about two other agents being placed on separate teams after their workplace relationship was discovered. Bonus points if it happens when the MSR pining is at its peak and they are still scared to take that leap. Rating: T, wc: 1,580

Tagging @today-in-fic @xffictober24

Over the years, he’s been the topic of office gossip more than once. So when he sees the huddled group and hears the whispering, his mind kicks into overdrive, wondering what he—or they—might have done this time.

But he can’t come up with anything. He and Scully have been model agents of decorum. So what is it about?

He inches closer, trying not to draw any attention to himself. While most agents know him by reputation, few engage in idle chit-chat with him. Then one of the men spots him and crooks a finger at him.

“Spooky, have you heard?” He decides to ignore the dreaded nickname and lets himself be drawn into the circle. He catches a whiff of entitlement and a hint of contempt. But his curiosity is too strong to step away.

“Heard what?”

“The Anderson and Davis affair.” Mulder has no idea who these people are or what they’ve done. His expression must say as much because the agent continues. Not after he rolls his eyes, though.

“They did the nasty. Hooked up. They were found out and have been put on separate teams. I think if Kersh could have, he would have transferred one of them out of state.” Everyone except Mulder laughs. His ears are ringing. He may not know who these two agents are, and he may not be in this exact situation, but it hits far too close to home.

“It’s like I always say,” one of the other agents says. Mulder is certain he’s seen him before, but can’t place him.

“Don’t shit where you eat and don’t fuck where you work.” Another round of laughter makes Mulder feel queasy. He excuses himself, unsure if anyone hears him or even cares. He himself doesn’t care.

The only thing he thinks about is what he’s just witnessed. A team split up because of a personal, romantic relationship. His thoughts jump to Scully. To their journey toward more than friends and partners. What if this happened to them? God knows they’ve tried to separate them before. He can’t let it happen. He can’t risk losing her.

*

Scully’s eyes are burning a hole into his temple. They’re challenging him to turn and give her a sign or anything to assure her he’s okay. But he keeps his head and eyes forward. He’s not paying attention to the meeting at all; that in itself is nothing unusual.

More often than not, Mulder and Scully will doodle, share a crossword puzzle, or even send notes back and forth. Like a couple of teenagers. His reluctance to face her has consequences too. Someone elbows him in the ribs and then there’s a neatly folded piece of paper in front of him.

“Are you okay?” Only Scully would send a note like this. It’s so her that he almost smiles. Instead, and with great difficulty, he screws the note up and puts it in his pocket.

He’s so tempted to turn to her and see her expression, but he doesn’t dare. He’ll crumble. He knows he’s on borrowed time as it is; as soon as this meeting is over, Scully will find him. His queasiness returns and he swallows hard.

Once the meeting is over, Mulder grabs his things and flees the conference room. He’s lucky that he’s tall and broad; agents step aside and let him through.

“Mulder.” Scully’s voice is too demanding to keep walking. He freezes and turns to her.

“Are you okay? What’s the matter?” It’s the worry in her tone and expression that gets him.

“Not feeling well,” he mumbles. At least it’s only half a lie.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” She puts her hand on his forehead and he winces. What if someone sees them? What if they draw the wrong conclusions? He bats her hand away, and the hurt in her eyes is too much for him to bear.

“I’m just gonna- going home. See you.” Her eyes follow him as he stalks off. What the hell is he going to do now?

*

The knock doesn’t surprise him; he expected it. What surprises him is how long Scully stayed away. He opens the door and there she is, holding a plastic bag.

“Hey,” he says.

“How are you feeling?” He shrugs. “I brought you chicken soup.” That’s his Scully. Against his better judgment, he opens the door wider and she steps inside, walking in under his still outstretched arm.

“I didn’t make it,” she says, unloading the bag in his kitchen. “I wouldn’t want you to feel worse.” A smile flits across her face. It only fades when she sees his blank face.

“Did something happen?” she asks point blank, crossing her arms in front of her chest. In that moment she reminds him of Diana. He’s wise enough not to mention it – even if it would drive her away. He doesn’t want to hurt her. None of this is her fault.

In the past, when no one cared what agents did in their private lives, and when he and Diana could have been Anderson and Davis – whoever they are – she’d close herself off to him just like this. She’d wanted space when he wanted closeness. It wasn’t that either of them were bad people; they had just never worked.

“Mulder, please, whatever it is, we-”

“I heard some gossip today.” That doesn’t faze Scully. What must the gossip mill be like in the ladies’ room? The men are bad enough as it is.

“About us? That’s nothing new, is it? Just ignore it.”

“Not about us,” he admits, biting his lip. “Do you know Anderson and Davis?” Her eyes grow wide.

“I know Agent Davis,” she says. “Why? Did something happen to them?”

“In a manner of speaking. They were caught and split up.”

“Caught?” Scully asks and he realizes that she isn’t grasping what he doesn’t want to say out loud.

“They were more than partners.” The penny still hasn’t dropped. “They were in a relationship,” Mulder explains. “A romantic relationship.”

“So?”

“So? I’m not going to- Scully, they were split up because they’re dating.”

“That’s against regulations,” Scully says, sounding sure of herself. Mulder shakes his head.

“I heard it, Scully.”

“Where?” Her voice is laced with suspicion and her arms are still crossed.

“In front of the men’s room.”

“Oh, Mulder. How do you even know they were telling the truth? Do you know what insane rumors are making the rounds in the Hoover building?”

“But… Anderson and Davis have been put on separate teams. I checked.” He didn’t do it to get proof. He wanted to put faces to their names. For a while, he just stared at their ID pictures. There was nothing particularly special about them; Mulder has probably crossed their path several times in the last few years.

“They could have been split up for a number of reasons. There’s no rule against partners dating.”

“How do you know that?” Scully blushes.

“I checked.”

“When?” He needs to know.

“Recently,” she admits, clearing her throat. “That’s not the point, Mulder. You’ve been acting strange all day. What does this rumor have to do with anything?”

“When I heard what happened,” Mulder says, “you were the first… the first thought that crossed my mind.”

“Me?”

“You and… me. I know I’m presuming things here and we’re not- but we could maybe eventually and I panicked.”

“And instead of telling me this, you thought you’d ignore me, pretend to be sick, and run off?”

“Well, when you say it like that,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “I couldn’t – I can’t risk losing you, Scully. That’s all. I couldn’t get it out of my head. What if someone saw us play baseball the other night?”

His most cherished memory, now tainted. Just the thought. He imagines someone keeping tabs on them, waiting for them to cross the line. He had wanted to kiss her so badly. All the stars had aligned – literally. And he’d chickened out. Now he thinks that maybe it was better this way.

“What we do in our private time is our business.”

“Apparently not,” Mulder mumbles.

“Mulder, you don’t know what happened. They might have been frisky while on assignment or at work. And either way, we’re not like them.” It takes him a moment to catch her meaning. They’re not like them. What she’s saying is that they’re not at risk because she isn’t interested in changing their relationship at all. Once again, he’s been misreading all the signs.

“No,” he says dejectedly. “We’re not.”

“No, Mulder, you don’t understand.” She sighs, invading his personal space. “When we- when that happens, we’ll inform HR.”

When – not if.

“What you’re saying is?”

“Please presume things,” she says. She smiles at him before she gets on her tiptoes and presses a kiss to his lips. He blinks as rapidly as his heart beats. “I leafed through the regulations last month,” Scully confesses with pink cheeks. “While romantic relationships are not encouraged, they’re not forbidden. All you have to do is disclose them to HR.”

“We can do that,” he says, his spirits lifting. She nods, unable to hide her smile.

“And I could have just told you that earlier, but you decided to play possum.”

“Gotta add some spice sometimes, Scully.” He grins at her. “So, when do you think we should let HR know?”

“Tomorrow.” She’s in his arms, kissing him, and he’s agreeing with everything she says and does.

[dont-offend-the-bees]

Lived My Whole Life Before the First Light

Omg here we are. At the end. I'm sad, I've been having such a blast with you guys this week! But all good things... Anyway, this is a strange one, rambling and mournful but hopefully with some sweetness. I hope it makes you feel things, I hope it gives you something, I hope we part on this final day of Painland Week as friends and confidants 💛 Huge, huge thanks to the organisers of Painland Week for putting this magical event together! Special love on this day goes out to @mellxncollie , who has been creating amazing gifs all week and has made beautiful ones for this very fic. It's been so so wonderful to collab with you and everyone should go and look at these wonderful creations at ONCE. Warnings for canonical character death (sorry, Charles) and the stuff that comes with it (i.e. refs to bullying/hatecrimes), non-graphic injury description, and just general mournful grief vibes all round. But hopeful ending bc let's face it, we all know how this played out! 7.3k, M-rated, available on Ao3. Thanks again, @painlandweek!

"Colour! What a deep and mysterious language. The language of dreams."

~ Paul Gauguin

Edwin Payne had always possessed a thirst for knowledge. As a child, he'd wished to learn just about everything there was to learn — every fact in every field. He'd been told, many times, that he could live to be a hundred years old, and still not have enough hours to do so.

Edwin had most certainly not lived to be a hundred. But he supposed that if you added his sixteen years of life to his seventy-three of death, he was getting rather close.

The dead years, however, had been far from conducive to study. Knowledge was hard to come by in Hell. Found either in burnt and bloodied books scavenged from individual damnations, or delivered in the form of cruel trials. He'd been taught a lesson or two in his time, but not on anything so polite and pedestrian as geometry. Edwin's key area of personal study in Hell had been one thing, and one thing only: how to escape from it.

It had taken seven decades, a slew of disembowelments and innumerable failed attempts, but at last he'd passed his final exam with merit. Or at least, a version of him had. But there wasn't much to be done for his original self, whose body lay mouldering on the dollhouse floor beneath a thousand savaged duplicates.

Best not to dwell on it.

He supposed he should have been upset about where the door to Hell spat him out. Not many people would be happy to return to the place where they'd met their untimely, violent demise. But to Edwin, after a small infinity in the blackest pit, stepping back into St. Hilarion's hallowed halls felt like greeting an old friend. Well, friend might be a tad generous. More of an acquaintance, or perhaps a second cousin one barely tolerated. Not a person one enjoyed spending time with, but nonetheless a familiar face.

For a day or so he'd wandered about in a bit of a daze, glancing over his shoulder for any sign he'd been followed from the depths. He'd drunk in every familiar feature, and puzzled over the unfamiliar ones. It was a small change in the grand scheme of things, but he suspected they'd replaced the drapes. They were a lighter grey now than they had been in his time. He wondered what colour they'd chosen — or for that matter, what colour they were in the first place. He'd never thought to ask.

Then on his second day of wandering, he'd stumbled across the old library. And that, for several weeks, had been that.

He'd probably had dreams about this, in his youth. Dreams of being left to his own devices, surrounded by books. All the information he could inhale, with no interruptions. Not even from the other boys. Their voices had startled him a few times, and he was always wary when a gaggle of them descended on the library. But he'd quickly realised that none of them could see him, and so long as he turned the pages quietly, he was free to continue his reading unmolested.

And he did so, continuously, for days. Not even boring old human restrictions like hunger, tiredness or eye strain could stop him now. He read everything he could get his hands on, brushed up on everything, filling in the gaps of the last decades. On the future that had been robbed from him, subsiding into history while his back was turned. He'd sat in his own shellshock when he read not only about how the so-called 'war to end all wars' had concluded, but also how little time had passed before the next one. He'd blushed and skimmed the pages pertaining to the nineteen-sixties free love movement. He'd gazed, thunderstruck, at the moon through the library window; wondering what the Earth must have looked like to the man they put up there.

All these years he'd been trapped in the gutters at the deepest depths of suffering, reaching up towards the light; all that time, humanity had been reaching, too. Up, up and up, all the way to the stars.

It became habit, after that, to gaze at the moon in between books and chapters. An opportunity to gather his thoughts on what he'd just read, to file away the facts, to jot down the most pertinent in his notebook. It was rather a meditative process.

Or at least it had been, until the night he'd seen something else beneath that moon. Something tragically earthbound amidst the gently illuminated greys of the grounds. A hunched and trembling shape against the trees, lurching by Edwin's window. A boy, on the run — his pursuers baying for blood like wolves at his heels.

They could put a man on the moon, but some things never changed.

It would be the first time Edwin had left the library since re-discovering it. Holding aloft the pilfered lantern he'd been using to read into the night, he trod carefully through the darkened corridors. The majority of staff and students were in dorms or common rooms by now, voices a soft patter, bleeding with the light under the doors. No one marked Edwin, or came to investigate the lantern floating past. Though some extinguished their own lights and hushed their voices, mistaking him for a warden. Edwin didn't wish to scare anyone, but he drew some comfort from it. He'd grown tired of being pounced upon in long, black, twisting hallways. How comforting for once to be the root of fear and not merely its captive.

Edwin had to search a little while, but he was already familiar with the best hiding places. It wasn't long before he was creeping up to the attic, minding his ghostly tread upon the stairs. He didn't wish to cause alarm, or send the boy deeper into hiding thinking his assailants had found him.

He crossed the threshold, and at once heard a shuddering intake of breath as the harsh white aura of his lantern bounced off the walls. He supposed there was no disguising the glow. He hung back a moment, conflicted. All he wanted was to offer some light and warmth, but perhaps a floating lantern would be a sight too much for the terrified boy. Well, it was too late for that, now. He stepped into the room proper, peering past the flare of his lantern to the source of the sound. A shivering bundle on the floor, tucked into a nook behind the shelves. Trying to be as small as possible and, by and large, succeeding.

Wide, hunted eyes stared into the light. A voice, low and wary, spoke.

"What do you want?"

It was then that Edwin realised the eyes weren't looking into the light. They were looking at him. He glanced behind himself, just to make sure, but he wasn't mistaken. "You can see me?"

It was also when he noticed something equally perplexing happening to the light. It had started to look... less white. No, in fact it no longer looked white at all, but it had not dimmed, and it bore no resemblance to any shade of grey Edwin had ever seen. It was... he didn't even have the language to describe it. If he had to choose a word, he could only say it looked warm. He'd never seen anything like it. Not in seventy years of Hell, nor in his life before. It simply defied description.

He tore his gaze from it. There were more pressing matters to attend to. "I... I thought this lantern might help," he said, still dumbfounded. He approached, with care — this boy was clearly a victim in this circumstance, but there was a defensive set to his jaw. A wild look in his eyes. A creature caught in a trap was as liable to bite a rescuer as an attacker. "You can simply extinguish it if those boys come up here."

The guarded expression cracked, vulnerability bleeding through. As Edwin drew closer, he noticed that the strange new quality of the light was reflected where it hit the boy. There were notes of something else beneath the pallid grey tones of his skin, something richer. Just as something beyond simple black glistened in his enormous eyes.

"You saw them?" the boy rasped.

"I did. I went to school here a long time ago." Edwin knelt before him, bringing the light closer to the lad’s face and marvelling, quietly, at the strange tones that sprang into sharp relief. Whoever this young man was, Edwin's very perception of the world appeared to be shifting in his presence. "We had bullies, too."

He looked so weak, curled up and trembling. He certainly wasn't weak, Edwin suspected that much. Peeking out from beneath the blanket were shoes and trousers of a kind he'd seen these modern boys wearing out on the sports pitch. The lad was no delicate flower, but at this moment, at the mercy of his wounds, he was helpless.

And if he could see Edwin... then his fate was already sealed.

Edwin looked at the boy levelly, at the fear in his strange eyes. He'd seen that fear upon countless faces these last seventy years, on the wretched souls crying out for respite from their torment. He'd worn a similar expression some decades ago, when a careless act of cruelty had damned him, too.

"Rest assured," he said, gently, offering the lantern. "I shan't hurt you."

He could see the moment the boy decided to believe him. His shoulders slumped, his breath escaped in a rattle of relief. He reached out from his blanket shell, and flashed a sliver of that curiously saturated skin at his shoulder. Against the stark white of the sleeveless vest he wore, the difference was now undeniable. Not grey, not white, but something altogether different. Like his eyes, like the metal at his throat and ear that glimmered in the lamplight. Tones Edwin had never seen before, couldn't even name.

It couldn't be...

"Cheers, mate," said the boy, shivering as he brought the lantern closer. "I'm freezing. Never been this cold in my life."

Swallowing, Edwin nodded. "It's the least I can do."

The boy's lips twitched in a feeble half-smile. "Yeah? You mean you can do more?"

Probably not as much as he'd like. But Edwin nodded again. "Of course."

The light shone upon the boy's face and the dark, waterlogged curls of his hair. Steeped in that impossible hue.

"Stick around a bit?" he asked, his voice very small indeed. "Bit lonely up here..."

Edwin had not come here with any plans to stick around. He'd wished to help, of course. But to say he was unaccustomed to dealing with people was a tremendous understatement. He'd planned to drop off the lantern, check the boy was alright, and slip away without a fuss.

But the boy was clearly not alright, half-alive and fading fast. And he'd seen Edwin, asked him in no uncertain terms to stay. Asked him with all the broken hope in his voice and all the impossible buried, blooming hues in his eyes. And if those colours meant what he had always been told…

Well. How could Edwin begrudge his own soulmate a last request?

"My name is Edwin," he said, as measured as he could manage. "Edwin Payne."

The boy grinned. It wobbled at the edges. "Charlie," he introduced himself. "Charles Rowland."

Edwin hummed. Charles. A pleasant name. Respectable. He thought it rather suited the young man. "A pleasure to meet you, Charles."

Charles chuckled, drawing the lantern closer to himself. "Pretty bloody brills to meet you, too, Edwin."

The colour — for it surely was a colour, Edwin knew of no other word or explanation — of the lantern seemed to pulse, then settle, stronger than before. It illuminated the feeble grin upon Charles' drawn face in hues as yet unnamed.

Edwin would have to find some names. Compare what he could see with what he'd been told, what he'd read. Identify what he could.

While he still had the chance.

"Best thing to happen to me all night," Charles mumbled. "You showing up."

Edwin wished to tell him things could only improve from here; but he knew it to be a lie.

~

"It is the color closest to light. In its utmost purity, it always implies the nature of brightness and has a cheerful, serene, gently stimulating character. Hence, experience teaches us that yellow makes a thoroughly warm and comforting impression."

~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

"Just didn't seem right. Letting that kid get beat on 'cause he's from Pakistan," said Charles.

His socks peeked out from the blanket, bright white in the lamplight. Interesting — a part of Edwin had always presumed that white would look vastly different with the rest of the spectrum unlocked. It didn't, but there was much less of it. The world was full of more off-whites in more hues than Edwin could've previously imagined. Charles' skin wasn't dissimilar. Pale-ish, but bearing pleasant warm under-and-overtones that made Edwin's look near-translucent by comparison.

"I mean, I'm half Indian," Charles continued. "Why am I so different?"

"That is a fair point," said Edwin, thoughtful, harkening back to some of the history books he'd skimmed of late. "They were the same country back when I was alive."

Fascinating how the times changed, new lines drawn in the sand. Fascinating, and frustrating. In the time Edwin had been gone wars had started and ended, entire countries had been ruptured, borders reshaped. And yet some of life's most persistent mysteries remained unanswered.

He'd not looked much into it, but it seemed little advancement had been made in understanding of the so-called 'soulmate' principle. It had been a frequent enough phenomenon to be common knowledge in Edwin's time, but no one ever had any real explanation for it. Plenty of spiritual explanations, of course. But it seemed no one could point to any tangible scientific reason why a person, upon hearing the voice of a certain other person, had the entire hidden colour spectrum revealed unto them. An entire dimension of the visible world remained inaccessible to the vast majority of the population, and still no one knew why, or even how. Clearly, there was still much research to be done on the subject.

And clearly, the notion of this mysterious person as a 'soulmate' was romantic drivel. Charles seemed a pleasant fellow, but he was a fellow. And two boys could hardly be soulmates, could they? No God-fearing Christian would embrace the concept if that were the case. So no, Charles couldn't possibly be his soulmate. Perhaps the phenomenon represented something else entirely. Like minds? Charles seemed an easy boy to get on with — and Edwin seldom got on with anybody. He even felt at ease sitting beside him on the hard attic floor, nearly touching. Perhaps Charles was simply his universe-appointed fastest friend; the one person in creation who could truly understand him.

Or maybe it was a cosmic fluke, a quirk of biology. Maybe it could have been absolutely anybody in the world.

Yes, that was probably it. Nothing deeper at play than that.

Still, it was a pity Charles would be dead before the night was out. Soulmate or not.

(Definitely not.)

"Right..." Charles mumbled. Followed by a frown. "Wait, what?"

"Hm?"

"What d'you mean 'when you were alive'?"

Edwin looked at him. Charles still seemed rather small, rather sorry. A chilly little lump, all curled in on himself, even now they were side by side and of a height with one another. He looked cold, sallow. Not even the warm hues of the light Edwin had tentatively designated yellow could hide it, cheerful though it may be.

"You ought to move around a bit," said Edwin, standing smoothly. "You must keep your circulation going."

It would do no good, of course. But who knew? Charles might be hardier than Edwin gave him credit for.

"Edwin," said Charles, all seriousness. "What d'you mean when you were alive?"

Edwin's brow twitched. He held out his hand. "Get up, and I shall tell you."

Charles took his hand — and startled. "Fuck — you're colder than me, mate!"

"And for good reason. Come, now. Two or three quick laps of the room. I'll hold the lantern."

~

"Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead."

~ Wilfred Owen

Edwin had heard some truly hideous sounds in his time. Crunching bones, squelching organs, agonised screams. And yet somehow, the wheeze of Charles hacking up water from pulverised lungs was among the worst to date.

"Are you alright?" Edwin asked, hands clasped upon the table — lest he risk something overfamiliar like a pat on the back.

"I'm fine," Charles deflected, voice hoarse and unconvincing. "Just answer my question.

Charles was looking worse by the minute. The warm tones of his skin that Edwin had grown so fascinated by were receding under sallow grey. A new colour was blooming, in and around his eyes; in the puffy lids underneath, in the spiderwebbing veins across the whites.

This colour was not nearly so puzzling — the veins were a dead giveaway. Edwin had read more than enough crime literature to be able to identify the colour of blood.

So, this was the famous red. A bold colour, possibly quite charming in the right context; which this most assuredly was not. Edwin was no physician, but he'd read a number of medical textbooks. Charles bore all the hallmarks of a man bedevilled with internal bleeding. It was not a matter of whether he would die, but of what would kill him first; the cold, or the injuries.

He tore his gaze away. Anger, bitter and harsh, had him by the throat, had his fists clenching together until his gloves creaked. Who were those wretched boys, to lay hands upon Charles? To break him so? This boy who, insofar as Edwin could tell, hadn't a bad bone in his body? Whatever Charles was to him, soulmate or not (definitely, definitely not), he was his. He was supposed to be his, and soon he would be dead, and Edwin understood, now. Understood how people found themselves mired in Hell's fifth circle, swamped in wrath and rage. For no reason, no reason at all, those boys had taken Charles’ life without a care. Taken his life, and the colour from Edwin's eyes, all in one fell swoop. Soon both would be gone; and if Edwin ever found the hooligans responsible they'd have a formidable haunting on their hands.

"Nineteen thirteen, to..." he counted one, two, three, slowly. Collecting himself. "Nineteen sixteen."

"Bullshit." Charles cocked his head, a small smile of disbelief upon his lips. It was a charming expression, in its impertinence. "When did you go to school here for reals?"

"Nineteen thirteen to nineteen sixteen," Edwin repeated, slower. "I am dead, Charles."

Charles laughed. Edwin raised his eyebrows — and pretended not to be fascinated by the flash of not-red in Charles' mouth, his tongue and gums. What was the word for a light red, again? He was sure he'd read it somewhere...

The laughter died, and Charles' eyes went wider still. "...Oh."

There was more of that not-red than Edwin had thought, actually. The shells of Charles' ears, where the dawning light from the window glowed through translucent skin. He'd never considered that a person's ears might appear a different colour to the rest of them. How many secret tricks of the light had he been oblivious to all these years? How many more had he yet to discover? How many would he never get the chance to see for himself?

Just how much more could possibly be stolen from him?

"I... I dunno if this is, um, bad to ask, or what, but..." Charles swallowed. "How'd you die, mate?"

His lips, too, were redder than the rest of him; although that was fading, rapidly. Cooling at the edges. Edwin suspected that wasn't supposed to be the case.

"As I said," Edwin replied, sadly. "We had bullies, too."

~

"Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay."

~ Robert Frost

He had Charles move around again, though it was clear it would serve no purpose. He was delaying the inevitable. Charles was all but shutting down already; the occasional boost to his circulatory system was hardly going to bring him back from Death's door.

But perhaps Charles would beat the odds. Why not? He seemed a resilient fellow. Perhaps he would, indeed, outlast the night, see another day. Perhaps help would arrive. Perhaps Edwin could give him the push he needed to survive this if he only persisted.

Besides, he couldn't let Charles seize up and expire just yet. Charles had questions and damn it all, Edwin would answer them!

"Actually, you can move around any space however you like," Edwin explained. "It is not that you cannot touch things, you just cannot feel them."

A blessing in disguise, on occasion. Though Edwin had done his utmost to fill up this nook by the window with whatever musty blankets and futons he could salvage, he doubted the floor was comfortable. He himself sat with his knees tucked up to his chest, bracing for discomfort he couldn't feel. It was far from ideal. But he supposed that a hard floor was the least of Charles' problems.

Charles was rapidly declining. That cool tinge upon his lips was growing more prominent, his coughs harsher and more visceral-sounding. But here, at least, he seemed as snug as Edwin could make him. Swaddled like a babe, tucked up against the cluttered old shelves. Perhaps this was warm enough to get him through. It certainly seemed warm, with the yellow light burning merrily on.

It glowed not only off Charles' skin and his eyes, but a myriad small reflective surfaces strewn about the forgotten nook. Edwin was particularly taken with the shimmer of it off what appeared to be a dented instrument — possibly a tuba? — near Charles' head. Metals had always looked very similar to one another, in Edwin's grayscale vision. Now he could see the metal of the horn was a somewhat deeper shade than that of, say, the earring Charles wore. Finally, he could see first-hand the differences between the precious and non-precious metals. Alas, he had few of them to choose from, and little way of knowing which was which. He supposed it safe to assume that the instrument was brass, hence its orchestral designation.

But the metal Charles was wearing was his favourite so far. It had a little of the yellow about it, but richer, more lustrous. Edwin found himself quite transfixed by the way it fluttered and flickered in the light.

He was familiar with the saying all that glitters is not gold, of course. But for want of further evidence, gold seemed as good a guess as any.

"It's stupid, but... I think I'd miss kissing," said Charles. He looked right at Edwin, earring and eyes twinkling with the motion. He did have... handsome eyes. Edwin simply must figure out what colour they were. Of a similar hue but different tone to his hair, to the old wooden shelves at his back. "Do you miss kissing?"

"Mmm-mmmm," Edwin mumbled, with a small shake of his head. "No. Not as such."

How many people had Charles kissed, he wondered? Surely not an abundance, they were of a similar age. Had he kissed someone this month, this week? Today? Before his lips grew cold and chapped, when they were... oh, what was that word for a lighter red? Pink, yes, that was it.

Then again, perhaps he went about with painted lips in every day life. He already wore some sort of cosmetic on his eyes, after all, so maybe it wasn't a stretch for a modern young man. Imagine. A boy, staining the lips of his paramours with lipstick when he kissed them...

Goodness. The world really had moved on.

Edwin cleared his throat. "No," he repeated, firmly. "No, I don't miss kissing."

He supposed it was fine that Charles liked it, though. And maybe he'd get the chance to do it again. He just had to hold on a little longer, outlive the dawn chorus, until the teachers noticed his absence and sent people searching. Then he could keep on living, and kissing and whatever else he wished to do and Edwin...

Well, Charles probably wouldn't have much use for a ghost friend. But at least Edwin could keep the colours. Just a little while longer.

Charles chuckled. It was a bit of a sadder sound than the last time Edwin heard it. "Must've had some shit kisses in your life, mate."

Edwin smiled, tightly. "Something of that ilk."

"Shame we weren't mates," said Charles. "I'd've..."

"You'd have... what?"

A smattering of colour returned to Charles' face, then. It might've been a trick of the light, but Edwin could've sworn his cheeks warmed. "I'd've... well, I'd've found you someone to snog, wouldn't I?" he laughed, drawing his blanket closer around his chin. "Got some fit mates from my old school. And the birds proper fancy the brainy lads."

Edwin frowned. "The... birds?"

"Y'know. Lasses. Girls."

"Oh." For whatever reason, Edwin felt... disappointed. And not just at the apparently abysmal state of modern slang. "Yes. Girls."

He cocked his head, watching Charles carefully. He was a very good looking boy. And he wasn't Edwin's soulmate, couldn't be, but...

Edwin cleared his throat. "Charles?"

"Yeah?"

"Do I look..." He wavered. "...Unusual, at all? To you?"

Charles blinked. "Um. Well. Outfit's a bit retro." His eyes widened slightly, a dash of mortification. "Not being rude! I like it! It's... it's cool."

Edwin rolled his eyes. "I don't mean my outfit, I mean... have you noticed anything different about this room since I walked in?" he pressed.

"Well, yeah."

Edwin inhaled. "You have?"

"Yeah."

He leaned in closer. "What have you noticed exactly?"

Charles smiled weakly. "Well. It... feels a lot less lonely. With you here. Warmer, too." He chuckled. "Daft as that sounds. With you being dead, and all."

Edwin's fingers flexed on his knees — all he could do to stop himself hugging them, wretchedly, to his heart. "Yes," he agreed, dully. "Daft, indeed..."

~

"Green makes me think of silence, or maybe it’s loneliness. I get the feeling of a terribly distant star."

~ Kobo Abe

Edwin had only ever known one person ‘fortunate’ enough to meet her soulmate.

Aunt Florence had always been a bit of an odd duck. Flighty and fickle, a perpetual embarrassment to her brother — Edwin's father — whose job it had been to lend financial support to her spinster lifestyle. As she alleged it, she'd found her soulmate in the late eighteen seventies. For reasons undisclosed (to Edwin, at least) they had never married. Edwin had never had the pleasure of meeting her mysterious match.

She had always seemed very fascinated with the world around her, Aunt Florence. A trait she shared with Edwin; though while his interest lay in facts, hers lay in aesthetics. He’d seen her dedicate hours to the study of a singular rose petal in her garden. Edwin was told she could do quite beautiful things with oil paints, for those with eyes to see. They were passable, too, in black and white, but lacking dimension.

Once, when Edwin was about nine or so, Aunt Florence had taken his chin between her willowy fingers.

"What lovely eyes you have, my boy," she'd said, in a smoker's croak. Uncouth for a woman to smoke, particularly one of her social standing, but she'd never much cared what others thought of her. Her tobacco-stained nail had nipped his chin as she held him close. "Your mother's eyes. Sea green... You'll find yourself someone who can appreciate them, won't you?"

Edwin, of course, had had no idea what green was, and little desire to find out. Not if finding a so-called soulmate was the prerequisite condition. He was of an age where the fixation that grown-ups seemed to have on kissing one another was both vexing and perplexing to him. A phase of his life that, to be frank, he'd never entirely left behind. He'd extricated himself from Aunt Florence's talons as politely as possible, and given her a wide berth for the rest of her visit.

The next time he'd seen her, she had taken one look at his eyes, and burst into tears.

They all ended the same way, these soulmate stories. It was a law of nature. Death was not neat, or particularly fair. No matter how blissfully happy the pair, someone always had to leave first; and when they did, the colour left with them.

Some, at least, got time to enjoy it all. Before their love — and their colour — died away. A few decades, or years. Months, even.

Some, like Edwin, got far less. Hours, if that.

And some, like Charles Rowland, got no time at all.

~

"They're out of the dark's ragbag, these two

Moles dead in the pebbled rut,

Shapeless as flung gloves, a few feet apart —

Blue suede a dog or fox has chewed.

One, by himself, seemed pitiable enough,

Little victim unearthed by some large creature

From his orbit under the elm root.

The second carcass makes a duel of the affair:

Blind twins bitten by bad nature."

~ Sylvia Plath

"Shut up, mate. That is brills."

Edwin was inclined to agree. Especially now he could appreciate the full effect. He'd been aware, of course, that his form seemed to partially dissolve into a mirage when he passed through solid surfaces. He'd been unaware that the mirage seemed to possess a certain hue. Not unlike the hue beginning to bleed through the filthy window.

The pre-dawn light was different to the majority of the colours Edwin had identified so far. It was colder. Greyer. Pale and stark against the opaque black silhouette of the distant treeline (interesting, how the trees still seemed black in this light. He wondered if he'd get a chance to see this green he'd heard so much about before the night was over.) If Charles' face was warmed by the yellow lamplight, it was cooled at the edges by the seeping tones through the glass.

This, like the red and the blood, came with an easy reference point. Everybody knew that the sky was supposed to be blue.

Seemed Edwin finally had a word for the sickly tint of Charles' lips.

"Why don't you fall through the floor?" Charles asked, puzzled.

"There are many, many, so-called ghost rules," said Edwin, sagely. He had, after all, spent several weeks conducting his own personal study and compiling the rules himself. "I shan't waste your time listing them."

"Well, I only asked about the floor, didn't I?" said Charles, a teasing lilt to his lip. Honestly, the cheek of the man.

"Because I choose not to fall through the floor," Edwin replied, in utterly falsified exasperation. "Happy?"

Charles had a certain way of smiling; one that spread up from his grinning mouth and into his eyes. Despite the cold, miserable state of the rest of him they fairly shone with warmth, a merry humour. A knowing gleam that said 'look at us, in on the joke'.

Edwin had never been in on the joke, before.

Charles chuckled; and Edwin did likewise, helpless to the draw of it. The magnetic sound. It had his lips lifting of their own volition — even as his heart sank further and further into the floor.

The blue devils, that's what his father had called it. On those rare occasions when he acknowledged Mother's low mood, or found Edwin weeping silently upon his bed. "You've just got the blue devils, my boy. Chin up, now, and soldier on. You've better things to do than mope."

He could feel them, now, those blue devils upon his shoulder. Cold, heavy, and the colour of Charles' bloodless lips. Weighing Edwin down like stones in his pockets. He hadn't felt hot or cold in decades, but now he felt as Charles must have done with the chill lake pressing down upon him, filling his lungs. And unlike Charles, he wasn't sure he possessed the tenacity to break the surface before the bubbles stopped.

He'd fought his way from the pits of Hell itself, and yet this climb seemed more insurmountable by far. He was no longer fighting his way from the dark to the light. There was no light above the surface of this icy water, no light at all. The light was here, the entire spectrum of it; above was only grey, grey, grey, as far as the eye could see.

"Oi," said Charles. He looked so very tired; but still inquisitive to a fault. "What other cool stuff can you do, then?"

Edwin huffed. "I can travel through mirrors, if you must know."

Charles' blue lips parted, breath escaping on a wonderstruck wheeze. "Wicked."

He ought to be more careful with his breaths. He couldn't have had all that many left to draw.

~

"We love the sight of the brown and ruddy earth; it is the color of life, while a snow-covered plain is the face of death."

~ John Burroughs

Charles Rowland passed away in the small hours of the morning. Edwin didn't even need to look up from the page; he just watched the pinkish tint bleed from his own ghostly fingertips, and made a deduction.

Even before his passing, Edwin hadn't looked directly at Charles in some time. He hadn't been able to bring himself to. The colour in his ailing new friend had diminished all but completely, his skin a sallow patina, his lips a cracked grey slate.

Edwin had only come to know colour on this night, and already he could feel its absence like a hole in his heart. He understood, now, why Aunt Florence had dragged herself so mournfully through her twilight years. Going through the motions of existing. Colour, for Aunt Florence, had been life; without it, there was simply no point living.

Somehow, Edwin found his voice, and he read on. Because Edwin was no Aunt Florence, arty and flighty and prone to outpourings of passion. Edwin was his father's son; he soldiered on. No matter what.

But the ache in his chest persisted, despite his best efforts to quash it. There had been so much yet to see. He'd never witnessed the colour purple — an expensive hue of which he'd heard a great many appreciative things. He'd never seen a flower, any flower, in full bloom, or watched one of those famous sunsets.

In the end, he never even got to see what his aunt meant about his eyes. But he had no reflection anymore, so. Perhaps that one was always a lost cause.

On the topic of lost causes; there was someone else in this room with him, yet. Someone who'd lost far more than a fleeting glimpse of creation in technicolour.

""— I cease to believe,"" Edwin finished reading with a soft, forced chuckle. To no response. He looked up to find Charles standing tall, gaze turned to the window. It was the first time all night he'd been without his blanket; and the first time he'd borne not the slightest shiver.

Well. At least he would never be cold again.

"Not enjoying this one?" Edwin prompted, gently. "Carrados the blind detective was just becoming quite popular in my day."

When Charles turned around, of course Edwin already knew what he would find. Knew what his own eyes would fall upon when they followed Charles’ gaze.

But knowing did not prepare him for the reality. The cold, desaturated tableau of Charles Rowland's demise, illuminated like a crime scene in the stark white light of the lantern. How a person so vital, so vibrant as Charles should be without blood and colour defied all reason. And yet there he lay; bereft of hue, and of life.

Edwin swallowed, and closed the book gently upon Max Carrados. "When you could see me, I knew it was too late."

Charles was silent. For the first time all night. Silent as the grave.

"But I simply..." Edwin hesitated. "I did not want to scare you."

In the corner of Edwin's eye, the lantern guttered and died. Good. It didn't seem right; all that light upon Charles, and not a drop of warmth in it.

"Well. Glad you didn't say anything." Charles' voice was stronger, now. How different he sounded, without the rattle of lake water in his lungs.

Charles looked at his hands. As did Edwin. How strange they appeared, in the bleak grey of Edwin's impoverished eyes. How unsettlingly close to the pallor his skin had taken on in his death throes. And yet he wasn't pallid, not in the slightest. Standing tall, unchained from his ailing flesh, he was more wholly and healthily Charles than Edwin had yet seen him.

"Doesn't feel like I imagined. Being dead," said Charles, thoughtful. "Feels okay, doesn't it?"

In truth, there was nothing remotely 'okay' about this situation. Edwin felt... robbed. He felt robbed. Because he would never know the colour of Charles' skin when it wasn't frozen grey, or beaten black and blue. He'd never see this Charles, standing tall in the dawning sunlight, the way he was designed to be seen. The way he was chosen, by God or fate or an impossible quirk of biology to be seen, by Edwin. Only by Edwin. For he was Edwin's, no more could he deny it.

And Charles would never see Edwin. Not the way Edwin saw him. Because by the time they met, it was already too late. Because in a wretched twist of fate, Charles’ soulmate — his unfortunate, unorthodox soulmate — was dead in the ground before Charles was even born.

And Edwin had thought Hell to be cruel and unusual punishment.

"I sincerely wish we could have been friends for longer," said Edwin, dropping the magazine and standing from his seat on the old trunk. "But Death will come for you, now. You should go with her when she arrives."

He turned, and began his brisk march to the door. What's done is done; and Charles was, unmistakably, done. Done in and done for, done in just about every sense.

So Charles would be off, now. He'd be off, and Edwin would just have to carry him, too. In his head, with his facts and his torments and a thousand tiny heartbreaks. What was another one, in the grand scheme of things? What else was there to do in this fugitive afterlife but keep his chin up, and soldier on?

"Well I'm not ready, am I?” Charles called out. “I don't wanna go somewhere else, yet."

Edwin faltered. Turned. Charles was watching him.

"What if I stay here for a bit with you, instead?" said Charles, preposterously.

"Then you will always be running from her," was Edwin's quick, logical response. But Charles was still watching him with those... those damnably appealing eyes, and he felt the need to defend his case. "Also, I'm not good with other people. And I only just came back to this school after escaping Hell, so. I'm out of practice, to be perfectly frank. So. When the light comes. You stay, and I go."

He smiled, tightly, and turned once more. There. He'd avoided mentioning Hell all night, but it was done, now. No boy with a lick of sense would —

"Well, I'm aces with other people."

… He simply could not be serious.

"Pretty chuffed you got out of Hell, mate," Charles continued, maddeningly blasé. "That sounds hard. Nice job."

Edwin turned on him, incredulous. "That is not how you make decisions," he snapped, taking a challenging step towards Charles. "Just based on whatever you happen to be feeling in the moment!"

"It's how I lived my life."

Charles turned his head, looked down at his own body. Edwin couldn't bring himself to do likewise.

"Doesn't seem all that different now."

Charles looked at Edwin, unflinching. And what a different creature he was, free of cold and pain. Lithe but lax, eyes slightly narrowed in almost catlike contemplation of Edwin. He stood before a hellbound soul, near naked and freshly dead, and yet the easygoing slope of his narrow shoulders bore no strain.

He shrugged, nonchalant. White light glimmered from his dangling earring. "Looks like you're stuck with me.”

For a moment it was nigh on impossible to believe he hadn't seen it, too. Hadn't seen the spectrum unfold when Edwin said his name. Because how else could someone look at anyone, let alone Edwin, with such certainty? As if he'd never been more sure of anything or anyone in his tragically short life.

Breathtaking was not a word Edwin liked to use lightly. In fact, he preferred not to use it at all. Who had ever seen something so rare, so staggeringly beautiful they'd lost their breath? It was the sort of word Aunt Florence would have used; flowery and hyperbolic.

It seemed Edwin owed her yet another apology.

Light flared in the corner. Their eyes leapt to it. It was of no colour that Edwin could see and yet he could feel it, deep in his soul, he knew its shape and colour; blue. A kinder, softer blue than that of bloodless lips and dreary skies. The wild blue yonder that he was barred from forevermore; the one that awaited Charles Rowland with open arms.

Charles looked at Edwin.

Edwin looked at Charles.

Charles smiled, soul glowing lantern-bright in those dark, confident eyes. He didn't move, not towards the light or away from it, but he held out his hand. Planted like a tree, unbending, unbowed. His roots sunk deep into the loamy earth of life; his branches beckoning Edwin into their boughs.

Oh, thought Edwin, when he understood — didn't see, simply understood — the colour that had been gazing back at him all along. That's the word I was looking for.

~

Thirty years passed, fading into memory, and with them faded the sting. It was hard to mourn the loss of colour when one could scarcely remember what it looked like in the first place. Those fleeting hours blended and blurred amidst the grey years, lost to time; a single hand-tinted frame in a hundred miles of monochrome celluloid.

Though he tried to remember, Edwin struggled to visualise the yellow light that had bathed their faces; the gold that glinted at the cut of Charles' jaw. Pink lips, red veins, the blue stain of death. Such things were impossible to note down in a world of black ink and white pages, and his aide-mémoires soon failed him. The colours fluttered away into the past, scattered to the winds of memory like his mother's smile, his father's voice, Aunt Florence's smoky laughter and the roses she painted on the guest room walls.

But though he could not recall the exact shade of Charles' eyes, nor compare them to any other — not even his own — Edwin knew something about them. Just as he knew Death's light shone heavenly blue. And for once in Edwin's long and tormented afterlife, he felt truly fortunate. Because he'd been allowed to experience only a fraction of what the visible spectrum had to offer; colours he could count on less than two hands.

And yet somehow, by some stroke of luck, he'd seen the best one nonetheless.

~

"At breakfast that morning I had been struck by the lively dissonance of its colours. But that was no longer the point. I was not looking now at an unusual flower arrangement. I was seeing what Adam had seen on the morning of his creation - the miracle, moment by moment, of naked existence."

~ Aldous Huxley

~~

Thank you for coming on this journey with me, my darlings 💛 Love to hear your thoughts! Reminder to check out Olly's amazing gifs! This one took a little while to come together, bc in my first draft Edwin's feelings/progression were a bit all over the place. But I realised that all the sections of the attic scene (not including the very first one/my inserted flashback about Aunt Florence) could track along the five stages of grief quite nicely and that gave me a good framework to loosely follow, starting in his denial of the implications and ending in devastated acceptance of what he's lost. As to why he didn't like, *tell* Charles, well, what would you do? Be honest? If you were a dead Edwardian ghost boy and you found out your actual soulmate was not only another boy, but a doomed one? One who isn't even seeing what you're seeing. Maybe he thought Charles wouldn't believe him, or would take it badly. Maybe he thought telling him would sway him unfairly into staying when Edwin believed he should go. I think he will tell him, one day. And Charles is gonna be PISSED that he kept it from him so long xD For the quotes, I tried to stick to things Edwin could possibly have read, so pre-1989 things, as I like the idea of him using literature as a framework for understanding what he's seeing. It was really interesting writing about colour from the perspective of someone with no reference for it! Some of the quotes might have ended up anachronistic by a couple of years, tbh people are *shit* at sourcing their quotes and while I could source authors easy enough it was hard sometimes to isolate what specific book/anthology the piece came from, or what year it was published. If I'd have had more time I would have done more digging! Anyway, that's about all I got right now. I dunno when I'll be back, probably (hopefully) in a few weeks with the next chapter of Lonely Bones. In the meantime please, feel free to continue chatting with me in the comments, on my tumblr, come be a pal, I've had the time of my life with y'all this week and I'm not ready to get off this train just yet! Until next time! 💛

[hawkbutt]

Nothing was ever wrong - they have never been wrong. But there was something missing - and this was it.

Art inspired by Still By Brewrosemilk on AO3 Author is here on tumblr @gayhoediaz

[last-starry-sky]

Looked at your kinktober list and maybe this idea will stick. For morning sex I just have this cute idea of a lazy morning with your boyfriend (maybe Gaz or Johnny). And you're just hanging out having some tea or coffee. The laziest of mornings really.

I just picture you trying to play your switch or video game. Maybe Stardew Valley or Animals Crossing and they start going down on you. Except they tell you to keep playing.

kinktober day 24 - morning sex

soap x f!reader

[MDNI - NSFW - MIND THE WARNINGS: 1.4k (!!!), established relationship, tooth-rotting domestic fluff, I don't play Stardew Valley so lmk if I got anything very wrong, oral, implied multiple orgasms.]

tag list (lmk if you'd like to be added!): @slut-lmao, @mishaglass

You loved mornings like this: sleeping until the intense morning light pouring through your lacy white curtains forced you up and out of bed. You had tried to roll your back to the window, only to fall against the large, sleeping form of your boyfriend.

You smiled, remembering how he had blown in last night, showing up at your door dead on his feet, hollow and hallowed looking. There had been no time for questions. You simply ushered him into your bedroom, managing to pull off his boots before letting him fall into the soft, pillowy heaven of your bed. 

You let yourself look at his peaceful face. His hair had grown longer and scraggly, his mohawk faded out from lack of upkeep, and a prominent stubble occupied his jaw, making him look so much older. You ran a light hand through the tips of his hair, praying it didn’t wake him. He was sleeping hard, and from the bags under his eyes, he needed it badly. So you turned away, shuffling out from under your down blanket and the lovely little pocket of warmth you had created in it. 

You tried to begin your normal morning routine: breakfast, coffee, shower, workout, etc. You stretched up, toes curling in your slippers, as you shifted back and forth on your toes in the kitchen, trying to will yourself forward. Letting your arms fall back down, you gave in. It wasn’t everyday your boyfriend dropped back into your life, you should take advantage and enjoy it while you could. 

Decision made, you shuffled over to make yourself a cup of tea: steamy, herbal, and with plenty of honey. You hoped the smell wouldn’t wake him. Padding back into the bedroom, you found it didn’t matter. Johnny cracked open his eyes as you entered. They were still as sweet and blue as you remembered. He had rolled over, one of your pillows now crushed between his chest and bicep.

“Mornin’ baby,” you cooed softly, stepping out of your slippers and crawling back into bed.

“Morn’,” he grunted. The singular syllable sounding rough in his throat. “Wha’s’at?” he asked, head following you as you arranged yourself to sit up against your pillows.

“Tea,” you responded, taking a sip. “Want some?”

Words failing him, he answered by unwrapping his arm from the pillow braced to his chest and reaching over. You placed the warm cup, suddenly so small, in his massive hand. You worried about him spilling hot, sugary, liquid all over your bed until he propped himself up with his other arm to take a long, noisy gulp, followed by a satisfied groan.

You let him enjoy the rest of the tea, which he did. You had other things to occupy yourself with. You reached over to your side table and grabbed your phone and Switch off their chargers. You did your usual quick morning scroll through social media: checked in on your family and friends, looked at some cool crafts, and saved a few videos to watch later if your lazy butt ever made it out of bed.

The one thing you didn’t do was pester Johnny with questions. He was barely awake now, eyes mostly open but content to snuggle up against your side, sipping his tea occasionally while you switched between apps on your phone. Whatever situation had taken him away from you this time was over, but had spit him out rougher than you’d ever seen. Mentally and physically, he looked like what he needed most was sleep and a shower, possibly followed by more sleep and then a meal.

“Mind if I play?” you asked, looking over at him, turning on your Switch. You clicked the volume almost all the way down as the screen lit up your face. 

He shook his head, gulping down the last of his tea. He put the cup on the table behind him. Turning back, he removed his stolen pillow to wrap his arm around your waist. He made himself comfortable, pressing his head to your arm while you waited for your game to load.

Soon enough, the little speakers were piping out the soothing, woodwind notes of the opening theme as the title screen dropped in over the pixel mountains. You smiled, thinking of all the things you had planned for your little farm, the townsfolk you needed to deliver things too, and your animals-

“You playin’ t’ chicken game again?” Johnny mumbled as you loaded in, your little farmer shifting out of bed fully dressed, sprinting off, ready to start her day. You couldn’t relate. 

“Yeah,” you answered, letting him pull you further and further down until he was nuzzling your neck with his prickly stubble. “Want-” you laughed, letting your console fall out of your hand as he kissed at whatever skin he could reach, arms wrapping you up tighter and tighter. “Want me to show you all of them?” Johnny didn’t show much interest to any other part of your farm beside your chicken coop and “the little apple guys” as he called the junimos. “I have a blue one now,” you said proudly as you walked over to your coop to let all of them out for the day.

He didn’t answer you, simply humming as he slid his body down the bed and under the comforter. He pushed your legs open to lay between them, a satisfied little moan falling from his mouth when he settled into your warmth. You shivered at the feeling of having his weight on you again, his hands gripping into your thighs as he kissed at your stomach, all while you were trying to concentrate on harvesting your crops.

“J-johnny,” you gasped as he rucked your nightgown up to plant tickling kisses down your navel. He moaned as he crossed down onto your mons, your little hairs now prickling his lips. You managed to pause your game, lifting up the covers to ask him what he was planning to do while suffocating under there.

“Don’t mind me, lovie,” he said looking up at you, that once lost, impish, sparkle now back in his eye. He pushed your hand away, making the white blanket fall back over his head. “Go back t’ your game. Gotta give some love t’ my best girl,” he said with a kiss to your needy, leaking pussy. “Gone so long without her,” he finished with a deep groan.

You clutched your Switch to your chest, determined not to lose it in the bed during sex again, a moan caught behind your hand. Your boyfriend didn’t wait another second to dive in, pulling open your outer folds to lap at your slick, moaning and rolling his hips into the mattress. He was just as desperate as you were. Maybe just as close.

It was embarrassing how quick he pulled you to the edge, suckling on your clit, his tongue pulsing little flicks across the delicate skin and teasing it with the hard edges of his teeth. He had your legs shaking against his back in less than a minute, cunt pulling tighter in anticipation. 

Oh, it was exquisite torture the way he played with you. Putting you just on the edge of heaven and keeping you there until you sobbed and begged. He liked you like that, liked you misty eyed, soft and trembling against your sheets. He’d mumble something disgusting down at you as he pulled himself over you, making sure to knock his hard, leaking cock against your over-sensitive mess of a pussy as he did. Your cheeks would burn, less from embarrassment and more from how badly you needed him, as you agreed to whatever depraved thing he wanted to hear before he buried himself in you. 

Fuck, just the thought of his cock had you wavering closer. You needed him. Needed to be filled with him. It had been too long. You had really missed him.

Neither of you ever lasted long after that, just as Johnny had you cumming now: sparks bubbling across your pussy as your clit throbbed in his mouth. You reeled back with a weak, thready moan, Johnny’s hands held your hips as you shook, not letting you pull away. He kept at it, sucking on you as your moans spooled on and on. 

“Johnny johnny johnny,” you whined, legs too heavy to move, brain too syrupy to form any other word besides his name. 

“Stop?” he hummed, lapping over your bud.

“Noooooo,” you keened, fingers grabbing at his overgrown hair, that sparkling feeling dancing just behind your skin again. 

“‘kay love,” he said diving back in, intent on bringing you as many orgasms as you damn well pleased this morning. It didn’t matter to him. He had a lot of lost time to make up for.

[ao3screenshotss]

[magnifythesun]

Hi! Are you still taking ianthony prompts? I've had this stuck in my head the time Ian's car broke down and Anthony said he begged Ian 6 times to come pick him up and I just imagine Damsel in Distress Ian who's also stubborn and a bit oblivious to a worried and protective Anthony who's always there for him in different situations.

Thank you sooo much for the prompt!!

This is definitely one of my favorite little details that they've dropped about themselves haha!! I can't believe Anthony had to ask Ian SIX whole times just to come get him 😂 Ian truly must never ask for help! Okay, I'm a little rusty in my writing but I'm excited so let's see how this goes! Let me know what you think! ^_^

(mid writing notes: writing this really made me realize just how many times SIX whole times of asking your friend to let you give them a ride is. SIX TIMES)

Read on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56102110

--

Leave it to Ian to get stranded in the only 'middle-of-nowhere' spot in LA. Anthony was wearing tracks into his living room carpet, caught up in rereading the messages Ian had sent.

"Car broke 😢" was the first sign of trouble, accompanied by the sad photo of Ian's car half-pulled off of the asphalt into grass.

"Where are you?" Anthony had shot back, confused by the seemingly rural background of the photo. "Got AAA coming to help?"

"In the most barren part of the whole city." Ian replied after a couple of minutes. "I'm taking a look at at it now but yeah I'm probably going to call them. Car sounds fucked."

"Shit, man. Lemme know if you need a ride" Anthony offered. It only took a second for the reply.

"No worries, I'll be good."

There had been radio silence for a while then. Anthony hadn't been too stressed. He figured Ian already had a different person lined up to get him if his car didn't start back up. Still, he kept glancing at his phone for updates that didn't come.

After about forty minutes, and a quick glance at the clock that told him it'd be getting dark soon, Anthony texted Ian again.

"Triple A fix your car?"

The response was prompt. "Nope"

Anthony stared at the message, knowing this man did not just send him only the word 'nope.' It took a minute but more followed.

"The AAA guy's still looking at it but from what I can tell it's beyond his scope. He mentioned I should probably call a tow truck so I've been looking at reviews."

Anthony glanced outside his window, frowning at the rapidly darkening sky. "That sounds like a good idea. after you call whoever, I can drive over so you have a ride once they've towed yours"

Ian responded quickly, "No don't worry I'm all good."

Definitely must have a ride then, Anthony thought. Still, he had to make sure. "Oh good, you've got a ride then?"

There was a long pause, so Anthony set his phone down, glancing at the setting sun again and went to get some water from the kitchen.

Coming back in to his phone, he checked his messages, and-

"No, I'll probably just Uber."

Anthony was flabbergasted. "Why?? Don't worry man it's no problem for me to pick you up. Let me know where you're at." It was actually just straight up dark outside at this point. "Is the AAA guy still there??"

"Nah he's gone. Waiting on the tow truck."

Alone in the middle-of-nowhere Los Angeles? Anthony thought, In the dark? Worry flared up in his chest and the pacing began.

"Ian, just drop me your map pin and I'll head over."

"It's chill, I'm not in a rush to get home." Ian replied, not a care in the world.

Anthony resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. "that's not really the point??"

Suddenly a picture was loading in on the messages.

Anthony braced himself for a lackadaisical gif (and yes, he pronounced it jif like god and the creator intended) but was greeted instead with a horrendous selfie of Ian holding the phone at an angle an inch from his chin, smiling at him. The artificial light from his phone lit up the interior of his car behind him. Anthony couldn't help but laugh, even as the worry churned in his stomach. Another message followed.

"Don't worry. I'm a big boy now, all grown up and everything."

Anthony considered wracking his brains for a daddy joke, but decided Ian didn't deserve it right now. He grabbed his keys and wallet, flicked off the living room light, and left, locking his door behind him. As he walked toward his car, he jabbed the call button.

It rang only twice before Ian picked up. Anthony heard him take a breath to speak and didn't give him a chance. "Ian, just tell me where you're at, I'm heading to my car now."

"I-" Ian sounded surprised. There was a moment of rustling on the other end, then Anthony was clearly put on speaker as Ian's voice echoed slightly through the call. "Anthony, really, it's fine. The tow truck people have an ETA of like 15 minutes and then I'll call the Uber while they're hooking the car up."

Anthony, now at his car, pressed his eyes closed for a second in annoyance as he clicked his key. He hoped Ian could hear the pointed little beep-beep of his car unlocking in response.

"You really don't have to go out of your way to come get me," Ian continued, undeterred. "I didn't mean to derail your whole night with this," He laughed.

Anthony got in the car and leaned his head on his steering wheel in despair. "Ian."

"What?" Ian asked.

Anthony began to laugh despite himself, "I don't understand," He laughed harder, pushing the words out. "Why won't you just let me pick you up? I've asked you like five times!"

There was a moment of silence from Ian's end, and Anthony knew Ian was processing just how ridiculous this had become. Ian started snickering. Then they were both just laughing, Anthony holding the phone tight to his ear as Ian's laughter poured from it, his other hand ready to turn the car on.

"So," Anthony caught his breath, "So can you -please- drop me a map pin so I can come get you?"

"Alright, alright." Ian said.

Ian's voice was soft and breathless from his laughter. Anthony had spent a long time learning how to properly relish the beautiful moments in his life. The sound of Ian's voice right now, echoing slightly through the phone? That was one of those moments.

Anthony's phone pinged. "There. You happy?"

"Finally, my god." Anthony pulled the phone away to check. "Okay, I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Great," Ian said. "I think the tow truck gets here right about then." Anthony could still hear the smile in his voice. "I'll be here, waiting for you to rescue me."

[starsignchaser]

may 1st | prompt: rose | word count: 759 | @rosekillermicrofic | mentions: drinking | TW Emetophobia

Evan felt the wall of heat behind him before he felt the throb of his head. For just a second he got to pretend like he wasn’t going to have to nurse one hell of a hangover today.

Wincing, he attempted to squish his face directly into his pillow. Maybe if he tried hard enough to avoid the rising sun he could put off the inevitable for just a little while longer. Plus, it would be nice to get to spend a few more hours wrapped up in Barty, warm and comfortable and in their bed.

However, it seemed Barty had other ideas. 

“Rosie… I don’t feel so good,” came a grumbling whisper from behind Evan’s left ear. In the next second, Evan felt the other man go stiff before bolting out of bed and running down the hall to the bathroom. 

Evan half-grimaced, half-laughed, feeling bad for Barty while still taking a little joy in him being the one to spew his guts. They had basically gone shot-for-shot the night before, until Evan tapped out, leaving Barty to do nothing but crow about how it was him who had out-drank Evan. Serves him right for being a sore winner. 

Before Evan had even finished debating the merits of getting up to go rub Barty on the back while sitting on the bathroom floor, the brunette himself returned, standing in the doorway to their bedroom. He learned his shoulder against the doorjamb and squinted at Evan.

“You look like you just rose from the dead.” 

Barty snorted before wincing at his own loudness, “Yeah, I feel that way too.”

He made his way back to the bed slowly, not taking his eyes off of Evan. With Barty’s escape, the sheets had been rumpled in a way that left his bare back lay exposed with his face peeking over his shoulder. 

“You brushed your teeth right? I’m not letting you back in here if your breath is rank.” Evan questioned, trying to sound serious even though he knew he could never turn Barty away.

“Nice and minty fresh, just for you, baby,” Barty said, winking and showing his teeth.

As Barty got closer, Evan went to lay on his back from that only made the other man frown.

“No, no, stay like that. I want to hold you.” Barty said, basically pouting, making Evan roll his eyes. 

“You can still hold me if I’m facing you. Plus, this way I get to see your face.” he responded, trying not to think about the blush rising to his cheeks. He needn’t worry though because he could see Barty soften at his words. 

The two came together under their big warm duvet, Barty on his back with Evan curled into his side, and the blond moved to rub some of the chill out of the others arms. Meanwhile, Barty started tracing little shapes on Evan’s shoulder. He probably thought Evan wouldn’t realize what he was writing, but Evan could always tell.

Mine

Smiling to himself at his boyfriend's antics, he was surprised to feel the soft press of lips to his forehead.

“What was that for?” he whispered, turning his curious gaze up. He was surprised to see Barty looking down at him with almost anxiety in his eyes.

“Rosie,” Barty trailed off, looking like he was struggling to find the right words. Evan was always patient for him.

Another press of lips to his forehead, almost like he couldn’t help himself. Holding himself there for a few seconds, breathing in deep and letting it go, tickling Evan’s scalp slightly.

“You know, right?” came the words, finally, pressed into Evan’s skin.

They didn’t talk about it. They didn’t sit down and go through the formalities of it all. They were Barty and Evan. They had been inseparable since they met, best friends and thick as thieves from day one. And they grew and changed and became even more. Together. But they didn’t talk about it.

That didn’t have to.

“Yeah, B.” Evan whispered back, moving up to meet Barty’s eyes. “I know.”

“You… good. That’s good.” came the almost nervous reply, like the dark-haired man couldn’t believe his luck in being understood.

“And,” a pause, “you know about me too, right? B, you gotta know,” Evan said, moving to lay his hand on the others’ cheek, pulling him in.

“I know, Rosie, I know. I promise,” replied Barty, wrapping his arm even tighter around Evan’s shoulders. 

Laying their foreheads together, wrapped in each other's heat, the pair slowly drifted back to sleep.

[forlorn-crows]

I absolutely love your writing, the "First Time" MountainDew fic almost put me in a coma, I beg you, I desperately need more of them and if Mountain could edge Dew to hell and back and make him cry and beg and then take care of that little mess he is, I would simply ascend. I would die for gentle giant Montain honestly. Please and thank you, if you decide to write. Also never stop writing okay bye 🖤

im glad you enjoyed that fic, i really liked how that one came out! this prompt was a good distraction for me today and from my WIPs, so thank you for that.

a little bit of water ghoul dew and gentle edging earth boy mount for you.

Mountain speeds his hand over Dew’s leaking cock, swallowing all the sweet little moans huffed into his mouth. He smiles against his lips when he starts bucking against his hand.

“N-no, don’t—Mount, please—”

“Not yet, water lily,” he mutters. “A few more, hm?”

“Uhn,” he whines, reedy and desperate. “Lemme cum, please lemme cum.”

Mountain slows his strokes, thumbing over the slit. Slow and teasing, just enough to make Dew gasp and sob. The hot tears pooling in his eyes spill down already damp cheeks, dropping onto the earth ghoul’s collarbone in little splatters. 

“Mount.”

“Uh uh.” He gives the base of his dick a squeeze. Dew almost howls, even more precum spurting out onto Mountain’s hand before he pulls it away completely. ”Wanna hear more of those pretty noises.”

The water ghoul drops his head onto Mountain’s shoulder, sweaty hair falling over his face. His hips are still stuttering, fretfully chasing a fading release. He grumbles. The bigger ghoul runs a soothing hand over his fluttering spine fins. They’re damp and cool with sweat, fully fluffed in Dew’s worked-up state. The warm touch births goosebumps all over his back, and he sighs at the tingly feeling. 

Mountain places a small kiss to Dew’s temple. “You’re doing so well, darling. So so good for me.”

Dew huffs. “Be better for you if you let me cum,” he mumbles into the earth ghoul’s skin.

“That so?” Mountain pushes back the damped locks of silver hair with gentle fingers, smiling at the streaks of tears and the damp lashes on his drooping eyelids. 

Those same eyes scrunch up as his cock gives another involuntary twitch against his stomach. A pained sound falls from his lips, swollen and red from where he had bitten them to stave off release. 

Mountain signs and nuzzles his nose up and down one of Dew’s horns. Holds him a little tighter. “Always make such pretty sounds,” he says softly. “Could really listen to them all day. Jerk you all slow until you can’t take it anymore, that lovely mouth right against my ear so I can hear everything.” His hands are already roaming again, dipping down to knead at the tiny swell of Dew’s ass.

“Fuck,” Dew hisses. 

“That’s it.” He dips down to ghost his lips over the gills on Dew’s neck. The tiny fins quiver under Mountain’s mouth. Dew lets out a breathy moan and tips his head to give him better access.

“Touch me,” he begs. “Please, I’ll be good, won’t cum, but—hah—your hand, you gotta—” Dew continues his nonsensical babbling, pushing his hips further and further into Mountain’s lap. 

“Yeah? I gotta?” Mountain runs his fingers over the fins on Dew’s hips. Light, teasing. Edging closer and closer to his ruddy cock. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Dew clutches the back of Mountain’s neck like he’ll pull away if he doesn’t—though he might just, considering the long afternoon they’ve already had. 

“Yeah?” Mountain dips his tongue into his middle gill just as he palms his tightly draw-up balls, and Dew nearly loses it right there. 

“Lucifersevenhellsfuckingbastard—” The earth ghoul cuts him off by sealing his mouth over the span of his gills and giving a squeeze to the base of his little cock. More of those sweet noises pour from Dew’s mouth unbidden as his big hand works him over once more; short, wet strokes as the water ghoul’s thighs twitch with need. Mountain’s hand wraps around him completely, never leaving an inch of his cock untouched as he strokes.

“You wanna cum, water lily?” Mountain purrs. 

Dew keens, tossing his head back. “Please, oh Mount, please let me cum.”

The earth ghoul polishes the flushed head with his thumb, teasing the foreskin back. “All over my hand?”

“Fuck—yes, let me—”

“You really can’t hold it in? One more time? You said you would.” His voice is honey-sweet, but his actions are anything but. 

“No, nonono.” Dew cants his hips into his hand, close to the edge just as quickly as he was ripped away from it. 

“You’re sure, darling? Want me to give it to you?” Every movement of his lips teases the fins on his gills. The shivers down his spine are relentless, making his cock kick with every wave—and every wave brings him closer to desperation, closer to the point of no return. The way Mountain strokes him certainly doesn’t help him any. 

"Yes—uh—please."

Mountain hums, the end of it leaning more towards a moan. If Dew wasn’t two seconds to busting, he’d notice the shaky inhale, the heaving of his chest that follows. “You always beg so sweetly for me. How can I resist?”

“Fuck,” Dew cries, tears spilling over once more. “Close. Tell me—tell me I can.”

“Go on,” the earth ghoul whispers. “Cum for me, water lily.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Dew’s arching into his hand, sobbing his name as he spills all over his knuckles, even splattering a little onto his own stomach. Mountain just holds him, groaning as some of the milky fluid dribbles onto the bulge in his pants. Later, he thinks. 

Dew collapses into him, chest heaving, arms wrapping feebly around the bigger ghoul. He tucks his face into Mountain’s neck, huffing hot, humid breath onto his skin. The earth ghoul rocks him gently. Whispers tiny words of praise into his silver hair. Ignores the way his ass slots perfectly over his crotch. 

Later.

[ao3-shenanigans]

Would it be rude to ask an author how sad of an ending an ongoing story will be? I don't like permanent major character death stories or Greek tragedy levels of sad ending stories and it's one of the ways this story I'm really enjoying could end up going. There is no indication in the tags or author's notes from what I've seen. Idk I just don't want to be mean or discouraging cause I love the story soo much!!!!!

To be honest, I’m not entirely sure; I know everyone will have widely varying opinions on this which means that it’s a very good question!

On one hand, authors aren’t generally fans of being told what to do or not to do in the comments as that’s not really the place for such things, on the other hand- if it’s a genuine question I don’t really see why not?

I think it really comes down to tone and context:

‘Woah! I love your story! [character/concept] is one of my favorites and you do it so well!

Out of curiosity, may I ask how sad you intend the ending to be?/genq (I’m sensitive to some endings and didn’t notice anything in the tags and as such wanted to be able to prepare myself; if you’re willing to share)

I love this story and am always so excited to see an update notification in my inbox!

Many many kudos!’

^something like this would be, I think, pretty well received by the author and understandable as it’s coming from a place of good intentions and is made clear as such

Of course, if it does end up being a tragedy for the ages, you might have to stop reading, which would be unfortunate but there’s really nothing you can (or should) do to change it. If it turns out to be the case, leave an “Extra kudos!” On the last chapter you read and walk off without further comment- leave on a high note, and hey- bookmark it and maybe one day you’ll be able to come back and revisit the story!

Note: to everyone commenting and sharing their own experiences and opinions, please, above all else, be kind, both to commenters and authors <3

[rhineposting]

Cinders, Regrets and Half Truths

Now that the bear has been put down and buried six feet under, Jack and Dave have all the time in the world to do whatever they desire. For Jack, it's getting his life back. In which two zombies discuss anatomy, the scent of smoked scuttler, plastic hamster breasts and affections.

[thathermitweirdo]

As a writer I must now make RenDoc canon in all fics since they are canonically married now.

RenDoc is coming to BAT

[definitely-nothaunted]

Cirrus and Cumulus cuddling with you during your period - your cheek pressed against Cumulus’ chest, her heart thudding softly in your ear as she plays with your hair. Cirrus is lying behind you, gently holding a heating pad against your lower abdomen. She presses sweet kisses against your jaw and neck as you wait for your pain meds to kick in. They stay with you even after you fall asleep, admiring the way the light of the tv dances across your peaceful features.

[andiwriteordie]

the heartbreak prince | part 2/6: a fight (that someday we’re gonna win). 

“Will,” Mike says and raises a brow, “are you worried about me?”

Again, the words are enough to color Will’s cheeks red, and Mike can’t help but feel a certain sense of smugness in his heart. “I try to be a nice person—” he complains.

“You are!” Mike says gleefully. “You are worried about me—”

“—and then you have to go and ruin it,” Will finishes, giving Mike an exasperated look. Then, with a lowered voice, he adds, “I can’t stand you.”

Or:

As Mike embarks on a month-long tour through Luzios with Will and the Party, he begins to grow closer to his fiancé and work through the shadows of their shared past.

—

chapter 2 of the heartbreak prince for you tonight, featuring:

the tangled-ification of byler 

mike being an idiot (affectionate) for approximately 16k words not so straight

byler kissey kisses 

also if you noticed i increased the chapter count no you didn’t

[chaotic-orphan]

Sooo… I finally wrote it. And let me warn you in advance that it is the absolute worst thing I’ve ever written in my entire life. LIke what in the wattpad fic is this?? What in the c.ai is this??? 

But also, I catered to that one infamous choking anon—look, I tried my best, okay? Also, I do love me a little choking 💀😭

The story may feel disjointed and rushed at parts, but that’s because it is— it has no real plot whatsoever. I guess I was just going for the general vibe rather than a fully fleshed out story? But then again, it is a fanfic, sooo…

Anyways, hope y’all enjoy my pathetic attempt at an Intoxicating Fear fic. Love y’alls lots, and you too, @chaotic-orphan!

xx

-~-~-~-~-~-

The night was a deep blanket of silence as Kit walked home, the distant sounds of the city fading behind him. After a gruelling shift at the hero tower, fatigue clung to him like a shadow. The dark alleyway ahead felt especially foreboding, its walls lined with graffiti that whispered stories of forgotten souls. Streetlights flickered, casting unsettling shadows that danced across the damp pavement, creating an eerie mosaic of light and dark.

Just as Kit turned a corner, a figure lunged from the depths of the shadows—Ambrose.

Before Kit could react, Ambrose tackled him to the ground, the impact knocking the wind out of him. He gasped as Ambrose’s hands tightened around his throat, panic surging within him like a tidal wave. The chill of the concrete seeped into his skin, contrasting sharply with the heat of his rising fear.

"You thought you could escape me?" Ambrose’s voice was cold, filled with a twisted satisfaction that sent shivers down Kit’s spine.

"Let me go!" Kit shouted, desperation creeping into his voice. He strained to summon his electric abilities, but Ambrose’s grip was like iron, dulling his spark, leaving him feeling powerless.

Ambrose leaned closer, a cruel smile curling his lips, the flickering streetlight illuminating his features in a sinister glow. "You’re not in control here."

Kit’s heart raced as he twisted beneath Ambrose, trying to break free. With a sudden burst of strength, he managed to throw Ambrose off balance, but it was temporary. Ambrose was on him again, pinning him down, his hands constricting around Kit’s throat like a vice, the world narrowing to a painful focus.

"Why did you come back?" Kit gasped, struggling for air.

"Because you need to come with me," Ambrose replied, his tone unyielding, as if he were delivering a decree. "You belong with me, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen."

Kit’s mind raced, memories flashing like lightning. The last time he had seen Ambrose, it had been under vastly different circumstances—filled with a familial solidarity, occasional laughter echoing in the air, not this violent chaos.

In his mind's eye, Kit recalled Ambrose and Jude, silhouetted against the city lights, locked in a passionate kiss, their joy stark against the backdrop of a darkening sky. They had looked so carefree, so oblivious to the storm brewing around them.

It was just a rumour, Ambrose’s voice echoed in Kit's thoughts, a haunting refrain. Jude and I... it meant nothing.

With a sudden surge of adrenaline, Kit managed to shove Ambrose off him, scrambling to his feet. But Ambrose quickly recovered, grabbing Kit’s arm and pulling him close again, the smell of sweat and cologne enveloping Kit in a dizzying haze.

"Let’s talk," Ambrose said, his grip still firm, the intensity of his gaze unyielding.

Reluctantly, Kit followed, feeling the tension crackle in the air between them like static electricity. They walked to a nearby bar, its neon sign flickering ominously, casting a ghostly glow on the cracked pavement. Inside, the atmosphere felt heavy, thick with unspoken words and the scent of stale beer mingling with the faint aroma of cigarette smoke.

Max, the bar owner, greeted them with a nod, his weathered face a map of years spent in the dim light. "What’ll it be?"

"Two shots of whiskey," Ambrose ordered, his tone lacking warmth, as if he were merely playing a role in a dark theatre.

As they settled onto the bar stools, the faux leather cracked beneath them, and Kit couldn’t shake the unease that clung to him like a second skin. "What about Jude?" he pressed, muted anger flaring again, the question like a lit fuse.

Ambrose waved a dismissive hand, irritation flickering across his features. "Forget him. We have more pressing matters."

The whiskey arrived, amber liquid glinting under the low light, and they downed the shots, the burn cutting through the tension like a knife. Ambrose leaned in closer, his voice low and conspiratorial. "You still don’t understand, do you? You’re meant for more than this life."

Kit narrowed his eyes, anger bubbling beneath the surface, a tempest ready to erupt. "You think you can just show up and demand I leave everything behind?"

Ambrose’s gaze was intense, as if he were peering into Kit’s very soul. "This place is holding you back," he replied. "You need to step into the light with me."

Kit felt the weight of Ambrose's words, but the alcohol was dulling his resolve, making the room sway slightly.

Unbeknownst to Kit, Ambrose had slipped something into his drink. After another sip, a wave of dizziness washed over him, the world spinning around him like a carousel gone awry.

"What did you do?" he slurred, struggling to stay upright, the edges of his vision blurring.

"Just a little something to help you relax," Ambrose said casually, a predatory glint in his eyes that sent a shiver down Kit’s spine.

Kit’s strength faded, and he felt the ghost of Ambrose’s hand tighten around his throat again, the imaginary pressure making it hard to breathe, suffocating him with fear.

"Why are you doing this?" Kit gasped, panic rising like bile.

"Because I need you to understand," Ambrose said, his tone chilling, devoid of warmth. "You’re mine."

As they stumbled back to Kit's apartment, Ambrose’s presence loomed over him like a storm cloud, dark and oppressive. Inside, Ambrose closed the door with a slow, deliberate motion, the sound echoing ominously in the small space.

"This isn’t over," Kit whispered, fear and anger churning in his chest like a storm at sea.

Ambrose stepped closer, his expression shifting to something darker, more primal. "We need to talk about us."

"Us?" Kit echoed, scepticism lacing his voice, as if he were trying to make sense of a riddle with no answer.

Ambrose held his gaze, eyes intense and fierce. "I didn’t abandon you. I had my reasons, but now I’m back for you."

Kit’s heart raced, caught between anger and the flicker of something darker, something he didn’t want to acknowledge. "You think it’s that simple?"

The pressure around his throat returned, tightening just enough to send panic coursing through him like a wildfire. "You need to listen," Ambrose commanded, his voice low and dangerous.

"You can’t just expect me to forgive you," Kit managed to say, breathless, the words escaping in a whine.

"I came back for you," Ambrose insisted, his grip still firm, unyielding. "You have to understand."

Kit felt the pressure building, the edges of his vision blurring as darkness threatened to creep in. "You’re hurting me," he gasped, his voice barely a whisper.

Ambrose released him slightly, but his eyes remained locked on Kit’s, a predatory intensity that made Kit’s pulse race. "I won’t let you go that easily."

"What do you want from me?" Kit managed, desperation creeping into his voice, the weight of the world pressing down on him.

"I want you by my side," Ambrose replied, voice low and menacing, each word dripping with a power that was both alluring and terrifying. "But first, you need to know what you’re getting into."

Kit glared at Ambrose, heart racing, feeling trapped. "This isn’t love—or whatever you think this is. You’re just trying to control me."

Ambrose stepped closer, the tension between them palpable, electric. "I’m trying to save you. You don’t see it yet, but I’m the only one who can."

"I can take care of myself!" Kit shouted, his anger finally boiling over, a defiant spark igniting in his chest.

With a swift movement, Ambrose seized Kit again, his grip tightening until Kit felt the world closing in around him, darkness threatening to swallow him whole. "You’ll understand," Ambrose said, voice cold and unyielding.

Just as Kit felt he might pass out, Ambrose released him, stepping back, breathing heavily, as if he were wrestling with his own demons. "I want you back, Kit. But you need to accept that I won’t let you go."

Kit staggered, gasping for air, the fear mingling with something else he couldn’t quite place, an unsettling mix of dread and yearning. "What have you done?"

Ambrose’s expression turned serious, the weight of his words heavy in the air. "I’m not playing games. This is about survival."

As dawn broke, pale light filtering through the grimy window, Kit knew he had to confront Ambrose and figure out what he truly wanted. The weight of the night pressed down on him, suffocating yet exhilarating, but he couldn’t ignore the twisted bond that kept pulling them together.

This was only the beginning, and Kit had no idea where it would lead them. The struggle for control would continue, but one thing was certain: he wouldn’t back down that easily.

OSKIT SHIPPERS!!!!

CALLING OSKIT SHIPPERS!!!

WHAT IS THIS MASTERPIECE?!?!! OMG I LOVED IT, THE TENSION THE SUSPENSE!!!! ✨THE CHOKING✨ THE DESCRIPTIONS ARE SO GOOD!!! THE SETTING THE EMOTION, ALL MWAH MWAH MWAH!!!! Not only Oskit Shippers but Judkar too!!!!! THIS WAS SUCH A DELIGHTFUL READ!!!!

PLEASE PUBLISH IT IF YOU’RE COMFORTABLE WITH IT!!! And if not that’s okay too, but fuck this was so enjoyable, if you’re a writer (which you MUST be, even in your spare time) send me a DM or something so I can follow your account if you write ((or you think you ever will)) because fuuuuccckk me your description is IMMACULATE and I want more!!!!

Sorry for fangirling and absolutely no pressure on my part, I just loved that, even if you’re thinking of continuing this, just wow!!! You have an immediate fan

LIKE THAT OPENING PARAGRAPH IS SO GOOD AND THEN IT JUST HOOKS YOU LIKE OMG!!!! This was incredible and the little mystery of the next morning, Kit’s disorientation of last night so good!!!! Just a fucking delight Anon, wow.

Even the dynamics of Kit and Ambrose you caught perfectly, and Ambrose’s need to control Kit🫡 CHEF’S KISS!!! Fuck I will rant more if I don’t stop, I just wow!!!! WOW!!!!! HAH HAH!!!! That was great, thank you for writing it and sharing it wow!!!!! Brilliant!!!!

[self-indulgent-paw-patrol]

What are your favorite Chase moments from the show so far?

Just like with Zuma's post, it's in no specific order, I just really loved all these moments

That first Mission PAW episode when the Princess chose specifically HIM to be the watch dog and guard her crown. That was so adorable I can't even. He seemed so genuinely proud and happy there! Plus he's so damn cute wearing that tux lol

When they were going to rescue Skye and Chase was so worried upon hearing that she was the one in need of rescue. Then when Ryder was choosing which pups would be part of the rescue, that moment he was like "Pick meee pick meeee-"?? That was so cute, he really cares about her and wanted to impress her so bad lmao personally make sure she would be safe (Bonus points for his excitement over being picked for the rescue and everyone else like Go ahead king, we all know you wanted this XD)

The entire time he spent with the owlet and working to rescue the mama owl from that fallen tree. It was so sweet!! The fact I also love owls surely didn't help AUSHAUSHAUSHAU I love that episode SO MUCH

That moment when he finally turned into a Merpup. Poor boy was so fixated on "being on duty" despite wanting SO BAD to go and participate in "the fun". And he couldn't even enjoy being a merpup immediately because he was transformed just because he needed to swim faster for the rescue but he was so overjoyed anyway! Only after that mess, he could go and finally have the fun he wanted and deserved so much.

That moment in the first Sea Patrol episode when he and Skye were left behind at the beach while the rest of the team went on the first mission with the Sea Patroller. His face upon SEEING the HQ turn into a ship and sail away was just priceless XD (Also it's rare to see Chase being put on the sidelines for once lmao)

The first Ultimate Rescue episode!! God, Chase was SO HAPPY. He's THE Police Pup, he gets to lead the mission, supervise, plan, give orders. And the way all the other pups clearly loved the experience and were SO ON BOARD with being Police Pups with him, it was just awesome!

So far these are my favorite moments! Actually I legit just got to watch this first Ultimate Rescue episode like one hour ago. Not to mention it took me five days to think of these moments and then go find the episodes again to take the respective screenshots XD