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musouie · 3 months ago

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃-𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐀𝐖𝐍 ⋮ 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒

broadcasting announcement ⋮ the annual purge begins

DDDNE ⋮ toji fushiguro x fem!reader, explicit violence, gore, fear, purge au, reader in her 20s ﾉ toji in his 30s, attempted murder, bondage, referenced cannibalism, sadism wc: 8.5k

anthology masterlist . . . 𓅨 . . . ao3 version

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 was a smothering hush that only ever came before the Purge. That brought with it something primaeval — perverse and cunning — that slithered through the acrid air of the city.

You could almost taste it — hidden in the metallic twang on your tongue — the bloodlust, the horror...the desire. It came to you in flashes — caused your flesh to prickle and pull itself taut as you pictured an axe through your boss’ head, the bit lodged clean between his eyes as his body crumpled like a ragdoll, brain matter fanning out by your feet. Clinging to your shoes. Staining your trousers.

It was grotesque and inhumane and bestial (and oh-so-relieving), but that was what it always did. Corrupted then soothed. Infected then lingered. In the back of your skull, the spaces between your fingers, the tip of your tongue —

— until you thickly swallowed. Tried to force it down; render it inert. Store it where all the other ugly things hid. (By now they’ve coalesced with each other. Formed a monstrous fusion of rotten flesh, weeping boils, black tar.)

But this… this was much more potent. More restless. With jagged edges and serrated claws and a syrupy scent that quickly turned sour as you tried to force it down the velvety walls of your throat, phlegm bubbling from the roof of your mouth. It needed to be known, known, known — like an ill-tempered child that hadn’t gotten its way, pulling and tugging, beating its fists against your insides until you bled.

So, you swallowed again. And again and again, until you could feel it begin to burn, burn, burn — like flames from a dragon’s maw — down your throat, warming your belly, and scorching up your oesophagus as it howled with its brethren. Subdued, for the moment, but eager and clawing. (Scratching at flesh, peeling skin back. Where all the other ugly things hid.)

When your lips parted in a sigh, your tongue passed over the backs of your teeth to swipe at the residue — ensure none was left behind.

And none was left, thankfully. No savoury remains lodged between canines and molars. No tinge of metal nor sharp sting of tang.

...Nothing.

Now, the only things to fear were those who could not so easily resist. That revelled in the taste — the sourness of it, the relief of it, the depravity of it — shamelessly. That drank in the screams and the terror as though they were the finest of wine, rich and deep, so rare they chose to exploit it:

…The weaker of man —

the purgers.

In the corner of your dim apartment, your dingy radio sputtered to life, broadcasting a morose, wailing tune before a scratchy voice began speaking through the crackling:

“In 5 minutes time,” it warbled, excitement evident even through the fissures in the signal. The buzzing, the low rumble, like the hum of bees swarming close and waiting to pierce skin and tear into muscle.

“I repeat, in 5 minutes time, the nation’s citizens will begin their annual purge, commencing the release of all tensions, frustrations, and violent urges deemed socially and criminally taboo. Caution: once the purge begins, all services — including police, fire, and emergency-medical — will be unavailable. All emergency services will re-operate when the purge ends.

May the odds be ever in your favour.

Happy purging to one and all.”

Happy Purging, happy purging, happy purging.

Happy… purging?

A scowl marred your face as the static petered out, silence trickling back in with the lack of audio to fill the absence. There was nothing happy about the Purge. Couldn’t be…no matter how prettily they tried to wrap it. (Red ribbon and all — bruised, foetid flesh at the centre, straining against its garnish as it was bound tight.)

To dress it up and water it down — turn the carnage, the destruction, the sheer, animalistic violence into something that didn’t crawl along the underside of the tongue (up the spine, through the marrow), into a time for unwinding, a time of excitement, celebration — was despicable. Made you sick. Turned your stomach into writhing maggots and your throat to dried clay.

Your teeth grinded together as you checked the barrel of your pistol, slamming the magazine in with more force than what was probably necessary, on the verge of grating your teeth to dust. The metal whinged quietly, a high-pitched sound that soon gave way to a muffled groan when you holstered it at your hip, shrugging on a faded grey hoodie that was a size too large, frayed and bunched awkwardly about your wrists.

You then padded across the scuffed floor, heavy soles of your combat boots thudding mutedly across the wood as you made your way to your bed, snatching up a hunting knife you kept underneath your mattress. Carefully, you slipped it into your boot, nestled between leather and your lamb’s wool socks. Safe. Warm. Hidden . Like a babe in the womb.

And just like a babe in the womb, the blade would eventually be drawn forth, umbilical cord severed, and would be set loose. From one darkness to another of a different kind.

(Where all the ugly things hid.)

With a final cursory glance around your small apartment, you flicked off the light switch, plunging the room into darkness as the siren sounded.

As if summoned, shadows seeped and formed. Intruded and flocked to each other as they always did, like greedy crows fed one too many times.

They crept forward, licking at the shabby, moth-eaten rug, and the rusted, bent, broken pipes that snaked across the ceiling, and the cracked, peeling paint on the walls. And then they moved to you, as if compelled. As though they’d just sniffed you out and couldn’t resist a bite.

They writhed and twisted and contorted, stretching their long, bony wisps-for-fingers out towards you. Beckoning, calling, crooning :

Come. Come. Come.

A poorly veiled request, but you saw it for what it was. A demand.

Long, inky fingers crawled across the room, dragged themselves down the walls, grabbed for you and quivered with anticipation.

Come. Come. Come.

But the lone source of light from beyond your window, seeping through the yellowed blinds, seemed to stop them short. Caused them to screech and fizzle and sear as they ghosted near where you were. Repulsed.

Outside, the sky had split open into nothing but the reds, oranges, and violets of hellish flames as the sun began to sink. As its rays trickled in one by one, the shadows shrank away, slinking back into the corners and the crevices and the cracks and the fissures and the holes and the tears.

(And the spaces between your fingers, and the tip of your tongue, and the back of your skull.)

And then finally…you heard the screams. The dreaded, dreaded screams.

The Purge had finally begun, and the beast had stirred.

You were now a mix of the most peculiar kind.

Half woman, half chair. Meshed and moulded and sewn with the worn wood of the seat, the armrests, the legs. Your spine curved in a similar manner to the back of the chair, and your arms were fused by sweat to the rests. Your elbows were locked and your wrists limp, clothed legs weaved into the wooden ones of your perch, right down to the toes.

Perhaps that was why you couldn’t feel a thing below your waist. No creeping tingles in your calves, nor a dull throb in your toes from the nippy autumn air, or even the lancing ache of having sat in one spot for a good couple of hours now.

Just… nothingness …

To stay like this was no good. You knew . You’d have to move eventually — whether by force or mere survival. (Like how birds flocked south, or deer bolted when a twig snapped, or mice scurried to corners, or frogs fled to ponds. Anything to get out of the chair, and out of the chair, and out of the chair.)

But you couldn’t move.

Refused to.

Somehow, you convinced yourself that the moment you rose, if only an inch, the monsters would come. They would smell the fresh blood pumping through your veins, the adrenaline, the fear, the fight . And they would descend upon you, ripping you limb from limb, tearing the meat from your bones, feasting on the innards, and leaving you a hollowed husk.

A shell of what once was.

A blood-curdling scream pierced the air, and you flinched . Torso violently jerking to the side as your head moved with it, legs still tethered, arms rigid. The cries grew in their intensity the farther along they drifted, until they were shrieking. Raw and untamed and enraged , and the only thing louder was the boom-crack of a gun firing.

Yes ...you were much safer here. In the chair, in the chair, in the chair. Where even Rationality could not touch you. (After so long, it hardly ever tried.)

So in the chair you took root, like a stubborn mutt clinging to its master, unwilling to part. And in the chair your fingernails dug, leaving jagged crescent moons which left your flesh raw and stinging and throbbing . And in the chair you remained, situated between the window and your door, (between certain death) and waited. Listened.

And waited.

And listened.

And waited.

And listened.

Ignoring the slight pressure building in your bladder.

Your ears strained, trying to pick up any sound: the scrape of a shoe, the rustle of clothing, the click of a gun. It’d be comical, in almost any other situation, how desperate you were to hear a sound. Anything . How desperate you were for the presence of another.

But there was nothing . Only the steady drip, drip, drip of the leaky tap in your kitchen, and the rustling of leaves as their shadows swam across your walls.

You pressed your thighs together.

It was tantalisingly slow, the water, how it seeped from the pipe, hung precariously — for seconds, hours — before eventually relinquishing its hold. A single bead trickling down, down, down the smooth mouth of your sink. Another then following. A second. A third. Each one stacking themselves atop the last like ants until the stream began in earnest.

The stream. Yes, the stream. You couldn’t help but notice it. Hone into it.

Its trickle became a gentle swell, and the gentle swell a rushing torrent — as if taunting, rubbing salt into a festering wound as the pressure against your bladder worsened. Begging you to rise, rise, rise and quell it, make it disappear.

It was a battle that lasted but a matter of moments, and one which you lost with ease, the discomfort and desperation finally outweighing the fear of discovery. (And the madness and the hysteria and the terror.)

You stumbled forward on shaky legs, aching limbs trembling at every step, a dull ringing filling your ears, drowning out any and all sound.

Except for the dripping.

The dripping, the dripping, the dripping.

You gripped onto anything you could as you dragged your anchors for legs across the floor, a tingling sensation peppering itself throughout your toes — your calves, your knees, your hips. A tickle at first, but soon enough, a sharp ache. A pain so excruciating, you were certain you would have screamed.

Drip, drip, drip.

With each step the drops grew harsher, sharper. No longer water but pellets of lead, bludgeoning against the drain as they tore down the steel. An avalanche; a horde. One after the other until they drowned the leaky faucet whole.

Drip, drip, drip.

It strung you along, fish to bait through the murky water, hooked itself straight through your bottom lip, past the molars, and back through the cartilage of your jaw. But even with the hooks and barbs, it wasn’t forceful. It didn’t need to drag you to it, but only led, waiting, trusting — its stream ever-widening into a sea, the staccato thrum turning into a symphony of rolling, crashing waves as you reached the sink.

You were so close. So, so close, you nearly trembled, nearly sobbed.

And—

A light push was all it took for the sea to cease. For it to go silent. It did not trickle, no. Its end was instantaneous. (A brush of fingers against steel. And then a squeak. A squeal. A screech. Dwindling to a creak as it fell silent.)

—Then,

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Your brows furrowed as you heard the drops sound once more. Hand still on the head of the faucet, you pressed down. Once, twice. The faucet was shut tight … so just what was that sound?

It changed the next time you heard it. One hesitant drip and two loud ones, bordering on that of a bang. You padded around your apartment, making sure to listen keenly. Hoping the monster didn’t follow the sounds of your footfalls, nor the pound of your heart, and instead, focused on the drips. On that incessant drip, drip, dripping —

You turned a corner.

— or the bang, bang, banging —

The sounds seemed stronger towards the front of your apartment. Past the guest bathroom, down the hallway, and…to the door?

— or the knock, knock, knocking.

...Knocking.

So close now, you finally realised what the sound was. And all that it wasn’t. Three quick knocks sounded again — more aggressive this time. Panicked. And after gnawing on the inside of your cheek, scraping at gum and flesh and veins, you relented — moving closer and craning your neck to peer through the peephole.

There were no eyes (white or dead or hollow) that greeted you; no sharp canines or silver claws or black tendrils; no miasmic smoke or smoky musk or any form or any colour at all.

It was just a woman .

A red woman — no . A woman drenched in red. The difference was palpable, almost to a ludicrous degree. While her clothing could very well have been a deep scarlet, or even brown, you knew — felt — the way it clung to her body: her skin, the gory bits. Knew the deep scarlet was as she would remain for all time, the bright and the red, because they were hers . Not the clotted, smeary crimson on your door, not the viscid red that slopped against wood with a wet schluck — but the viscid red which smeared her hands.

All her burden to bear.

“P-Please help!” she cried, as though she knew your eyes roamed over her. Curiously, warily. “My son…” She trailed off; opened her mouth a few times before closing it and frowning.

You watched as she attempted to compose herself, tucking her trembling lip behind her teeth and clenching a fist that no doubt smeared her wound an even deeper shade of crimson.

She was shaking. Trembling like a newborn foal. And through her fingers, and the gushing and gore, her lips peeled back, revealing white, jagged teeth, her breaths haggard as tears carved rivulets through the mess of it all.

As they trailed down her cheek, down her chin, down her neck.

Smearing, smearing.

(Staining.)

“T-They hurt my son…my —” Her voice cracked, a porcelain bowl to tile. “— my Johnny.” She pounded her fist against your door once more, and you briefly wondered how they weren’t bloodied. Down to a pulp. The bone. “I know you can hear me!” She tiptoed between hysteria. “P-please. He’s so young — doesn’t have much more time left. I-I can’t see my baby die. God , I don’t wanna see my baby die.”

Her head hit the wood of your door with an ungracious thump, as did her arm; a solid, decisive, finalisation to her words. One which almost forced you to respond, to crack your door a tad and peer through, if only to check whether her forehead remained intact. If only to assuage yourself with a pat on the back when it was.

“Please…” She croaked. “Please.”

Her hands slunk to the handle sluggishly, as though she did it in a state of near unconsciousness. When she tried turning it and felt the lack of give, she simply didn’t seem fazed. Instead, she whimpered, her forehead sliding down until her face was pressed against the cool, unforgiving metal — eyes squeezed tightly, brow screwed in concentration.

“My boy. My little Johnny. Please, my Johnny. I’m begging you…”

“It’s…the Purge, ” you finally whispered, albeit harshly, scolding her in what you thought was a subtle way.

She seemed shocked at first, that someone truly stood on the other side of the door, that she hadn’t been talking futilely to herself. But so quickly, as she registered your words, her expression melted into one of anguish, the tremor in her lip quickening.

“I kn-know it is,” she rasped. “B-but he’s dy—!”

“— It’s the Purge.”

She begun to wail. “Do you have no heart? My only son is –” there was a gurgle, like she was choking on the blood and phlegm that’d gathered in her mouth. “– dying! Have some humanity… s-some mercy! That’s all I ask.”

You scowled. She’d asked for so much more and didn’t even realise it, or perhaps didn’t care for it, for what you’d sacrifice if you opened the door. Something so irreplaceable, that you were content with playing the monster she so desperately tried to make you out to be. The monster she couldn’t recognise in herself.

“Where is your son?”

Her face shot up, eyes dancing. There was a twitch in the muscle beneath them; a jolt, a quiver, and soon they widened. “He’s just down the corridor, i-in our apartment a few doors down. I couldn’t touch him, couldn’t bring him, h-he was bleeding so much, I-”

“You left him there, unguarded and alone?”

“N-No! I’m protecting him.” Her eyes were wild now. Desperate. “A-Always, from the minute he was born. I’ve been a good mother. I ha- I have. I-I’d do anything to protect my Johnny, my sweet boy, that’s why you need to come, have to come help. Please, God, just open the door — open the goddamned door! S-So we can save him, so he won’t fucking die!”

There was silence then. Deafening, save for her choked, wet whimpers as she sagged against the door, holding onto the handle as though her life depended on it, on you. “Please…” she softly begged, for the umpteenth time, her voice a rasp and strained, scratchy from exertion.

From the angle of the peephole, you couldn’t see her any longer, but you knew she was still there by the faint sniffling that’d begun —crawled inward. That , and you could practically taste the desperation that oozed from her heap, in great, quivering waves.

“My son…”

And, foolishly, with that and an easy lick, a sort of silent surrender — an indulgence — you swallowed it whole.

“...Where is he…your son?”

Her breath hitched. “I-In his room. They’d snuck in and... afterwards I told him to stay put.”

“They left?”

She nodded. “Took some jewellery and money before stomping out the door like they owned the place. Fucking pigs.”

You nodded, a gesture unseen, as alarms sounded in your head, blaring even louder as your hand wrapped around your door handle, and her own slowly rotated it too, in return. How you two synched like a pair, almost in tandem, was a wonder (or a fright). (Her, now the mime, and you, the willing puppet, pulled along by another string of your making, and obliged to dance to the tune of another’s.)

Nothing good could come from this, would come from this, you didn’t even know if she truly had a son — if it was truly blood that clung to her body. But just the thought of him bleeding out alone, paralysed with fear, squandered all doubts. You saw a piece of yourself in him — a piece that you’d long buried, that’d burrowed beneath dry soil as your father’s blood followed closely behind — perhaps to your detriment.

(The worst thing was your empathy. The worst thing was your empathy. The worst thing was your empathy.)

Like an ouroboros, you began. Biting your tail, you began. An endless cycle of giving when you had no room to, until you were wrung out of all and everything. (You were a fool, a fool, a fool.) With a shaky breath, you slid the deadbolt and unlatched the chain.

And so easily, as though waiting on you, the door swung open.

Immediately, a rush of cold, rank, stifling air greeted you with a soured welcome, its rancid scent strong enough that you were almost tempted to shut the door once more (better safe than sorry, than dead and sorry, better safe and sorry). The red, all the red, slathered across the walls and floor, the grime and guts that trailed and decorated the corridor, was enough to send a foot backwards, inching towards your apartment — towards safety.

But the woman, the mother, with her motherly instinct and motherly resolve and motherly desperation, grabbed your arm, nails digging into the flesh and nearly tearing, the redness from her skin staining your own as she dragged you with an animalistic grip — with no grace, no hesitance, or awareness of her forcefulness. Only pulling — yanking.

Her clipped, gasping breaths rushed hot past your ear, urging you to hurry, to move — and move you did. To the rhythm of her desperation, and the thrumming of your heartbeat as the cold permeated deep to your core, to the muscle, until it turned rigid in a stiffened panic. Past the red, the grime and guts.

“This way,” she rushed, and you nearly tripped over your heavy feet, her fingers pulling and curling around your own before her other hand grasped your elbow, like she was guiding you through a throng of people as you moved onward.

She didn’t seem fazed at all. Or to even notice. Instead, she walked with long, striding steps, pulling you behind her until you finally righted yourself and followed in her bloodied wake. She only stopped when she reached a door with ‘901’ on its front, a trio of numbers that were rusted and dull.

The door was ajar a crack, just wide enough for a small, narrow sliver of darkness to slip through. A glimpse of the horrors within. But when you stared forward, for longer than you should have, you could hear the faint, lilting shushing sound, barely perceptible — like a rush of wind in the quiet, a rush of wings past ears. Until her panicked breaths filled your eardrums once more; a bird call of her own.

“His room is to the right,” she murmured, pushing on the door until it was wide enough for you both to fit past its threshold. You followed her finger to a closed door, the quiet darkness peeking past the crack inviting you. Comforting. She said something else, but you were beyond listening at that point. And far beyond listening, as a string was tugged and pulled, and you entered the hallway without a second glance.

Once you stepped inside, the air was oppressive. Stifling. Dense. Musty.

In the distance there was a long, deep cry; guttural, and forced. Caught somewhere between a shudder, a cough, a wail — a gasp. The further you stepped into the moon-lit room, you realised the sound was coming from beneath a bundle of sheets and blankets, where they pulsed and shook, as the wheezing grew softer, more hesitant. Almost on the cusp of ceasing.

You quickened your steps, coming to a stop by the foot of the bed — of a green dinosaur — placing a hand atop the mass of fabric. “Johnny?” you cooed, sang in some sort of way. You knew that he’d need coaxing to reveal himself, that, no doubt, he was more frightened than you. So, as he quivered and convulsed, you pulled up the corner of the sheet, and, very slowly, began to tug.

But as the sheet began to slip away, an arm jerked out — or a leg — and swept it right back into place.

You frowned. “Johnny, I won’t hurt you. I’m a friend of your mommy, I just want to see if you’re alright.”

Silence.

Then a groan, low and wretched and throaty, was stifled beneath the fabric. The mass spasmed in turn.

Your shoulders tightened at his refusal to speak, and so your words came faster, tinged with a neediness which should’ve been absent in your voice. And so was the subtle command: “If you can just show me, it’ll be over in an instant, and I’ll leave.” Your lips quirked. “Pinky promise.”

And, when he made no effort to reply, you persisted. Pulling down the sheets slowly, carefully, inch by inch, a sort of sick amusement in it all. A curiosity, which was eclipsed only by your underlying urge to run.

But as the sheets began to fall, your heart thumped with some sort of triumph. A light lock of hair revealed itself, before another, and then another and another until a patch of skin and a forehead became visible.

“Good,” you cooed again, breathing heavily through your nose as your heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings. “Just a little bit more and I’ll leave you. Okay?”

A jaw came into view, then the curve of a cheekbone. As more and more were revealed, a pang of nausea coiled and wound itself up your chest like barbed wire. Tightly. Despite yourself, you leaned in closer, brows tightening as you gripped the edge of the blanket, preparing yourself to tear the fabric away completely. To tear and yank and see all and everything that you wished to and—

“Johnny…”

(The worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy.)

Something in you froze as a beady eye peeked up at you, regarding you coldly with a lash-coated glare, crow’s feet prominent and pulled taut in a derisive look that had you frozen on the spot.

“J-Johnny?”

(The worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy.)

Teeth revealed themselves next, pearlescent yet decayed, rotting and black in places, yellowed in others, canines pointed like the stab of daggers. Rows and rows and rows.

As you gasped and jerked away, he leaped, soaring right towards you, giggling all the while.

“Gotcha!”

The man ensnared you in his arms, cradling you to him, clutching so tightly that your breath hitched at the sheer force of his embrace.

“Mama’s boy!” He shrieked. And again: “Mama’s Boy!” And, as though that was the cue, two more men jumped out from the corners, leaping towards you with crooked grins.

You scrambled backwards, yelping in turn. But instead of escaping, you fell. Like a ball. Fast. Freely. Hurtling with no direction, no guide, no reason, into the depths of nothing, nothing, nothing, dragging the man with you, and—

Down below, a red rug laid. Plush. Thick. Quivering. It stretched infinitely, an impossible length, unnatural.

Even more so, as it curled and warped into a creature: a thing of myth and fantasy, as your head slammed against its leathery skin. You lurched forward with the impact, catching yourself as you dived face first onto the rippling crimson scales, and scrambled to right yourself and escape.

“Nuh uh, not so fast sweetheart.” The one with the emetic grin leered at you, smile still plastered across his face as he tightened his grip around your leg and pinned you to the ground. “We worked hard to get ya’. Waited so long for one of yous.” He brought his face close to your hair and inhaled deeply, sniffed like a hound – a beast. “A beaut. ”

From your left, one with a rotted face, mottled and grey like a half-eaten maggot-ridden fruit, grabbed your shoulders and wrenched them down, forcing you flat against the rug. They both hovered above you now, two pairs of eyes trained on you as you squirmed about atop your fleshy cushion,

(which rippled and thrived with your every movement)

as the third — with his ashen skin and long nose, like a snout or a hook — perched himself between them with a cheshire-like smile, thin-lipped and crudely forced. It curled into his eyes, crinkling them until it became nearly too wide — too inhuman.

It went on like that for a terrifying minute: the staring, the breathing, the thumping of your heart and the trembling of your limbs (The horror, the horror.) It was only when you gasped at the hands on your shoulders, that began to move in a circular motion — as if to soothe — that the quietness severed.

“We’d never let ya’ go so quickly.” It was the rotten one that spoke, that rubbed. “Yer our lil’ prize after all. Can ya’ believe tha’ good fortune? That we get a taste a’one of yer kind? Pretty little things, damn near perfect . Nothin’ like the ones out in th’ country… a sour lot, all of ‘em.”

The hooked-nose man snickered at that. Cackled really, like a hyena. Like a madman. Clutching his ribs as though he’d never heard anything funnier — and soon enough, everyone had joined in on the chuckling. Everyone but you.

(The scales beneath you bunched and juddered and squirmed, moved along with their jerking motions as they shook with mirth.)

“Bonnie!” Mama’s Boy called out, amusement still rippling through him. “C’mere.”

You heard a faint shuffling, shoes against the hardwood floor, and before long, the red woman appeared in the doorway. Her eyes widened as they flitted from Mama’s Boy to you, and her face screwed with a mixture of distaste and sorrow, like she’d just bitten into a fruit long past its ripeness, the rot souring her tongue. “I’m so sorry—” she began, before Mama’s Boy cut her off.

“—Fuck a’ ya’ sorry for, Bonnie? You done good. Got us a real treat, didn’t ‘spect that from ya’.”

“H-he threatened to kill my Johnny if I didn’t bring someone to him!” She wildly gestured to her side, and it was then that you noticed the little boy clinging to her leg. He couldn’t have been more than seven, face pudgy and round, a tell-tale sign of youth — of innocence . And yet, your lip curled at them both, twisting into an ugly thing as you noticed he hid further behind his mother when your gaze settled on him. His red, red mother. “I couldn’t let him do that — couldn’t let anyone hurt my Johnny. I’m a good mother, I told you that. A good , good mother. I…”

“So it’s okay if I’m hurt?�� You nearly growled, and the men that restricted your limbs began to whoop.

“Feisty one too, ain’ she?”

“Love the ones that have a lil’ spunk to ‘em.”

You ignored them, despite their nearness. Their intrusion.

“It doesn’t bother you that I’ll die in order for your son to live? That you dragged me out my home, to save your son that is perfectly fucking fine?!” By now you were shouting. Shouting and trembling and livid.

“Hey hey hey now,” the one on the right — Maggot Face — growled, slapping a dirty, bony hand across your cheek. You flinched. The sting had you seething. Teeth baring in a display you were sure looked pathetic. “She did what she had ta’ in order ta’ protect ‘er offspring. Yous a smart girlie, got no right gettin’ upset ‘bout somethin’ like this.”

“No — no right ?!” you sputtered, disbelief forcing a mirthless laugh from you. “I— You...I never agreed to being a fucking kill!”

In response to your outrage, he placed a dirty knuckle beneath your chin and lifted, forcing your face near his rotten one. “Aye, I got it. She’s all feisty ‘cause she don’ know what’s gonna’ happen to ‘er. Guess I’d be mad too, if I were a mere sow like ‘erself. Innit right, boys? Clueless bitch wouldn’t get it any other way.”

Hooknose nodded as Mama’s Boy stroked a hand through his oily hair, murmuring a “They never do I ‘spose. S’only their nature.”

Maggot Face leaned in closer to you, and this close, you could practically see insects crawling. Smell the decay — the death — and all the sourness it brought with it. “I’ll tell ya’ then, yer fate, since yous so damn upset over it.” He grinned, and it’s then you realised the difference between him and the others:

He truly was a rotten thing, no semblance of life in him. When he smiled, you saw that all his teeth were brown and had been sawed down to nubs. As if they too, had endured his wrath.

“Ya’ ain’t just a kill to us, girly. Yous a…” He turned his head, looked to the others. “What’s the word again?”

Hooknose simply shrugged his shoulders, but Mama’s Boy chuckled. “Release.”

Maggot Face digested the word. Chewed it between what little teeth he had in that big, burly maw of his, one of a beast, and nodded. “Aye, a release. Yous a release to us. Much more important than just some kill…kills we don’ care for. S’all ‘bout the fun, then. With you,” his knuckle moved up up up, pressing against the fat of your lip. “S’all about… savouring your taste. The perfect meal takes time don’ it? Even the Last Supper was built upon anticipation an’ longing. And I want to make sure all o’ ya’ has ta’ be ingested thoroughly and with relish.”

Your lip quivered as you wrangled to move out of his grasp, but oh-so-quickly — so terrifyingly — like a switch in him had been wrenched upwards, his grip grew harsh, fingers biting your skin enough to bruise.

“So don’ be difficult , you spoilt lil’ city bitch. Yer special…ain’ that whatchya ’ want? To die a meanin’ful death?”

You understood all that he left unsaid, it translated itself through the hunger in his gaze — the greed : Tonight, you were dying regardless.

And so, you screamed. Screamed and screamed until a greasy hand moved to cover your mouth, muffle your wails, and you shook and sobbed.

“I’m sorry. I-I’m so, so sorry.” Your eyes shot up to the red woman, chin lifting just a little. You’d nearly forgotten her, presence closely akin to a coat rack; in your remembrance you screamed louder. Her trembling reached a near violent degree. “J-Johnny let’s go. Let’s go. Mama’s tired, let’s go.”

You watched as she ushered the little boy out the room in a tight grip, prying his curious, wide eyes from your form with the twist of his head. Her apologies continued, reverberating throughout the apartment long after she’d exited.

“Oh, don’ fuckin’ scream now. Shut yer fuckin’ trap or I’ll do it for ya’,” Mama’s Boy snarled, grip so cruel that he forced your skin to fold and lift, pushed your features together like you were nothing more than something for him to break.

But you only screamed louder, blood rushing to your ears. It sounded warped — distorted and deep. Nothing like your voice, but more a macabre mix between a deep gargle and an elongated squawk. You looked like an animal — were being treated as one, so why not behave as such? You’d scream. Yelp and hiss and bite and lash out if it meant giving them something other than a docile and obedient kill. You wanted to be the last meal they ate, the one that ruined the fun.

“Get the rope.” Mama’s Boy ordered over his shoulder, before turning back to you, teeth razor sharp and glinting in the moonlight. “You enjoy bein’ a stupid, bad girl, dontcha? Fuckin’ city cunt wants to behave like a bitch, well she’ll get treated like one. Won’t ya’? Now gon’ look what you done.”

Your head lolled to the side as you watched Hooknose trek to the corner where he’d hid. There was a faint rustling, of fabric against fabric and a zipper being yanked before he shuffled back over, rope coiled in one hand and —

Your eyes bulged from your skull as a whimper escaped your lips, muffled by the palm of his hand, still pressed so tightly to your mouth.

— a ball gag in the other.

“See, this is what ya’ made us do. This is what bein’ bad gets ya’,” Mama’s Boy cooed, but even with his gentler tone his grasp grew tighter. It had you whimpering more, body convulsing. The corners of your vision grew spotty and blackened — frothing darkness encroaching inwards and outwards at an alarming rate until it was nearly all you could see. Until nearly all of you had turned black and bruised. “Open wide now, pretty. ‘Fore I really gotta hurt ya’.”

You shook your head violently, defiantly, from side to side — to which his face morphed into something even more grotesque (if even possible), lips peeled back, expression almost savage, near rabid. You were so focused on the vulgarity of it, ensnared by the sheer ugliness, that you didn’t register his hand drawing back, so far behind his head, until it connected with the tender flesh of your cheek and you let out a muffled screech, pain blossoming and leaving a dull throb in its wake. A pulse. Punctured by a “stupid girl.”

Your head snapped to the side, copper filling your mouth and causing it to part around a gasp. He took advantage of that, fingers crawling towards your jaw and tugging its hinges wide, stretching and straining and ripping without remorse until you were sore. Aching. Sourness welling inside your mouth — upon your tongue.

“Go on. Shove it in der.” Hooknose moved closer to you at the command, eyes watery and quivering and eager and fixed on your mouth, gaze roaming as if just now he saw for the first time.

He offered you a pitying smile. Or perhaps, he intended it to be. But it was stiff — as though something in him found it difficult to contradict his nature, and fought against his feeble attempt at benevolence.

He held your gaze as his fat, stubby fingers pressed against the seam of your lips, ghosting your tongue as he wedged the plastic ball into your mouth. He rubbed it gently across the wet muscle, and it grew firmer the wider he stretched your cheeks to make room for the intrusion; until eventually, he clicked the device into place and brought his thumb to wipe along your tears, soiling the salty fluid with grease.

At the sound of the click, Mama’s Boy grunted with contentment. “Good. Good, she knows now. Learned . Learned we can make it all hurt, all nasty an’ painful, so she’ll do wha’ she’s ‘spose ta’, right?”

You blinked owlishly. He chortled.

“Get ‘er feet, boy. Don’t bind ‘em too tight, don’t wanna ruin tha’ soft skin of ‘er’s...then ya’d miss out on the finer parts, eh?”

Hooknose grunted. Moved around to grasp your legs, held onto them like prongs of a ladder as he uncoiled the rope in his hand, once, twice, three times. Three full rotations.

You noticed that his hands, coated in grime and black dirt, shook and trembled, and if the trembling weren’t so apparent and grossly prominent — so entirely aberrant and incongruous — you would have said that the hands on you were almost delicate.

Before you could think about it further, Mama’s Boy sighed. Almost wistfully. “M’boys ‘nd I… we ‘aven’t eaten in months. ‘Aven’t had a proper, satisfying fill in a real long while either. Course, none a’ the meat down at tha’ slaughterhouse tastes nothin’ like yer kind does, it won’t ever hold a candle to it neither. City pigs taste different, breed better than the ones we get out there. Small and lean and nice an’ tender. Just like you are right now. So fresh…so damned fresh.”

“Aye,” Maggot Face chimed in, tone equally drenched that you tensed , bile flooding into your mouth as your limbs went rigid.“Ah’m nearly giddy. Haven’t tasted yer kind for so long. Missed it, missed it a lot. Ah bet yer meat ain’t hard t’eat none.”

“Bet it slides right off th’ bone.”

Maggot Face hummed. “An’d pair real nice with sum’ whiskey. Ain’t that right?”

Hooknose said nothing, just began to twine the rope about your ankles. Slowly, too slow, as though the languorous motion would cause his fingers not to tremble or waver, would make the shame dissipate from him and prevent his neck from reddening with his guilt.

(It would never do. It never did.)

As the other men busied themselves with fantasies of all you had to offer, all the pleasure your tender corpse would soon give, he shakily bound your ankles, began to crawl his hands up your calves and squeezed, encased.

(Did he see how your flesh bunched beneath his fingertips? The swell, the way the tendon protruded beneath his touch — because of his touch — like a mountain range, birthed?)

You squeezed out a whimper, one filled with all the helplessness and agony you could muster,

(A storm, a deluge.)

and slowly — agonisingly so — he peered up at you with drooping eyes, eyelashes fanning his sockets like paper fans.

His mouth parted, grip slackened, and you knew you had a sliver of a second to act quickly. You drew your feet back, poised taut like a bowstring, before ramming the pointed edges of your heels right into his soft, fleshy abdomen. The impact drew a choked yelp from him, spit flying to land on your thighs, and he fell to the ground with a loud crash, gurgling wails ripping from him as he cried out the first word you’d heard from him all night:

“Fuck!”

All attention then shifted towards you, gazes accusing.

Angry.

From then on, it was all a whirlwind.

Screams atop of screams and filthy curses spat with their drool,

(Lips forming around the vulgar words — city bitch — again and again and again,

until the syllables lost their meaning and their sound turned to that of a skipping record)

and bony hands scuffling your hair, turning you onto your stomach

slamming your skull against the floorboards,

nails scraping your scalp as you fought their every attempt at restraining your arms.

If anything, the struggle spurred them on, snowballed their ever-growing lust for violence — and the thought frightened you to the point where you were nearly deaf to the scathing words whispered in your ear:

“Yous just prolonging yer inevitable end. No more ai’ght? We gonna be gentle no more.” You heard a click. It was only when a cool metal pressed against your forehead that you registered just exactly what it was. “Thought a city bitch like ya’ would have a bit more manners. Coulda’ been a smooth, nice night for ya, really coulda’.”

(He was wrong; a lie that slipped from his tongue so easily he nearly fooled himself. You knew they meant every bit of the torture, were planning it in the seedy, gutters of their minds with relish.)

With a snarl, Mama’s boy clicked off the safety of the revolver. “Guess the only thing gonna get through yer thick fuckin’ skull is a bullet.”

You closed your eyes. He shook you.

“But don’t go an’ take yerself off to dreamland, girl. Ther’s a slow death comin’ to ya, no mercy for sows like yerself. Yer gonna feel everythin’. Every. Fucking. Thing. An yer gonna scream, scream real good, scream fer us. Ya hear me? Hear me, cunt? Open yer eyes an listen, goddamnit , or I swea r— I fuckin’ swear, I’ll put a bullet right between yer pretty lil’ eyes right now, an’ leave yer body to the maggots. I’ll let ‘em feast on yer rotten flesh, eat their way through yer bones ‘till yer nothin’.”

You wanted to laugh — hysterically, manically, deliriously, and tell him you wished he would. Wished he were to finish you off already, if only to put a stop to the gnawing emptiness swelling in the pits of your chest, the festering soreness in your jaw.

But you only kept your eyes closed.

There was a low growl, a series of them, a harmony. And then —

(Your heart beat and beat, wild and untamed and ferocious.)

— gunshots. Three. In quick succession.

Bang, bang, bang!

(Your ears began to ring.)

Before you could even draw a breath, gasp around the gag or bring your palms to clutch the scarlet drops above your lashes, a choked gurgle met your ears. It sounded of something gutted, eviscerated; or something drained of all life and then filled with water. And then so suddenly, without warning, a heavy weight slammed into your back, knocking the wind from your chest and causing your eyes to bulge.

Warmth spread through your hoodie, seeped and clung as something viscous splattered against your forehead, thick, almost clumped, in the shape of droplets. They rolled down your forehead and curved over your brow, down your cheek and tickled your chin,

(a trail of kisses — odious and slow and inching and —)

and they hung from the precipice before severing their tether and dropping to the scales beneath you, undoubtedly marring the rug with red blotches, blossoming before you in uneven spatters.

(Petals unfurling at their own leisure, gory and fresh.)

You lifted a trembling hand to your forehead, intercepting a few drops that clung to your flesh, warm and syrupy like molasses, yet so different in nature, not nearly as enticing. The tremor in your hand caused them to smear beneath your touch — spread, fan out — and bile rose in your throat as you caught a whiff of their coppery stench. Pungent and stifling and intruding and not yours, not yours, not yours.

You gagged, dry-heaved, retched until your throat was just as sore as your jaw, your head just as strained as your legs, your sense gone, gone, gone — as you didn’t register just how this had happened. How , why, Mama’s Boy ended atop you, stiff and losing warmth, coating you in blood, limbs splayed and a hole probably the size of your finger in his skull.

Your hysteria didn’t cease until you heard heavy footsteps, boots clomping through a red sea, and then a gravelly voice. Coarse and abrasive, rock against rock.

“You okay? Can ya’ move?”

(Thousands of palms were on you. Or two. You couldn’t tell as they began to peel away the darkness — the death.)

Your lungs seized, an odd choking, croaking sound — not of death, not of the gunshot — as the ball gag was swiftly unclipped and fell from your skull.

The only sounds after were heavy panting, grunts, and groans — of the human kind, and they were nearly indecipherable to you, enveloped within the throbbing pulses that spread throughout your body. A stuttering of breath. Pain finally swept you away.

You fought against the encroaching darkness.

— you saw a scarred lip, torn flesh like crinkled linen.

And to the darkness you lost.

No longer did your façade of sleep work on the man.

“How much longer are ya’ gonna lay there? S’been hours.”

You ignored him. Kept your eyes shut as you tried to regulate your breaths, slow and deep. In and out.

“Fuck, don’t ya’ gotta piss or somethin’?”

In and out.

“Never met someone s’eager to be around a bunch o’ bodies before.” He tried again, and you could imagine his lips pulling into a smirk. “Must be a real fucked up fetish.”

At the mention of bodies, your breath hitched; you heard a scoff.

“Knew you were awake.” He stomped from wherever he was, around the corpses and meaty chunks of flesh and brain matter, to make his way to your side. A leather boot gently nudged at your shoulder. “Ain’t gonna hurt you none, if that’s why your tail’s between your legs. They ain’t gonna hurt you none either.”

You peered up at him with a narrowed eye, and it strained against the swollen bruise around it, pulsated and quivered and fought to close. The mammoth of a man motioned a hand outwards, and your gaze followed his lazy gesture around the room, over the corpses that littered it, the gore that wasn’t there before (The teeth, the hair, the innards. Everything that belonged inside, outside.), and then back to him. The broadness, the solidity, of him.

His lip twitched. The linen ruffled.

“This…” you croaked, voice hoarse and throat dry, so you swallowed. Tried again. “This was all…you?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

His dark brows knitted together. “Why?”

“Why’d you help me?”

The man shrugged, broad shoulders rising just briefly before falling. “You were screamin’ like a banshee. It was loud and it was pissin’ me off a bit. Didn’ expect to see a group of men tryna kill a girl, though. Thought it was some kinky shit or somethin’. A bit disappointed, really.”

You blinked. Slowly, as not to bring too much pain upon yourself.

And then, you laughed.

It was a raspy, broken sound, and it sounded more like a wheeze than anything else. But it was laughter, and it was genuine, and it was the first time in a long while you had felt something so human. So real.

You smiled, and the skin on your cheek pulled and stung. “You’re an asshole.”

He smirked. “So I’ve heard.”

You pushed yourself upright, and the man took a step back, allowed you the space. Your hands shook, trembled, and your fingers were numb, and you brought them up to the sides of your face, covered your eyes and pressed hard, until white spots danced across the backs of your eyelids.

The man eyed you carefully, and then he turned his attention to the bodies.

They were strewn about the room, some in pieces, some still intact, and they were all dead. Their blood pooled and stained the floors, and their innards had spilled out, and their faces had been blown apart, and their limbs were bent and twisted and—

You dropped your hands, and you looked up at him.

He was watching you.

And then, he offered a gloved hand.

You stared at it.

It was large, and the leather was worn and torn and stained, and it was a nice contrast against the muted, olive brown of his skin. Skin littered with cuts and scars and bruises yet so inviting.

You stared at his hand, and you wondered what kind of person could kill three men, gut them and tear them apart without flinching, yet offer a hand so gently.

So kindly.

You stared at his hand, and slowly, you reached for it.

His fingers were warm when they wrapped around yours, despite the fabric that covered them, and he helped you stand, careful not to touch your bruises, brush against the cuts.

“You live on this floor?”

You nodded.

He hummed and gripped your hand a little tighter. “You gonna show me where it is?”

Your brow furrowed and you winced, heart picking up if only slightly. “What?”

“You need help. You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“But I can manage.”

“You can’t.”

“I’ve managed for this long.”

He snorted. “Not well.”

You frowned, the cut on your lip stung.

“C’mon.”

“I-I don’t even know your name.”

He paused, and the corners of his lips tugged upwards. The linen ruffled again. “Toji.”

@madaqueue (●'◡'●)

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bread--hood · 2 months ago

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• Charles Smith •

so pretty♡

#*currently struggling to put aLL THESE GODDAMN IDEAS FOR MY FANFIC ONTO THE PAGE!!*#charthur #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption #rdr #rdr2 #charles #charles smith #continuing from where I left it is so hard...because I want to make it so freaking long but knowing me I'm too impatient and finish it in #like 10 more pages or so

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writinganon1 · 21 days ago

Text

@cokoweee

Ya’ll ever have a dream so lifelike it feels aggressively real until one thing goes a little too wrong and then you start to realize that maybe you’re in a dream but it’s also too real to convince yourself it’s not real that you can’t wake yourself up?

TW: panic attack, I say gun, uhhh blood ig? Bishop says a kinda weird thing but that's just him bein him

can I say blood? last time I did it marked me as mature...

Her heart thumped against her chest, lactic acid building in her legs as she ran. She tapped furiously at her phone, fingers slipping over the screen as she tried to deploy Sheldon.

Donnie says “no no no” chimed a pixilated picture of Othello, his finger waving back and forth.

“What the-” She slammed against a wall, her shoulder crunching against the brick.

His stupid programming on the poor thing to keep Sheldon at his house. Maybe she could override it?

No, not enough time. She was just going to have to run and hope for the best.

Her shoulder screamed in protest as she climbed the ladder in the alley. Scrambling over the side of the building to catch her breath, she tapped at the screen again.

There had to be something she could do to foil his programming. She wiped at her nose, the cold still not quite gone even after days of bed rest. Bullets flew over the edge of the building, seemingly locking on to her body heat. Throwing herself at the ledge at the last second to force the bullets to crash into the wall she coughed violently, phlegm coating her throat.

Stupid sickness.

Stupid Othello leaving her with the stupid rabbit farmer.

She pushed herself off the ground, arms struggling under the weight of herself. It was as if every muscle in her body was on fire, each fiber screaming at her to stop. She gulped raising her head over the ledge. Agent Bishop was standing on the adjacent rooftop, his face curled into a sneer, eyes unblinking despite the sun in his eyes.

He waved at her, fingers waggling in the air as he pulled a small gun from his pocket. Aiming it directly at her chest he grinned, his eyes flickering with something distinctly unhuman.

She stumbled backward, her feet skidding over the concrete as he seemed to lock onto her. Loose rock dug into her knees as she clambered over the rooftop.

Away.

All she needed to do was get away.

She placed a hand over her stomach, feeling the raised bump of the scar, as she moved.

This was…

This was wrong?

It didn’t happen this way.

No. She didn’t need to get away, she needed to get out.

The bullet ripped into her skin, tearing away at muscle, and shattering the bone in her rib.

She screamed, blood pouring from the gaping hole in her chest, as Bishop moved closer. He walked to her side, footsteps clanking against the concrete.

Clawing at the ground she dragged her body along the roof, rocks digging under her nails. Bishop laughed, his foot trampling her hand, digging it into the ground. She gasped, breathing shallowly as she fought to get loose.

He grabbed her hair, wrapping it between his fingers and tightening his grip as he pulled her from the floor.

“Oh, this is wonderful.” He smiled, voice dripping with venom. “Such a pretty little thing I caught this evening. I’ve been dying to chat with you.” He pulled her hair up, forcing her to rise. “I wonder if she’ll do any tricks?”

She spat in his face, her ears filled with an all-consuming ringing.

Away.

She needed to get away.

It didn’t matter how. She needed to get away.

He said something else, flaunting some sort of mechanism he had hidden in his shirt. She tried to focus on his words, but her breathing was too shallow, her limbs too shaky, the ringing too loud for her to hear a word.

She clamped a hand over her chest, a sorry attempt to staunch the flow of blood from the gaping hole in her body. Cursing softly she watched as the red seeped into a slithering pink fleshy mass.

She stifled a scream as the pink turned an orange maroon, her own blood fueling some sort of monster.

“Shhhhhhh.” Bishop whispered against her ear, “It’ll be done soon. Just one quick slash and you’ll be out of my hair for good.”

The mass jumped forward, faster than she could comprehend, her body spasming in pain as she scrambled back.

Was this the Krang she’d heard so much about after she’d left the jail? Weren’t they supposed to be mindless or something?

It lunged forward again, tentacles lashing toward her face. Bishop shook her in front of him, like a toy for a dog.

“Kendra?”

She screamed as he tightened his grip on her, shaking her around like a bag of flour. The world around her turned hazy, her vision blurring in and out.

She wasn’t going to go out without a fight.

Throwing her head back she jammed her skull into his chin, breaking the grip he had on her hair.

She clawed at the ground, a strange silky feeling coating her fingers. Pushing away the softness of what was sure to be Krang, she kicked at the mass as it wiggled unnaturally.

“KENDRA!” A familiar voice shouted at her, a gentle three-fingered nubby touch against her arm.

Her eyes flew open, arms flailing to the sides to swat at what was left of the Krang matter, as hands held her back. She gasped, her chest heaving as a sinking feeling hit her gut. Dread splashed over her head like a wave, drowning her, leaving nothing but fear.

Eyes widening she looked next to her for Tello, horrified as darkness encroached on her vision, leaving her staring through a pin hole. Nausea rolled through her stomach as she gasped for air, her chest shuddering to keep up with her breathing.

It hurt. It hurt so bad.

“Hey, hey, hey.” He whispered, hand placed against her back. “It’s ok you’re home. You’re with me.”

She jerked backward. He was loud. So so loud. Even with the ringing in her ears, he was too loud.

Breaths were punched from her lungs faster than she could finish taking them in. Tears streamed down her face as her eyes blew wide. Her chest tightened, lungs twisting as she shook.

She’s dying. She has to be dying. There’s no other explanation.

Dead in her room from a nightmare-induced heart attack,

Her eyes flickered back and forth over the room, not focusing on anything, just wildly scanning for danger she knew wasn’t there. Willing her arm to move, she let out a chocked warble.

The room seemed to melt around her. Things blurred together, a fuzzy abstract painting of almost-real-life. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she tightened her muscles.

Her whole body shook as she tried to take steadying breaths.

“Did you know softshell turtles only have half a plastron?”

She was in the middle of dying.

She most definitely did not need turtle facts right now.

“Technically a full one, but it’s covered by skin, rendering it effectively useless for plastron purposes.” He shrugs. “Same deal as the shell.”

She looked at him, confusion breaking through the panic.

“Makes us really flexible though. Wanna see?”

He got off the bed, walked to the middle of the room, and bent backward. He smiled upside down at her from the floor and smoothly brought himself back up.

“Pretty neat huh?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Bet no other turtle you meet could do that.”

Amusement rippled through her as she watched him demonstrate his stretches and various yoga poses.

“I’ve never met another turtle like you.” She breathed, some of the panic melting away.

“Precisely! No one can do it like me!” He said, pointing his finger at her triumphantly before his face softened. “ We starting to feel a bit better?”

She brought her thumb and pointer finger close together. A little

He nodded. “Am I good to come back up or do you need some space?”

She patted the bed next to her, inviting him closer. She waited until he was seated comfortably before slumping against his shoulder, exhausted.

He shifted slightly, reaching for his phone with one hand, the other wrapped around her. He let them sit for a moment, reminding her to breathe every few seconds before Sheldon zipped into the room.

He whispered something to Othello before zooming out of the room. She watched passively as it happened, her body still not quite connected to her soul.

Sheldon returned moments later, a bag of ice, a bottle of water, a cookie, and tub of lavender lotion in his little propeller arms.

Othello took them from him, patted his head, and shooed him away. Taking one of the ice cubes he flattened out her hand and placed it in her palm.

She jerked slightly at the sensation of cold in her hand, surprised when he placed another in her palm.

“Focus on the melting.” He said, voice low and gentle.

The ice filled the lines of her hand and dripped over the sides and down her arm. She shivered as the water pooled in her hand. Othello grabbed the cookie from the pile he had created and broke off half to give to her.

“Thanks?”

He watched her carefully. “What does it taste like?”

“A cookie?” She said through a mouthful, her hands still full of TV static.

“I need details.” He pressed.

She paused, taking a moment to consider the flavors in her mouth. “Vanilla, chocolate chips.” She took another bite. “ Like I left it in the oven a minute or two too long and overcooked them just slightly.”

She’d have to make another batch, this time keeping an eye on the time.

He pressed an uncapped water bottle into her hand. “Drink.”

She pressed the bottle to her lips, feeling the way the cold blossomed against her skin as she held it there. Quietly observing the way she could feel it go down her throat and into her stomach.

“Are we feeling more alive?”

She nodded, running her hand along her thigh to feel the fabric of her pajama pants as she pressed her head against his side.

“Good.” He murmured, sleep creeping into his voice. “You had a panic attack I’m pretty sure.”

“...Sorry it was for something stupid.”

“I get worked up over stupid stuff too.” He mumbled, eyes half closed.

“Your stuff isn’t stupid.” She countered.

“Then neither is yours.”

She stopped, lifting her head to look up at him.

He grabbed her hand, flexing the fingers for her. “You feel ok?”

“I don’t know.” She answered honestly.

He nodded and guided her to a lying position. “Tell me five of your favorite things.”

She paused, looking around the room. “Hmmmmm. You.”

“Thank you.”

“Mhm. Uhhh, lavender. The color purple. Satin jackets. Baking. Messing around in the lab. Oh, I guess that’s more than five.”

He tapped her shoulders rhythmically, “You can keep going if you need to.”

She took in a deep breath. “I think I’m ok now.”

“Positive?”

Nodding she pulled the blankets over herself. What she really needed was rest. She was so exhausted from the whole ordeal that the idea of doing anything else felt impossible.

He got off the bed again, searching beneath the bedframe for something before he pulled a large purple blanket from under the bed. She blinked in surprise as he placed it over her, a weight holding her down to the bed.

“I should’ve mentioned it was weighted.”

She pulled her hand out to give a quick thumbs up as he climbed back into bed. She shifted to hold out her arm for a hug. He smiled and pulled her close, wrapping his arm around her waist.

“You smell like you’ve been using my soap.” She grumbled against his plastron.

He shrugged. “ I like the way you smell.”

Rolling her eyes she tugged the blanket higher over her shoulders smiling as soft chirping filled the room, the sound he always made right as he fell asleep.

“Good night Tello.” She whispered.

His plastron vibrated as he churred back, gently running circles through her hair.

She was home. And she was safe.

squad don't write stuff at four AM I'm pretty sure this only makes sense to me at this point. Anyway I was listening to my pretty princess playlist while writing this 💁‍♀️

the reason why this was written is in the tags btw

#Me and my friend were hanging out and she got all excited when I told her I was minoring in creative writing #she asked for me to read me some of my stuff and I agreed LIKE AN IDOIT #well i open my docs and low and behold it's what I posted yesterday #mind you that doc is titled ugly sewer man and his pretty wife #i scroll before she can see the title but at this point I have to read this one #its too late for me to exit the doc without me being suspicious #I read it and she's all like “Well butter my backside and call me a biscuit I forgot you wrote but you do a pretty dang good job!”#I'm just sweating bullets coz I just read her my fanfic of Donatello the ninja turtle and Kendra the dragon chick #she'll never know and I'll never tell her that she was read kendratello fanfic with the names and some of the words replaced #its worth it to say that this isn't the first time that this has happened with her #last time it was the freaking really long one with Leo dying dead and Don also trying to die dead #i went home and cooked myself some pasta to recover because wtf was that #and I was so upset by the situation that instead of sleeping I wrote more kendratello fanfic?#pee pee poo poo #caca dodo even #FOUR AM BABY AND IM STILL HEREEEEEE #Ya'll also got some free stuff to use to help a hommie out if they ever start having a panic attack #tapping method will work on yourself as well if you start feeling freaked out or not in your body.#just cross your arms over your torso and put your left hand on your right shoulder and vice versa tapping your shoulders one at a time #im sleepin now #gn yall #Paige writes

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call-me-strega · 7 months ago

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How to Become a Step-Dad in 5 Easy Steps: ch.3/5 of p.2

First, prev, next, lore, ao3

OK SO- I’ve been working on this for months and I was actually supposed to have it done like a month ago but my parents took me on the last minute vacation to another country to visit family and I didn’t have access to my laptop most of the time. But it’s okay bc the timing worked out! I wrote most of this on my phone actually and I’m posting it from there too so I hope the formatting isn’t weird. Our flight back is tonight and we’re in a different time zone so I really hope this is going up at the correct time. Anyways I tried to make this chapter longer so I hope it’s worth it. Thanks for sticking around to read this and I’ll let you start now.

-Strega p.s Happy 4th of July!

~~~

Chapter description:

Danny and Jason comfort each other after a rough night, Jason teams up with Duke to stop a villain, and Jason spends the 4th of July with the Nightingales.

~~~

Everything was hot. Someone was laughing. Someone was crying. It's all too loud but he can't hear a thing. It was so hot. He could taste the bitterness in the air. His face ached. It's too much. All the textures overwhelm him but he can’t feel a thing. It was too hot. All he can see is rows of black upon gray, but he can't really see anything at all. He couldn’t- he couldn’t breathe. His forehead was wet and sticky. Why was it wet and sticky? Why was it so goddamn hot?!

With a desperate gasp for air, Jason launched up into a sitting position on his bed. He supported his body with one hand and the other pushing back his white, sweat-soaked fringes out of his eyes. He sat there for a few moments, just panting, trying to regain some semblance of control over his breathing. He felt a warm sweat drip down his face and back. It made his skin crawl.

He looked around his dark room and then down at his messy sheets for a moment, before pulling off the blanket and flinging himself off the bed. He couldn't stand the idea of staying there a minute longer. Not right now.

He stalked out of his bedroom and into his living area. He didn't want to stay inside. The thought of being in an enclosed space right now gave him the hives, no matter how spacious the apartment might be. Even if it's bigger than a coffin. Even if it's smaller than a warehouse. He can't see the sky. He's closed in.

Instead, he pushes open his window and pulls himself out onto the fire escape. It's not particularly open, facing into an alley, but it offers privacy and is heaps better than being inside. He slumps down against the brick wall of the building, feet planted and knees bent. He looks up and takes a breath trying to calm himself. Even with all the smog and Gotham's perpetual cloud cover, Jason is grateful to see the sky. He half-wished it was a clear night so he could see the stars. The other half didn't. It didn't think he could handle seeing the stars peeking out through the smog. It would look too much like a night sky tainted with smoke and bad memories.

His mouth felt dry as he clenched and stretched his hands. He almost wished for a cigarette or a joint, (no he didn't, he didn't want to see the smoke, to feel the heat of the slow burn) but the thought made his lungs constrict and he felt bile rise in his throat. Instead, he alternated between closing his eyes and taking several deep breaths, and gazing at the lights and laundry lines. Even in the sticky city heat of a Gotham summer Jason shuddered from the cool night air.

Suddenly, he heard metal creaking and his eyes snapped open. His head jerked to the side where the sound had come from. A few feet away, on the adjacent fire escape, stood a figure slumped over the rail. They must have also sensed his presence because they turned to meet Jason's gaze.

Before him stood a haggard Danny Nightingale with dark circles under his eyes and a head of bed hair. He wore an old worn-out shirt for a band called Dumpty Humpty, and a pair of basketball shorts that came down to his knees. Faintly, Jason could make out a faded scar on his calf. (Not that Jason had been staring at his legs or anything!) Jason soon became aware of Danny's own eyes assessing him as well. He felt his face heat up and was grateful that he slept in sweats and a white tank tonight.

And the two of them stayed there for a while, on their fire escapes. Two souls in the haunted hours before morning, looking worse for wear, just staring at each other as the world continued on around them.

Then, Danny weakly gave Jason a wry grin and in a rough voice he said,

" Hey, neighbor."

" Hey," Jason replied hoarsely, with a small grin forming on his face. "Funny running into you here, huh?"

There was a brief pause where the two continued to stare at each other, suppressing the quickly growing urge to laugh.

Danny broke first.

" Pffffffft, you dork!"

The two of them burst out laughing and the atmosphere grew lighter. The ever-present smog and darkness seemed to lift and the shadows haunting them seemed to fade.

Danny bubbled up with giggles that rang in Jason’s ear like a familiar song coming on on the radio. Jason looked at him softly in quiet wonderment. Well, I guess that’s where Ellie got her laugh from.

Jason heaved himself off the ground and walked over to the railing closest to Danny, who was just coming down from his high. He leaned over, one arm on the railing and the other coming up to support his jaw. He gave Danny a tired smile.

“Hey,” he said once more.

“Hey yourself,” came Danny’s soft reply.

Then the two, now standing closer, took a moment to examine each other once more. Danny took note of Jason’s sweat and unsteadiness. Jason could now see that Danny’s hands shook lightly and were covered in faded, barely-there scars. They met each other’s eyes and both just felt like the other understood.

Tonight hadn’t been a good night for either of them. But they didn’t need to talk about it right now. No, for now the two could just bask in each others presence The air filling with a certain solidarity and what felt like a near-tangible sense of mutual comfort.

Jason turned away first, observing the way light and shadow danced across alley walls and how the clothes on clotheslines fluttered in the night breeze. Danny followed his gaze in suit, trying to identify what Jason saw out in the city.

“ Ya know for being such a hell-hole Gotham really does have a subtle beauty to it.”

Jason turned to look a Danny with mock offense.

“Hey! Gotham may be a hell-hole but it’s our hell-hole! Just ask any true Gothamite, the city has a way sinking itself into ya.”

Danny looked almost amused by this statement, but nodded in understanding.

“Yeah, I think I kinda get it. It really sucked back home, but it was still home, ya know? And I agree, Gotham does have her ways of making you feel like she’s a part of you. We’ve only been here bout a month or so but I already feel like Ell and I are well on our way to become city slickers through and through.”

Jason chuckled, shaking his head and bringing his arm down to stand up straight. He decide to pursue the opening Danny had left.

“Speaking of Ell, she the reason your up so late?”

“Naw,” Danny’s smile grew a bit strained. “My little spitfire may have a lotta energy but the girl sleeps like the dead.” He grew a more subdued, looking down at his hands.

“Nah, this was something else.”

“Nightmare?” He probed gently.

Danny nodded.

Taking a breath, Jason said “Me too,” in a show of vulnerability that he found came surprisingly easy. Danny glanced at him sympathetically.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Kinda, but at the same time not really?”

Danny nodded as if he understood perfectly. Once more a comfortable silence overtook they began to shift closer. Even with the space between their fire escapes they felt impossibly close.

Danny interrupted the quiet with a light chuckle and Jason returned him a questioning glance. Danny shook his head,

“ Nothing I just think it’s kinda ironic we both came out to our fire escapes to escape our bad dreams.” He paused as his face clouded with confusion. “ Or at least I think it’s irony? Would you call it irony?”

“I think it might actually be symbolism but fuck if I know. I don’t have the mental capacity to figure which literary devices apply to our situation right now but remind me to come back to it later.”

Danny hummed in amusement before taking a deep breath.

“ I think I wanna talk about it.”

“Hmm?” Jason raised an eyebrow

“ I think I wanna talk about my dream.”

In a split second Jason makes a impulsive decision.

“Hold on,” he says, before climbing over the railing and extending his foot over to reach Danny’s fire escape.

“ What are you doing, ya maniac?!” Danny asked incredulously at Jason’s actions.

Jason stepped over onto the fire escape and shrugged as he walked over to Danny, “This felt like something I should be close for.”

The startled man seemed to loosen up and sunk to sit on the platform with his back to the railing. Jason joined him on the floor. They sat shoulder to shoulder, Danny staring at his trembling hand, and Jason, staring at him. Jason hand crept towards Danny’s, gentle taking it and interlacing the fingers.

Danny’s head swiveled to look at him and Jason returned him a gentle look and a squeezed his hand reassuringly. Faintly, the young man smiled and squeezed back. He took a deep breath and began.

" So you remember how you found my groceries in an alley the other day?”

Jason nodded.

“ Yeah well, the reason I left them there was because some mugger tried to kidnap Ellie. I ditched the groceries to grab her and get home.”

“ You did a smart thing,” Jason continued to nod as if he didn’t already know exactly what happened that day.

“ Mm I don’t doubt that, Ellie’s safety will always be my first priority. But the whole thing kinda brought up old fear. Some old … memories.”

A distant look grew on his face and Jason’s heart burned with sadness and anger for his friend.

“ The dream started out back in that alley. I had just pulled Ellie back into my arms but when I turned around it wasn’t the mugger standing there. It was Vlad.” Danny’s breath staggered before he continued.

“He started saying stuff about taking Ellie back since he’s the one who made her. The one who had wanted her originally, never mind that he’d lost interest after realizing she was a girl and not his perfect son. But he kept saying things about how he had more life experience and was better equipped to raise her. How he’d be able to do better than me and provide more for her. And for me, if I let him. I hated it. I hated him for leveraging his age and wealth to try to get into our lives again. I didn’t have many reservations about punching him in the face about it either.”

Danny tightened his grip around Jason’s hand. He squeezed back in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

“I turned to leave but at the mouth the alley was a van. And not one of those stereotypical white vans they warn you kidnappers use. No. No, it was my parents’ van. They slid open the door and and I felt like I couldn’t move. I looked down and Ellie was gone. They-” the words started getting choked up in his throat. His eyes becoming glassy as he fought with his next words.

“ They wanted to take her too. They said they still loved me even though I was different and that they could fix me.” His voice grew frantic and shaky. “They thought they could ‘fix me’ but that Ellie’s existence was unnatural. That it’d be better if they took her and tried to raise in a ‘normal’ environment, especially if she showed signs of being unnatural too!”

Danny turned his face into Jason’s shoulder, trying to fight back tears.

“ And I know they don’t actually think like that- that I need to be fixed, at least not anymore. But, the idea that they’d try to take her from me? Raise her better than I could? It tore me up inside. How could they want to raise her when the barely raised me and my sister? When my sister raised me more than they did? How could I trust them not to get her involved in experiments when they still store chemical samples the same fridge as our food? How could I trust them when I told them I didn’t want to be around Vlad and they still let him into our house? Because ‘We’ve know good ol’ Vladdie since college! Nothing to worry about with him!’ even though I told them I-!”

He paused trying to catch his breath. Jason lifted his other arm to wrap around the crying young man, tucking him under his chin. Danny shifted, now shuddering into his chest. Jason could feel the Pits ignite a fire in soul. His blood boiled and a voice cried out for blood in recompense for his friend’s pain.

‘What type of shitty parents-! No. Later’ he tried to reign in the voice. ‘Being here for him now is more important.’ He held the other even closer.

Finally, Danny calmed himself enough to continue, “ I know they don’t think that now. I know that they love me and, and Ellie too- and I still love them too and I know that they want to be better. But they just don’t get it. That there’s a lot of reasons I don’t want to be around them anymore. Reasons I don’t bring Ellie around if I can help it. Even though it was just a dream I couldn’t handle the idea that they- that anyone might try to take Ellie from me.”

Jason tilted his head slightly to press a soft, comforting, kiss on the top of Danny’s head. He rubbed small circles on his back and murmured gently in his ear,

“It’s okay Danny. It’s okay to be mad and upset and scared. From the sounds of it you have ever right to be. It’s okay for you to worry. I have a friend ya know. He’s a recovered addict, started getting extra serious about staying sober when his ex dropped a daughter off on his doorstep because he was worried at every turn that if he slipped up or relapsed someone would take her away. I know that it’s not the same but I think every parent is entitled to worrying over losing their kid. And it sounds like your own parents haven’t done you too many favors in minimizing the worry. But you don’t have to hold yourself back from being afraid. You’re allowed to be afraid, or upset or whatever else you might be feeling.”

He finally let go of Danny’s hand in order to hold him properly, once again shifting their positions. Now, they sat perpendicularly, with Danny partway into his lap, pressed against his chest. After a while Danny wiped his tears, whispering out a thanks to Jason and allowed himself to be comforted.

They sat in delicate silence until Jason finally worked up the nerve to speak.

“So you probably know who I am right?”

Danny lifted his head from Jason’s chest to give him a confused eyebrow raise. “Yeah I think I’d know whose lap I’m on right now?”

“Not like that,” Jason blushed. “ I mean since you asked about volunteering you must know who I am in a larger context right?”

“ You mean do I know you’re beloved Gotham celebrity and non-profit worker: Jason Todd-Wayne? Because I do. I did research this city before moving here, believe it or not. Actually I remember seeing a bunch of articles about how one of Gotham’s beloved sons had returned home with your picture around that time?”

Jason touched the back of his neck, glancing away in embarrassment.

“Uh yeah that, so you’ve probably hear about my- uuh, ‘resurrection’, huh?”

Danny’s expression sobered up. His eyes darkened and his voice got all quiet, likely due to the serious nature of the discussion.

“Yeah, I did. The media claimed you had been in a kidnapping turned terrorist attack slash hostage situation? And that you had managed to survive and were taken in by family who help you recover and reconnect with your dad once you were ready?” Danny recounted the cover story they’d given to the public. There was something in his tone that made Jason think there was more he wasn’t mentioning but it was likely all speculation or more sensitive details.

“Was-… was that what your dream was about?”

Jason bowed his head into Danny’s shoulder, not having it in him to say it to his face.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “It was.”

“Oh.”

Now it was Danny’s turn to hold Jason tight, one arm one his back and the other coming up to pet his hair, gently pressing the larger man further into his shoulder. It felt like something cracked open inside him. Suddenly, words came tumbling out before he could even think about them.

“ I was back in that warehouse. Laying on the ground, injured. I could hear someone crying. And- *gulp* -and his laughter before the explosion. It was … so hot. And when I woke up I couldn’t stand the thought of being trapped inside. The same way I was trapped … during some of the worst moments of my life. And I know I’m not there anymore but I’m still terrified by the memory! Sometimes I still get scared the man who took me the first time will find me again and I just-!”

He choked on a sob as Danny held him even tighter, as if trying to melt him into his skin.

“I just hated feeling that way so much!” He whimpered.

“It’s okay Jay, I’m here big guy. You can let it out.”

And for the first time in a long while Jason allowed himself to cry freely, sobbing into his neighbor’s shoulder. Danny continued to stroke his hair, rocking gentle as one would when comforting a child. But maybe that sort of gentleness was what Jason needed.

Once he heard Jason’s sobs subside Danny took a deep breath and spoke.

“You know what?”

“What?” Jason asked lifting his head to gaze into Danny’s icy blue eyes.

“I’m kinda glad I ended up out here tonight. I mean the nightmare sucked but at least I got to be here for you.” He smiled softly, “I’m in your corner if you ever need me.”

Jason couldn’t help the soft smile that worked it’s way onto his face.

“Yeah, me too. I’ll be there if you ever need help, with anything: Ellie, Vlad, your parents, your groceries.”

Danny giggled at that last part, knowing Jason was sincere. With a sigh he rested his cheek on Jason’s chest. Jason reach down to hold his hand again and the two enjoyed the feeling of holding someone who held them back.

With a sigh, Danny lifted his gaze from their hands to Jason’s face. Jason gave him a closed-mouth smile, his eyes asking if something was wrong.

“It’s the 4th of July in a few days.” He stated.

“Yes, it is.” Jason said back.

“If it’s not too short notice, Ellie and I would love to have you over again. We were gonna have barbecue and ice cream and then come out here and see if we could catch the fireworks. She’d love it if you could join us, and … and, well I would too.”

Jason swore Danny was looking at him with the biggest, roundest, most earnest eyes he’d ever seen, save for his daughter’s.

“ I’ll be there.”

Danny flushed at his quick response.

“Don’t wanna check your schedule first?”

“Doesn’t matter. I didn’t have anything else planned so I’ll do my best to be there.” He made sure the shorter man’s eyes met his as he said his next words. “Besides, I like spending time with the two of you too.”

‘His ears are pink, he’s just adorable.’ He thought to himself as Danny seemed brighten in a shy glow. He shifted in Jason’s lap, probably getting ready to get up when he did something that cause Jason to blue screen.

Danny tilted his head up planting a quick peck on his cheek before squeaking out a “see you then” and fleeing back into his apartment, leaving a wide-eyed Jason on the floor of his fire escape.

Jason sat there stunned, before a furious blush over took his face and decided to hurry back into his own apartment. The voice in his head came back to give its routine comments: ‘His lips are so soft, the stuff of dreams’

He somehow managed to blush even more violently. ‘Damn it’ he thought, shoving his head under his pillow, unable to tell whether he actually wanted to dream about Danny’s lips or not. ‘It’s actually embarrassing how worked I’m getting over a fleeting kiss on the cheek from a friend.’

~Bzzt~ “Calling for back up! Firefly decided to start his annual firework show early this year!” ~Bzzt~ Signal called through the emergency comms.

Jason cursed his luck, of course Firefly would attack just as he got off work! Now he might be late to dinner! He sighed and tried to look on the bright-side: If they dealt with this now that meant it was less likely for any of the other rouges to try anything later. Then, the comm crackled back to life.

~Bzzt~ “I could have got him by now but he keeps lightin’ more shit on fire! By the time I get the first fires under control and punch him in the face, he’s started 20 more! Normally I’d be able to handle it, but there’s a lot of civilians around right now and fires take priority. I just need someone to help me keep the guy down long enough to make the arrest.” ~Bzzt~

Jason started ducking through alleys trying to get to his near safe house in order to grab his gear. Hey called back to Duke over the comms.

“Signal, heard! I just got off work. See if you can herd him towards the Alley. It’ll give the Red Hood an excuse to show up and beat the shit outa him while you make sure nothing actually gets damaged. I’m heading to the safe house near the Catherine Johnson Rec Center. Try to get him at least two blocks away!”

~Bzzt~ “Heard!” ~Bzzt~

Jason tossed the comm to the side and started strapping into his body armor. He started fastening his helmet when felt something in the air change. Then the comms buzzed to life once more.

~Bzzt~ “Hood, I’ve got Firefly coming your way! He’s heading up Delancy Ave.!” ~Bzzt~

Hood readied his grapple on shot.

“Good, keep him there! I’ll see you in 5, Narrows!”

~Bzzt~ “On it! I’ll be waiting Alley!” ~Bzzt~

Jason swung through the rooftops, heading in the direction of the fires that kept spontaneously appearing and subsequently being extinguished.

When he arrived Hood found Signal split between stopping fires and engaging Firefly in combat. The madman was so absorbed in antagonizing Signal that he hadn’t noticed Hood’s approach. Signal was handling him pretty well but being unable to focus solely on the villain lowered his efficiency. Jason’s mind wandered back to his friend, who had wanted to see him tonight, and decided he’d end this quickly.

You see for all his bulk and bullheadedness Jason was still a highly trained and intelligent individual. Maintaining the element of surprise he approached in the shadows silently looking down from his perch on an adjacent building. He made subtle gestures for Signal to move the guy into place, which he returned with the slightest of nods. Signal moved Firefly over to the side of the building closest to Jason’s position. Jason got ready took make use of his high ground, tapping into what he learned from Dick.

With a deep breath Jason runs up and launches himself into a triple forward somersault, building up power and momentum. In midair he took account of his bearings, aiming his feet at Firefly’s back.

Firefly goes down like he’s been hit by a semi.

“AND THATS WHY YOU STAY OUTA THE ALLEY FUCKER!” Jason shouts, crouching over the rouge who was quickly losing consciousness. Even though it’d been his plan to lure him here Jason was still protective of what was his. And Crime Alley? Crime Alley was his territory.

He stands up and gives Signal a celebratory high five.

“Nice going, ya tank! I thought he’d never go down!”

“No problem, Dayshift! Nice work handling him, you’d have gotten him eventually. I just sped up the process.”

“Thanks Hood, I ‘preciate it.”

“Soooo, you good here oorrr…?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it. Get outa here before the cops show up and arrest you,” Signal dismissed him.

Jason gave him a quick, two-finger salute before running off to change before he was late to dinner.

Jason arrives at the Nightingales’ red faced and out of breath. His hair is a windswept mess and his clothes slightly messy from his quick change. He knocks on the door desperately trying to tame his hair and adjust his t-shirt and jeans.

Jason feels a burst of cool air as the door opens and he’s greeted by a smiling Danny and a surprised Ellie. He smiles at the two but Danny speaks before he’s got the chance.

“ Surprise! It’s Jason!” He says with some mild jazz hands.

To which seem to Ellie explode in glee. Jason swears she’s vibrating with how fast she’s bouncing.

“The secret surprise guest was Mr. Jason! Awesome!”

And just like that there is small child attached to his leg. He looks down at her, then up at Danny, who’s holding in laughter, then back at Ellie. Then he bursts out laughing. He bends down down to scoop the young girl up into his arms and she lets out a small “whoa!” Jason follows Danny into the apartment, Ellie resting on his hip.

“It’s nice to see you to princess!”

“Mr. Jason! You’re not wearing any red!”

“Huh?”

He looks down to see the young girl scrutinizing his plain white shirt and blue jeans and looks questioningly at Danny. The young man takes pity on him and explains.

“Ellie really wanted to wear red, white and blue for the 4th of July,” gesturing to his own outfit: a pair of blue jeans, a white shirt with a logo for a band called Fifth World Raga, and a lightweight red flannel wit the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“That’s right! I have a white skirt and socks, and a blue top and tiara, and my cardigan, my sneakers and beanie are all red!” She showed off. Then she pointed at Jason.

“You’ve gotta white shirt and blue jeans but no red!” Then she gasped, “Oooooh! I have an idea! Wait here!” She said, scrambling off to her room.

Jason looked at Danny who smiled and shrugged helplessly in a “eh, whadda ya gonna do” sort a fashion. To which Jason just huffed in amusement.

That’s when Ellie rushed back in, holding something behind her back. She patted Jason’s thigh indicating for him to bend down, to which he obliged by crouching down to her level.

“Close your eyes!”

Jason shut his eyes. He felt something being placed around his neck and on his head.

“Open them!”

Jason found himself looking into a small purple hand held mirror. Ellie had placed a cheap red-beaded party necklace around his neck and a silver tiara with red gems on his head, one to match her own silver and blue one.

“I have lotsa tiaras so you can borrow this one so that you can have red! And you can even keep the necklace!”

Jason’s internal monologue nearly burst into tears. ‘She’s an angel! She’s bestowed such a wonderful gift Must. Protect. At All Costs!’

He heard Danny burst into laughter but focused his attention on the grinning girl in front of him.

“Thank you so much Princess! I love it! Just what I needed! I’m honored to receive such a thoughtful gift!

“Yeah Ellie, it looks great on him!” Danny chimed in between chuckles.

“That’s great daddy b’cause I found a white one for you! Now we can all match!”

Danny stopped laughing and Jason returned him a wicked grin.

“Yeah, your highness! We can all match! Besides, what’s a king without his crown!”

Danny sighed, placing the tiara on his head.

“Thanks Ell, I love it.”

“Your welcome daddy!”

“Alright, now go wash your hands for dinner!”

“Okay!”

And the girl scurried off to wash her hands. Jason grinned at the interaction. He waited till the girl was gone before turning to Danny.

“Looking good your highness,” he teased.

“Oh, hush you!” Danny flushed. “Come help me set the table. It’s not a traditional barbecue but I made some chili, hotdogs, veggie skewers, and some coleslaw. We’ve also got fruit salad and some soda pop in the fridge. Ellie wanted to do a homemade version of chili dogs and I had to insist on some fruits and veggies in there. Ancients knows she needs her nutrients! If you could be a dear and grab some plates off the drying rack that’d be great!”

“Of course, your highness! You had me at chili,” Jason said following Danny into the kitchen.

Later that evening after finishing up with dinner. Danny herded them all onto the fire escape with some frozen treats. Ellie had drumstick ice cream cone, Jason an ice cream bar, and Danny an orange popsicle.

“I don’t know if we’ll be able to see the fireworks from here but fingers crossed we do. Just don’t be too disappointed if you can’t see them alright Ell?” Danny told his daughter.

“It’s okay daddy! Even if I don’t see the fireworks I still have you and Mr. Jason and my ice cream!”

Jason and Danny looked at each other sharing the same thoughts: ‘She’s so precious!!!!’

Then the tell tale boom of fireworks started and the trio turned their attention to the sky. A streak of red danced across the sky before it burst into a shower of ruby colored sparks. Then came gold, and green and blue and white. One after another in a barrage of sound and color. And they were just able to see it above the end of the alley.

Ellie let out an awed “Whooooaaaa” as she watched the colors dance across the sky. She turned back to her dad tugging on his sleeve and point up at the sky. He chuckled, picking her up to give her a better view pointing at the sky with her saying, “Look at that one!”

It was near enough to make Jason’s own heart burst.

“Beautiful.”

“I know right!” Danny said, glancing back at him, talking about the fireworks. Silently, Jason thought about the way both of the Nightingales’ glossy black hair reflected the fireworks colors in their sheen.

Then Danny turned to hand his phone to Jason.

“Would you mind taking a picture of us?” He asked. “I never had many growing up and I want this to be something she’ll remember.” Looking back down at the child on his hip.

“Of course I can,” he said, taking the phone in his hand. “Smile!”

Jason looked down at the photo he snapped when he saw something that made his heart stall. It was a good photo, both Danny and Ellie smiling at the camera while the remains of a fireworks fell behind them in a shower of fading light. What stopped him in his tracks was the soft look on his own reflection in the window of the apartment staring at Danny and Ellie.

And he realized, ‘Oh. I like Danny’

And he doesn’t know when he zoned out and missed Danny taking his phone back, but he zones right back in when two arms are thrown over his shoulders and suddenly he’s in a selfie sandwich. Both Nightingales press close, Ellie throwing up a peace sign while Danny snaps the photo.

The two laugh at his startled face and he can’t help the laugh that bursts out of him.

“Hey! I wanna redo!”

That night Jason tosses and turns in bed while his brain replays images of Danny: his smile, his lips, his laugh, the way he licks an ice pop. If he hadn’t realized earlier then he definitely knows now.

Jason Todd has an undeniable, unequivocal crush on Daniel Nightingale.

~~~ I tried with that fight scene but I don’t have a lotta experience there. I know this is a fluff fic so sorry to angst you but it’s necessary for hurt/comfort. Have some “Jason accepts his feelings” to make up for it. Sorry if it’s too clunky or dialogue heavy. I’m open to constructive criticism so let me know what you think.

Fifth World Raga is a real band in the DCU their a rock band and their music is described as quote “spiritual in nature” so I feel like it fit Danny’s vibe.

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shaylogic · 7 months ago

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Transcription of the "Layers of Hell" from Edwin's notebook:

Title: Layers of Hell

Illustration of descending levels, to be described with each level transcribed.

Right side of page divides "Upper Hell" and "Lower Hell" (both roughly 4-5 floors)

Left side of page labeling the levels:

Vestibule: Endless(?) Staircase [illustration: spiralling stairs as the top level]

I. Limbo [stick figures stuck in hotel lobby]

II. Lust [stick figures writhing together in a butchershop, hooks and blood dripping down walls shown]

III. Gluttony [stick figures binging and purging food]

IV. Avarice [stick figures seemingly pushing boulders back and forth] Notes to the right: "heavy [workers/laborers(?)], everyone in your way"

V. Wrath [stick figures swept up in what look like currents] Personal note of transcriber: I looked up notes on Dante's version to get a better idea of this, and I quote "Note how the two groups suffer different punishments appropriate to their type of anger--the wrathful ruthlessly attacking one another and the sullen stewing below the surface of the muddy swamp (Inf. 7.109-26)". Link to source.

VI. Heresy [stick figures that appear to be seated around office tables, or perhaps are laying on sacrificial tables? Possibly graves/tombs. I'm afraid this one seems unclear to me.] Personal note of transcriber: I looked up more notes from the same source website as before, and I quote "Dante opts for the most generic conception of heresy--the denial of the soul's immortality (Inf. 10.15)--perhaps in deference to spiritual and philosophical positions of specific characters he wishes to feature here, or perhaps for the opportunity to present an especially effective form of contrapasso: heretical souls eternally tormented in fiery tombs." Link to new source page.

VII. Violence (8-10 subsections are listed for this level, but they are small and illegible) [figures in a flood of blood or being impaled on the sides of the level illustration] Edwin's notes to the right: "trapped, impaled, submerged in blood"

VIII. Fraud [large level depicting giant snakes, dripping blood that reflects Lust's illustration, figures, and something else I can't make out (jutting outcroppings of stone, wings, hands? I am unsure.)] Edwin's notes to the right: "snake pit, gain human form by biting other humans"

IX. Treachery [figures submerged with only head above surface] Edwin's notes to the right: "frozen + stuck + chewed on"

At the very bottom of the page and levels of hell is an enormous creature that appears to be something like a dragon emerging from a dark pit.

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quonah4dead · 30 days ago

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Closets may feel safe, but they sure are lonely

Word count: ~8.5k Rating: Teen+ for language, probably Pairing: Nellis Characters: Ellis, Keith

Summary: For a while, Ellis had been giddy like a little girl with a crush, running around in secret with whatever chick he'd fallen for, refusing to share any details with his best friend… Denying her existence… Confirming her existence before keeping it all hush-hush anyway… And it's been a bit over a month since she must have dumped him. Since then, to Keith, it's been like watching a corpse replace his partner in crime, and nothing Keith does seemed to get the life back in his brother's eyes. Keith's a stubborn man, but even he has his limits.

This is inspired by Primum, Non Nocere by ladyred and is set after Nick and Ellis mutually (miserably) agree to back off seeing each other, because they both suspected that people around Ellis were getting way too suspicious of him having a secret relationship. OR Nick broke it off 'cause he got scared of… something, idk what ladyred planned for them. I just know I was tormented with visions of this scene somewhere way down the line, and the cure for cursed visions is writing it. Proofread by self, if you see a typo either ignore it or let me know (gently).

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, panic attack, brief reference to gay conversion horror stories but it's like one sentence, fear of abandonment, keith's got finger stumps, boy's a little confused but he's got the spirit, also keith uses the r-slur once. it's 201X and these boys probably grew up t-bagging in COD lobbies, you can't tell me Keith would be terribly delicate with the gamer words

CONTEXT and CREDIT for inspiration: First, Nijuukoo's art came across my dash during Gravity Falls brainrot hours, and it was delicious, so I feasted upon their blog. Then, I noticed they kept tagging shit "bmb," and saying things I didn't get, like there was a fanfic or something. Then bmb took over my life. Then I read ladyred's OTHER l4d shit, and all of it's been living rent free in my head, nellis brainrot restored after a decade of lying dormant. Then I wrote this.

"---, y'know? HA!" Keith lurched his body forward with a shout and smacked the steering wheel with his pinky-free right hand as he wrapped up whatever the hell he was saying. Honestly, if you asked him two seconds after he finished yapping, he wouldn't have been able to recall any of what he just said. The words didn't really matter anyway, Lord knows he said plenty more than he ever needed to.

What was far more important was how his words were affecting his passenger, and how few words he was getting in return. The issue was, the person next to him was being painfully quiet, compared to normal. He turned to point a lopsided grin at the man riding shotgun, only slightly forcing the expression through his worry, and slapped his best friend's shoulder with the back of his hand.

"Am I right, or am I right, brother?"

The impact jostled Ellis in his seat. If he jolted to awareness, the blow masked it, and he immediately snorted, shook his head, and pointed a slim, but genuine, smile out the rightmost corner of the windshield. "Yeeaahh... When you're right, you're right, man," he drawled, sounding slow and tired.

Keith kept the smile on his face as he scrutinized his buddy. Ellis' eyes squinted up with affection, warm and true, but there was also a sad distance to his expression that he couldn't quite hide. Maybe he could've hidden it from anyone else, but sure as hell not Keith. That look had seemingly taken up permanent residence on his friend's face a while ago, foreign and out of place. He was getting fuckin' sick of it.

He'd BEEN fuckin' sick of it. For like two weeks at least. The first two (three?) weeks of it were sad, but tolerable. Sure, it was hard to drag Ellis out of bed for literally anything for a few days there. And sure, he'd regularly space out while working, just slouching there looking like death while elbow-deep in car guts. And sure, it was fucking obvious that he was suffering from heartbreak.

The guy had been giddy and eager and happy and excruciatingly secretive for like a month or two, using Keith as cover regularly while running off to meet some sweet piece of ass (Keith assumed), while vehemently denying the existence of the girl. It was like watching a puppy try to hide how exited it was for treats. He was so obviously smitten that everyone, Keith, Dave, Ellis' Mom - hell, even Paul groused about it once, and he hates minding other peoples' business... Shit, everyone was wondering if anyone else had heard anything about who was making Ellis sneak around like a lovestruck teenage girl who fell for the bad boy. It wasn’t like they were all gossiping about it constantly or anything, but Ellis’ behavior had become a source of unspoken tension in the background of their lives, popping up whenever he was acting weird.

Eventually he admitted that she existed (in a private conversation with Keith aided by beer), but withheld all details about her, and then a while later he just started moping out of nowhere like he had no reason to live. And even though Keith had never actually seen Ellis bring a girl home or get upset over a breakup before... It was so obvious. So. Fucking. Obvious.

Keith felt the willpower for his upbeat façade wither, and his smile tightened and wilted into a stiff, frustrated frown. Air escaped his slightly-scrunched remainder-of-a-crooked-nose with a harsh and extended huff, and he let his head loll hard to the left, glancing out the driver’s-side window in exasperation, before directing a slightly-absent gaze back onto the road. Keith’s right hand began whacking the car’s gear shift, creating a crisp tap-a-tap-a-tap-a-tapping as his wrist flicked between hitting his knobby thumb and ring finger on the clutch handle.

Pinching one of the radial spokes of the steering wheel between his left hand's ring and middle fingers, the single-phalanx stumps of his index finger and thumb were unable to do much more than brace against the base of the bar where it attached to the central hub, weakly supporting his guidance of the car. He raised his eyebrows, spread his the fingers of his right hand conspiratorially, and angled his head vaguely toward Ellis. "So," he started with a glance toward his passenger, "Tomorrow. We go into the city proper. Laser tag?" He waited a beat before getting a better idea. "Ooh! Ooh! Or we could check out one'a them like, arcade-y wall climb-ey places, like whut Tom was talkin' about! Y'know?" Keith kept glancing over at Ellis, hoping for something to light up in his eyes.

Ellis' eyes lost a portion of their glaze as Keith's words reached him. He took a breath and shook his head sluggishly, looking despondently through the passenger seat's air conditioning vents. His response was quiet, seated low in his chest, “I dunno if I’m—”

“— Feelin’ up to it right now, yeah, yeah…” Keith finished for him, trailing off and sighing. His voice lowered to just the barest mutter, “Never feel up for anything anymore.” He wasn’t entirely sure if Ellis could’ve heard that, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted him to. It was a little bit of a bitch thing to say, but Lord forgive him, he was gripped with an urge to be a bit of a bitch about it. He found his head shaking in tiny, quick jerks, lower jaw grinding forward as he suppressed whatever words were trying to throw themselves out his mouth on impulse. Sayin’ more bitch shit prob’ly wouldn’t help nothin’. His tapping against the clutch briefly got louder.

The hardly-winding rural roads provided little distraction. There was no traffic, beyond an occasional guy driving a junker, with whom Keith would exchange a slow chin-dip and leisurely salute with whatever left-hand fingers he could spare. Spiffier-looking vehicles didn’t get any such pleasantries.

The terrain was flat and predictable. Each side of the road was flanked by a lush, dense mixture of deciduous trees and swampy shrubs unique to their humid and subtropical climate, brought into a deep and vivid green by their typical 70-something-degree March rains. In the summer, the roadside ditches were practically always holding stagnant water, and frequent downpours made low-water crossings a regular chance to test the mettle of his latest preowned vehicle. Now, though, the water line was safely below his tires by a few feet, even at the lowest and least-maintained crossings. Boring.

And there were no turns that Keith could take at inadvisable speeds. Fucking boring.

Aaaaannd Ellis was still staring blankly out the window to the right, looking as dead inside as ever. Keith felt his chest pinch a little from… something that wasn’t exactly annoyance, but he wasn’t going to bother figuring out what it was. Fuckin’ annoying, he thought to himself.

Keith’s wide-open eyes darted rapidly below his furrowed brow at the greenery and straight county highway ahead of him, not really looking at anything. His gaze flicked to the right again, and he felt some kind of thought rise up behind his teeth.

His jaw ground a little tighter, and his right knee started wiggling left and right with the effort of withholding whatever the hell he was about to say. He felt his tongue rub the chasm left by the absence of his small left incisor tooth. The dam was breaking and his willpower was faltering, so he inhaled a hissing breath through his missing tooth, letting the breeze chill his bare gum, and just blurted out, “D’you know how much it sucks to see yuh like this, man?”

Ellis tipped his head back into the headrest and let out a delicate stream of air through his nose. His eyes rolled upward and then closed, irritation pinching at his brow while exhaustion slanted the corners of his lips downward. This did not deter Keith. He slapped and gripped the clutch with a bit more force than was necessary to emphasize his point. "Fuckin' sucks, dude."

Ellis directed a despondent gaze off to the side, a weak attempt at avoiding Keith's gaze. He dully shook his head, just a little, and sighed. "'M sorry, man. I..." His voice came out tired and husky. "Don't mean to be a downer, you know that."

Something in Ellis' tone suggested he had more to say, but Keith jumped on ahead before he had he chance. "It ain't that! You bein' a lil' sad ain't the problem! You bein' sad ain't--!" Keith smacked his hand on the clutch once, then another time, "--a problem! It's the fact that you've been like this for a month--,"

Ellis' head shaking intensified and his voice harshened as he tried to speak over Keith. "I don't got it in me for this right now, man--"

"-- and I ain't been able to do shit fer you, and I'm--"

"Keeeeiiith--"

"--startin' to feel like--"

"You don't gotta try to cheer me up, man!" That got Keith to shut up for about half a second, just enough to sneak in, "It ain't your job. If--" Despite the frustration Ellis put into the jerking of his head and the further raising of his voice, he felt like he was pleading with Keith to just-- he didn't even know. Just something.

"Uh, yes it is??" The interruption didn't stop the steamroller's inertia, apparently. "'S kinda how bein' a best bro works? Kinda in the job description?" He flared out all seven remaining fingers for a brief moment, at a loss. "I mean, what's even the point'a bein' a best friend if you can't do shit for your boy, y'know?" Keith started stammering out, "I-I-I-" as his mouth tried to buy time for his brain to come up with something to follow it with.

It was as close to stopping as he was going to get, and Ellis took the opportunity.

"It ain't got nothin' tuh do with you, man."

"Yes it does!" Keith struck his right hand on the steering wheel with a full-body jerk that bounced him in his seat, Ellis' contribution easily jolting his brain out of its stall. "It's got everything tuh do with me! You're miserable! Yuh look dead all the fuckin' time!" Keith furiously smashed his right index finger into his own sternum, sending staccato thumps rippling through his ribcage. "That's a me problem, man!"

Ellis punctuated every word as much as he could as he let his eyes close again, anger crinkling his nose. "No, it fuckin' ain't, Keith."

"Uhhh, yes, it fuckin' is, El!" Keith mimicked his deliberate cadence before falling right back into his agitated pace. "Why you actin' like this is just a you thing? Like ain't noooooobody got the right to worry 'bout'cha, like ain't nooooooo-one gonna-- fuckin'--" Keith's brain stalled out again, for a handful of seconds, but Ellis didn't try to get in a comment, so his mind could only resort to the program it had been running since this dumb moping started. "Why you actin' like-- like nothin' ain't gonna ever be worth doin' again if you can't keep runnin' off and playin' with yer special little lady friend?” His head roughly tilted left and right in a frustrated half-mockery. “It's been over a month, Ellis! I know breakups suck, but I--" Keith took one, maybe two seconds to pant and find words through an abrupt wave of anguish, powerful and alien and out of place on his face where it twisted his expression into one of pained desperation. The small choked sound of emotional pain, too, was alien in his throat, and his brow furrowed, lowered, as if some weak macho facsimile of anger could force the tension out of his voice. His eyes, however, would have betrayed his sorrow, had Ellis been able to glance at him.

"I miss my friend."

The statement hung there alone, for a minute or two. Neither man could bring himself to look at the other. Keith stared at some distant point through the asphalt in front of him. The raw admission narrowed his vision, and he didn't notice the days-old smear of raccoon on the highway's shoulder, even as it bumped underneath his tires.

Keith found himself deflating. He had all the fight in the world under the right circumstances, but without Ellis fighting back, all he had was... Being sad.

He reached for just a shred more of energy, tried to find something else to say to accomplish.... Something. Anything.

"I know you're hurtin', Ellis, but I--" He felt the last of his steam run out. There was no hot air left to blow. There wasn't even enough energy to complete the thought in his own head. A thin, tired wheeze escaped him as he slouched forward. His next utterance was just a whisper.

"Fuck."

Keith's mind went quiet. It was a weird feeling, having no schemes or jokes or anything running across his consciousness, nothing vying for his attention. Usually his head felt like a high school cafeteria pre-, during-, and post-food fight all at once. Right now, it was just a blank grey haze, somehow dulling all of his senses while the sound of the road seemed to roar in his ears. It was unfamiliar, and weird, and painful. Felt like broken ribs and black bruises, but in his heart and stomach and lungs. Internal bleeding. He sat there with the ache and the emptiness for... however long. A mile or two, maybe, before a miserable, hollow voice quietly piped up from the passenger's seat.

The sound was muffled. "... Ain't a girl, man..." Ellis had buried his face in his hands. Keith wasn't sure when it happened, if it was during his waning outburst or during the silence that followed. What he did know is that that phrase had, for quite a while now, been an inconsistent way for Ellis to terminate every conversation Keith tried to have with him. The shorter man oscillated between denial and admission, and Keith knew which one was true.

Keith's head shook slightly, and his reply was delicately soft in volume, but deep with the tone of his disappointment.

"And there yuh go, lyin' again."

He didn't really have anything else to say. They'd rehashed this small bit of dialogue so many times in the past few weeks. Keith didn't know which canned reply Ellis was going to pull out next, but he did know it wouldn't get them anywhere. But when Ellis replied, face still solidly planted in his hands, Keith stepped to his tune, anyway.

"Ain't a lie, man.

"If it ain't a girl, then whut is it." Not even asked as a question, really. Just a droll repetition of bullshit they've already been over.

"Can't tell yuh."

At this point in the exchange, Keith was supposed to say Why not? and Ellis would say Because I can't, man, and then they'd bash their heads together until they were both tired of it. But Keith was already tired. And so, instead of fighting, what came out of his mouth was--

"Sure."

And for the first time since the adrenaline and hype of their graveyard-dirt-bike parkour wore off, for the first time in miles during their drive back home, Keith felt Ellis' eyes on him.

That sky-blue gaze was flicking around the profile of his face. Something in Keith's chest tried to make some kind of feeling, but he was tired. And sad. And angry. So nothing in his posture or face changed in response to the new attention. He just kept staring out at the road with the tension in his brow.

Another something in Keith's chest tried to make a leap when Ellis actually re-engaged with the opening in the conversation, even if it was just more shit he'd heard already. "I--I really can't, Keith..."

"Sure."

Ellis jerked his head back in the bewilderment that surged up underneath his misery. His mouth flapped open and closed like a dumb fish, and true to form, apparently, he started desperately floundering for something to placate the wiry man next to him.

"I- You know I'd tell yuh if I could, right? You- I- Keith, I... Yuh can't-" Hurried breaths huffed out into the car as he kept searching the turbid conversational water for some kind of godsend. "Keith, please don't do this, man. I can't. Tell you."

Now that one managed to bring back Keith's temper, just a little. The sensation of being pissed came easily, even if the heat of the emotion was dampened by the exhaustion that had seized him previously. He let himself lean into it. His shoulders gave a harsh, quick shrug, he ran his tongue over his front teeth, and he jerked his jaw firmly forward.

"Sure."

He spat out the word like it was acid.

And like acid, it began burning a pit into Ellis' stomach.

"Keith..." Ellis pleaded. "I--," he gasped in a breath through his teeth, "--I can't! I'd tell yuh if I could, but--," a little grunt escaped him, "--I just-- can't!"

Ellis had tilted his face upward, hands palms-up in his lap as if he could collect droplets of apology and truth and forgiveness in them. His last words had come out as a near-whine as his throat tightened around them.

Keith didn't even respond.

The taller man kept his eyes fixed on the road, hands clenched on the steering wheel, and all Ellis' supplication seemed to do was make his friend's face pinch up further with a cold, stony anger.

He didn't even glance at Ellis.

The brunet's head flopped back against the headrest, pushing his hat slightly onto his forehead.

This is exactly the kind of thing he wanted to avoid.

Sure, Keith didn't know, because Ellis couldn't tell him, so it wasn't exactly the same, but the slim, scarred man next to Ellis wasn't even talking to him. Couldn't even look at him. His best friend hated him.

Was disgusted by him.

Was done with him.

It was all fucking over. Ellis did his best to keep his damning secrets and it didn't even matter, because now Keith was going to give up not only on cheering Ellis up, but also on their entire damn friendship. He's going to lose his best friend and it's not even--

Ellis' vision narrowed, whited out everywhere except for a tiny pinprick of red at the center of his vision.

His limbs went numb, needles piercing his fingers as his organs felt like they began shutting down.

It's fucking over.

I'm gonna die sad and alone under a bridge.

Keith didn't hear his friend's waffling, not really. Sure, the sounds hit his ears, but aside from, "I'd tell you if I could," nothing else registered. His mind filtered out everything else, and that little bit he did hear just pissed him off more. Lie after lie after dodged question after lie. He knew Ellis wouldn't tell him anything if he could, because Ellis could tell Keith anything, and he hadn't. He could tell Keith anything! How could that not be clear after how long they've been attached at the hip? How much they've done together?

Keith just kept his eyes locked to the road, his hands locked to the wheel, and his jaw locked down tight.

And then he heard a little stuttered breath, just loud enough to break through the fog of his cold seething.

Fuckin' great, now he's cryin', Keith thought to himself without looking over toward the other seat. I push him, he gets upset. I give up, he starts sobbing. Lord help me, I'm 'boutta lose it.

He heard another rushed, wheezed inhale.

Air leaked out of Keith's nose, and he felt the square of his shoulders soften a little.

Fuck's sake.

"El, I'm-- Okay, no, I am mad. I am. But couldjuh just-- put yerself in my shoes fer a second on this?" He glanced over at Ellis for a moment just to emphasize his point. In that brief second, he could see that his friend's head was planted into the headrest, eyes closed, with a weak grimace wrinkling his features.

"Wh-whuddya think my, fuck, my per-spec-tive is on this? How'd you feel, if I just shut'ya out've everything 'n' then kept givin' yuh shit excuses?" He looked over for a second longer, now, and saw the same thing. It hardly even seemed like Ellis was listening. Keith directed a frustrated glance to the sky, willing something to give him patience, 'cause Lord knows he wasn't born with any.

His thumb started tapping on the clutch again in a slow, irregular rhythm. "Y'gotta give me somethin', man. Y'can't get upset with me fer keepin' quiet, then pull this silent shit."

Keith found himself frequently peeking at Ellis, now, searching for any sign of engagement. Across the span of several quick glimpses, he noticed that Ellis wasn't really taking great, heaving breaths from crying. Hell, there weren't even any tears running down his face.

Actually, it hardly looked like he was breathing at all.

"El?" He started suspiciously, training a critical eye on his passenger.

Nothing.

Keith took a breath. "Ellis?" His attention was more fully on his friend now, the speed meter gradually dropping on his dashboard due to his diverted scrutiny. He was practically going the speed limit now.

Still, Ellis didn't respond at all. Didn't even budge.

What the hell...

A firm urgency entered Keith's voice now. "Ellis, c'mon, man, this ain't funny." He clasped his hand onto Ellis' forearm, gripping firmly. It made Ellis jolt, but all that accomplished was making him heave in a great, gasping breath, followed by panicked, shallow wheezes that bounced his ribcage in and out.

"Ellis?? Ellis, yer scarin' me, man, quit it!" Keith shook his friend's arm with an increased urgency. He rapidly flicked his eyes ahead and to the right, trying to avoid crashing while being far more concerned with the fact that his best bro was hyperventilating next to him.

The breathing wasn't slowing down, wasn't evening out. Keith kept his foot on the gas for just a couple moments longer before cursing under his breath, smashing the hazard lights button, and pulling over halfway off the backwoods road so people could pass him. He was unbuckling his seatbelt before the car had finished bumping its way to a stop, and the moment he was able to engage the emergency brake, he threw himself over the center console bin to wedge his torso between Ellis and his seat. He pressed Ellis tight to his chest, wrapping his long arms over and around Ellis' shoulders, and planted the side of his head against the back of his best friend's neck.

Ellis' hands jolted up to grip Keith's arms where they crossed ontop of his chest, white-knuckled grip pulling at the taller man's skin.

"C'mon, Ellis, c'mon. Breathe, brother, yer fine... Shit, man, breathe..."

Keith had no clue what to do. He just held fast to the compact, sturdy chest in his arms and ran his mouth with the hope that something good would come out. How do you convince a guy to breathe when he can't even hear you?

"It's alright, man, it's alright. Yer fine. I gotcha. 'S okay, 'm here. I gotcha... Jesus..."

Over the course of several minutes, Ellis' breathing became deeper. Gradually. His chest was still heaving and he still seemed unsteady, but at least the breaths were deeper now. He was getting air, at least. His hands started grabbing at Keith's arms with a bit more firm presence, and a bit less clawing desperation.

And then Ellis flopped his head onto Keith's left shoulder and shuddered throughout his whole body.

And then the waterworks started.

For a second, Keith was struck with the fear that Ellis had forgotten how to breathe again. He had gripped his friend's shirt and rubbed the thumb-and-a-third he had against his friend's stomach and chest, tension entering his grasp when Ellis' ribcage surged under his arms.

The feeling of a warm, damp droplet falling onto his forearm produced within him a morsel of sorrow, but also a surge of relief.

Crying is better.

He can handle crying.

The other thing made Keith feel like he was being dragged under by a gator, but crying was fine. Keith knew how to handle crying.

The slope of Ellis' seatbelt slid off his shoulder as he listed over to the left, and Keith's spine shifted to match him. Nothing needed saying right now. He just had to let Ellis collapse into him and ride out the tears, so that's what he did.

Ellis had always been a bit of a crier. He was tough as anything, resilient as hell, but movies, video games, and passings in the community had all gotten the shorter man anywhere between misty-eyed and bawling at some point. This was familiar territory.

Keith didn't have to see Ellis' face to know that this was some ugly crying.

He heard keening and groaning, sounds that were probably stifled wails. Little anguished chokes bubbled up around phlegm in Ellis' throat, accompanying what Keith was pretty sure was a line of watery snot dripping freely onto his forearm. Whatever. He'd covered himself in grosser. Couldn't fucking care less.

They sat there for a long time, rocking gently in their car seats. The sobbing came and eased in slow waves, repeatedly fooling Keith into thinking it was tapering off before something in Ellis' head reopened the flood gates. Three vehicles had driven by them, and Keith was grateful that none of them stopped to offer any kindness.

It had been thirty minutes, maybe? An hour? Keith had no real grasp on time. He just knew he'd sit there hugging his friend forever if that's what it took.

Slowly, finally, the flow of tears and snot ebbed for more than a few scarce moments. Keith directed his gaze from its previous position over Ellis' right shoulder, and glanced at the back of his friend's jaw. He let himself hope for the best, and kept his voice at its softest possible rumble when he decided to speak.

"Y'with me, buddy...?"

He heard a little hissed gasp through teeth, and Ellis pushed his head into Keith's left shoulder. It was something, but...

"Don't gotta talk, just-- just lemme know yer here."

Another sniffle met his request while Ellis managed to grind a nod back into the taller man's collarbone.

"Okay," Keith whispered. "Good."

He nervously plucked at the material of Ellis' t-shirt, pinching it up and smoothing it back down again, mind helpless and blank. When Ellis breathed as if to speak, Keith's spine tensed with unwavering attention.

"Duh-don't-," Ellis panted out, interrupted by another sniffle and a gasp. "- hate me."

Keith froze.

He was mortified. Maybe a little offended, too.

"Whut the hell are you on about, Ellis? Whuh-- How--"

The calloused hands on Keith's forearms tightened their grip.

"D-don't. Please," Ellis begged, "Keith, I-"

"Ellis, man, what the hell's got you thinkin' I hate you?"

"I s-saw it on yer-- face."

Bewildered, Keith's head shook a little on its own. He tried to keep his volume gentle through the shock of Ellis' assertions.

"Ellis, I- I just got a lil' pissy..! That ain't... I don't hate you, man. I could never hate you. What's gotten intuh you?"

A small mewl accompanied the agonized head-shake on his chest. The friction of the movement finally pushed Ellis' cap off his head and into the gap between the seat and the median, but neither man reached for it. Ellis knew Keith was bit of a bull-headed prick sometimes. How could this possibly have gone so far down shit creek? He followed the compulsion to smooth over... Whatever the fuck this was. Maybe he could find a paddle. Reverse course.

"I'm sorry, man, I didn't... I didn't think--" He couldn't figure out what to say next. I didn't think you'd go'n start dyin' if I stopped fighting you on your shit.

Ellis's thumb started gently rubbing back and forth on Keith's arm. It was a bittersweet feeling that pulsed through Keith's heart when he realized that Ellis was trying to make him feel better.

"'S'okay, Keith... I get it."

He sounded so defeated.

What the fuck is goin' on that makes you think I'd ever hate you? What the fuck do you think could make me hate you? Keith squeezed the man in his arms, let the silence drag on a minute. His tongue darted out to wet his lips before carrying on.

"So... Okay, y'don't gotta tell me nothin', man. You don't, honest. I'm done pushin' yuh." He didn't actually know if that one was true. Seemed like the kind of claim he'd forget about in two days. "It's just--" Keith bit his scarred lips between his teeth and jostled Ellis slightly in his embrace. "I just gotta get somethin' straight, okay? And y'don't gotta answer me on these, neither. I just- have to get this straight."

The only response he got was a little press of fingers clasping harder to the lean meat on his arms.

"So- you can't tell me what's gotcha all upset. Can't tell me why yer all fucked in the head." It was a half-statement, half-question. He gave Ellis space to say something, but the opportunity was left untouched.

"And you can't tell me why you can't tell me why."

At this, Ellis shook his head and made a pathetic little negative mm-mm sound in his throat.

"And you can't tell me, 'cuz you... Think I hate'cha?"

Ellis shook his head again. "Y-you-- will."

If it weren't for what was coming out of Ellis' mouth, Keith would've been ecstatic at how much more he was getting out of the brunet right now. As it stood, however, he kinda wished he wasn't hearing it. The relief and the pain, the disbelief, mixed together into something that was almost numbing. Almost.

"You can't tell me why you can't tell me... Because you think I'll... hate'cha. If'ya do."

Ellis nodded his head weakly and squeaked.

Keith shook his a moment after.

"El?" Keith started gently.

"... That's gotta be the dumbest fuckin' thing I ever heard'ya say in my life."

Ellis made a little huffing noise, and Keith didn't know what it meant. He didn't ask about it, though, and he certainly didn't let it stop him.

"I'm serious, man, that's fuckin' retarded." Affection bled from his voice as he said it. He tried to infuse every word with as much gentle passion as he could, though his voice was ill-suited to it. "Ain't nothin' in the world you could do or say to get me tuh stop bein' your problem, brother. You're stuck with me fer life, whether you like it'er not." He jostled Ellis a little, trying to make sure what he said made it to Ellis' mind. "Feel like that's pretty obvious. But, okay, fuck me. You can't tell me what's got'cha all fucked in the head. And you can't tell me why you can't tell me, 'cause you think I'll hate you."

He couldn't stop himself from tacking on a small indictment.

"Which is stupid."

His thumbs just briefly tapped on Ellis' arms as he tried to figure out what to say next. God, he was so ass with delicate shit.

"... Can you tell me why you can't tell me why you can't tell me why..."

He felt like it was the wrong thing to say. He also felt like it was a stupid thing to say. Self-consciousness furrowed his eyebrows as his mind began to parse what his mouth put out there, and he started slowly counting the number of 'whys' in that question on his fingers, getting the words all mixed up in his head and having to restart the finger-count at least twice.

He could not see Ellis' dam breaking. He couldn't see the built-up reservoir of the misery of hiding, of years upon years of the fear of being known. Being caught. The perception that being discovered would simply end his life the moment anyone found out.

He also couldn't see that at that moment, for Ellis, the fear of losing his best friend was far greater and seemed far more imminent right now, due to Keith not knowing. A feeling had settled within him, that he would lose Keith, closet or no, and there was some kind of weird peace in the sensation of standing on train tracks over a pit of spikes. He would be impaled if he jumped, and crushed if he didn't. It was freeing, in a way. He'd die no matter what, so why not give Keith an olive branch? Just a little something, to ease the pain of being discarded. Or maybe it was to revel in being vindicated while he burned on the pyre.

It took Ellis speaking to break Keith out of his linguistic counting loop.

"If anyone... Finds out," Ellis started, sounding mournful, sure, but sounding a whole lotta resigned, too, "... I'll lose fuckin' everyone, Keith."

He left a space for Keith to interrupt, but he didn't. Keith waited.

"I'll lose you. Paul. My job."

"... Mama."

"You guys are my everything, man. If I lose y'all, I ain't got nuthin', and I can't--"

Ellis sighed here and let his head roll forward, just a little away from Keith's embrace. He didn't care to finish the sentence, and he also wanted to skip past any protesting Keith might try.

"And don't tell me I won't, neither. That nothin'll happen. Y'can't know that, Keith, I've heard more'n enough stories to know that- that people lose people over this shit. Some people get--"

Ellis didn't want to finish that one, either. Some guys get sent away'n' tortured for this kind'a shit.

Their own mothers do it to 'em.

"So that's why I can't tell yuh, Keith. It ain't got nothin' tuh do with you, 'n' I'm sorry. But it just can't-- No one can know."

Keith was struck with a roaring urge to contradict Ellis, and he accidentally blurted, "Well that ain't--," before managing to stop himself with a herculean effort. That was exactly the thing Ellis specifically said not to do.

He took a deep breath and tried again. Lord, this was hard.

"Okay, so- y'said not tuh- tell yuh- that you won't... That yer mom'n everyone'll stick around if yer big dirty secret gets out. So I won't. I guess." Keith lowered his voice and narrowed his eyes. "Even though you're bein' a shithead."

"But I ain't goin' nowhere, El.” His pace started slow and deliberate as he tried to come up with things to prove his dedication. “If yuh killed someone, I'd help you hide the body. If yuh robbed a bank, I'd get pissed at'cha fer not invitin' me, 'cause that'd be sick.” The prickle of a scheme poked at his mind demanding attention, though he was mercifully able to stay on topic. “You pulled me outta so much bullshit, man, and you still keep draggin' me to the doc, even though yuh don't gotta. I ain't makin' you."

While Keith misinterpreted the reason for Ellis cringing at the mention his medical mishaps, he certainly didn't miss it. He waited for a second, and Ellis took the chance to protest.

"Well that's- all that was..." Fun. Funny. Necessary to save your life. Different.

"That was all 'cause we're bros. Ride or die, together forever, tuh hell'n'back. You— lookit me, Ellis, c'mon, look at me." Keith pulled himself out from behind Ellis, still leaning over to clap his hand on his friend's shoulder and shake it.

When that didn't get him any eye contact, he snatched Ellis' left hand up in a crushing, pinkyless grip, and planted his other fist on his left thigh.

"Lookit me," he enunciated heavily, meaning to leave no room for resistance.

He only continued when Ellis' miserable look met his fiery stare.

"I ain't goin' nowhere, Ellis. An' that ain't a promise, that's a threat. I know I get a bit weak about promises sometimes, so-," he cut off there, feeling slightly guilty in that admission. He was a bit surprised at it, too, because he'd never really thought about it before... But then he snapped his attention back on track and threw himself right back into whatever the hell he was saying.

"But Keith don't make no idle threats! I ain't a pussy, man, and- everyone- so, I--" So many different things were trying to come out of his mouth, now, he couldn't out get a single coherent phrase, but god damnit he had so much to say and he was so close to some kind of breakthrough, he knew it, and he just had to- fucking- say something, and-

"So I am threatening you, with bein' stuck with my exploded ass, forever, no matter fuckin' what you do, 'cause you're the worst, and the only righteous punishment God has for you fer bein' too goddamn nice is- is-- is havin' tuh deal with my bullshit for the rest of yer stupid life."

Keith let his eyes settle on Ellis' after his outburst, and he felt... Weird. Felt like rugburn in his guts. He felt like he was clawing his way to the surface of whitewater, and he felt like the air had been knocked out of him. Kinda reminded him of panic. Was he panicking?

"Y'hear?"

Yeah, maybe he was panicking a little. Or something else close to it. Fear? Was he about to cry? His voice wobbled when he wrapped it up. That was weird. Not normal.

And he felt more pressure build in his chest when Ellis fixed him with an intense, scrutinizing look. He was looking for something on Keith's face, and Keith wasn't sure if he'd found it.

But whatever he saw, it must have been enough, because the next thing he said made Keith's heart fly into his throat.

It came out quietly, and cautiously, starkly contrasting with the tension of their eye contact.

"... Yuh promise...?"

Keith was flabbergasted. Desperate hope exploded in his chest.

"Uh- A'course. Of course...! Obviously? Dumbass?"

"No, Keith, I-- do you promise??" Ellis gripped hard and shook their clasped hands for emphasis. It was so important. It was so important.

Keith steeled his expression with all the grim determination he had ever felt in his life.

"Ellis? You ain't never gettin' rid'uh me. You can't, 'less you let me bleed out on the pavement."

And he fucking. Meant it. He proclaimed it into existence, into truth. So he hath threatened, and so it shall be.

Ellis held his gaze a little longer. Keith couldn't tell what he was thinking, but that didn't matter. Keith could feel in his bones that they were on the verge of something great. His boundless confidence had come surging back in a great swell, and with bright, brimming gold lining his vision, he couldn't imagine any outcome other than unadulterated triumph shared between himself and his best friend.

Which is why it kinda confused and deflated him when Ellis's face pinched up, chin trembling just a tad. He cradled his head in his other arm, his right arm, to hide it, and muttered, in shame, "... It ain't a girl."

Keith... Didn't know what to do with that. He kind of just stared, brain buffering and jaw tightening. He thought Ellis was gonna start spilling the beans, and instead he just repeated the same line as always...?

He sat there, silent and unmoving, for however long it took for Ellis to pause, take a deeeep breath, and hold it until it puffed out in a different answer.

"It's a guy."

Ellis kept himself folded over, arm pressed against his eyes. Keith was at a loss. It took a moment for the words to register, and he immediately began puzzling out what the hell that could mean.

It's a guy...?

What, like he's gettin' bullied or somethin'...?

Is someone threatening him...?

Ellis didn't follow up the statement very quickly, but Keith was so busy being confused that there was plenty of room for him to continue when he piped back up.

"We... People were startin'tuh... Get wise that I was up'tuh somethin', seein' someone in secret, so he- we thought it'd be best tuh... Break up. Before anyone found out."

Break up

It's a guy

Ain't a girl

Seein' someone

All the words bounced around in Keith's head like ping pong balls. It took a few moments for the right wires to connect in his many-times-concussed brain. But when those neurons finally fired properly, it was as if a thousand pins dropped at once.

Oh.

He felt like a deer staring into headlights. His words came out like molasses, like he was processing them as he was saying them.

"So, you were... Datin' a... guy...?"

Ellis didn't respond at all. He just sat there, hiding from Keith while holding onto his hand. He didn't really need to say anything, though. The silence was confirmation enough.

"Oh."

A gentle thumping began sounding out as Keith's left thumb stump set itself to tapping against the driver's side window controls. When that didn't seem to be enough stimulation, his fingers started pushing and pulling the window levers with minds of their own.

He had nooooo clue what to do with that information.

A gentle mechanical vrr-vrr-vrr sounded out from all four corners of the car as he clicked the controls up and down.

It wasn't like that was a problem, not really. It's just...

Well, shit, that kind of thing had never crossed his mind before. He'd never had to think about it.

He knew it was a thing that, like... Happened? Guys dating guys wasn't unheard of. It was a thing he knew about, in a vague background awareness kind of way. But...

It just never mattered. There was no reason to bother thinking about it, turning that fact into a part of his worldview. Nobody he knew was like that, and nobody he knew had friends who were like that, and it just... Was a blind spot.

And now that that blind spot was being smashed, he didn't know what to think.

Did this change anything?

Was this supposed to change anything?

Was he supposed to feel some kind of way? Was he supposed to say something? Was there a user's manual for... This situation?

vrr- vrrrr- click- vrr- click- tap-a-tap-a- vrrrrrt-

Keith almost didn't hear Ellis speak over his fidgeting, so quietly and slowly he began.

"I... get it, if you don't- wanna hang out, anymore. I really do." Keith felt his stomach give a panicked jolt, kicking hard against the static that had been occupying his mind. "It's fine. You just- wanted--"

"Woah, woah, woah, hold on there!" Keith put his left palm out, placating. "I said I ain't goin' nowhere, an' I meant it, I just- uh..." He scratched the back of his head with his free hand. "Well, shit, man, I just wasn't expectin' that answer, that's all."

With the windows still open, the roar of car tires on pavement filled their space for a brief moment as another vehicle passed them by. He floundered.

"I just don't know what tuh..."

The uncommon sting of awkwardness prickled across Keith's back.

"Shit, I'm fuckin' this up... Dammit, Keith, yuh dumb asshole, stupid, stupid, stupid..."

Keith rubbed at his eyes in frustration. He was too busy cursing under his breath to notice Ellis lift his head and look at him, but when Ellis started speaking, his eyes snapped over to the right. The brunet seemed like he was bracing for something.

"You... Aren't disgusted, or... Gonna- yell at me, or...?"

"No! No, hell no! Why'd I do that?! That's dumb!"

The scrutiny Ellis directed his way was uncomfortable. "Yer... Not weirded out by it...?"

"Whuh- no! It ain't-" Keith couldn't stop a little bit of truth from leaking out in a little awkward admission. "I mean it's- a lil' weird... B-But that ain't bad'er nothin'!" He quickly amended. "I mean, hah, I'm a lot weird, 'n' I'm the greatest! So..."

Keith didn't even have to look at Ellis to know that that had to have been the wrong thing to say. He immediately flopped his face into his free hand again.

"Dammit."

The silence that settled between them felt excruciating to the taller man. It was such an unfamiliar thing, to feel like so much was riding on the words he chose and how he assembled them, and to actually be concerned about it. To have to mind his step when normally he just bowled into every conversation the way he bowled himself into junkyard obstacle courses. He was not built for delicate situations. When put in delicate situations, he usually just accepted that he'd break shit, leave shards lying everywhere, and step on 'em. Usually, that was fine.

Right now, getting cut up on emotional glass shards and rusty nails didn't feel very badass at all.

Kinda felt like shit.

Abruptly, Keith dragged his palm upward against his forehead, pushing back his coarse, ashy-blond bangs to bare the text underneath. He tilted his face to the right, though his eyes stayed averted, and shook Ellis' hand urgently where they still held their grips.

When Ellis didn't react, he pressed harder. Shook their hands harder.

Tired blue eyes looked up from where Ellis was slouching, head moving loosely as if it was only just attached to his neck. He was quick to notice it.

I'm a moron

The sudden dryness in Ellis' mouth didn't keep his throat from constricting around a reflexive swallow.

Uncovering that tattoo was something Keith only really did under two conditions.

Either he was bragging about something absurd he'd done, was doing, or was actively planning to do, wearing the tattoo loud and proud like a battle standard of badassery. That was actually a rather common occurrence.

The other condition was that… He was so desperately at a loss that he resorted to the text on his forehead like a lifeline.

It was Keith showing his belly, and he was asking Ellis to witness it being bared.

It was an apology, a plea for help, and a request for forgiveness all wrapped up into one gesture. Once, a year or so ago, when Keith had pulled this move before, he'd said he felt like he was getting his dick ripped off. The guy was struggling.

A sad kind of compassion softened the tension in Ellis' face. Air blew out his nose as he found something to say to ease his friend's fear.

"S'okay, man. I ain't gonna be mad atcha for- feelin' however you do. Not gonna pretend..." He shook his head, redirecting to what was more important to get out. "But'chu wanted to know, and now you know. That's why I been so lame lately." Ellis picked at a loose thread on the seam of his jeans. "I just- I just gotta ask one thing'a you. Even if yuh can't bring yerself to- even if you end up thinkin' different'a me."

A deep sincerity, firming Ellis' expression despite the gentleness of his voice, pierced straight through Keith as he held the eye contact.

"Y'can't tell nobody. This can't get out. However you end up feelin', whatever you're gonna do, no one else can know. Okay? I- I can handle losin' one person, I think, but if I- if I lose Ma over this, I misewell just throw myself under a car now'n' save us all the trouble."

Horror washed over Keith, a churning sensation rising in his stomach. He didn't have the awareness to hold back what he started blurting out.

"Ellis, she would never-"

A sudden surge of anger rose to meet him, abrupt and shocking, and Ellis' tone demanded compliance. "Dammit, Keith, I ain't playin'! You don't know that, and’ya can't know that. I know ya wanna tell me that it wouldn't change nothin', but I heard enough horror stories to know that it ain't worth riskin'. I can't lose her, man. This can't get out to no one."

Those blue eyes flicked between Keith's golden brown ones, and Ellis thumped their hands, still clasped, against the arm rest between them. "Okay?"

Agreeing to this felt like the wrong thing to do. Keith knew Ellis' mom would never abandon him or hurt him or whatever the hell Ellis thought would happen. The woman was too good and too smart to ever do that to her son. There was nothing so certain as the breadth and depth of her goodness, passed down directly to her son and cultivated with more love than mankind was meant to contain in their frail bodies. There was no way in hell that telling her could be a mistake, and yet... Ellis made it sound so dire. The shorter man was certain of his conviction, and... Hell, what the fuck did Keith know about this? Discomfort pinched at Keith's brows and he bit at the inside of his bottom lip a little. Unfortunately, it felt like there were no other options.

"Okay," he conceded with a heap of regret that lingered even as cautious hope entered Ellis' posture.

"I ain't gonna tell no one. I'll keep it to m'self. I still think you're wrong, but..." His mouth moved around his face after he gritted out the word 'wrong,' jaw flexing and nose crinkling, as he wrestled with the bad taste that had taken up residence there. "I'll keep yer damn secret."

Relief and disbelief both were tangible, then, emanating from the passenger's seat. Didn't really make him feel better about any of this, though. He started rolling up all the windows, and he could tell he caught Ellis' attention as his left hand grabbed for the keys in the ignition, right one still locked in its nine-finger embrace with Ellis' left.

The car rumbled to life, and he took a second to crane his neck, checking his mirrors and blind spots.

"But'cher stayin' at my place. You walk intuh Ma's house with your face like that, she's gonna know somethin' went down."

Gawking greeted him at that, Ellis' jaw slack and eyes wide, though a furrowed brow betrayed a still-guarded element to how he was feeling. Like it was too good to be true, and he was waiting for someone to leap out and beat his face in for being so stupid as to believe it.

Keith didn't feel like humoring it with kid gloves.

"What, you wanna go to yer mom's place, lookin' like that? Y'look like shit. I toldja, man, you ain't gettin' rid'a me. I'm still yer damn problem. Best bros ferever, ride'r'die, tuh hell'n'back, and I'll hold yer damn hand all the way home if I gotta," Keith said, drawing back his upper lip aggressively and shoving his left index finger-stump in Ellis' face with shoulders high. "Fuck you."

He turned harshly back in his seat, shifting into gear and then slapping the steering wheel into position with one hand. He pulled back onto the road with way more gas than was needed, as usual, and as he floored it back up to twenty over the speed limit, he vaguely noticed the way Ellis's eyebrows raised out of their skepticism and into incredulity. He ignored it.

What Keith missed was how Ellis' lower lip trembled briefly, and how dampness touched his eyes when he looked off through the passenger's window. Ellis let his eyelids drift closed, and his shoulders rose and fell with slightly-hurried breaths. But this time, he was not going to cry from distress.

This time, his eyes misted with a flood of relief.

Pressure was applied to Keith's sinewy hand, gradually ramping up to a firm squeeze before relaxing into a soft thumb-rub of probably-gratitude.

Keith gave a quick, bone-crushing double-squeeze in return.

They didn't talk at all for the remainder of the drive, beyond the driver's occasional muttered cursing at people driving reasonably. By the time they got to Keith's apartment, their palms were gross and damp, shared sweat turning soil into gritty, thin mud.

But, true to his word, Keith didn't let go once the whole way there.

#l4d2 #ellis l4d2 #keith l4d2 #nellis #fanfiction #fanfic #my shit #long post #left 4 dead 2 #primum non nocere

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tumblerislovetumblerislife · 2 months ago

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dead Boy Detectives (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland Characters: Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, Charles Rowland (DCU) Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Kissing, Charles Rowland Has Long Hair (DCU), tiny couch makes its triumphant return, charles hears edwin say one (1) romantic thing and has to lie down immediately, there’s one dirty joke. maybe two. sorry (i’m not sorry), no beta we fall to the floor like charles Series: Part 4 of give charles rowland long hair 2k24 Summary:

In mere hours, Charles would tie his hair back, out of the way of their work. Sometimes he missed a strand, which would then frame his face most fetchingly. Terribly tempting, that one curl, not to mention the fantasy of tucking it behind his ear and then ravishing him beyond what his poor hair tie could contain. For now, there was no such restriction, and so it was yet another thing Edwin planned to take full advantage of. He took hold of Charles’ hair and simultaneously set his teeth against Charles’ neck. Charles’ grip on him tightened. With a barely perceptible pop, Edwin’s shirt vanished.

Or: The first time Charles vanished Edwin’s clothes.

#dbda #payneland #tltl fic #my fic #dead boy detectives #charles rowland #edwin x charles #these bitches are back and gayer than ever (good for them good for them)#dead boy detective agency #dbdshow #edwin payne #painland #paineland #paynland #edwin paine #dbda fic #dbda fanfic #give charles rowland long hair 2k24 #take the ribbon from your hair (shake it loose let it fall)

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leiascully · 6 months ago

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Fic: adoration, contrition, thanksgiving, supplication (R, MSR)

2050 words; M for intimate situations; sex is easy (sometimes); trigger warnings for mentions of canon-typical violence, trauma, and guns

She is drawn up slowly from the caliginous depths of sleep by sensation. It speaks to years of therapy and her body’s subliminal connection to Mulder’s that she doesn’t reach for her gun. It is her instinct now, trained into her bones. The textured handle of her pistol is as familiar as a teddy bear. It wasn’t her dream to go from somnolent to armed in less than two seconds, but she’s made the acquaintance of too many nightmares.

Tonight, or this morning - she has woken into ambiguous, crepuscular light - she recognizes Mulder’s specific bulk behind her, the particular texture of his fingertips as they skim up her thigh. They have rules: the first touches are firm, reassuring, familiar. They begin with less vulnerable areas. She flinched from his hands, once or twice, involuntarily. He hissed between his teeth when she touched his head from behind. Fight or flight, fawn or freeze: they are both a little feral these days, peering out from the underbrush of their memories. There are hollow places inside them where an echo sounds like a scream.

This moment is very nearly normal, or what she can remember of normal. She doesn’t have to consciously unclench each muscle. She doesn’t count her quickening breaths. When he kisses the back of her neck, she leans into him. His fingers trace the lean line of her thigh, dipping teasingly between them before his palm flattens over her hip, her belly, her ribs. He cups her breast, thumbing the tight bud of her nipple. His lips are warm against the curve of her shoulder.

Sex is easy for them, after all the years of lofty intellectual foreplay. He was inside her psyche long before he was inside her body. She’d explored every coiled passage of his thoughts. There was a shocking intimacy about it, their minds meeting like an open-mouthed kiss. Each conversation stroked along her nerves. Each argument was a shared breath. The devoutly wished consummation, when it happened, had a rhythm so familiar she wondered for a moment if it wasn’t the first time, if she’d forgotten somehow, but it was just the push and pull that had always been between them, translated from air to flesh.

Sex is difficult for them, too. Arousal and fear walk the same paths: adrenaline spikes, hearts race. Gooseflesh ripples her skin and she forgets to breathe, and it feels like love, and it feels like terror. They both have their too-tender places where the nerves are laid bare. There are times he starts to move against her and then shies like a skittish horse. They are gentle with each other even when they abandon civility. Each time is a first time, still, strangers exploring strange lands, even though she’s mapped him on her own skin.

In this liminal moment, she craves him like salt. She turns her face to his, captures his mouth. He squeezes her breast and she groans into the space between his teeth. She likes to feel him swallow the sound, hungry for her. Mulder consumes her like a forest fire. There’s a heat between them that’s necessary for her survival. They go up together, sparks against the night sky, and find themselves unharmed, renewed.

She slides her tongue into his mouth, tasting his need. She tugs at his lower lip, plush as a carnival prize. Her back is still pressed to his belly. She spreads her legs, hooking her foot behind his calf, and reaches between her legs to find his cock. Now he’s groaning as she licks the sound out of his mouth. She reaches down again, pushes two fingers deliberately between her folds. She’s so, so wet for him, and so grateful that her body can do this, after everything. Whatever she’s lost, she still has this: the slickness of her against the unyielding heat of him. His cock rests in the groove of her like they were made for each other. When she moves, just a little, his head grazes her clit and she gasps.

“Fuck,” he says into her mouth, and she swallows that too, unwitting inarticulate ejaculation. This is what she does to him: she’s a bull in the china shop of his mind, rendering his fine thoughts into shards. But he does the same to her. She can name the bones of the wrist until he’s wrist-deep inside her; the only insertions she remembers are the way he pushes into her. College and grad school and med school and the Academy and all of it gone. She takes God’s name in vain. She forgets her own.

He growls, just a little, and slides his other hand under her, caressing her other breast and urging her over at the same time. She straddles him, leaving a wet spot on his belly. They like it when she’s on top. She’s in control when she wants to be, along for the ride when she doesn’t, and she knows he likes the view. He pulls her down to suck at her breasts. She leans in, guiding his hand to the nipple that isn’t in his mouth. Together they roll it between their fingers. She doesn’t stifle her cries. She feels them spike through him like electricity. His hips jolt behind hers.

His free hand is on her back, caressing the long muscles. It’s sweet, soothing; it doesn’t satisfy her. She guides his hand between her hips and his belly instead. His fingers find her clit unerringly. X marks the spot, she thinks. She sits up, gazes down at him with half-lidded eyes. He loves to see her like this. Scully, victorious, he calls her sometimes. She touches her own tits and lets him watch. He’s so fucking beautiful like this. She is cognizant, every time, of the gift of himself that he offers her.

His fingers underneath her slide further, the tips dipping inside her. She lets him see how it feels, how she loves it, how warmth blooms inside her. He watches her parted lips with ravenous avidity. She reaches behind her and wraps her fingers around his cock. If he can’t have her mouth at the moment, at least he can have the cup of her palm. His fingers sink deeper into her until she’s riding his palm. His cock throbs in her hand.

“Please,” she whispers. He smiles at her, dazed but wry. They’re both pleasure-drunk, dizzy with needy delight. She pushes up on her knees until his fingers slip out of her. It’s simple to angle her hips to take his cock instead, just the tip straining against her entrance. She dips her head to tease his nipples with her teeth. His chest hair tickles her face. She rubs the tip of her nose over his pecs, enthralled by the texture and the scent of him. And then she eases back onto him, inch by agonizingly slow inch until he’s panting.

There’s always an exquisite triumph in this moment of joining. They’ve conquered Everest; they’ve saved the world. Closer to say they’ve discovered the truth, she thinks. All along, the alchemical reaction was simple physics, or biology, or chemistry. All along, they had the pieces of the alembic, if they’d thought to assemble them.

Her hips ache but she sinks down further. She can never take him deep enough to satisfy her, though he’s buried to the hilt, her mound flush against his curls. She rises, sinks, grinds. He heaves up into her and she rides him like a rough sea. She rakes her nails lightly over his chest. He reaches up for her tits. Every place he touches her is illuminated, she’d swear. Light dances across her vision and through her body.

She’s close, God, she’s so fucking close to losing herself, but he’s so far away down there on the mattress. She needs to see him, to know him, to feel his arms around her. There have been other Mulders, imposters and replicas. She needs to recalibrate, reassuring herself that he’s the genuine article. Besides, she loves the drowsy glint of his dilated eyes, the sharp edge of his desire striking sparks off her own.

She tugs at him, her words lost in the maelstrom of pleasure, and he manages to sit up without dislodging her. Their frantic movements slow as they gaze into each other’s eyes. She slides slowly down from the precipitous edge of pleasure into something softer but no less rapturous. They rock together, equal partners. She shifts again to take him deeper and he tilts his hips to give her what she needs. She kisses him and he opens his mouth to her. There’s a profound reciprocity in the way his tongue yields under hers.

Each movement is mutual. Each sigh and moan is echoed, amplified. Their hands skim over each other. They hold each other close. She loves the urgency when they fuck, but this is something achingly sweeter. His eyes gleam in the dim. She thinks she might cry - maybe out of relief, maybe just a release.

“I love you,” she tells him. She’s never said it out loud before, somehow.

“Scully,” he says in a voice of infinite tenderness. She thought she’d mind that he doesn’t use her first name, even now, but it’s a shibboleth between them. He has passed her checkpoints; he can enter at her gates.

“Mulder?” She might be crying now. She might be laughing. But he’s there with her: half a gasp, half a chuckle.

“I’ve always loved you,” he says. “Since the rain and the mud in Oregon. Since you stripped out of that bathrobe. I would have done this then if I’d thought you wanted to.”

“You should have asked,” she says, though she knows that’s in flagrant disregard of their history. They weren’t ready for each other then, not like this. They might have had sex, but it wouldn’t have been this discursive inception: her moving in him moving in her, souls grafted together, blooming, fruiting.

She can tell by the crinkle of his eyes that he knows it. There were moments in Oregon in the rain and the forest and the hotel that every possibility felt open to them. She feels it still: wistful for what might have been if they had touched each other before the world had reshaped them, grateful for the relative safety and joy they’ve found in the life they’re living now. Sex is almost the least of their intimacies now. Still, when she touches him, when he touches her, she feels transformed.

After all they’ve endured, she is poignantly aware of the precious fragility of this peace, this pleasure. Whatever price they have paid, they have redeemed the investment. The rising light of dawn brings out gold flecks in his eyes. Under his hands, she feels the steel of her own spine. She kisses him, murmuring his name like a benediction. Blessed is she among women. She wouldn’t take back any step on the path that has brought them here.

There are no words after that. They don’t need them. Their bodies talk the way their bodies have always talked, a communication beyond language. She moves over him and he moves in her until they’re both quivering. They have sanctified this space. She is washed clean in the waters of his love. And she’s rising, rising, rising on the crest of a wave of pleasure. She whispers his name into his neck and he holds her close and there’s a moment of apogee that stretches out and then the wave crashes and she’s submerged in sensation, gasping for breath. And Mulder’s coming too, crying out as he shivers into her. She clenches her inner muscles around him as his cock throbs, relishing the feeling.

Sometimes after he comes, he’ll lick her clean, his arm braced over her shaking hips as she comes and comes and comes. She loves it, but it’s not the kind of night where he leaves her too weak to walk. Instead, they slide slowly onto the bed together. He wraps her in his arms. They’ll get up in a minute, clean up, find a washcloth for the wet spot. For now, she melts into him and whispers a prayer of gratitude. When she opens her eyes, he is haloed in light: holy, holy, whole.

#leiascully fic #my fic #msr fanfic #the x-files fanfic #i had just that image of fingers on thigh in my docs for so long #and it's nice to finally have the energy and brainspace to write more #you will take smut as a technique for character study out of my cold dead hands

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